EmersonWRITES SPINE 2018-19

S P I N E

VOL. 9

•

2018-2019

SPINE

SPINE VOLUME 9, 2018-2019

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 “Seer” from Vecteezy.com Page Art Free License Vectors from Vecteezy.com Back Cover Art “Bones Vectors” from Vecteezy.com

SPINE • 2018-2019 • Volume 9 • February 2019

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 Emerson’s First-Year Writing Program to teach college writing.

EmersonWRITES is a free creative writing program for students in Boston Public Schools, co-sponsored by the First-Year Writing Program in the Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing and the Offices of Enrollment Management and Student Success at Emerson College.

These programs are guided by the principle that writing is essential to intellectual engagement, self-representation, and access to opportunity.

In college-style courses held on Emerson’s campus, our students practice writing and critical thinking skills. They form a community of young writers whose individual voices respond to the world through the written word.

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Participating Schools Algonquin Regional High School Boston Arts Academy Boston Green Academy Boston Latin Academy Boston Preparatory Charter Public School City on a Hill Charter Public School City on a Hill Circuit Street Codman Academy Cristo Rey Boston East Boston High School Edward M. Kennedy Academy Everett High School Excel Academy Charter High School John D. O’Bryant School of Math and Science Josiah Quincy School Marblehead High School Matignon High Scjool Milton High School Mystic Valley Regional Charter School North Quincy High School Revere High School Roxbury Prep Charter School Snowden International High School Stoughton High School Weston High School (METCO)

Table of Contents

Why “SPINE”? About the Name

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Coming-of-Age 9

ARTifacts 51

Page Meets the Stage 67 The Things That Scare Us

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EmersonPUBLISHES cxlix Thank You Notes cl

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 alone, 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. 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, and epiphanies that turn young adults into adults. Our purpose was to investigate this question: what does it mean to grow up?

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 works in order to develop new insights about the genre and to better understand both the meaning of the text and 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 of the genre and what it means to write while coming-of-age.

Faculty Bio Christina Montana is a third-year MFA candidate in Fiction at Emerson College and a member of the Bridgewater Cultural Council in Bridgewater, MA. This was her first, and unfortunately, only year teaching with EmersonWRITES. Christina has one poem published online and another accepted for future publication. Currently she has a handful of flash fiction stories submitted to various magazines. Teaching with EmersonWRITES has been an inspiration; her main goal as a teacher was to provide the support she would have liked to hear and know when she began dedicating time to writing in middle school.

Fion Wu is a third-year MFA candidate in Fiction at Emerson, where she also teaches in the First-Year Writing Program. She is originally from Brooklyn, New York, but now lives in Boston! She works a lot with the Coming-of-Age and Young Adults genres and will argue until she’s blue in the face that EVERYTHING is coming-of-age. This was her second year teaching with EmersonWRITES, and she continues to be amazed by the talent and passion of the students.

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Jaqueline Maestre Diaz Boston Preparatory Charter Public School, 10th Grade I wrote these two poems based on prompts given to me from EmersonWRITES, one prompt based on a disappearance of someone and another to make someone scared of an apple. It was hard to do the second prompt because how can you make someone scared of a fruit?

He’s Not Missing I haven’t seen my best friend Luis in a few months now— Well I mean no one has— The last the town seen him, was the day before summer He looked petrified Shaky Nervous But maybe I was thinking too much into it Everyone claimed he disappeared Ran away Even kidnapped But I knew otherwise His picture is all I see over town The brown curly hair Dark skinned About 5’8 Just a description that wasn’t even accurate I’m tired of the assumptions Some days I would get these fake calls Where people think it’s funny to imitate him Being me I get excited but then hang up, angry, realizing it isn’t him

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POP! Three butterfly animal balloons in each hand Ready to offer to each child Walking around in a neighborhood he doesn’t belong Spying on our children With his hideous eyes One Royal Blue One Dark Purple And One Emerald Green Each attracts the eye of a child Except one She looked confused and weirded out Why would she take a balloon?

She grabs the balloon anyways and says “thanks man” As each balloon leaves his hand into the child’s He says, “POP them, there’s a surprise: Candy Crayons Maybe even money” The same girl who didn’t want to take the balloon Shook it “There is no money in here Stop lying” Each felt ecstatic when they heard the word money 3..2..1 POP! Popped all at once With nothing he mentioned But an apple 12

Wasn’t sure if the apple was poison or this man The Red apple Filled with holes Cut in half but not exactly Looked like something sharp was poking out No one could tell Some girl took this mystery object out Poked her finger Blood everywhere Screams as loud as a siren She looked back screaming and yelling for help POP! The clown was nowhere to be found Jaqueline Elizabeth Maestre Diaz, or better known as just JACKY, is a Puerto Rican track runner who has an interest in creative writing, especially writing poems. She attends Boston Prep and has two years left to graduate sadly. Jacky has a weird but interesting taste in music, heavy metal along with hip hop and pop.

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Rejeila Firmin Milton High School, 11th Grade In Coming-of-Age, I have learned about the importance of setting, the narrative arc, and more. This class has also made me realize a common theme in my writing: family.

Home A physical representation of my childhood is presented to my mind when deep gray clouds shield the blue skies. With every step I take inside, the hollow creek of the wooden floors welcomes me. The walls are a deep cream color. Not deliberately, but as a result of all of the deeprooted food being made. I stare at the sun through the kitchen window and lose contact with reality, envisioning an autumn sunrise. I listen to my aunt scrape the base of the pan as she hums a pleasant samba melody. The smell of eggs and jagacida travel throughout the room. It comes as no surprise, the aroma smells overwhelmingly like heritage. She turns and smiles, and the sun shines through the window behind her.

But my favorite part: when you go to the right room at the right time, you’ll see it. The sun bursts through the windows, through the mustard yellow curtains, and creates a beautiful scene. The walls turn orange.

The jewelry that hangs from the silver metal branches move with a slight breeze coming in from the half-open window. The necklaces clink against each other and reflect sunshine that projects onto those orangetinted walls. The best thing is the way the dust particles hover over the queen-sized bed and create an iridescent ray of sunset-colored gold. It’s like watching the sun slowly leak through the surface of the ocean from underneath. You could almost bathe in it. Being here, with all of the pieces of my soul beneath me, truly is a blessing.

Rejeila is in her first year of EmersonWRITES. She enjoys listening to music, cooking for her family, and dancing by herself. In the future, she would like to attend Emerson College and become a writer. She has four siblings with another on the way. She was raised in Florida and moved to Boston at the age of seven.

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Louckens Joseph Edward M. Kennedy Academy, 12th Grade I find a lot of inspiration from music and animation so I was in luck when I found something that combined both. To be specific, there were songs Rebecca Sugar wrote for a cartoon called Adventure Time. I wrote this poem to capture the nostalgia her work invokes in me.

Time Constraint Seems like yesterday when you had no sense of time Always found the joy in anything you could find Let’s rewind To when most things were sublime Remember those times you’d get in trouble with your friends Irritating all our teachers way back when You thought friendship could never end Back then nothing mattered, you didn’t need acceptance Now your breath shortens from anyone’s presence Who you are doesn’t fit Not since you were just a kid Inside you, your years and their damages reside Repress them for more and they’ll triple in size Here comes the era to unravel The slowest pace in all of chrono travel Walk through all the portals have a look around Remember time is delicate don’t make a sound Reach the last one and face your earliest memory You’re allowed to falter momentarily, when you see Yourself now, you still fit.

You’ve always been the same kid.

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Louckens Joseph was born in Beverly, MA, and aside from writing, his interests include graphic novels and comics, as well as animation. This was his first year with EmersonWRITES.

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Aaron Lucchesi Revere High School, 11th Grade This is a short poem that goes over a slight self-reflection, but mainly how I view the majority of the high school student body.

Zero Fame Seems that few people in this school are woke More than half these ballers are straight broke Soundcloud is the current wave These high school kids needa learn to behave Their careers after high school gonna be dead in a grave We run to the money it’s pretty damn obsessional The way we do it, ain’t too professional You feel this, we all want out I don’t wanna be here, I need to reroute I’m honestly a hypocrite, I’m also trying to chase some clout Really people do too much for fame Revere is insanely fake, don’t mind it though, they have no shame Long as they be running the game They will take aim and expose you in vain So be careful of who you trust Especially when they seem driven by lust Aaron Lucchesi is a first year student at EmersonWRITES. He is a poet and an active pianist. His hobbies consist of listening to music, playing video games, and dancing. Aaron plans on becoming a successful businessman. He also wants to attend college in Canada.

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Valentina Martinez Excel Academy, 8th Grade This poem was a part of an English project where we had to create a poem portfolio. I wrote this poem during a time where I was more surrounded by my culture and more aware of it.

true tongue sometimes, i forget how to say things in english... those are my proudest moments. for i am reminded that to my mouth, those harsh syllables, drowning in blood and history, are not my true tongue. my true tongue is a song a soft melody that flows out of my mouth. my true tongue is a quiet lullaby whispered by a mother to her child she hopes the child will remember her quiet lullabies.

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it’s a river rushing past no matter what you use you can’t stop it. it rolls through hills and erodes its way through mountains. my true tongue is the soft hum of my grandma recalling a million forgotten hymns from her childhood her childhood melodies passed down from her mother, long gone now and her father, never even there. songs you can’t find on any app or website songs from inside her songs she’s carried since before her feet touched the soil that tried to take her tongue. the soil she escaped. my true tongue is the deep, sad voice of the vallenato singers of silvestre dangond and diomedes diaz with their soulful ballads and lively aura 22

my true tongue is the stern sound of my ll’s the j-like sound others find so humorous the sound seen as wrong my true tongue is the swinging hips of the regal dancers in cartagena the smooth curve of their hips and the instinctive balance of the basket on their heads my true tongue is the trucks running through the streets their drivers laughing oh how alive they are as they yell their offerings mangos piña guanaba at prices unheard of. my true tongue is the slap of worn sandals as they slap against the concrete hill it’s a race who can make it down the 20 feet slope first without careening wildly 23

and skinning your knees. my true tongue is the deep rev of a motorcycle engine of people yelling wildly from the backs of their motos they, as the veders, are alive. my true tongue is mine.

This is Valentina’s first year at EmersonWRITES. She has tried many hobbies and activities but due to her extremely limited attention span, few have stuck. However, she enjoys sports such as swimming and basketball. She spends most of her time hiding in the refuge of her room avoiding social interactions.

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Cecil Mena Boston Preparatory Charter Public School, 10th Grade This short story is about a girl, Katherine, who is deeply in love with a boy. After celebrating their anniversary, Katherine realizes that he is cheating, which ultimately leads to her downfall.

Untitled As soon as I stepped out of the building, the wind hit my face. I felt the vibration of my phone as I walked to my car. I placed my bag on the back seat, fixed the rearview mirror and started the car. I pulled over when I saw my white painted apartment and took my phone out as I went up the steps and checked my message.

It was from Adrian. “Hey, beautiful. I hope we have a good—” I stopped reading the message when I felt my foot bump into a hard object. I looked and saw a bouquet of flowers. I picked it up and admired the colorful roses, my favorite. My nose drowned in the fresh scent as they came closer to my face. A white tag caught my eye, I flipped back and forth before finding cursive writing on it. “Happy Anniversary, my love. See you at 7. xoxo.” A big smile appeared on my face as I read the tag. I quickly unlocked the door and ran to my room. I jumped on my bed, screaming into my pillow. I was so happy.

I rolled over and said, “Alexa, play my favorite song.” A few seconds later, the song started playing. I looked at the time. 5:59. I gasped, realizing I only had one hour to get ready. I undressed and hopped in the shower. Twenty minutes later, I dried myself with my light pink towel.

I checked my phone, 6:19. I hurried and got my make-up kit together.

Mascara, and red lipstick to match my red, sparkly dress. I looked at myself in the long mirror, noticing how the tight dress made my curves show. I couldn’t wait to see Adrian’s reaction.

My heart raced thinking about him, us, tonight.... I checked my phone again. Adrian messaged me the address. I got in my car as quickly as possible because I would hate to be late for our dinner. Adrian and I had been together for a year now, the best thing that ever happened to me. He was always there when I needed him, gave me comfort, motivated me and basically did anything I could ever imagine. I was so in love with him. And I felt like this dinner was going to be one of our 25

best memories. I couldn’t let him down.

It was 7:01 and I still wasn’t that close to the restaurant. Twenty minutes later I saw myself pull over in front of a big fancy building. It wasn’t too crowded or too empty, it was beautiful. The walls, the tables, everything caught my attention. We’d never been to this restaurant before. I quickly got out the car hoping to see Adrian at one of the tables but he was nowhere to be found. Maybe he was late as well, I thought.

I picked one of the tables near the window to sit at and wait. I was looking around wondering where he was at. The waiter had come to me asking me what I wanted to eat, I told her I was waiting for someone and she left. That was about an hour ago though. I texted Adrian and he never responded. I was starting to get worried. What if something happened to him? What if he got hit by a car? What if he got shot?

So many negative thoughts ran through my head making me more nervous every single second. I texted him one more time before I left the place and started to drive to his house.

I got there as fast as I could and headed to the front door. It was open. I slowly opened the door as my eyes searched the whole room.

My eyes widened as I saw Adrian caressing a thigh. I walked into the room and saw Adrian laid up with some girl. Kissing her. I couldn’t believe my eyes at that moment. When they heard the the door creak, they both looked up. Adrian looked at me in the eyes and quickly got up running towards me. I backed up as he said, “Katherine, it’s not what it looks like.”

I kept backing up without saying a single word. I was speechless. I didn’t even want to look at him ever again. All of our memories didn’t take long to fill my head, making everything worse. Devastated, I ran out the front door into the street where a black car approaching at a fast speed hit me, and I blacked out.

Cecil Mena is in her second year at EmersonWRITES. She thinks it’s a great experience to expand her writing skills and become a better writer.

Cecil’s plan for the future is to go to college and become a successful woman.

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Alexander Oke Boston Preparatory Charter Public School, 10th Grade I’ve been at EmersonWRITES for a few months and during my time here I’ve focused on stories relating to horror fiction and drama. The pieces I write center heavily around high school and/or youth drama.

Writing is self-art.

The Iron Chains The Iron Chain that pulls me away.

Twisting.

Bending Yanking.

And Dragging The Chain that pulls and tugs in all different types of ways.

Oh, how I despise the wretched chain which pulled me away.

It pulled me away from family, whose names are nothing but myths in my brain.

The Chain that never undergoes change They say it’s changed, to avoid the naked eye, alas behind the drapes there it lies.

The Iron Chain which I long would one day say its goodbyes.

The Chain is of the finest craft, It is one of a kind, the Chain loves to follow however it can never be denied.

I see the Iron Chain on the people who demand liberty, the same Chain which I had long forgot, has come back with a vengeance.

The Iron Chain on your tongue is as strong as the one around your neck.

The Chain that bounds thee to the ground and restricts thy movements.

But what is a free body without free speech.

The Chain that confines thy tongue, limits what you can and cannot say.

You have yet to realize, that you are now a victim of “tyrannical sway”?

I cannot sit idly by and watch as their liberty rots in decay.

I know how they feel, we all have felt this way.

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Dear God, I pray that others will never feel the wrath of “tyrannical sway.”

I see their hearts overflowing with dismay For their freedom has been put on delay.

They say this world is a “dog eat dog world” This is how the world has been ordained.

But I ask myself time and time again, Why? Why? Why can’t the dogs be friends? Why is there never change?

We are all victims to“tyrannical sway.”

But it doesn’t have to be this way.

If we stand together as one and realizes that we are all the same.

Then together we can finally break.

The Iron Chains.

The Crisis I think the first time I realized there was something wrong with me was probably when I was six. I was enjoying second grade, I was at my prime. I was the popular kid, the one everyone sought approval from. Days were much simpler back then; eat, sleep, eat, and leave. It was a weekly routine that I had grown accustomed to. Albert, my little brother, had come down with a cold in 2009. He was only two at the time. He had high fevers, his body felt cold like a corpse at times. Fast forward spring of 2010 and the words cancer filled my mind. I was six when my parents sat me down to tell me my little brother of three years had cancer. Depression immediately seeped into my mind and my whole world ended. He is not going die, I repeated to myself over and over in disbelief. The last time someone had cancer that I knew of was my mom’s friend. Such a lovely lady slowly decayed, first her hair went and she was as bald as my grandfather. It was the first day of third grade and while I left to go to school my brother laid in the hospital with tubes flowing through his arms and chest. I cried the first time I saw him hooked up the machine. You’re hurting him. You’re hurting him, I called out crying and attacking the devils in the white coats. Fourth grade was my worst year. I think the knowledge of knowing my little brother could die at any moment ignited a fire of injustice in my heart. I hated everything, everyone, even myself. My grades gradually started slipping 28

and so did my behavior. Your brother’s condition has worsened. That day I realized how cruel the world could be to a seven-year-old. I didn’t think life could get any worse, but yet again just one year later my Dad was in the hospital. The man who I thought was a solid rock was dying on the inside. His heart couldn’t keep up with the harsh work he inflicted on himself. My whole world collapsed and depression soon drowned me. I didn’t think it was possible for an eight-year-old to have suicidal thoughts but I guess I was living proof. I realized that the world shows no one mercy. “What a cruel life I live,” I said to myself as tears began to drop down my face. What a cruel world indeed.

Alex, or better yet Alexander Abisoye Oke, is not just a regular person.

Alex has three siblings, two older and one younger, so naturally he gets lost in the crowd. Alex is a self-driven person, focusing on getting good grades and becoming a more intellectual person. Alex is Alex.

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Faith M. Pan Mystic Valley Regional Charter School, 12th Grad This piece is the beginning of a story I am currently working on, using the technique and knowledge I have gained from this Coming-of-Age class.

In my writing, I always try to use dystopian and science fiction aspects to create coming-of-age pieces about mother-daughter relationships.

The Observers I open my eyes, and get up out of my bed and get ready for the day.

The perfectly blue outfit is what we have to wear every Tuesday as it is “Blue Day.” Every day we have to wear a certain color, and most of our families that put us here only provide the Observers with enough money to get one outfit per day. I brush my teeth, smoothing my hair out with a brush, making sure every hair is in place.

My gaze turns to the only picture frame I have in my room. The black frame sits on the plain dresser with a picture in it--my favorite picture. My mom had arms wrapped around me, and it was secure, and happy. I had not smiled like that in a long time; I had not smiled like that since before I was put in this place.

“I miss you mom,” I whisper so quietly, I can barely hear myself and take a deep breath and turn away from the photo.

I grab everything for my morning classes, three notebooks, a binder, pencil case, and a calculator, and slip them into my backpack. I walk down the stairs and stand in line among the other kids my age, the other 16s. Each line has a number hanging from the ceiling to remind us once again we are lined up based on our age. That’s how we’re sorted into these groups, so there are specific rules each group needs to follow. As if we would forget after once a month the Observers hold an assembly to remind of us these stupid rules. We all have a curfew, have to ask to do even the simplest things, and we have to watch what we say because we never know when people are listening.

Even though life for us is the same as every other kid ten years ago, it is also different. We do all the same things, go to school, hang out with friends, that kind of stuff, but it is also different. Each town of kids live in the same building, and we only see our parents once a year. So, it makes sense that our parents wouldn’t give us money they barely know us, and 31

most don’t even love us.

There is only one other person in front of me now. We scan our handprint on the screen. After the scan is completed, they tell us what Achievement we will complete that day. I sigh as the person in front of me, Derek, slouches away toward the cafeteria for breakfast.

My turn, great. My hand presses down in the square drawn on the screen. Even though everyone touches the screen, and this specific part all the time, it always feels ice cold under my palm. It is a constant reminder that we will never be surprised in my day, and everything that happens is expected. Yesterday the screen told me that I would ace my math test. And even though I suck at math, I did ace the test as predicted. It is strange how things just seem to work out sometimes.

One of my only friends is my cousin, Daryll, who is only a year older than me. We only saw each other a few times a year on major holidays because our parents weren’t close. But, at a place like this, everyone is so desperate to find people they knew before we were brought to this place. Daryll and I have this theory that this whole system is fake, and we are all being experimented on right now....

Wait, I move closer to the screen, staring so hard that my eyes begin to water.

I look around me to all of the kids in line. They all look like decent human beings, all put into this stupid system without any say on how they wanted their life to go. Guards stand in every corner, every doorway, and open space in between. They are said to be there to protect us, to make sure we are safe. But maybe this is all a lie.

“Are you done?” says Talma, the half-asleep girl behind me.

I nod, but can’t say anything. I quickly log out of my catalog and walk straight to the empty seat next to Daryll. “Morning sunshine, you look like you did not get enough sleep,” he laughs, but abruptly stops, noticing the look on my face. “What is it, April?” he lowers his voice, “What was your Achievement?”

We are not supposed to tell anyone about our Achievements, but obviously, kids were going to tell each other. The younger kids get in trouble all the time for telling, getting free time or a meal taken away.

But the older kids hide it better.

I look around the cafeteria seeing all of the people who are strangers to me, the guards and see the “new kids table” where all of the new transferred students sat.

“April,” Daryll says, putting a hand on my arm. He can see the fear 32

in my eyes.

“My Achievement,” I whisper, “It was that I would meet the person that would kill me.”

His eyes widen, “Today?” he lowers his voice, “The person who will kill you? Today? April--” “No, not that I was going to be killed today, but I will meet the person who will in the future.”

He shakes his head, “This is ridiculous,” he says as he clenches his fist, “Stupid, why should we have to deal with something like that?”

“Lower your voice, you remember what happened to the 14, Tom, last week,” Daryll nods reluctantly. Daryll was always bad-mouthing the program, one of the things we can get punished for. A little over a week ago, he apparently said something very bad. The Observers were able to cover it up somehow, because no one really knows what he said. Though there is a rumor that he didn’t say anything after his last warning, but who knows. A lot of times he gets in trouble for informing the 6s and 7s how to get away with things. Personally I thought that doesn’t seem like a bad thing, but clearly, if he is getting caught so many times, he should just stop. Everyone figures it out eventually. Whatever it was this time, he was punished for it by being “suspended,” or “Harpered,” but no one knows what that means. Not very many people get ‘suspended.’

The last time it happened it was the first two years this program began, where four students were suspended. At the time, I was only a 6, part of the youngest group. Becoming a 17, I will be part of the first group to complete this program from start to finish. Back then the older kids would rebel and try to leave. The students would refuse to leave their rooms, not wear the assigned color of the day, some even tried to escape and fight the guards. Three of the four who were suspended never returned. The only one that came back was a girl named Harper Gallay, hence why the kids here called it “Harpered.” When she came back she followed rules beyond any other person. When the kids turn 18, they are brought to another place, similar to here, just with young adults. Harper Gallay came back this year as an Observer at twentythree years old. Whatever happened in her suspension, changed her.

Who knows if Tom will even come back, and if he does, he may be just like Harper.

“How do you even know who it is?” Daryll asks. “I mean you could meet so many people, not to mention the fact that new kids are joining in classes today.”

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“Do you really think it could be a kid?” I ask.

He shrugs, “Well it wasn’t that specific, was it? ‘The person’ could be referring to anyone--adults are people, kids are people.”

I shake my head, “You know any other person would not know what in the world you just said. Clearly, I have known you for too long.”

He cracks a small smile, “Sorry, I mean it could be anyone.”

I stare at the small pink stain on my pants from painting in my art class. I got in trouble for that. The one and only time I have gotten punished. No dinner that day. I almost laugh at how hysterical that would have been to any normal person. But for me, it’s the life I live.

Daryll puts a hand on my arm, pulling me out of my gaze. “April, we have to get to class. Just be careful, keep an eye open to who you are meeting.”

Faith is a senior at MVRCS. She was born in Lansing, Michigan, and moved to Malden, Massachusetts, when she was three. She enjoys reading and writing, and spends her days as a translator for her family.

Her favorite animals are dolphins, frogs, and stingrays. Her favorite foods are bagels and mac n’ cheese.

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Paola Andrea Ruiz Manrique East Boston High School, 10th Grade I wanted to write a piece that could be relatable to teenagers like myself. I wrote a letter to a friend who I believe embodies what being a teenager is in this society. A teenager who is relatable. This letter is meant to be dedicated to any and every teenager.

A Letter to My Neighbor I am the neighbor of such a strong person. I see what you go through every day. I have seen how broken you were left. The pain you carry.

The way this society celebrates disorientation. And the way it crashes you into panic and anxiety. Silencing it with melodies of Romeo Santos and Drake. Although you may see yourself as weak for being expressive I see you as strong because I lack the ability. I have seen how much you searched for an anecdote to your hurt.

And through your pain you educate me.

Strength is a quality you have taught me.

You taught me wild love.

You taught me selflessness when you pose in front of the Christmas tree to see a smile arise on my face.

You taught me to dedicate my time through hours on facetime.

You taught me to listen.

You taught me to be fearless when expressing myself.

You taught me how much I need to be cared for, and how I much I need to care for you.

You taught me strength.

I fantasize of being as strong as you are.

I see the way cultures clash and the segregation in the way we pursue our daily life.

It leads back to disorientation.

Trying to attune your family traditions with the American lifestyles of your teachers.

Your Salvadorian curls reshaping into waves betraying your documentation.

Afraid to miss any more days of school because your parents will end up in a court duel.

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But school is teaching me to discriminate my own people.

You taught me to perform Maluma concerts in the hallways.

You taught me to enunciate parce instead of dude.

You taught me what strength is.

But I also find myself and you seeking love to refuel us of that strength A fierce love A wild love A selfless love.

An expressive love.

Paola is a Latina, de Cali Colombia. She is a daughter of two hardworking parents. And a sister to her hero. She expresses herself through her writing. Paola loves coffee and running track. She works at Maverick Landing Community Services with children.

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Shayla Spencer City on a Hill Charter Public School, 12th Grade One week my class wrote from a prompt that began with “____ started wearing makeup.” I’m a fan of special effects makeup, so when I saw the prompt I thought of a story about someone who wanted to be reptilian (this was also because of countless old episodes of MTV’s True Life).

Skin, Scales, and Some Arguments Morgan started wearing makeup a week ago. Her mother is disapproving of it.

“Sweetheart, please take all of that gunk off your face. You don’t look...natural.” Everytime she said that, Morgan rolled her eyes. Her makeup took hours to do every morning; taking it all off would be a waste. Morgan went on with her day.

The next week Morgan got even more experimental with her makeup.

As she was going out to get her lizard, Pistachio, food, her mother stopped her again.

“Morgan, are you really going out like that?”

“Yes,” Morgan said.

Morgan’s mother grunted. “Don’t you think that it’s...excessive? Also, why do you have...the extra protruding things?”

“Bye, Mom,” Morgan said and went out the door.

“You are definitely not leaving the house like that, Morgan!”

Morgan was about to go out with her friends but her mother was holding her up. “Are we really having this discussion, mom?”

“You look like a snake!”

“A lizard, mom,” Morgan corrected. “My inspiration was a lizard.”

“I don’t think it’s inspiration if you replicate something exactly.”

Morgan huffed, restraining herself from rubbing her temples. “Mom, why can’t you just be supportive?”

“You’re becoming a reptile! You eat INSECTS! It’s disgusting! You need to remember you’re hu--” Morgan slammed the door shut behind her.

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Morgan returned home later, shutting the door behind her gently, careful not to wake her mother up. She went up to her room and turned on the light. Morgan sat down and started to peel off her prosthetics. She looked in the mirror, observing her repulsive features. Morgan wiped off the rest of her makeup. She climbed in her bed and fell asleep hoping that she would wake up more like Pistachio, a bonafide beautiful lizard.

Illustraion by Shayla Spencer 38

Untitled I’m sad.

Signed CL Those four words kept me awake for an hour. How sad? Why exactly?

Was it a breakup? A death? Favorite TV show was cancelled? It was eating me up. I shouldn’t care about this, someone’s random bottled letter was none of my concern.

I think, are unaddressed letters in bottles an exception? Maybe. But probably not.

Either way, I immediately started to write: Hey CL, I found your letter and I hope you’re feeling alright. Why are you sad though? Just wondering. Idk. Uh I hope this finds you well Write back if you want.

From, AO I bottled it and went to sleep.

The next day, I went back down to the beach and chucked my letter into the sea. I hoped that no one saw me and ran back home.

“You can’t just keep throwing bottled letters into the ocean if you didn’t get a response yet.”

Me and Willie were in his “office” eating sandwiches. Or more so, we were in his truck and he was eating sandwiches. I didn’t really like egg salad.

“I only threw two bottles it’s not a big deal.”

“You’ve thrown six.”

“Okay I’ve thrown more than two, but is it really that bad?” I grabbed a water. “I’m just engaged in this compelling situation.”

“It’s not that compelling. Also it’s been a whole month.” Willie scarfed down another sandwich. Gross. “Someone just wanted to vent probably.”

“How does someone vent by only saying ‘I’m sad’ and not saying anything else? It’s an open ended question!”

“Open-ended statement.”

“Whatever. Either way I’m still sending the letters. It might be the start of a budding relationship.”

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Willie looks at me blankly. “You’re insane man.” He grabbed another sandwich.

Another month passed.

I’d thrown about 25 bottled letters into the sea and still no reply from CL. I was slumped on my couch, watching reruns of CAN YOU SOLVE THIS CRIME (spoiler: most people can’t), bored out of my mind. I was also buried under my CL letter drafts.

Knock knock.

“It’s unlocked, Will!”

Willie peaked his head through the door. “Hey O,” he said, looking around. “Your place is a dump.”

“Yeah I know. What is it?”

Willie walked over and handed me a bottle. My eyes lit up and I removed the cork. I unfolded the paper and started reading: AO, I understand why you would be concerned about me and my sadness but stop sending me letters. It’s annoying and hazardous at times. Just please stop writing me.

CL I immediately threw away my latest letter.

Shayla is a senior completing her first year of EmersonWRITES. She enjoys drawing, animation, and crying over dumb shows. She hopes to make her own cartoon, own a sick home office, and to be 7ft tall.

Sadly, she can’t grow past 5’1, but she copes with this fact with her cat Frangellica.

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Talia Viera North Quincy High School, 12th Grade I’ve become fascinated with the idea of time and its influence on life. I was asked about what growing up means, and the first piece is a result of my pondering on the topic. The second piece is part of a longer story I’ve been working on.

Trains Think of life as a giant train station. Every train is coming to the station, and you have no itinerary, so it’s up to you to decide which train you get on. There are a million trains—a billion, even—just like there are so many choices in your life that affect the destination. Every train takes you to another station, and that one is just like the last one, with more trains heading to different places. Each train leads you to another, and another, and another and another until you get where you’re going, wherever that is. You have your scenic route, your mountains, your dark tunnels, and every which way in between. You move from place to place, and once you’re there, you’re there. You can take the train back to the last station, take another one instead, but you can’t un-take the train. The damage is done.

Who’s at the train station? Friends? Family? Strangers? The answer, of course, is yes, and all of these people will try to affect which train you get on, because they think they know what’s best for you. Don’t listen to them. They’ll tell you which trains to get on, or try to change your direction, but you can’t let them. Someone’ll get on the same train as you, go for one or a few stops alongside you; you’ll sit with each other, talk to each other, learn about each other. Sometimes they’ll absolutely suck, and you’ll hate the ride, instead holding onto the hope that they won’t get on the next one. But sometimes it’s fun, and having the happiest ride of your life up until that point is worth the risk. Eventually, you’ll go your separate ways and take new trains with new people. But you have to remember, out of the innumerable trains you’ll take, no one else is taking all of the same ones you do.

Eventually, you’ll reach your last station. It may look just like the others, or maybe you’ve known it from the start, but eventually you’ll realize that this is it, the last ride, and you’ll notice that others are getting 41

on their trains, heading out, moving on. But for you, it’s different. Maybe even some of them are taking their last train, but you don’t know. All you know is your train is yours, and it’s ready to take you where you’re going. Where are you going?

Ultimately, you have to realize that your journey is yours, and you have no choice but to take it. Grab your brother, sister, friend, significant other, someone, or no one. Nothing wrong with going solo, after all.

There’s another one coming, and it’s yours. Get on your train. Maybe I’ll see you at another station.

Time of Death I should probably talk about the night that Flynn died, when I stopped being an older brother. I was having dinner with Lily and her dad, Dr. Miller. We had ordered pizza and steak fries from the new place down the street, and we were watching some new comedy movie when Dr. Miller’s pager went off. Moments later my phone went off as well, with a text from my mom.

Time is an interesting thing. Everyone says that it’s some sort of man-made construct: hours made up of minutes, minutes made up of seconds, days made up of hours. But time isn’t man-made. Sure, man may have made up the measurements and labels of everything, but that’s only because humankind can’t wrap their minds around a topic too vast for their understanding. They would mentally implode, which is why there’s so much discourse around religion and politics and war, but that’s a whole other thing. The whole point of this is to illustrate the passing of time, how it works. On the universal side of things, time is just a notion; a constant that happens no matter what’s going on in any given place.

The planets spin, the seasons change, people age, stars die. It’s just what happens. Time flows at a consistent rate, and yet somehow, on this day, it went out of whack.

If time had gone any slower, it would have been frozen. That I remember clearly. Dr. Miller sped towards the hospital, his daughter holding my hand while I sat in the backseat, my leg bouncing up and down, my eyes staring at nothing at all. The outside world moved past in an odd blur, the lights stretching out into one long yellow line, jumping from post to post.

Dr. Miller got paged at 5:57. We arrived at the hospital fifteen 42

minutes later, at 6:12. We rushed to the waiting room, racing past the receptionist and into the corridor, running into my brother’s room. Things had been looking up for Flynn. His day had been fine. No seizures, no coughing up blood, not even a sneeze. If he wasn’t in the hospital, you wouldn’t even be able to tell he had a brain tumor. He had a seizure about 20 minutes before the doctors called Dr. Miller; good things never last, I guess. This seizure was the last straw. The doctors pushed us outside of the room and back into the hallway. For eight minutes my mother held my hand, getting tighter and tighter until my hand was so numb I couldn’t feel it anymore. For eight minutes I stared through the glass, almost unable to see my brother writhe in pain, the monitor spiking up and down. For eight minutes the doctors crowded him, trying everything. But it was no use. There was nothing that they could do, and no matter when they called, or when we got there, there was nothing Dr. Miller could do either.

My brother died at 6:20.

I saw the monitor flatline, and my world flipped. It felt like I was in a movie, where everything was moving in slow motion, but I was able to see and comprehend everything that was going on. I felt dizzy, and the only thing keeping me anchored was my mom’s screaming cries next to me. I ran back into the room, pushing past all of the doctors and grabbing Flynn.

“Wake up!” I shouted over and over again. I shook his body, yelling until someone pulled me off him. I fell to my knees. I knew I should be strong for my mom, but I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t able to be strong for me, let alone someone else. I looked up to see who had grabbed me: it was Lily. She wrapped her arms around me, and pulled my head onto her shoulder. I felt the wall in my head collapse, and I started sobbing. I looked over at her father, kneeling next to my mother out in the hallway.

He was trying to comfort her, but I could see the look in his eyes: sadness and pity and disappointment and anger. He had grown close to my mother and Flynn since we had moved here, and he was helpless as he watched my brother die. He was trying to think of something to say, but he couldn’t. There was nothing to say.

When I was a kid, my mom used to sing me “Hey Jude” whenever I got upset. She would tell me the story of how John Lennon wrote the song for Paul McCartney’s son, Julian, when his parents got divorced.

She used to say it was written “just for me,” because I had the same name and my parents shared a similar fate. When I was a little older I 43

would sing the song to Flynn on the nights our mom was out, when he couldn’t sleep. It was the only thing going through my head.

The earth stopped spinning. The air stopped moving. The stars stopped dying. Singing “Hey Jude” wasn’t going to fix this. Nothing was.

When I last saw my brother I promised him a slice of pizza.

“Promise?” he asked. It was that morning, before I went to school. I wasn’t going to come by until after dinner with Lily and her dad, but I wanted to make sure I had his permission. He was convinced Lily and I were dating, and every time I had to tell him it wasn’t going to happen.

If anything, I think he had a tiny kid-crush on her.

With a big smile on his face, he held his fist out. I bumped it, sealing the pact. “Promise.”

Now that big smile of his was gone, his lips in one fine line across his face. I stared at him, tears falling down my face and onto the floor. I felt Lily’s hand on my back, rotating in circles to try and comfort me. It wasn’t working.

I knew where I was, but I felt lost. My whole world had changed in a matter of minutes. Where could I go from here?

My sobs turned to screams as I sat defeated on the hospital floor.

Talia is a newly-made 18 year old navigating her way through the world. She has a passion for creating, loves music, and gets way too attached to fictional characters (including her own). She wants to share her love of writing with others and hopes to publish a book one day.

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Rebeca Sarai Villatoro Alvaréz Revere High School, 12th Grade EmersonWRITES taught me the moves behind writing beautiful stories and poems. My first piece is part of a longer story in which the main character grapples with allowing her identity to shine beyond her despair. My second piece explains how I stumbled upon God. The final poem paints a picture of my family. Enjoy, reflect, digest.

Ode to Star I never noticed how white clouds carry their rain ever so slowly to new horizons over the blue backdrop. How the earth is shaped like a sphere, curling to the left and right. How if you look at the sun for too long she creates an image in your eyes, and blinds you to see her everywhere you look. Every time you try to blink her away, the brightest ball of fire, remains everywhere. That she is so yellow, she is blue. I never realized the sun is also a star, that we revolve around a star. Or how clouds cover the big ball of fire most of the day. What is a cloud anyways? I googled and cloud means “a visible mass of condensed water vapor floating in the atmosphere, typically high above the ground” and “a state or cause of gloom, suspicion, trouble, or worry.” How tragic, a condensed mass of water vapor and gloom covers a glorious star.

“Taya,” she said shaking her head ever so slightly, stopping once she realized I noticed.

Ms. Magnanimity, my English teacher, wore her hair in a little ball on top of her head every day. She always wore pink hair bands that matched her nails. By the end of the day, her baby hairs struck up on top of her head, like static electricity shocked her.

I admired her. Every day, she managed to ask everyone in class, with her gentle voice, how they were doing. Not all at the same time like most teachers but individually. That brings us back to why shook her head. She hated, I mean loathed, when I said “alright,” “fine,” or, “okay.”

Makes sense considering she was an English teacher and wanted us to expand our vocabulary. I, on the other hand, did not care. I wanted to say fine, because I was simply fine. I wanted to say okay, because I was simply okay. I never did say good, because I was simply not good.

“Another word, Taya.”

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I hesitated, exhaled a heavy breath, and said, “Alright.”

At the end of the day, I scurried out feeling the shoulders I bumped into; their bones crashing against my bones. I heard their angry screams saying, “Watch it!” as I moved even faster. I pushed the clear glass doors rimmed with wood, and they split wide open with a creak revealing the weeping sky. We mourned together telling each other our secrets; when raindrops fell onto my cheeks I absorbed them, and when my tears fell onto the thirsty grass, the land absorbed them.

I felt a sense of gloom as I walked home, longing to see the sun.

However, she hid behind dark clouds causing me to shiver in the hopeless cold.

Amigo The graying lady at my church prayed for me again. She explained, “Hope is masked in the world as a trickster that comes to lie. Hope in the Kingdom of Heaven is a Son who sacrificed His own life.”

I believe her in church when boogers cascade down my nose. I believe her because there’s nothing left to believe in. At home, I refute her hope. I don’t see the love in every meal my mami prepares for me. I only hear her abundant screams complaining my smile appears as rarely as a red moon.

What happens when the graying lady is no longer alive to pray for me? What will happen to the demon covering my eyes with his bony distorted fingers?

I hope. I hope on the weird way babies seem to appear out of love.

I hope on the little bird that survives the frosty New England winter. I hope on my mom’s hope.

“How was church?” Katzú asked.

“Same old, same old. I don’t understand why my mom likes going so much. Maybe it’s the hope God promises,” I answered.

“Hope? In a God who died a long time ago? Who you can’t see?

Who lets tragedies happen every single day? Yeah, real hopeful,” he scorned the hope that kept me surviving.

That night I prayed to God in spite of Katzú. I didn’t want to call Him “God” because I didn’t believe in “God.” I called him amigo because I knew that we had a bond of mutual affection. I needed to make sure I gave accurate titles according to the dictionary.

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“Hi amigo. Wow, I’m staring into a wooden wall thinking some ethereal being hears me. I’m even more crazy than I thought.”

Silence. deafening Silence becomes comforting Silence.

Perhaps, hope doesn’t dwell in Church but rather in God. Perhaps, my prayers evoke hope.

Yucuaiquin I stood up from the amaca because of all the carcajadas.

In Yucuaiquin, every day at four o’clock the abuelitas y abuelitos gather outside their homes.

We all gather colorful plastic chairs in a circle.

At this point in the day, the skies colors are telling a story of nightfall.

The chairs may appear dusty, but they’re thrones belonging in a traditional spot.

I distinctly remember a funny story mi Tia Romelia recalled about buying chips at a tiendita.

She transformed a two-second anecdote into a riveting five-minute story.

She is a master storyteller, like everyone in my family.

My tongue is meant to tell stories.

When I perform, I carry the life of my ancestors in my tongue.

Rebeca is a Latina writer who lives with her phenomenal mami. She works in an after school program helping students with homework. She enjoys finding new music and creating eclectic playlists. Her adoration for music inspired her to play ukulele. If you want to make her smile, cacti and iced coffee help.

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Caihong Wang Josiah Quincy Upper School, 12th Grade In this essay, I share some of the challenges I had to overcome in order to establish my goals. I wrote this non-fiction piece in order to share my thoughts. My personal goal is to be myself and continue with this happy spirit, despite whatever challenges might come my way.

Goals for Myself “Well, you must be getting high scores in math coming from China, right?”

I nodded and smiled, but didn’t say anything. The truth was I wasn’t good at math and I didn’t get it. But everyone expected me to be.

Because I was Asian.

I am a very shy person who doesn’t like to talk in class, yet I can be very energetic and free when I am with my friends and family. My self-consciousness might be caused by my immigrant background and lack of confidence in my English-speaking skills. It took me a long time to find my voice and learn how to speak up. In order to do that, I push myself to participate in different extracurricular activities.

At the beginning of this school year, I set a list of goals for myself.

My short-term goal was to be more outgoing and project my voice each time I spoke. I was hoping to find something that could make me less self-conscious. I was super lucky that one of my classmates introduced me to the A-Voyce afterschool program. I went there for two hours every week and learned how to help out the Chinatown community.

This program helped me adapt to my introverted personality, teaching me how to speak freely with other people.

I’ve seen a change and growth in myself. I’m now no longer afraid to tell people I don’t understand something in math class. In math class, I will ask the teacher for help or ask a teammate. I’m learning how to communicate.

Before June of 2019, I need to be ready to talk with even more people if I want to succeed throughout the four years of college. I think that my participation in the A-Voyce program could help me get used to the college environment more easily.

For my long-term goal, I want to have a good career and make 49

enough money to give back to my family. One day, my parents will become old and weak. They have already provided a lot for me, so I wish to take care of them and give them a break.

I set this as my long-term goal because this is very important to me and I don’t want to have any regrets.

In conclusion, my short-term goal is my education and the college supplement I am working on now, but for my long-term goal I am invested in my future and want to start off in a confident way.

Caihong is someone who likes to face challenges. She was born in China and immigrated to America when she was nine. Her hobbies include dancing and singing. This was her first year at EmersonWRITES. She wants to become a businesswoman and have a successful future.

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ARTifacts: Unlocking Stories Around Us

In this course we looked inside our daily lives and worlds for inspiration.

We explored different strategies to tell true stories by reading work from a range of writers, such as Solmaz Sharif, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and Ocean Vuong, as well as a variety of forms, content and modes of non-fiction. Sometimes certain personal narratives can be more easily or more effectively expressed in non-traditional forms.

Each week students crafted non-fiction pieces based on artifacts unique to them, while simultaneously experimenting with form. They also had peer review sessions and revised their work accordingly.

We were impressed by the students’ potent voices, compositions, and commitment to their craft. Their passion and flair radiate in the pieces that follow. These have been selected by each student and are mostly from the writing prompts over the course, inspired by an artifact.

Faculty Bios San Pham is an emerging artist from Ann Arbor, MI. She received her BA from the University of Michigan and is currently pursuing her MFA at Emerson College in Boston, where she now resides. She is interested in combining art and writing to decrease stigma and create dialogue on mental health. Her work centers around her identity as a 2nd generation Vietnamese American, being diagnosed with Bipolar II Disorder, and as a woman going through Puberty 2. She loves the sun.

Cindy Govender is a MFA non-fiction creative writing student at Emerson College. She has tutored high school students in a program in South Africa for a few years. She is particularly interested in human stories from around the globe and literary journalism.

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Gabriela Barroso Revere High School, 11th Grade Throughout each session in the ARTifacts workshop, my confidence in structuring a story and developing intricate habits of description blossomed. The two pieces represent facets of inequality I’ve faced in my life, and are a platform for reflection on seemingly routine occurrences that in reality hurt communities nationwide.

Possibility You are out or you are in.

Outside my bedroom window, early Wednesday morning A line of black vans swarm.

Out of her mind, screaming, out of panic On a phone call, searching for the rights unbeknownst to us.

In a few hours, Out of the country.

You are in or you are out.

In July you’d never expect a knock so violent, an invasion of your contentment, the seemingly mundane Without warrant.

In go three men, Out goes lone Father.

In a matter of seconds, Mother out with her children.

You are out or you are in.

Patronage Every day I ride the MBTA home —a patron of buses and trains, sitting, standing, occasionally covering my ears when the tracks leave a shrill bite echoing down the tunnels. Friday nights are no different. Clobbering 53

in silent competition to cram into the final bus of the night, left toe-totoe in a frustrated huddle with weary men heading home from work; anxious students with hoodies and headphones playing at top volume; tightly bundled babies staring from their wound-up swaddles, buckled in carriages. The tense crowd punctures towards the electric blue seats. As I walk to the back corner, a nook with the benefit of the heater and leg rest, I feel the exhaustion from the commute wash over. I think of my living situation a year before—less strain on my back and shoulders. The city to my house now spans ten miles, and the trek home seems neverending. What once was a 40-minute bus ride has expanded to counting each schedule and memorizing paths home.

Displacement wears many faces, and over the past year, I have found many more. It takes the shape of a new coffee shop, a cute, harmless, attractive space for real estate development. Often the face is compact with fury, with violence: Entire apartments in Maverick Square falling to a crumble with neglected infrastructure; mothers, fathers, communities, spirits, and soul evicted; longtime members of communities left with no choice but to migrate away because of rising costs of living. All these thoughts swirl endlessly as I press my forehead against the cool window, not thinking of germs.

The slow drift of these neighborhoods away from all familiarity and sense of home leaves me hollow and dark. We drive north, past the condominiums, past grocery stores, each bus stop growing further and further apart. The babies are held close now, soft glow under hypnotic highway lights. I live in the suburbs now, living through the almost comical story of a first generation child roaming for a piece of an alleged dream. As my eyelids weigh down, I arrive, into an empty home I do not know the name of, into a new bed and space and atmosphere. To become a patron, tomorrow.

Gabriela is an author, artist, and organizer currently living in Revere, Massachusetts. Many of her works focus on eye-catching imagery, themes exploring displacement, mental illness, and self-reflection. She hopes to see her writing as a capsule for adolescent experiences to be utilized for vulnerable conversations within her greater community.

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Bru’Nya Brown Boston Latin Academy, 9th Grade In my class this year at Emerson, I’ve learned so much about how to at least put some of the things in my head into words. For so long I’ve struggled to articulate how I’m feeling in a way that people could understand. In this peace I do exactly that.

Bru’Nya Bru’Nya Brown is complicated. There’s so much character and personality to her that the only word that can describe all of her is everything. No one word can describe her mind, the way she carries herself, the way she is so passionate about speaking out for those who cannot to speak for themselves, or helping those who cannot speak for themselves, the ones who get walked over because they’re too nice. Her only problem is she’s shy, not the type of shy that you’re probably thinking of like “she cannot talk in front of a class” type of shy, but the “ talking in front of a crowd gives her the worst type of anxiety” type of shy, her chest tightens, she’s about to cry but she doesn’t, her heart beats too fast, she needs to go home. That’s anxiety. Since Bru’Nya learned to talk she’s been speaking her mind. Whether it was to kindly tell someone about their bad breath, or funky smells, or to just let someone she doesn’t even know, know that they look very beautiful, then give them that extra big grin she always gives to make people smile.

Bru’Nya has always been the BOLD type, but never the bold type.

Like if you’re annoying her by being super loud, or making her mad she’ll make it very known, very nicely though of course. She talks about the things that make her happy, and that irritate her or make her mad, but never about the things that make her sad, like being bullied by her own family and friends until she was 12 years old, or how she hates herself, the simple details about herself that people point out without even noticing that it actually bothers her. Like her big hands, or the way her fingers look like they’re deformed, or even the way that she talks too loud. She doesn’t talk about how deep someone she cares about can get under her skin so quickly by simply not talking to her, she never talks about how she yearns for that friendship that ended a couple of months ago to be back the way it was it ended so quickly to her, even though 55

lasted for two years. She never talks about how close it was to her heart, it was her weakness. She never talks about how complicated it was, or the scars that it left, or how deep it hurt when it ended, she never talks about the things that she should’ve said but didn’t say, all the things that she should still say, and talk about, but has too much pride to say. And that same pride that stops her, right now, before she tells me anything more, and this page of writing becomes too deep. Bringing this beautiful story to an end, at this very moment.

This is Bru’Nya’s first year at EmersonWRITES and she is in the nonfiction class. She likes being goofy, writing, and meeting new people.

She also loves to help people, you can say that she’s a very considerate person.

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Mah Camara Boston Latin Academy, 9th Grade This year I’ve learned to capture every detail in my life, no matter how pointless, because it’s a part of my story and one day I will use it. In my piece, I’ve chosen the relationship with the city I live in.

My Old Friend Boston Oh Boston, you have turned me into your personal Frankenstein. Building me up, then breaking me down. And you still can’t tell me why.

Why must there be a difference between people? White or Black.

Dark skin or light skin. Hushed voices, quickened feet, blatant stares, and clutching of their valuables. You make me see it all, and you stab me, over and over, with that knife; 6.9 million faces and very few are the same. Many adore chocolate, but give it life and a heart, and they become terrified.

A boy of 15 or 16 shot dead. His name was Deon. Then came Isaac and after that, Lauren. You painted the streets red, cried it out for a day, but it did not wash the pain away. You still kept shining through.

At the street corner with the pristine white house harboring a peacefullyflowing blossom tree, you allowed me to silently scream my pain. The pain that you knew would always be there. The house where everyone makes choices for me. I am pushed here and there for “it’s what’s best”.

I dream of escaping one day. Tightening my blasters and blasting away.

You became my friend at four, but who are you now? If you let me breathe for a day or two, Boston, then I’ll see, if you and me could go back to the way we used to be.

Mah Camara is a freshman at Boston Latin Academy. She currently works at Artist for Humanity in the 3D Studio, creating ideas and sculptures for clients. Previously, she worked as a painter. Mah likes art, dancing, writing, and acting. She once took a cat off the street and 57

named it Catty. Her parents didn’t know until the morning when the cat jumped in front of them. Let’s just say they weren’t happy.

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Keianna Trinica Rena Grant Codman Academy Charter Public School, 10th Grade I hated writing about race and social justice but now I love it because of the deep connection I feel with these topics. I’ve learned that I can’t get better at writing if I’m running away from tough subjects.

My Full Story “You’re not black.” That’s what I’ve heard from people at my school (but they’re the same people who say I am black). People would say this to me when I was younger and sometimes even in the present day. “You’re too white,” is also a phrase I’ve heard straight from the mouths of some of the kids at school. I’m not 100% sure why people say these things to me. Maybe it’s because of my hair? No that doesn’t seem right, but maybe I should explain my hair. I have dirty blonde hair that was long (at some point) and is super curly, many of the black girls and women I’ve seen have short black and nappy hair with either weave or some kind of hair coloring. Maybe it’s because of the fact that “I sound smart,” or “I write smart,” but they could be the same way. If they invested the time and energy into their work, we wouldn’t be that different.

Many girls in my school and especially in my class have told me I don’t deserve my hair because I cut it too much. They get mad when they see and hear that I’m doing great or beneficial for my future. I can never understand and I refuse to understand the envy and jealousy they have towards me, but I do know and understand this, I most definitely deserve my hair because the pieces I’ve lost go to others for their gain.

I deserve to be happy and proud of my accomplishments because I’m finally acknowledging my talents and knowledge that I’ve longing to use but couldn’t or didn’t want to. Growing up someone was always complimenting me about something whether it would be drawing, writing, swimming or just small hobbies I was being complimented on it. Now that I’m older I know that I can use my talents to help others.

The best part is I’m not only doing this for myself. I’m also doing this for both of my parents. Both of my parents didn’t have the same chances and opportunities as I do now, I’m going to prove to them that they didn’t waste thousands of dollars on education just for it to go to waste.

“Every opportunity is golden, just take the leap and have faith.” My 59

parents would always say to me. They both push me to be great and I’m pushing myself to be the greater than what they pushed me to.

People get mad at me, but they never know the full story. I can never understand that way of thinking. I have a different way of thinking and acting than most people (in certain situations) especially those in the black community. I’ve always considered myself black regardless of what anyone says, but it was never because the color of my skin it was because of what I grew up doing in my home. What people don’t see is the food we make, like cheesy delicious macaroni pie or the mouthwatering, stomach turning, amazing beef or chicken pelau rice or roti and buss up shut that could suck up all the curry you have on a plate.

You don’t see how we eat, how we dance and how we carry ourselves.

In my head and in my heart I believed I was black. I always questioned whether or not I would be accepted and would people with darker skin accept me more if my skin was darker, but honestly I love my caramel skin and wouldn’t have it any other way.

Keianna is sixteen, Trinidadian, and pansexual. She plans on being a small business owner when she gets older, along with being a writer.

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Ava Hawkes Revere High School, 11th Grade This piece reflects how I learned about the value of discomfort in writing; making a piece “real” often means finding ways to make the reader uncomfortable. I want readers to not only ask questions about my piece, but ask questions about themselves.

Dead Interest I lay on my couch comfortably in the way that small dead bodies rest easy in big coffins, three feet tall and six feet underground. My living room is a middle class cage adorned with fake flowers, a broken printer, and college propaganda. A CNN documentary is trapped behind a smart television screen, begging me to listen to what it has to say. My feet lay on the glass of the coffee table, daring it to shatter and stab me, shred my feet into little tiny pieces of skin. No matter where we are, there’s always some sort of threat, some sort of danger. We’re always a certain distance away from the unthinkable.

I suppose that’s why I spend so much time on the age-old issue of death. The average person squirms in their seat when they are presented with the topic of murder; I, on the other hand, lean forward and want to find out more. Not because I actively seek out death, humans naturally want to live as long as they can, but because I’m curious as to why we live in a world where life is so often taken. Why is death so repulsive to most, and yet so endearing to others? Why does it draw some of us in, like car crashes, or like a preacher in the pulpit? Through some incomprehensible process, I feel like I understand. And I feel like you can understand. Hatred, hopelessness, hysteria. We all dabble in these feelings on an everyday basis. Imagine a whirlwind of them all, at their deepest and farthest all at once, consuming the human mind like a carnivore from within. What, at that point, is the difference between life and death?

It’s a fact of life that we’re all going to die. I don’t think anyone ever comes to terms with that fact, though. I’ve hardly come to terms with the death of my grandmother, even though she died seven years ago. I read about murderers so often that it makes my mother concerned, but actually knowing that people have died, been killed, is rattling. I think 61

it’s because none of us know what death is like. It is heaven or hell? Is it just blackness? I like to think that we return to the places and people that we love most when we die, but I could be wrong. In any case, it’s incomprehensible to us now, that’s all that we’re sure of. And humans love to decode that which they do not understand.

So I guess that’s why we’re drawn to death, murder, suicide, all manners of lives cut short. There’s no understanding just why someone would do that, let alone what happens afterwards. There’s no understanding, and yet on some deep level, we just get it. Through some abstract means we understand the emotions that push someone to take a life, whether it be their own or someone else’s. That’s why it’s acceptable that graphic scenes be shown on national television, albeit only during a certain time period. That’s why my dearest memories are of myself and my grandma bonding over true crime documentaries, snuggled up on her white leather couch with half-melted pints of ice cream. Death is so close and natural to us, no matter how abstract. We understand it in the way that we understand distant memories; so far removed, and yet so close, burned into the brain as the most primal of human instincts.

This is Ava’s first year at EmersonWRITES. She is a junior at Revere High School. Her interests include true crime, psychology, literature, rock music, and journalism. She is currently working on a research project about teen subcultures concerning interest in crime.

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Arianna Ruiz-Rivera Cristo Rey Boston, 9th Grade While at EmersonWRITES I learned to step outside the box, and not let my doubts hold me from writing extraordinary things. This piece is about social justice.

Possibly Has our world ever been sunny through these dark times?

Remember this used to be a time of passion and unity?

That was our world too.

While you had no worries about being safe, we were trying to survive.

While you were made our lives a living hell, we prayed for better days.

While you were asleep, we ran for our lives because being black meant being dangerous. Or sitting in the back of the bus. Or smelling the scent of hate after you broke down our door. Or listening to N.W.A. while lighting a blunt to escape the pain of knowing what your life was like and how easy you had it compared to us.

After all of that, the possibility of a world being for both of us seemed slim.

A Vibrant Yellowness I’ve never been one to bake. Too afraid to burn down the house, with little interest in vanilla anything.

If someone ever asks me, “What’s your favorite fruit?” I reply with, 63

“Lemon.” I’m not sure why but I prefer sour.

Every summer, I sulk in the smell of buttered corn on a fiery grill while avoiding a war with the sun.

Freedom is not having anything to do. A vibrant yellowness.

Arianna is a freshman who has concluded that writer’s block sucks. She also doubts herself and her writing, but will never give up

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Yaritza Santana Boston Preparatory Charter Public School, 10th Grade This year, I’ve learned about writing stories and poems in the ARTifacts genre. I’ve learned to really step out of my comfort zone and feel confident in what I am writing. In this story my character confronts the challenge of feeling like you can’t be yourself around the people you love.

How to Make Friends Put on a mask. Don’t take it off because everyone will leave you when they see you without it. When you are talking to Justin wear the blue mask. When you are talking to Stephanie wear the bright yellow one with the big smile so she doesn’t see when you are frowning.

Go with your friends to the movies on the night you should be studying for a test but do not forgot your mask. When your friend makes a joke you don’t think is funny, laugh anyways. Go to the mall with your friends. When they want the red ball gown with the silky material that you were going to wear to prom, give it to them.

Make sure that at the end of the day your friends are smiling, because they got the red ball gown with the silky material to wear to prom. You see Jessie walking down the hall. Race to your locker to change from your bright yellow mask to the navy blue with the clouds surrounding your eyes.

If one of your friends gets upset, buy them a slice of pizza because you can never go wrong with food. However, be yourself do not take off the mask. Your friends will run away in fear, tripping and falling over one another because your scars were too much.

When you get home, you are exhausted from switching masks all day, but do it one more time. When you see your parents wear the white mask that says “I am okay.”

Only when you’re alone in the shower completely naked and exposed, take off the mask. Your tears blending in with the water streaming down your face from the shower head.

Grab the bar of soap and rub it all over your skin until it turns red from you trying to wash yourself away.

Get out of the shower and put on your clothes and go to bed. Lock 65

the door to your room, keep your mask next to you on the nightstand.

A reminder that you will have to do it all over again. Wear the blue mask with Justin, the bright yellow one with the big smile with Stephanie, the navy blue mask with the clouds with Jessie, and the white mask that says “I am okay� with your parents.

Yaritza Santana is currently a sophomore at Boston Prep. She loves to write songs and poems in her free time and also would love to experiment in writing stories.

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Page Meets the Stage The Page Meets Stage curriculum took our students through a wide range of poetry, both historical and contemporary. We examined the relationship between the word on page and the word on stage, discussing the complex relationship between language and the deeper meaning found in poems.

We used online resources to watch poetry performed and dove into poetry found in the New Yorker, Poetry Magazine, and many other famous outlets.

We began each class with a writing prompt where we would challenge the students to begin thinking about the topic for the day. Some examples include identity politics on social media, self-affirmation, joy as resistance, and many others. The students were always encouraged to share their work as we established the class room as a brave space, where we hoped everyone felt encouraged by the energy and honesty of their fellow classmates. The goal of every class was ultimately always to empower the students to feel confident in their own voices and challenge them to think critically and empathetically about their own work and the work of their peers. The class culminated in a group project where the students used their different experiences and writing styles to collaborate on a single poem that unpacked 2018 as a significant year for each of them as individuals and as a collective living in this remarkable time.

Faculty Bios Marin Sklan is a third year MFA student, writer, and professor. This will be her second year teaching with EmersonWRITES. Her work has appeared in The Underground, Rainy Day, Glitterwolf, and various forgotten sticky notes. Her middle name remains a misspelling, and her literary love is Lars Gustafsson.

Brandon Melendez is a Mexican-American poet, second year teacher with EmersonWRITES, and a third year MFA candidate at Emerson College. His first collection of poetry, titled Gold That Frames the Mirror will be out in March of this year. His poems have been featured in The Academy of American Poets, The Adroit Journal, Black Warrior Review, PANK, and elsewhere. When he is not writing, Brandon can be found learning computer programming, or dreaming of returning to California.

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Katherine Colglazier Algonquin Regional High School, 12th Grade

The Sober Everyone else had took a hit that night.

But there’s something more appealing Being in complete control, while Choosing to stuff my face With marshmallows.

When you’re high, Everything is water colors.

Creating the sense that life Is wonderful.

While you’re sober, Everyone is paint; You, the painter.

Trying to make sense With the colors You are given.

There is nothing more numb when you Are in touch with reality.

While others are so far gone Smoking on temporary love, You can see the sadness evaporate With the smoke.

The sober are forced with the heartache Of walking in a straight line, never to Know what it’s like to lose all sense Of control.

When you’re high, nothing matters but Getting more stoned.

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I wish I could escape it, Not temporarily, permanently.

Spaced out on the stars is no Way to live, But somewhere in between The blackness And the milky way I’d like to rest my consciousness.

Sometimes the sober wants To lose controlBut living thirsty for a drink Only to envision constellations, Isn’t worth the Hallucinations.

I wonder what’s their reason this time.

To forget? Lose control?

Pretend to be someone else?

I wonder what’s my excuse for staying Clear- headed; Maybe it’s because it’s easier to feel pain Then replace it by inhaling it.

Maybe it’s because you can learn so much more From being sober; watching people try to breath in A cure for their emptiness.

Filing a bong doesn’t equate to Filling up your munchies instead of Happiness.

No amount of substances Or food can cure The loneliness.

There is no use in trying.

No use in drinking A whole bottle If a headache is the only 70

Thing to add to the Heartache.

So I stay sober, Because there is no point In getting higher If all I am going to do Is inevitable sink lower.

Entangled Insanity do you know what insanity is? the state in which you repeat the same actions and expect a different outcome. cause and effect. making small circles on paper, only to assume they will transform into squares. taking a shot of vodka and expecting the kick to go away with another glass. it taunts me; the predictable. it’s easier to do something when you already know the outcome. i will always see my reflection in the mirror no matter what angle i turn to look. water is always hot when it is boiling; and yet, i place my delicate hands onto the stove expecting the surface to be colder. to be insane is to think everything around you is an anomaly. roses can sometimes draw blood depending on where 71

you put the fingers, depending on if you cut the thorns off first. love can be a lot like an anomaly. similar to insanity, such a thin line between the two, dull words could puncture the boundaries. i am insane because i am afraid of what’s beyond the familiar. to be sane is to be acquainted with the unknown. love the emptiness of a well; never quite know how deep the blackness goes until you take the leap. the sane will observe the scars and refuse to dance on the edges of curiosity and darkness once more. the hopeless romantic will look down at her bruised covered body and think, i will do better next time. cover up the wounds with vaseline, only to keep holding her heart out to the same butcher; jump into the same blackness expecting the water at the bottom to be deeper. is this insanity? the quick pacing from room to room; the drifting off to see shooting stars in daylight. i wonder if love ever stood in front of me. or, if it was just a feelinga broken heart that felt so sharp i assumed it had to be human. i think i like the insanity. so many strings forming; sewn together to create a person. there is a comfort in the crazy; voices talking, and at least you can say you have company.

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i wonder if anyone else feels the spider crawling up the small of their back. when i try to shake it off, i realize there was nothing there. i think i knew there was no spiderno love clinging on, and yet, i still shake. i still hold my hand out for the feeling and expect something to touch me. still, i feel something entangle my grip. i look down at my hands and wonder if what i am holding is real or something i made up.

Katherine is a Senior at Algonquin and it is her third year at EmersonWRITES. She has thoroughly enjoyed her class in Poetry and her awesome teachers. She enjoys painting and bike riding in her free time. Katherine loves poetry and has received several Scholastic Awards in the category. In total, she has received six Regional Keys and five Honorable Mentions for her work in poetry. Katherine also hosts a Poetry Club at her work where she explores poetry with the elderly at an assisted living home.

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Seba Ismail Revere High School, 12th Grade I’m an Egyptian-American poet and a senior at Revere High School.

I compose poetry regarding my heritage and activism, but I try to write beyond my comfort zone. I owe much of my inspiration to my loving family and wonderful friends who continuously push me to be unapologetically myself.

Child of the Nile Henna wrapped around my skin, Climbing up tender flesh, Staining pigment the color of my grandmother’s home in Aswan, Blossoming into intricate petals of red and black and orange The only colors that remind me of my heritage.

I whisper silent prayers in a language that does not belong to me. Tongue twists and contorts to form words that flow out like the tributaries of the Nile Claim a language that carries the screams of my people, a language that drowned out our villages, a language that made us forget our skin.

The only reminder of my difference is my melanin. They use to call me samra (brown girl) and ask me where I came from As if I was not born from the sugar cane, As if I was not born from the cotton fields, As if I was not born from the soil, the seeds, the roots, the date palms, the mango trees, the slight sea breeze carrying the hum of waves crashing against the sand from the Red Sea. But it didn’t matter.

I was still “samra.”

Still a girl looking for answers in portraits of tan sun-kissed skin, dark unruly curls, and piercing black eyes that could draw blood.

Still looking for answers in the language that beat my elders foreign tongues until they swelled, bled, and were heavy enough to wrench out all of the syllables, like the blood from their clothes.

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Still looking for salvation in Allah, forgetting religion was their way of justifying stealing land that was already blessed to us.

Everyone always talks about colonization as a means of stealing land, stealing goods, stealing people, stealing a whole continent.

But, Stealing implies that it was your property to begin with, that you could understand that it belonged to you.

But, we did not know that it was even ours to be taken, all we knew was that they took it, and took us with them.

And I, a child of the Nile, now perceived to be a foreigner on my own land, am still trying to hold onto the seeds of my lineage through planting blossoms of Henna on my skin Not as a tether to the Motherland, But as a way to ingrain Her into me. So they can never steal Her, Can never tell me She is not mine.

Hawa [

]

When you told me you loved me, all I could think of was wind.

Thought of the first time I felt the sea breeze caress my skin. Thought of the first time I felt your breath intertwine with mine. Thought of how my heart rises and falls in your presence like the wind rises and falls; unstable, yet full of possibility.

The Arabic word for wind is

(hawa)

The Arabic word for your first love is 76

(hawa)

When I said I love you, did I say that the wind brought me to you? Did I say that you came to me suddenly? like a breeze. No, a gust. or a tornado or even a whirlwind of spiraling kaleidoscope “I love yous” and “Never leave.”

I told you I loved you, but I should have said that you made me feel like a rainstorm. No, not in the way you’re thinking. But, you are that aftermath when the sun beams and the crowded clouded sky yields to orange cream sunsets. or maybe even the slight inhale I take every time you smile or squeeze my hand a little too tight or tell me that I’m beautiful.

When I told you I loved you, I could only feel the wind.

I forgot to hold my breath until I could let all of the air flow out. I forgot how to breathe for a second, there was no air left in the room. I forgot that you were more than any three words could describe and I forgot that I could feel like this.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

You are my “

”

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Nubia My mama once told me that I came from gold. Came from a land drenched with trembling hues Came from a village seeped in black Where the water glistened in the sunlight Where the soil claimed the palm trees Where the people had skin the color of diamonds in the Earth My mama once told me that I came from royalty. Came from a matriarchy of queens that never forgot their place Came from a history of women who always knew never to hold their tongue Where the homes were the color of vanilla beans Where the stories were the truth dipped in magic Where the dances were the heartbeats of those who came before us I came from Nubia.

I’m an Egyptian-American poet and a senior at Revere High School.

I compose poetry regarding my heritage and activism, but I try to write beyond my comfort zone. I owe much of my inspiration to my loving family and wonderful friends who continuously push me to be unapologetically myself.

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Winter Jones Boston Latin Academy, 10th Grade At EmersonWRITES I met so many great people and learned so many new things. My creative writing and analysis has definitely improved.

This year I enjoyed reading others poems and critiquing them. This piece was inspired by an idea from one of the poetry workshops, which was reflecting on 2018 and wishing the best from 2019.

Dear 2019, Please treat me well, for your counterpart has failed.

Interlace your fingers with mine and run through the virgin fields of hope, for mine have been falsified and assaulted by indigestible truths.

Please hold me snuggly, for the adhesive holding me together is worn and little pieces of my pretty still get stuck in your foot. She failed to put me back together again.

Please, I have renewed hope for you and none for her.

Hope to touch the sun and stars and take me to the moon.

Sincerely, Frigid air and delicate eyes Post scriptum: you’re already doing it wrong But let’s see if you do better soon.

Some of my passions and hobbies are dance, writing, science, art, and 79

the sport squash. Goals I have are attending and completing college, bettering my time management, and bettering my mental health by finding and learning more about myself. Poetry and writing serve as one of my strongest coping mechanisms and hobbies.

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Abbie Langmead Stoughton High School, 11th Grade This year I felt a lot more comfortable with my writing, so in turn I decided to focus my writing on the uncomfortable. The things that I don’t necessarily want to say out loud wind up making me tick on paper.

I Get Anxious Leaving My Electric Menorah On When it climbs down from the attic it probably scares me the most, Because it starts out as a rattle, then a beat, And the thoughts begin to come and Make my heart pound with the drum of anxiety.

The nine glass flames Screwed into a metallic candelabra Placed right in front of the whole world of my streetside, Right in the bay window that sticks out like my home’s sore thumb.

And night falls and I get a little sick, Then I get a little tense as I climb up to ignite the sparks.

My mind is somewhere else, Despite not having anywhere else to go.

Despite my feet dangling off the sofa.

Anxiety pumps through my heart and Rather than feeding my body oxygen, it feeds nervous ticks.

I wear rings on my fingers just so I can twist them And I wear big sweaters so I can hide my hands in them, seeking comfort.

The littlest things like speaking can push the anxiety into my veins, But I know exactly why I feel this way I don’t find any obscurities: screwing in the lightbulbs And watching them reflect in the window is brave.

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Baruch atah Adonai, Because I know that my ancestors would light menorahs In basements or cramped attics to hide their faiths And yet, I can be so brazen about it.

Eloheinu melech haolam, And I can’t wear my rings sometimes Without thinking about how somewhere else They’d be stripped from me like potatoes peeled to make latkes.

Asher kideshanu bemitzvotav, And then suddenly I’m thinking about How my heart raced in synagogue on the High Holy Days, Even with police officers waiting as crosswalk escorts as little old ladies pass towards shul.

Veztivanu lehadlik ner, And I think about how someone could throw a brick through this stupid bay window Even though I’ve never heard of it happening to anyone before.

My brain doesn’t give me a moment to rationalize, my heart says to duck.

Shel Hanukkah.

I run my fingers across the ridges in the light bulb, Screw it into the menorah as quickly as I can.

Pray, and exhale.

It it’s back. like a wave crashing back rocking your bones, while the shore lies perfectly still.

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like the monster you feared under your mattress or inside your closet that you were always told was never real at all. like bright lights, dulling every sense with disorientation. like darkness, wandering alone. trying to find a semblance of hope, a reflection in your fingernails. every single molecule breathes in the monster its darkness its light its nonsense its awareness and you? well you’re not sure if you’re breathing at all.

Lonely Nostalgia I am a sufferer of Lonely Nostalgia.

Definition: An affection for a nowhere near perfect past, But you’re desperate as hell because you’re lonely.

So you forget all the bad times.

I yearn for the times 83

Where things were harder and I wished for them to slow down, And people confused me or made me cry daily, And I was somehow more happy.

You see, that’s some of the symptoms of Lonely Nostalgia, Bones aching like you’ve been reaching for things that aren’t there.

Convoluted fantasies about words unsaid, lives unlived.

Occurrences of “Facebook Stalking”, then feeling like the your heart was left on a highway.

The worst symptom of all is, The vivid memories of something That would never happen anymore.

But you’d, I know it must have really happened.

I remember thinking that I was brilliant, But only in comparison to you.

Everything was always in comparison to you.

Sometimes my mind wanders and it still is.

I remember knowing that I deserve so much better than you.

I still know I deserve so much better than you.

But sometimes, I lie in bed, And wonder what things could have been.

My problem with Lonely Nostalgia doesn’t come with the symptoms, But the causes itself.

If I were better, I could’ve had the world.

Or at least, I might have had you.

I try to exhale the feelings That maybe if I were better, Things would have made more sense.

Or maybe they wouldn’t have happened at all.

I try to stop the lingering thoughts about 84

How things might’ve turned out different, If things outside my control happened.

Or if things in my control did.

Lonely Nostalgia comes When my phone doesn’t ring for an hour, And I’m thankful I can get so much work done, But I hate how quiet my world has become.

I have nothing to be nostalgic for, Except for maybe Canadian Children’s Television, The same stuff you used to watch.

And we’d talk about it together...

I try to look forward to a future where I’ve forgotten you, Where I can work so hard I don’t even remember you: When I’ve truly recovered, Or at least, I’ve forgotten.

Abbie is a junior at Stoughton High School, which according to Marin may or may not exist. This is her fourth year in EmersonWRITES. At her school (that she believes exists) she is a member of NHS, Peer Mediation, A World Of Difference Ambassadors, and the Drama Department. Outside of writing she’s passionate for obscure musical theatre, activism, and words (all said and pun).

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Jael Nunez Cristo Rey Boston High School, 10th Grade I have enjoyed this year in the EmersonWRITES poetry program because it has given me a lot of opportunities these past few months.

The teachers have taught me the different structures of poems, and the breaking of rules when writing a piece. This poem was inspired by my desire to expect less of a person and my coming back to life.

Dear Lover What is this feeling that kills me?

Just to think you make me the happiest To then just remember we are two people with no title.

I’m not going to cry!

No tears will come out!

Who am I lying to?

I want to cry.

I want to show what can’t be said.

Don’t hurt me. Please. I beg you.

Don’t break what’s left of me.

Dear Unrevealed, Don’t end this friendship Along the desire of wanting you.

I told you from the jump, I wasn’t going to cry and I didn’t.

I said no tears will come out, but I lied.

I told you. Please. Don’t hurt me.

And you didn’t.

Though I managed to damage myself.

I made myself the victim.

But I knew it was you.

This feeling took over me.

I feared you were going to hurt me.

Though I ended up destroying you.

I didn’t mean to. I swear.

Am I a monster?

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Please Don’t lie to me.

I’m sorry for I have hurt myself.

They say karma is a bitch, And I ended up being my own.

Will you forgive me?

Dear Stranger, Learn to love

If the sun should rise, and find my soul filled with tears With the hands that marked my life From the bottom of my heart I’ll tell you the art of my life Only the part of a broken soul Trying to forget what can’t be undone Faking a smile that can’t be won Thinking of things I was left to say Lost in the mistress of what it was The touch of those hands manifested through my body The touches that marked my soul and stole my emotions The voices became silent No one to believe what I had to say But now here I come to bring back What was stolen from a pure heart and a vivid soul I fell far from where you was my Lord I didn’t doubt I just forgot.

Tomorrow will start with the Lord To think we aren’t far apart For every time I think of you You are right there in my heart This is a love far greater than blood This is Jael’s first year in EmersonWRITES. She is a sophomore at Cristo Rey Boston High School. She started writing poetry at the age of 9, inspired after the traumatic event of her uncle’s death. She wants to be a philosopher. She’s currently reading Sophie’s World by Jostein Gaarder.

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Anna Shahbazyan Marblehead High School, 12th Grade This year, I learned about different types of poetry and reviewed poems by a variety of authors from different time periods. My class explored the topic of self-identity and this is reflected in my pieces.

Dark Serenity Willows weep with knowledge of the world.

Their roots are held by dirt, overheard secrets, and perverse conversations.

The tips of the branches stroke the water in hopes of reaching the earth’s core.

How cruel it is to be grounded in such beauty and never witness it.

Confession Box You bellowed my sacred, God-given name into the ominous, overcast sky.

Those syllables now foreign to me.

Were you expecting me to descend from the heavens, surrounded by a glowing aura and powerful lightning, because you wanted me to erase your sins?

You knelt down before me, spewing your heartfelt confessions.

But I am not your priest.

Your guilty words deafen me.

Next time you confess, please go to church.

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Tea with Grandma The ceramic teapot steams With the bittersweet memories of her youth The sweet liquid burns my tongue with the pain she endured Grandma’s tea pairs well with biscuits And an attentive ear To listen to the bad memories That she recalls with a sparkle in her eye and a crunch She speaks of starvation and failed communism Her father’s abuse And the loss of her mother Atrocities I will never know of When the tea cools And her eyes glisten I say jokingly, “Maybe we’ll have some water instead.”

This is Anna’s first year in EmersonWRITES. She is a senior at Marblehead High School and is the president of the school literary magazine. She loves reading and taking long walks on the beach, and next year plans on studying English at an undetermined institution.

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Laurel Simpson Milton High School, 9th Grade

Thy Unknown Identity of Me A world created by elements that match With a end product Me. A fertilized molecule Time were laughter begins in silence Developing into a zygote Creation of persona Without my presence Me With no idea of what a place with harm and joy shall project to me Kicking and eating is all I know Melody of what I shall be Concerns of what I may not be Held beyond standards and ideas Before I breathe my first breath Causing pain and sickness for a soul that has no idea of me Only a thought and perspective genes of what I shall be Aporching the date Of which hearts plead my soul Tones of announces Make sure i’m adequate Thump Thump Pain and ack Suffer and sweat Don’t give up 91

Each tear droplet Closer and closer You can do it Me Transition of air molecules feather my skin Soaked in amniotic fluid Pop The familiar place Amniotic sac No longer my protector Vibrant vibrations Tap my eardrum Brutal winds sweep my warmth away Thick paws grasps my bump Poke Wip The paws continue to play with me As if it’s a race Turn Twist Want my sack back My protector Me crys Ringing of music in my creators ears My feeling of cold No longer becomes a worry Gentile paws Floating within thin air leverage carries me to my Destination After 9 months Within cozy covers of ligaments 92

Safe paws of my creators rub my skin Eyelids Its time My eyes open Open to the most beautiful view Protectors Lovers And greatest givers I shall ever know Mom Dad I have Arrived Soaked in the most flawless Ultimate perfect moment That shall ever remain in my exotic future that shall continue to be lived Me Thank you creators.

My ideas and thoughts shall be influenced by your movement But for my success Created by decisions Love?

Begins within that miniature Unborned ME Hello there matching molecules!

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Ebony Smith Excel Academy Charter High School, 11th Grade This year, I focused on social justice in regards to the youth. Poetry has allowed me to reference the history of racial tension and its impact. I learned how to create a poem from a separate image, which is how Clark’s Doll Experiment (2019) was written. The following poems explore racial tension.

Clark’s Doll Experiment (2019) Its bright red lipsMassive.

Its skin toneTar. Its dressStained.

Almost as if the plaid fabric would encourage the young child to choose its midnight eyes over smooth porcelain.

Almost as if a small sample of light would reveal hidden glistening stones that reflect an undetected melanin, or an undetected privilege, that would encourage the young child to seek golden sunlight and truth.

But alas, our young children were leaning towards ocean orbs and lighter skin, even before they could realize racial division.

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Human kind craves an exotic taste, often selling its own people to buy it.

T.H.U.G. L.I.F.E. a five year old boy a five year old child, no, a five year old infant holding a gun aiming at his enemy from before he was born, he was too scared to run he wanted to protect his own blood, their guns never lowered so he kept his piece aimed to. but wait, let’s rewind to the time when you choked his father on the ground, left him no air to breathe with so his children had no father to admire. but wait, must I remind you of the time you murdered his brother for living luxury while black too bad he never knew he had a target on his backmaybe i should end this here because i know how easy you can turn my melanin to grey, turn my eyes into porcelain 96

and make the letters in my name separate until the people closest to me forget its sound. i’m just saying don’t be surprised in this moment when you see the product of hate you manifested in our children, the boy lowers the gun, his future uncertain, because only apologetic cops can get acquitted, and his family can’t afford the t-shirts that’ll have his face on them. it’s so clear to me, can’t you see?

The Hate U Give Little Infants Fails Everybody.

Ebony Smith is a fourth-year participant of EmersonWRITES. She is a junior at Excel Academy Charter High School and leads Excel’s Black Caucus, which largely influences the topics of her poems. Since the eighth grade, Ebony has dedicated her weekends to developing her creative writing skills.

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Kaylah Tshitenge Boston Latin Academy, 10th Grade Participating in the EmersonWrites poetry workshop has taught me the difference between the power of spoken word and keeping a poem on the page. Encouragement from my peers and connecting with an environment of young writers like me, inspired me to take my poems to a next level poetically.

My Problematic Intersexuality My laughter turned into solemnity when love contributed to the genre of my imperfections And the materials used for my eulogy of the forthcoming black woman you see in me My skin is a failed experiment and my hands a sample for the fists that reality want me to throw My hair is a threat that loves the fact that my reality is unjustified by the imprisonments of your first impression of me And the steady beat of a colorist victim that betrayed me The injustices of the empty racist space that culture laid out for was a testament for the tears of the African queen that I’m awaiting to see I’m in the middleweight of an undying culture that isn’t respecting the incomprehensible heritage misogyny has to offer me My angry intelligence taught me that fear was just an illusion and another excuse for the raping of my anxiety But my thick legs weren’t triggered that adversity finally had a face Yet I’m the body of disgrace as if decomposed disrespect misguided the true meaning of race The blood of the crown that I was meant to wear shunned me from the refined policy called a man’s democracy My exposed and tainted identity was like receiving a certificate for just being comfortable with my own assurance for my insecurity But the true feminist in me hid the truth of acceptance courage recited through me And forgave the fact that being black wasn’t my only priority.

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Unfinished My mind betrayed my soul when abuse was a culture shock And that love was as real as slavery being illegal I played along with society’s games of being told that pain demands to be felt But suddenly that game wasn’t funny anymore My soul became the picture of a toxic black woman that failed to exist I lost respect for the experiences that life gave me.

I failed to accept the fact that having a answer to being human was as lost as racism being required.

Love checked right out from me when a touch was a caution sign to being numb My emotions became a feature that everyone dared to look at But kept disappearing as fast as innocence can slip away from your feet It’s like I earned the right to feel this way But I didn’t chose to be a walking stereotype I was told that being you was a sense of your identity, but never got an answer as to why slang couldn’t be a part of my vocabulary My thoughts were like inviting a stranger to my own funeral but I paid the consequence of knowing that feeling emotions makes you a menace to society.

My tears were a rebellion against the perfect utopia that it started off to be But I became the advertiser for misery It’s like I needed permission to be free and live the life where a siren cannot follow me I learned that justice was a fake scheme and dreaming wasn’t a life lesson I live in the shadows of intoxicating perfectionist culture but my purpose wasn’t tied to all the dead bodies around It’s like calling me different was like saying thank you for being black and that “lives matter” was just a term I broke the trust of the true meaning and fruit of being an assumption that pressure can walk all over.

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I laughed at my past as if it didn’t matter but fighting a war against my thoughts and actions were as riveting as being unfamiliar with beating an African drum But those beats ringing in my ear hesitated from calling me dumb I play the root in the circle of life but the goal was too high to reach Being Kaylah was not knowing who I am but what society said I should be But I guess I colored outside the lines this time so my future won’t yell at me.

My name is Kaylah Tshitenge. I am fifteen years old and attend Boston Latin Academy. I aspire to attend college and pursue a career in the medical field. My love for helping other people has motivated me to become a pediatrician and study the field of children’s medicine. Writing has always been a side hobby of mine because on the paper I am confined in a safe space where I can express how I feel without free of judgement. Although my poems on the paper are not enough, letting the world know that reality does exist is what matters the most. As a high schooler in this young day and age, my future is about changing the world and aiding those in it.

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Kyaralind Vasquez-Liriano Cristo Rey Boston High School, 12th Grade This year, I had the opportunity to join poetry class and I loved every lesson. Switching from Coming-of-Age last year, I was able to experiment and go into depth with the creativity of poetry through the exploration of identity and culture.

Ramadan of the Heart I catapult my feelings towards you In hopes I make your day When your love is tangibly sweet But your character shows otherwise Love is really just Hate under disguise By sunrise I am new The warm glow of the sun welcomes me into the unknown day ahead.

I wash the remnants of yesterday, Look to the horizon yearning for the answers to my prayers and the cleanse of my pain.

The daylight awaits By then, I am full of insight the thunder in me subsides As I gain closure, my hunger for love satiated.

Your presence resurfaces count my blessings, til we rise anew into the daylight Tainted by the stains you left The love which fills and moves my heart Is being drained.

To confess Love sculpted me, shaped me, changed me I held fast, to protect, 103

and counteract the damage of time.

A shame.

I’m thinning out This is Kyaralind’s fourth and last year at EmersonWRITES. A quirky, but funny, curious writer, Kyaralind loves soccer and being organized. She aspires to be a marine biologist as a career post-college.

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The Things That Scare Us 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, The Things That Scare Us, we delved into these topics as well as explored how to write genre fiction that is equally frightening and insightful. This year our class explored classic and contemporary writers such as Stephen King, Margaret Atwood, Ray Bradbury, and Shirley Jackson 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.

Faculty Bios Diana Fernandez is a third-year MFA candidate in Creative Fiction Writing at Emerson College. 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, during the summer. Her literary interests include gothic, horror, and science-fiction writers such as Shirley Jackson, Stephen King, and Margaret Atwood.

Diana’s goal as a fiction writer 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 Cuban-American protagonist.

Jayne Roberts is a second-year teacher with EmersonWRITES. She is a third-year MFA candidate in Creative Writing at Emerson College with a focus on horror and magical realism. She currently works as a Marketing Assistant at Rheinwerk Publishing, and has edited two novels and several non-fiction works. Jayne’s immediate goal is to have her novel finished by the end of the semester. She hopes to use her work to provide a greater understanding of the fears that certain at-risk groups face in society and encourage her readers to think more deeply about themselves and their involvement in the world around them.

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Antigone Brandel-Iuliano Boston Latin Academy, 9th Grade This is one vignette of a series set in Hell. The protagonist, Israel Maturin (they/them/theirs), has just died and woken up to meet Lucifer (he/ him/his). Later, Israel is hired as the secretary of Hell (their concerns about paperwork are justified), and becomes friends(ish) with Lucifer.

From Hell I open my eyes. My vision is too hazy for me to really be able to see anything, so I close them again.

As I stare at the inside of my eyelids, I decide now might be a good time to try to figure out roughly what the hell is going on. I carefully shift my weight onto my hands and knees.

The floor is hot. Not super hot, just a little more than warm. The temperature you want your oatmeal (with butter and salt, because you’re not the kind of tasteless numbskull who thinks oatmeal should be a sweet meal) to be at when you take your first bite. There are very thin cracks along it, and they seem to radiate heat. Huh. I think. These bougie heating systems are getting weirder by the seventh of a second.

The air smells like smoke, but that seems pretty reasonable, considering how many smokers there are these days. Then again, e-cigarettes are gaining some popularity (mainly thanks to a case in which multiple consumers of a popular brand of normal cigarettes started growing teeth in place of hair).

I’m still more baffled than my brother watching a duck eat a lemon, so I rub my eyes and open them again.

The first thing I see is fire, which explains the smoke. It’s shooting up along the walls around me in massive columns, with huge, jet black stone pillars alternating with the roaring flames. The ceiling is the same black stone as the pillars. I look at the floor. The majority of the ground I’m on is made of the same black rock as the rest of the room. It’s a little much. A little variety in the color scheme would have been appreciated.

Through the little cracks I felt before, I can see a strong, warm glow.

“Oh, hey, kid, good to see you conscious,” says a voice. I look over at the far side of the room to see a massive throne sitting on a black stone 107

ledge in the wall. There’s a deep red, luxurious carpet running up to it, which I’m pretty sure wasn’t there before. (But then again, I didn’t think it would hurt if I shut my index finger in a car door three weeks ago, either, so who knows?)

In the throne is a man. He’s wearing a white shirt and a black vest, and black pants, and black dress shoes. He has dark scarlet skin that makes it look a bit like he’s been very badly sunburned, like my greatuncle who used to get caught up playing one-and-a-half-person solitaire on the beach and forget to put on sunblock. He has very dark black hair which is slicked back elegantly. He looks like he’s smirking, ever so slightly, and I have a suspicion that that’s just always what his face does.

I don’t like this man at all. He seems more stuck up than my little brother (who’s adopted, but doesn’t know it yet, so shh)’s hair when I pushed his head into a balloon pit in a fit of righteous anger.

“Sit down,” the man says.

“Nah, I’m good,” I say.

“Okay,” he says. “Welcome to Hell.”

I look around again.

“Ohhhh. This is Hell,” I say. “That makes sense,” I look at him.

“Is-is that it? You’re dead.”

“Yeah, that seems right. So, what, you’re Satan, then?”

“I am Lucifer, God of Evil, the Demented Cherub Which Covers, Punisher of All Sinners, Ruler of Hell,” he says in a booming, distorted voice that seems to come from everywhere around me. Flames fly from his nostrils, mouth, eyes, and ears, and the columns of fire lining the walls roar, before settling again as the room returns to normal.

“Okay,” I say.

“Nothin?” he asks. “Nothin’ at all?”

I shrug.

“Wow, your heart’s colder and darker than the inside of my special freezer that I use to store my clay slug models,” says Lucifer, God of Evil, The Demented Cherub Which Covers, Punisher of All Sinners, Ruler of Hell.

“Can I go now?” I ask, ready to not have to be interacting with Lucifer, God of Evil, The Demented Cherub Which Covers, Punisher of All Sinners, Ruler of Hell.

“Yeah, sure,” Lucifer, God of Evil, The Demented Cherub Which Covers, Punisher of All Sinners, Ruler of Hell sighs.

“Do I have to do any paperwork?” I ask, because it seems like with 108

all the people in Hell, it would be good to have records. My grandfather always taught me, if you don’t have a spoon, forks can be used for pretty much anything. Which isn’t relevant to paperwork in Hell, but is a useful sentiment.

“No. Go away,” says Lucifer, God of Evil, The Demented Cherub Which Covers, Punisher of All Sinners, Ruler of Hell.

“Okay,” I say.

I leave.

They/them. Silly little creature. Drag king (by the name Lancelin).

Activist with the Theater Offensive and volunteer at BAGLY. Slightly more fun than a roll down a hill made of sandpaper. Very slightly.

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Kelly Chen Mystic Valley Regional Charter School, 10th Grade Nowadays, I feel as though social media has made a negative impact on much of the youth that will build our future. Our ugliest lies are always hidden inside of us, and we always choose to show the best side of ourselves, mainly for validation. As humans, a positive reaction from others leads us to their decisions subconsciously altering us, and I feel as though it is always best to be true to yourself, because we are more than we believe we are.

Ball-jointed Scrolling through her timeline, a doll lives lifelessly, scrutinized under the eyes of her beholders.

Her features are too proportionally accurate, but it’s hard to tell if they’re genuine or manmade.

They don’t speak, their actions controlled obsessively by their owners.

Almost too pliant and easy, they’re just way too much fun to play with.

Heavily covering up their faces, Wordlessly concealing themselves to the point where they look undeniably Different.

They cover up their worst fears, their hideous truths.

Living a seemingly perfect life on the outside, their facade is unreal, just as their personalities are.

Reality eats them up at the end of the day, showing them that no matter how hard they try to portray themselves, They are nothing but dolls through and through.

Social media inevitably changes the way we act towards ourselves and others, and leads to many of the internal monsters we face. Immersing yourself too much in it is a dangerous act, and this is something I feel like I personally suffer from, as many introverts (even though I’m really an ambivert) do. I wish we could all take this as a lesson to love ourselves regardless, and take everything you see online with a grain of salt.

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Self-Validation The phenomenon of living in a world where reality seems too good to be true. The parallel universe, as I refer to it, has become something much more extreme than what it originally was. The lingering thought at the back of our heads, of always being judged, seems to heighten as we keep on posting for the world to see.

The recessant tapping on the screen that amplifies our senses almost immediately, the constant motion that causes mixed messages to make their way into our minds leaves us desperately craving more. The digital world serves as a way for us to be able to communicate with many and befriend even more, however we never think about how that world affects us in our daily lives, and how our brain is altered due to overthinking.

They cause our growing hunger for validation to bloom at an alarming and dangerous rate. The monster inside of us, believing our self-worth is based off of numbers and living a false reality, plagues our minds and rots the insides with lies of not being worthy.

Scrolling through internet platforms is always full of unrealistically beautiful people creating a distorted image of real life. They try to promote happiness and living a full life, though the irony in that is the fact that social media is supposed to help garner positivity, yet it does the opposite and causes angst to many.

In the perfect world, there will always be continuous mayhem no matter what. And on social media, where ideal worlds are built, there is no difference, especially once that disconnection is made when that phone is shut off. People in real life have become caricatures of who they aspire to be, and being one’s original self doesn’t seem to be plausible anymore. It seems as though having an amiable personality and character doesn’t matter nowadays.

At what price would you be willing to live up to this false reality?

Probably one of the most basic girls you will ever meet, Kelly Chen is a sophomore at Mystic Valley Regional Charter School that enjoys simple things like her daily coffee, listening to KRnB (and Kpop!), and ogling cute puppies. You can typically spot her blowing her money as a means of leisure or sleeping way past noon in her bed. Though she seems quite average, she also enjoys biology and art with a passion, and is a member of her school’s literature magazine club.

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Shermarie Hyppolite Mystic Valley Regional Charter School, 12th Grade I wrote this story as a way to combine horror and justice. One of the many topics we discussed in class was about how authors can use their writing to bring awareness to topics happening in the world. In honor of Black History Month, I wanted to share a portion of one of my works that explained the main character’s reason for becoming an activist. In this excerpt, the main character can see the ghosts of black people who have been wronged and have not received justice or acknowledgment.

Power in Dreams I still remember the first time I decided to fight for justice. I had just woken up from a terrible nightmare where I was held in the dark bilge of a ship, along with others. We crowded together for warmth and hummed songs of sorrow and anxiety as the gentle swaying of the ship caused the dead bodies near us to drop on our laps and shoulders. By the time we got to shore, I was the last one alive, all alone.

Whenever I had these recurring nightmares, I ran to my grandmother to explain, but she always dismissed them as odd, and planned to bring me to a therapist the next time I told her, so I stopped telling her. The nightmare ended with a woman landing on my lap, her brown eyes glossy with unshed tears. This time felt a bit different though. Usually I woke up to the silver stars painted on my ceiling, their light glow slowly easing me back to sleep. This time, I was met with familiar brown eyes, and a head full of box braids that covered the knot of the noose around her neck, the end of the rope swaying above her. The woman hovered above me, the gold clasps in her hair illuminated from my night light.

As I opened my mouth to let out a scream, her own opened to reveal a black hole of nothing. From it, a putrid scent emerged, causing my eyes to water in disgust.

“Oh, my child! You see me. You see me!”

Blood oozed out of her eyes like tears, streaming down her face and into her open mouth. She reached her shaking hand out towards my face, her hand lingering in the space between my eyes.

“Find me justice child. My name must be heard.”

Closing my eyes, I chanted in my head, ‘Go away. Please don’t hurt 113

me. Go away. Please don’t hurt me.’

A response to my prayers came in the form of my grandmother bursting through my door. Startled, I opened my eyes mid-prayer.

“Now I know you did not sleep the whole night with your night light on that bright after I told you to have it off by 8 pm,” she sighed, shaking her head.

“It’s time for your first day of boarding school. Come on, grab your bags.”

With that, she shut the door behind her, and when I looked up, the dead woman had disappeared. Slapping my face in hopes to regain some sanity, I made my way to the living room, the T.V. blaring in the small room.

“Reports say that the 31-year-old victim and BLM activist was found hung in front of her home. Officers are still trying to figure out if the crime against the African-American woman is a hate crime. More on this at ten.”

This story is my modern version of the “Bloody Mary” story. I remember in middle-school, the girls at school would go into the bathroom, close the lights, and chant the name into the mirror, leaving with marks to signify they’ve seen Mary. I have never done so myself, but I thought it resembled a sort of cult following so it inspired me to write this piece.

Take My Heart and Hope to Die Rose repeated the Bloody Mary rhyme word for word as she stared into the dirty mirror. Her friends had shoved her into the girls’ bathroom and blocked the exit. They would not let her leave until she bared the same black “M” of approval on her wrist, just as they did. Rose could not figure out why Mary would not respond to her calling. Tears of frustration blurred her blotchy face in the mirror. She wiped them away furiously.

There was no way she was going to go back out there until her dark brown eyes met those of Mary’s white ones. She needed to prove herself to her new...sort of best friends, and to Mary, that she was perfectly capable of joining the squad.

Rose personally never knew Mary, but she was quite popular her first year about four years ago. When Rose had first attended classes, she heard whispers that Mary had died a mysterious death in the bathroom.

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All Rose knew about this was that when they found her body the next day she was missing her heart. The girls, who were completely distraught from their sister’s death, sought to call on her every October 31st when her spirit was the closest to the physical world. Every member of the group had been successful at summoning Mary, so if Rose wanted to be included in their sister bond, she had to prove that she was ready to do whatever it took. The oldest had asked her if she was willing to give away even her heart if she needed to. Rose believed this to be an odd question, but nonetheless she nodded a firm yes and walked into the bathroom.

Loud knocking startled her from her memories.

“Rose, what’s taking so long,” a feminine voice whisper-yelled. “We do not have much time until the patrol gets to this part of the school.

Hurry up and summon her, or don’t come out at all.”

Rose grabbed the sink hard, turning her knuckles white. Her watery eyes stared into her reflection hoping to catch another pair. With a shaky inhale Rose repeated the rhyme until her voice cracked and her eyes turned a deep red. She waited for the lights to flicker as a sure sign that Mary was in her presence, but nothing happened again. Rose screeched in anger, turning away from her reflection.

‘Am I even cut out for this,’ she thought? ‘What if I fail? Would they truly keep me in this bathroom as they promised?’

Rose turned away from her reflection only to come face-to-face with a young girl. She had pale, sickly skin. It resembled the color of fresh fallen snow before it touched the ground and turned a muddy brown.

She wore a tattered black button up that contained a gaping hole on the right side of her chest and a burgundy blazer on top. Her skirt fell past her knees and touched just the top of her ankle socks. She wore a blank expression, but when Rose met the young girl’s white misty eyes, she knew that this could only be Mary. The young girl raised her bony white hand out towards Rose as if expecting something. Rose was confused and wondered what to do next. The sisters had only told her that she needed to get Mary to mark her, but how would she do this? Rose reached her hand towards Mary and placed it in her cold one. For a moment everything was still. Everything around them seemed to freeze in time.

Rose could only hear her heartbeats loudly in her ear so she counted them. Just as Rose got to number twenty, Mary opened her mouth and screamed. Her grasp on Rose’s hand tightened, causing her hand to turn a blue shade. Rose could faintly hear laughing outside the door, but the sound was overcome by the numbing feeling spreading through her 115

arms as the letter “M” appeared on her wrist. Tears prickled the edge or Rose’s eyes as she tried to remove her hand from Mary’s, but it only hurt more. She screamed for help from just about anyone. She hoped the guards had finally reached the girl’s halls and would somehow burst into the bathroom and save her, but she knew there was no chance. No one wandered those halls this late at night. The blue from her hand traveled up towards her chest and stopped where her heart was. Mary smiled at her, revealing a gaping hole of darkness that seemed never-ending. Rose knew in that moment whatever happened next would probably be her end, but at least she bore the approval she needed to be accepted by the sisters. Before she could fully lose consciousness, she heard four voices, but one stood out from the rest.

“Do whatever you please with the body, but her heart is mine.”

Shermarie is a senior at MVRCS. She currently writes for Affinity Magazine, Glue Magazine, and The Homegirl Project. When she is not writing or planning meetings as the editor-in-chief of Literature Magazine Club, she is listening to music and reading fashion articles.

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Devna C. Langat Revere High School, 12th Grade A father’s endeavor to take care of his family turns deadly.

The Pathologist The sudden ring of the telephone bounced off the walls and startled Michael awake. His two children, Mark and Ana, had been home fighting the deadly flu. Groaning in frustration, Michael answered, once again reassuring the school that his children are bedridden until their illnesses reside. He then planted a kiss on the cheek of Beth, his wife, as she rested peacefully beside him.

“Good morning, honey.”

He stared at his wife in admiration, as if he won the biggest prize on the market, while gently playing with her jet-black hair. It had been a couple months since Beth turned her resignation letter in to work. Due to the frigid Alaskan climate, Beth and the kids became victims of what Michael thinks is the most severe case of pneumonia. Beth and Ana’s once thick long hair became brittle and weak. Their skin, which once had a rosy pigment to it, was turning pale and blue. His endeavors to restore their health were slowly working day by day. Every morning, Michael would wake to prepare an egg omelet and fruit smoothie with all the essential nutrients for good health. Once he arrived back from work, he would make his special bowl of spicy chicken noodle soup with a dash of ginger and a hint of his special ingredient. His doctoral skills allowed him to effectively care for his wife and children, checking their temperature daily and giving them antibiotics to fight the illness.

Fully awake, he hopped off the bed and into the shower, getting ready for his long day at the hospital. After preparing himself, he ran downstairs and prepared his regular breakfast, serving everyone before he ventured off to the hospital.

“Good morning, Mike. Boss-man needs you to check through the samples that arrived last night for any signs of diseases,” Alex, his coworker, and trusted friend informed him as he arrived to work.

Being a pathologist came with advantages as well as disadvantages.

Currently, his team was working on a new way to cure Ebola through exposure to different diseases. His regular day of work was mostly 117

spent in the laboratories, examining samples from HIV patients under a microscope. The samples were locked in inventory in bright red test tubes with a warning label on them. Any slight exposure to a healthy body could slowly deteriorate the immune system. After analyzing the samples for what seemed like an eternity, Michael, exhausted, headed off to his lunch break with Alex.

The warmth from the radiating sun absorbed into his skin as soon as he stepped foot outside. Despite the hospital’s rather gloomy, prison-like appearance, a beautiful green space filled with blossoming flowers and overhanging tree branches enhanced the location.

“Mike, how have you been since the incident? It seems as though you are carrying yourself well,” Alex questioned curiously.

“I’ve been doing all right, a little shaken still, but the prescriptions I received seem to truly help me out,” Michael truthfully replied.

“If you need any help with anything around the house, just remember I’m the man to call.”

Ever since the incident, Michael had been receiving much more attention than usual from his coworkers, his family, and his neighbors.

Unlike before, his presence was acknowledged once he entered and he was treated with dignity and respect. It was all strange to Michael, but he seemed to enjoy the attention he was receiving. Losing his appetite from the sudden upbringing of the past, Michael began fiddling with his plate of chicken alfredo and allowed his mind to drift off into another world. *** After work, he stopped by the clinic to pick up cough medicine for his children and some sweets to brighten their day. Pulling up to the house, he saw the silhouette of his beautiful wife through the kitchen curtains.

“Hey honey, I’m home,” he eagerly exclaimed.

“In the kitchen!” Beth replied over the loud television sounds. In the living room, Mark was intently watching the television while Ana laid on the couch beside him, typing away on her small device. Michael hung his jacket and greeted his children, giving them the candy he had bought for them and made his way to the kitchen. He kissed his wife on the cheeks and proceeded to help her prepare dinner.

“How has your day been?” Beth questioned while stirring the savory sauce.

“It has been alright, you know the regular.” He briefly explained his 118

findings to his wife and the conversation he had with Alex during lunch.

Mark and Ana entered the kitchen and helped prepare the table for dinner, organizing all the cups and plates next to each seat. They sat down and enjoyed each other’s company at the dinner table, sharing love and laughter amongst one another. A loud knock on the door disrupted their conversations and Michael arose to answer, closing the door behind him.

Nancy, the sweet old neighbor who stood a few inches shorter than the average woman, solemnly greeted Michael with a large bowl of hot food. “Here you go, I know it can be a little hard in this big house,� Nancy stated.

Perplexed by her statement, Michael politely declined her offer and thanked her for the kind gesture. He headed back into the comfort of his kitchen and carried on with his dear family. That night, he fell asleep to a beautiful dream.

*** Their family relationship was not always this strong. A few years back, Beth and Michael were on the verge of filling for a divorce. Beth was exhausted coming to and from work every day to cook and tend the house chores while Michael fervently worked on his lab reports. Their children were constantly locked in their room day in and day out with minimal interaction with the family. Michael yearned to have a nice wholesome family radiating with love for one another. However, his endeavors to mend the family strings were unsuccessful and he felt helpless. He felt like a stranger walking in his own house; an outsider.

It was not until Beth and the kids fell ill to the flu that their family bond strengthened. Michael took a day off to tend to his family, taking care of them as he longed to. He finally felt needed, wanted. Michael enjoyed taking care of his family this way. He enjoyed being there for his wife and children, tending to their needs. He enjoyed telling stories to his children while they rested in bed. He no longer felt like a stranger. He finally felt like a father. However, things exacerbated once their health was restored. Michael went from seeing his children twice a day to twice a week. He did not receive the same attention from his wife anymore as when he was caring for her. He went back to not being needed.

One exhausting evening after work, Michael cooked his regular 119

spicy chicken noodle soup, but this time, he added something special.

From the back of his freezer, he pulled out a bright red test tube with a yellow warning label on it. He slowly opened the test tubes and poured a few drops of its contents in the boiling soup. He brought the boil to a simmer and eventually called his family down for dinner.

“Beth! Ana! Mark! Dinner’s ready.”

A few weeks later, Michael knew he had made the right decision once the side effects started kicking in. His wife and children’s immune system became so weak that they became bedridden. This was his chance to take care of his family again. He continued adding his special ingredient to their foods; a hint when he blended smoothies and a dash when he prepared pasta, small enough to not hinder the taste. *** Michael woke up as he usually would, kissed his sleeping wife, made breakfast and headed to work. He was greeted by his co-workers, bathing in the attention he received, and proceeded to work under the microscope.

“Hey Mike, how about you and I hit the bar for old times’ sake,” Alex asked trying to relieve some stress off his dear friend.

“Not tonight buddy, I have to go home and take care of Beth and the children. They are not feeling very well.” Michael stated.

Alex was more confused than saddened by Michaels comment.

“Alright, Mikey. Have fun tonight,” Alex replied as he walked back to the lab. Michael continued to eat his lunch, humming to himself, for he could not wait to see his family.

That night, Alex, still perplexed by the lunchtime conversation, followed Michael home. He approached the doorstep and heard Michael talking to himself. Alex went back into the safety of his car and waited for his friend to step out of his car, determined to solve the mystery. About an hour later, Michael left the house and drove off into the darkness. Alex got out of the car and slowly approached the daunting house.

It was a dark gray three-story house with cracked pavement leading up to the staircase. The grass, having not been cut in a month, had grown so tall that it touched the porch. The trees stood taller than the house, casting shadows down on the pavement and buried the house in its branches. Having been long-term friends, Michael entrusted Alex with a spare key to the house. He slowly opened the door, trying to minimize 120

the painful creak as the door has become so old. He was immediately hit by a sickening smell. The pungent smell alone made Alex take two steps back. He closed the door behind him, turning on the flickering lights and proceeded to the source of the smell. He walked deeper and deeper into the house towards the kitchen where the odor became unbearable. He turned the corner to the kitchen where he was greeted with the chilling corpse of Beth and the kids seated on the dining room table. Alex’s lunch begged to come back out and he ran to the sink. He took one step back trying to escape, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. So many questions ran through his mind, but the only thing he desperately wanted to do was escape from this haunting house. Suddenly, the deafening creak of the door echoed through the house.

“Honey, I’m home,” Michael’s voice boomed.

The Things That Scare Us was one of the best English courses I have ever taken. Not only did I learn about different elements of narration, but I also learned how to have fun while writing. I aspire to be an Oncology Nurse Practitioner in the future. In the times when I am overwhelmed by the strenuous coursework, I will grab a pen and pencil and allow my mind to drift off into another universe.

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Bob Sherwood Stoughton High School, 11th Grade This short story follows a middle schooler who joins a revolution to end another student’s reign of terror.

Wretch “Honey, where did you get that huge cut,” my ma asked as she was making dinner. I was sitting at the dinner table doing some homework.

Apparently, a cut on the back of my neck was visible.

“Oh, I, uh...fell.” She stopped seasoning our food. “You got that cut by falling?”

“Yeah, I was in the forest at school with my friends and I fell. Hard.”

My ma didn’t seem to believe me.

“Why didn’t you tell me the day it happened? Did you get it looked at or treated?”

“It wasn’t a big deal, Ma. I went to the school nurse and he said not to worry about it.”

She sighed and patted my cheek. “Okay, Eli. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Go put your stuff away before Abuela gets here.”

“Abuela’s coming today?”

“Yes, Eli. Today’s Tuesday and she’ll be here soon. Get going!”

I groaned while I packed my stuff in my bag and brought it up to my room.

At school the following day, I sat in the auditorium with my class and the two other classes who didn’t have teachers this period. There weren’t any supervisors around, but even though we were middle-schoolers, we were fairly well behaved. Loud? Yes, but no one was in any immediate danger of being emotionally or physically harmed.

That is, until the Wretch came into the room.

The Wretch wasn’t her real name—it was Jenny—but most people in the school called her that. She was probably the worst-behaved kid in the entire school. Although she was never in trouble herself, she always got other students in trouble. She had a group of loyal friends who would take the blame for any serious offenses like stealing or fighting.

Somehow all of the teachers saw her as an angel, and no matter how 123

hard us students tried, we just couldn’t pin anything on her.

The room turned silent when the Wretch entered the auditorium.

The Wretch’s friends that were already in there immediately sat with her. The Wretch talked to her friends for a few minutes before she noticed me sitting alone, reading. I didn’t see her come over to me until she was a few feet away from me. I started to get up but she pushed me back into my seat.

“Where you going, Ellie,” she asked. Her friends giggled at the dumb joke.

“It’s Eli,” I said gritting my teeth. “What do you want from me?”

“Wow, you’re so rude,” said the Wretch. “I can’t come over and talk with my best friend?”

“We were never friends, and we never will be. Just leave me alone.”

She pretended to look hurt. “Fine, we’ll go. But I’ll remember how mean you were to me.” With that threat she went back to her seat. A kid named Felix sat next to me. “Why did you do that,” he hissed.

“Do what? Stand up for myself?”

“Yes! You know you shouldn’t get on her bad side. She’s probably going to target you now.”

“So what? I don’t care. It’s not like she can do anything serious.”

Felix grunted. “You have guts, I’ll give you that. Just watch your back. You never know how she’ll retaliate.”

She retaliated hard.

I was in the bathroom at the end of the day when an eighth grader came inside. I ignored him and kept washing my hands. As I went to open the door and leave, another eighth grader entered and pushed me back. The first guy came up behind me and pinned my arms behind my back with one hand and covered my mouth with his other. The guy in front of me grabbed my legs and together the two hauled me into a stall.

I tried to free myself, but they were much stronger than I was.

The person who used the toilet I was forced into had went number one and number two, and hadn’t flushed. I flailed around, trying to force them to drop me, but they wouldn’t give. They held me by my legs and dunked my head in. They left me in there for fifteen seconds before finally releasing my legs. When I pulled my head out of the toilet they were gone.

I went to the sink and tried my best to wash my head. The smell was still there, but at least I was clean. I waited in the bathroom until the bell rang and the halls were mostly clear. Luckily, I only had to wait 124

twenty minutes.

When the teacher asked me where I was I considered telling her what had happened, but I remembered the stories I heard about people who ratted out the Wretch. Not only did she stay out of trouble, but she punished the people who told on her even harder than before, and she kept doing it until they got it. Most people got it on the second time.

I told the teacher I had felt sick, and she didn’t ask anything more. I sat in the back of the bus when I went home.

A few months passed and the Wretch and her minions continued to torment the school, especially me. We had two classes together, Math and Gym, and I would always catch her staring at me. When I caught her, she either quickly looked away or scowled at me until she made me look away. We hadn’t had to work together on any projects in math class, which I celebrated each time groups were assigned. I also had lunch with her, which wasn’t bad since we sat on opposite sides of the room, but one day a fight broke out involving the entire cafeteria.

Food wasn’t the only thing being thrown either. Books, pencils, entire bags, and even a chair or two flew across the room. It lasted for more than five minutes because there were only five teachers to the threehundred-plus students wreaking havoc. I hid under a table throughout the chaos. One of the eyewitnesses said they saw the Wretch order her table to start throwing things while the teachers weren’t looking. The teachers couldn’t pin anything on the Wretch, obviously, but her lackies were suspended.

The Wretch would personally shove me into lockers and destroy my work in class so I got low grades, and on many occasions she stole things from my bag. Well, I had no real proof it was her who stole it but I assumed it was her. But the last straw came during gym when we were playing (of course) dodgeball. The rules in my school were, you get hit, you’re out, no matter where, which meant headshots were allowed.

The Wretch only went for headshots.

She was accurate too. She hit seven people in the head in one game, out of the twelve people on our team. Then she set her sights on me. When I saw her glaring at me, I froze. She took a ball from her friend and aimed it at me. I tried to fake her out by leaning to the left, but when she threw it and I dove right, the ball smashed into my face and left me dazed and bloody on the floor.

The impact of the rubber ball was so great that it knocked three 125

of my front teeth out and left me with a bloody nose. What was salt in the wound was the fact that the teacher didn’t even reprimand her.

The game just kept going. I was sent to the nurse, who, in turn, sent me home.

A week later, I found a note in my locker. It told me to go to the Big Tree after school as soon as the bell rang. I had no idea who could have sent it, but I went. When the bell rang, I hurried to the meeting spot. I saw several students from all three grades gathered under it as I approached.

When I joined, one of them said, “Hey, Eli. Glad you could make it.”

“Thanks,” I said. “What’s this all about?”

“I’ll get to that after everyone’s here.” Five minutes later, everyone had joined, including Felix. There were eleven of us in total.

“Okay,” said the guy who I assumed was the leader. “I’m sure you’re all wondering why I’ve gathered you here today, especially since most of us don’t know each other. My name is Roger, and I’m here to put an end to the Wretch’s torment.”

One of the students raised their hand. “How are you going to do that?” she asked.

“I’m glad you asked. You see, I specifically chose you all because you are each the strongest, fastest, and smartest students in the school.” I was shocked. I had never considered myself any of those things. Now I felt I had to live up to that title.

“What’s more, you’ve all experienced the Wretch’s wrath personally on many occasions. You know the pain. I want her gone. I won’t be here next year since I’m in eighth grade, but she will, and so will most of you.

I don’t want you guys to suffer any longer, and I don’t want the next batch of kids to suffer at all. Her rule over the school is going to end, one way or another.” We applauded him for his awesome speech.

“Thank you. Now, if any of you want to join me in this revolution, raise your hand.” Every one of us raised our hands. “Great. Now, I’m not much of a fighter, but I can strategize really well. I’ve come up with a plan to defeat the Wretch in combat.”

We spent the next two hours going over and revising Roger’s plan to take down the Wretch and her minions. When it was finally complete, we said our goodbyes and headed home to prepare. The operation wouldn’t take place until that Friday, in four days, but in the meantime we trained and, more importantly, got as many of the Wretch’s goons in trouble to diminish her forces.

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Since I was the only one of us that had a class with her, I had the task of sending the challenge to the Wretch. It was a note card that said we wanted to fight her and up to ten of her followers. I dropped it in her backpack while she was out of the room.

The “Revolutionaries”, as we called ourselves, met one final time on Wednesday to go over the plan. Roger wanted to make sure we knew exactly what to do and what to bring. We were going to meet at the park. We could bring any non-lethal weapon we wanted with the exception of baseball bats, which we considered too dangerous. I had a wooden sword and shield at home that I got from a Renaissance fair.

Felix said he would bring rubber bands. That may not sound like much, but he can do this thing where he makes a finger gun, and he puts one end of a rubber band on the tip of his index finger and the other end he holds with his middle finger. Then he releases the rubber band and it goes flying. The rubber bands he uses are thick, so if you get hit with one (and he’s shot us a few times to prove it), it really hurts.

Roger played lacrosse, so he was going to bring a stick and a few balls. The other things we would bring were a tennis racket, several sticks, a slingshot, and one kid even had a toy bow and arrow modified to hurt people.

In school on Friday, the whole school was buzzing with excitement about the fight between the Wretch and us. I think a few people placed bets on who would win. In math class, the Wretch came up to me and said, “This afternoon, I’m coming for you, Eli Vasquez. And I’m not holding back.”

I stood my ground and said, “Try me. Just because you’re a girl doesn’t mean I will pull my punches either.”

“Good. I want this fight to be interesting.” She returned to her seat and gave me a death stare. I gave her one right back, and we stared at one another until the teacher came in the room and told us to pay attention.

That afternoon, the Revolutionaries met up at the park on a big, open field. All of our parents thought we were going to hang out, not beat up other kids. I felt bad for lying to my ma, but I had to do this for the school. A large crowd of students had gathered to our right, eagerly waiting for the fight to begin.

The Wretch came strolling up to the field from the street. She stopped twenty feet away from us. She was completely alone.

“Where’s the rest of your group?” called Roger.

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“I don’t need them,” the Wretch replied. “They’ll hold me back.” The crowd oohed.

“Those are big words for someone up against a dozen armed kids.”

“We’ll see.”

The crowd was beginning to chant, “Fight! Fight. Fight. Fight!”

We all fanned out in a semicircle and moved toward the Wretch.

She just stood there, eyeing us down. Then, she laid her eyes on me.

The look she gave me made me freeze in place. I remembered she was going to come for me specifically. She sprinted at us, giving us little time to react. Felix shot his rubber bands, a rock from a slingshot launched at her, and a non lethal arrow flew from its bow. She easily dodged them all and tackled the first kid she came upon. She took their stick and left them on the ground. She whacked one student in the gut, and threw the stick at Felix, almost taking his eye out.

Roger swung at her with his lacrosse stick, but she caught it with one hand, yanked him forward and punched him, knocking Roger down.

She snapped the lacrosse stick in half with her hands and tossed them aside.

Two more rubber bands flew at the Wretch, hitting her in the face.

Before Felix could reload, the Wretch lunged at him from ten feet away and flipped him over her shoulder. The rest of us backed off, terrified.

We had a slingshot and a toy longbow for ranged weapons, and the rest of us had sticks, a tennis racket, and a wooden sword and shield.

The kid with the racket charged the Wretch, swinging the racket at her face, but the Wretch punched through the netting and knocked down the racket-wielder. Rocks and arrows were flying at the Wretch, but they only pissed her off.

I said, “We have to stick together. We can’t fight her a few at a time. We all have to gang up on her.” Everyone nodded.

The ranged-weapon users stood behind us. We brandished our weapons and waited for the Wretch to come upon us. She grinned evilly at me. “You’re next, Eli,” she said in a sing-song voice. Then she charged.

I thought I would be fine since I had a shield. I was so wrong.

She checked me into the air. I flew back a dozen feet. She kept coming at me. She lifted me up off the ground and threw me into my friends who were coming to help. I crashed into several of them, but the rest kept going. My comrades who had fallen earlier were getting up to join the fight. Roger had blood gushing from his nose, and didn’t look like 128

he was in fighting shape. Felix was on the ground, dazed.

In total, there were eight Revolutionaries attacking the Wretch.

They piled on top of her like she was a football player with the ball. I couldn’t clearly see what was happening, but it looked like the Wretch was trying to fight her way out of the bodies on top of her. I stood up, and helped my friends who had fallen when I flew into them. Together, we ran towards the pileup.

From under all of the bodies a blood curdling wail sounded. What I saw next made me think the Wretch had turned into a real monster.

Several kids were knocked down simultaneously as the Wretch broke free. Her eyes were wild, her hair a mess, her clothes torn, her face and arms scratched and bruised. She looked at me. I blinked, and the Wretch was in front of me. I barely had time to raise my shield as she punched at my face. Her fist connected with my shield and my arm felt nothing but pain. I swung my sword but she ducked. My two comrades hit her with sticks, but she grabbed one by the neck and slammed her into my other friend. Both went down.

“Eli, duck,” I heard Roger shout behind me. I ducked and felt something fly over my head. A yellow lacrosse ball hit the Wretch square in the face, making her stumble. Another one hit her in the forehead, causing her to stumble again. I rammed her with my shield to knock her down. She lay there in the grass, unmoving.

I was breathing hard. I turned and looked at Roger, who was struggling to get up. I started over to help him but his eyes widened and he said, “Look out!”

The Wretch was playing dead. She grabbed my legs and yanked me to the ground. I turned on my back just as she got on top of me to start pummeling me. I swung my sword at her but she ripped it from my grasp. In desperation, I hit her in the head with my injured shield arm as she hit me with my sword.

I heard a CRACK! I thought it was my skull. Then, everything went dark.

After that, I remember waking up at sunset. To my left, Felix was sitting in the grass, helping a comrade bandage her arm which was cut in many places. When he saw me move he said, “Eli! You’re awake!”

I looked around me. The crowd was gone. My comrades were all sprawled across the field. My heart sank and I said, “We lost, didn’t we?”

Felix, still smiling, said, “Look over there. The Wretch is down too. The 129

fight was a draw.” Felix was right: The Wretch was twenty feet away, face-down in the grass.

“We...we did it!” I managed. “We beat the Wretch! Kind of.”

“I’d count it as a victory. She took us down but we took her down too. Actually, you did the final blow. “ “I did?”

“Yeah. Some kids in the crowd said you hit her in the face with your shield and she hit you with your sword and you knocked each other out. Oh, speaking of your sword....” He pointed to it a few feet away.

That cracking sound was my sword splitting in half, not my skull. I was sad to see it destroyed, but it did its job well. I would have to give it a proper burial at home.

“That’s okay. We won. That’s what’s most important.”

The Wretch lost her power over the student body following the battle.

There was an unofficial rebellion within her own friend group, and they ousted her from power. Jenny was still scary, but not so scary that everyone cowered in fear in her presence. She stopped targeting people because of her lack of lackeys. The school was a safe place for the first time since she entered the building.

Since the battle was off of school property, no could get in trouble with the principal. However, at home, we could. Fortunately, the students kept the combatants to themselves, except the Wretch. She got in huge trouble with her parents. Although no one said it outright, the twelve Revolutionaries went down as legends in the school. We were celebrated. No one said anything directly to us or we’d get in trouble, but everyone praised the group as a whole.

I lived a few houses away from Jenny. We never saw each other in the mornings because I left early, and I shut myself inside in the afternoons. However, I couldn’t shut myself in anymore, because I was given one last task: Watch over the Wretch to make sure she wasn’t scheming. I tailed her home to make sure she wasn’t meeting with anyone suspicious. I made note of everyone I saw go to her house, no matter who they were. I even had to go inside her home occasionally to gather in-depth intel on her in person.

Those occasional check-ins became frequent, until they were happening every week. Then, every week became every day. Eventually, we became friends, though we kept it a secret because it would be blasphemy to fraternize with the enemy. It turns out, I was her only 130

friend throughout the rest of our middle school days. Then came junior year in high school, when she asked me out, and I’ve dated her ever since.

Well, that last part isn’t true. I married her.

“And that’s how your mother and I got together,” I told my sleepy children.

Bob has attended EmersonWRITES for three years and loved each year. The only thing he likes more than EmersonWRITES is chocolate, which he mercilessly consumes.

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Rachel Silva Mystic Valley Regional Charter School, 10th Grade EmersonWRITES helped me dive deeper into the horror genre, which is something that I don’t normally read or watch. This is a short story that I hope captures some of the horror and fear techniques that we worked on in class.

Red A piano plays.

The lights are dimly red on all except the player as I walk in. I think about the many occasions on which you told me how much you loved his voice.

I wonder how many other things you loved about him.

I slide into a seat at the bar and hope that the darkness hides my sunken eyes and that the faint lights don’t glint against the metal in my pocket.

My eyes find their way back to the piano player.

His eyes are smiling at the crowd, but smugly, I see the color of his eyes, brown and muddy. You once told me that my eyes were your favorite thing about me because they reminded you of the sky.

If only you were here now to sense the storm brewing.

“Your regular?”

My heart stutters as I turn to look at the bartender, the one that’s always here during our occasional visits. I take in the way he looks at me, slightly stunned, probably by the way I look. I glance away, embarrassed. Usually, I don’t look so tired, and I suddenly remember that I haven’t showered in a few days. I run my fingers through my short hair nervously, and I trace my fingers along my jaw. I desperately need a shave. I wonder if I still have the smell of blood on me.

I shake my head, taken aback by how much I hate his stare on me.

I feel wrong, and a voice in the back of my head reminds me that this is a bad idea. He turns around, and moves on to the next customer, but not before giving me another once-over.

My mouth feels dry, and my forehead has started to sweat. Feeling the need to move, I stand up and head for the bathroom.

Fortunately it’s empty, so I go to the mirror. The lights are brighter 133

in here, but they don’t take away from the room’s classy atmosphere. I chide myself as I splash cold water on my face.

I look at myself in distaste.

My hair is slightly matted to my face, due to a lack of washing it.

My stubble has grown, and I look away from it. You always hated my stubble.

I had been too hasty in my plan. I should have waited until he had left the restaurant, maybe until he was heading home.

The anger takes over all at once, and then my fists are hitting the sink, and my vision is blurring with tears. The heat behind my eyes is too much, and I hear your voice telling me to get it together. I miss the way you could get me to calm down, the way just looking at you made my heart stop.

I look up from my hands and there you are, applying mascara. We both know you didn’t need anything to heighten your beauty because you were already perfect.

I watch as you put on your favorite lipstick next, the one that was marked as “Blood Red”, even though I now know it’s not nearly dark enough as blood should be.

Once you’re done, you look over at me, and I wonder how someone can look so beautiful when they’re frowning.

You put a hand on my cheek, my stubble scratching it. It’s so cold that I flinch away. The blade feels heavy in my pocket and I feel water rise to my eyes.

I swallow, and turn back to you, the tears burning as they slide down my cheeks. My voice is small. “I’m sorry. You know that, right?”

You’re inspecting your nails. Your eyes slide up to meet mine, and they’re so dejected, I think I might just break. You scoff. “Then why’d you do it?”

I force myself to look away, the heat of your stare practically burning me. I fiddle with my fingers, and I glance at your long, blonde hair. I long to touch it, but I restrain myself. My voice comes out choked.

“I had to. You forced my hand.”

“I didn’t force anything.” Your voice is hard, steely, and it reminds me of the beginning of all of our fights. “Look, what I did was wrong, but you...you’re crazy.” The last word comes out in a whisper. “I tried to get you to go to therapy.” You point an accusing finger at me. “You refused.

You need help.”

Immediately, I get itchy. I hate that word. Help. It makes me feel 134

weak, abnormal. “I’m fine.” I can tell you hear the edge in my voice now, because your hands have started to shake. Your resolve is starting to slip.

You were always easy to control, your strength melting away when I raised my voice. “I don’t need help.” My voice drips with poison, and my cowardice disappears. My head whips up, and I see it now: the tears going down your face, your ears red in anger, but your shaking body showing how spineless you really are. My nose wrinkles in disgust.

Somewhere deep down, I feel it. The guilt. The love I had for you.

But you ruined it. If only you hadn’t been with him. You drove me to this.

“This is your fault. Everything is your fault.” I’m yelling now, and I feel the temperature in the room spike as my face turns scarlet. “Why did you sleep with him?” My brain starts racing, and I realize I’ve lost control. The next three words come out accidentally. “I hate you!”

They come with a surge of regret, but I push it down. The tears are there again, but I wipe them away quickly. My determination overrides the sense of guilt in my chest. I repeat the words in my head: I did nothing wrong.

My hand finds its way to my pocket; it curls around the knife. I feel the dry stain in my pocket underneath the blade, and my hand comes out with dark flakes of your blood, a reminder of what I’ve done.

My voice is empty. “I killed you. And now I’ll kill him.”

The conversation is always over when I walk away, so I’m not surprised by your silence. I open the door of the bathroom, but turn back one more time. You’re gone.

Your words echo. You’re crazy.

I swallow, and shake my head. I did nothing wrong.

The dim red lights meet me once again as my feet move toward the piano. My eyes find the instrument on the stage, but immediately, my heart drops. My stomach caves in, and my breath hitches.

The piano player is gone. My eyes dart around the room, but everything is too dark, and I force my eyes to adjust to shadows.

I watch as the door closes shut, and I race to see if it’s him who has left.

It is. He’s walking down the street, checking something on his phone.

I force myself to be calm, but my heart continues to race.

I try to keep my distance as I head outside, and I smile when I realize he hasn’t driven here. He continues to walk down the street, and then he turns the corner.

I follow his steps, but as I turn the corner, I stop.

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He’s gone.

It happens quickly. I hear a yell, then my legs fly out from underneath me, leaving me sprawled on the hard concrete. He’s towering over me, fear written all over his features, from the wideness of his eyes to the slight shake of his legs. “You’re the guy. The guy who hurt her. She told me how abusive you were. Always fighting her, always manipulating her feelings. You need help, man.”

I’m blinded by anger. I grab his legs fast and hard, and I pull him down with such strength that his balance completely vanishes. The knife is in my hands at once.

His breathing quickens and, all of a sudden, he’s crying. “Oh my god.” The dry blood coats the metal. He flinches and his words come out choked. “What did you do? Did you? Oh my god. I tried texting her....”

He stumbles over his next few words, but the accusation in his voice inflames my anger even more. The redness and rage has taken me over and I hear nothing but white noise in my ears.

The knife comes down.

I stand over his dead body staring at his eyes, now devoid of emotion.

His tears have slightly mixed with blood, and his shirt is so wet and dark that I forgot it’s covered in blood.

I giggle. Why does everyone use such a light red to depict blood?

The blood gleams and I trace the trail that runs down his torso with the tip of my knife. My lips twitch upwards into a smile.

Soon after, I walk down the street again to go back to our house.

You walk with me, but don’t hold my hand. We pass by the restaurant.

The lights are still dimly red. I throw my blade underneath the bushes.

I’m not scared of anyone finding out though. Not when I have you.

I reach for your hand, and you take it.

You don’t mention the dark stains on my hands.

I don’t mention the red blood soaking through your shirt either.

Other than writing professionally, Rachel aspires to do many things.

She wants to be an artist, make comics, learn sign language, have at least three dogs, and travel around the world. When not pursuing her interests, you can find Rachel screaming over fictional characters or playing card games with friends and destroying them. She also loves listening to music, binge watching Netflix, and walking around Boston.

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Essence Smith Excel Academy Charter High School, 11th Grade Below are my reflections on horror and the world today.

Fear in Politics: A Reflection on Horror [Non-fiction] What are you afraid of? Well, I can tell you that no one is actually afraid of “Frankenstein” or Stephen King’s “It”. What we truly fear is the unknown.

What does our future hold for us? The future seems dark—people are slowly losing hope in all of the things that kept them going.

I’m not here to tell you to look on the bright side, because that side is now starting to dim. I’m just the messenger (don’t shoot me) but things could be worse.

Hear me out: • Massachusetts elected its first Black female Congresswoman.

• Two Indigenous women were also elected.

• The youngest Congress member is a 29-year-old woman from New York.

• People were sworn in on the Quran.

• There are more working women now than ever before.

While Trump’s State of the Union Address highlighted America’s significant progress, there is a clear divide between the parties. From Ocasio-Cortez’s blank stare to the endless round of applauses from Republican representatives, one thing is clear: the Trump administration has awakened the American people.

“WAKE UP!” is the phrase that has been popularized by African American director Spike Lee. The phrase has become more and more relevant throughout recent years. The current administration has been monumental in exposing the existing horrors of this world.

Racism, xenophobia, sexism, antisemitism, systemic oppression, and 137

bigotry are more frightening than any Stephen King novel. And we’re living in our worst nightmares.

Shaila Dewan, a national correspondent covering criminal justice issues for the New York Times, published an article about the relationship between horror and American history. Dewan examined key events throughout our history in order to compare life to horror.

Dewan suggests that in film, “changes had more to do with what was going on outside the studio than inside it.” As the times became more violent so did our horror movies.

For instance, “George Romero’s ‘Night of the Living Dead’’ (completed just days before the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated) had policemen scouring the countryside with dogs at their side, mirroring photographs of Southern sheriffs spoiling for civil rights activists.”

Furthermore, Romero’s film features a Black male protagonist, who is mistakenly shot (an unfortunate foreshadowing of our present).

Today we are witnessing television shows like Black Mirror and American Horror Story, which almost always feature a political message; however, are these messages enough to get society to change?

We have made some progress, but there is still a long way to go. Mary Shelley wrote in Frankenstein, “I could not understand why men who knew all about good and evil could hate and kill each other.” It’s time to wake the world up.

Essence Smith is a junior at Excel Academy Charter High School. She is interested in politics, literature, and traveling.

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Rasheed Sully City on a Hill Charter Public School, 10th Grade This is a short story pulled from a series I am working on called Infernal’s. This short story is centered around a recurring character, Jaymes LakeWood, the new arrival to Saint Flints, a Catholic boarding school for children. Jaymes and his school superiors bump heads as they wrestle with his mischief and insubordination.

Moonlit Parley A fair-haired woman sits quietly in her dimly lit office. The only source of light is the moonlight and the deep yellow desk lamp that is propped downwards on her paper-littered desk. This is Ms. Eve, the headmistress of Saint Flint’s, a Catholic boarding school. She has forgotten what time it is, but she knows it’s rather late...possibly midnight? Or as the children have been calling it, “the witching hour.” Prior to the arrival of a certain student, the children did not say such blasphemous things. It was his fault that such ungodly things found their way into Saint Flint’s. That is why Ms. Eve has stayed up so late. She had given him an...invitation earlier that day. An invitation only discernible to what she thought he was. And if her suspicions were correct? He would be arriving shortly.

Knock-knock.

A soft rap on Ms. Eve’s door roused her from her thoughts.

“Ms. Eve? Ms. Eeeeeve,” a soft and gentle voice cooed quietly.

Ms. Eve struggled to remove the deep-set growl etched on her ageless face.

“Enter,” she chirped in an overly sweet voice.

And in he came, Jaymes LakeWood, the new and troubling student at the more-than-mundane Saint Flint’s. He was dressed in his starch white pajamas and appeared to be normal like any other human child, with dark brown skin and soft cherubic features. But the physicality of the vermin she hunted mattered not as they had begun to resemble human children more and more as the years passed on by. Despite this, his arrival to Saint Flint’s was shrouded in mystery, as was his behavior.

“Have a seat child.”

Ms. Eve struggled to keep her megawatt smile on her face. Beneath the wispy light, she noticed how Jaymes’s unblinking smile resembled 139

a feral animal baring its fangs. Jaymes slowly strolled to the cushioned chair placed neatly in front of her desk with deliberate poise. Sitting up straight, they sat there staring at each other for what felt like forever until Ms. Eve shattered the silence.

“Do you know why I called you?”

“No, Miss. Why?” Their smiles widened. Ms. Eve was more than sure that he was what she suspected he was.

“You have been exhibiting some...troubling behaviors Jaymes. Using profane language, claiming allegiance to...unholy figures.”

Ms. Eve read out each of Jaymes’s minor offences, saving the worst for last.

“Not attending Mass, disobeying Sister Laurel, and this...“witching hour” that you’re referring to? That is completely unprecedented and not allowed here at Saint Flint’s.” Ms. Eve’s smile was gone, replaced with a stern glare. She noticed how he had kept his smile plastered stiffly on his face.

“All time is God’s time,” she spat savagely.

This seemed to have struck a nerve. His smile wavered drastically, and he attempted to mask the sting of her words by maintaining his grin. Too late. Her suspicions began to solidify.

“These things you are doing WILL stop, young man. You and I and the impressionable youth you’ve manipulated are all servants of the Lord Father. Any behavior following this is sinful and not of his will.”

In a different scenario, Ms. Eve would have admired Jaymes’s regal facade. However, his now snide smile confirmed her suspicion. Even before his words did.

“Who might you be to tell me who I serve?” Jaymes chortled, his eyes squinted inquisitively. She was sure he knew.

“Like I said, I am a servant of the Lord.” She leaned in hungrily, hoping to coax out his confession.

A new silence was between them. The air was thick with mutual hatred and primal fear, both of them thinking of a way to expose the other of the obvious truth laid out between them. Jaymes moved first.

Ms. Eve didn’t have any time to react as the boy lunged towards the lamp on her desk. Upon him touching the lamp, it brightened with a sheer white light. He fastened his grip on the neck of the lamp and turned it abruptly on Ms. Eve, who sat flabbergasted by the sudden motion. As soon as the lamp’s light hit her, she let loose a low, inhuman 140

grunt. A thick black cloud of smoke erupted from her pale skin and engulfed her tall frame. It billowed around her in a spiral formation and then snaked along the bare manila wall. The black smoke solidified behind her, aligning itself with her body. It was a shadow but different.

Ms. Eve’s shadow was three feet taller than her and had two sets of large outspread wings protruding from her shoulders. The shadow was the color of Teflon.

“Aso...” Jaymes muttered shakily. His smile was gone, replaced by a numb kind of excitement, possibly fear.

Ms. Eve sat glued to her desk as Jaymes towered over her. She had one precaution tacked on to the objective given to her by The Lord Father. Not to be caught by them, as they specialized in the corruption of the flesh. And this vessel was of the corporeal world. It was all going wrong...and Jaymes had the upper hand. She could only resort to offense.

That would bode poorly for her.

“What are you doing here Infernal,” Ms. Eve growled menacingly.

Her voice had become a rough snarl. She did not move from her spot, as Jaymes did not move the light trained on her.

“I follow the instruction of my father. What does a foot soldier of God want in a meek little school?”

The light shook in Jaymes’s loosened grip. Ms. Eve was quite tired of the snide remarks and peculiar formalities. Such panache was a common characteristic amongst the children of the morning star. She noticed how weak the boy really was. Now was the time to strike. She was about to attack when— BANG! The door swung open with such force that Jaymes, quivering like a leaf, dropped the lamp and switched off the light. Both Ms. Eve and Jaymes turned to look at the outline of a stout and plump child, whose whimpers could be heard under his heavy and labored breathing.

“M-miss’m, I h-had...a...nightmare....”

Despite the darkness, both Ms. Eve and Jaymes knew the child was crying.

“C-can we...pray?” the child whimpered. To this, Ms. Eve could not object. She noticed resentfully that Jaymes’s simper had returned to his soft and unmarked face.

“Get the lights will you, Jaymes,” Ms. Eve murmured in her usual sweet and reassuring voice.

“Of course, Miss,” Jaymes murmured.

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She watched him pick up the lamp and switch it back on. The office was lit once again with the usual topaz hue. She looked at him slowly, and his face, strangely relaxed, stared back., unblinking yet again.

“Would you like to join us in prayer, Jaymes?”

“No, thank you. I am...pleased we had our talk, Miss. Thank you for relieving my suspicions.” Jaymes spoke slowly, relishing each word before his escape.

Ms. Eve’s smile cracked painfully across her face. “Well then...run off to bed, hm?” Her artificial smile widened.

“Come Fergus. Let us pray all the bad dreams away.” She tore her gaze away from Jaymes to look at the mousy-haired boy who sobbed quietly to himself. Before leaving, Jaymes smiled kindly at the boy named Fergus, who attempted to smile back.

As he left, Ms. Eve saw Jaymes look back at her in the office door.

She remained smiling as Jaymes gave her a glare with the utmost hatred.

He then sped off to his room.

And Ms. Eve, smile still plastered on her face, turned to Fergus and began relieving all of the world’s worry from his sweet, impressionable mind.

Rasheed Sully is a sophomore at City on a Hill: Circuit Street Charter Public School. His hobbies and talents include listening to music, reading, and writing about a variety of things, from fiction pieces to poetry, and more. When he isn’t writing, he is participating in extracurricular activities (Anime Club, RnB study, Gsa and drama). He loves comic books and horror stories.

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Martina Taylor Mystic Valley Regional Charter School, 11th Grade Although I’m not much of a “scary story” person, this course taught me a lot about how to develop a story, and the intricacies involved in the creation of a good plot. Both of these stories were started in class (Summer Heat is based off of our “making a monster” prompt) and showcase the skills I learned this year.

Summer Heat Somehow, it had only been two days since the accident. I hadn’t been able to sleep, eat, or even breathe since then. The hands that had grabbed for me that night now seemed to remain clenched around my neck, waiting for one wrong move. One wrong move, and they would attack, and it would be all over. At least the memories would stop.

But no, I couldn’t think like that. Not after all that Callie and I had been through. There had to be something I could say, could do, to make it right for her. But I couldn’t go back to the time before without addressing what had happened that night.

If I think back hard enough, I can still make out the hazy steam rising from the depth of the woods. Summer had almost sunken into fall, but after the last rainfall a languid heat claimed the area. The air was thick with a fog steeped with restless nights, and it clung to our skin, got in our eyes, our minds. As it rose towards the sky it seemed to move with a mind of its own, a many headed monster. Wisps of steam curled around the truck as it made its slow journey through the dark.

I can still remember how Callie sat next to me, one hand on the steering wheel, eyes lost on the road. As she drove, moonlight passed over her, settling into the long curls of her auburn hair, nestling itself in the little crevices of her smile. We sat in silence like that for a while. Nothing really had to be said, and the electricity that had crackled between us earlier now buzzed at a steady hum.

Eventually, Callie turned her head to face me, and I thought she was going to speak. Instead, she just looked at me, really looked at me. Shivers went down my spine. I was about to speak, to tell her how I really felt, when all of a sudden she whipped around, her head slamming into the dashboard. The car came to a sudden halt and I screamed. Loud. I didn’t 143

know where it came from in me, but I let everything loose.

“Callie, Callie, are you alright?”

I shook her body, damp with sweat, but she didn’t respond. Breathing fast and thick, I put two fingers to her neck.

Beat....Beat....Beat.

She still had a pulse. I gasped, stilling my racing mind if only for a moment. Callie’s skin was smooth, and I desperately wanted to stay with her until this nightmare was over. But I knew I couldn’t. Something had happened. Something wasn’t right. We were stranded in the woods at night with no idea how or why we had stopped. Boy, if that wasn’t a cliché. I had to get us out of here.

Wet leaves squelched under my feet as I shut the car door and went around to examine the hood. Heat rose from the front of the truck, distorting my vision into a thousand rippling pictures of the dark forest.

For a moment, I almost got lost in that scene, the deep dark quiet of the night. But I remembered the girl in the car who I cared about, and I kept inspecting the engine. Everything seemed in order, not a bit of rust was out of place. The only odd thing was the presence of two clear handprints in the dust on the hood of the pickup. I held my hands up in comparison, but they were twice my size.

A bird called overhead as I made my way back to the driver’s seat of the car. It was a long, sharp cry, like a warning sign, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. ‘We’re almost there’, I told myself. It’s just a bird. I should have listened.

Just as I was about to reach the car, I felt it. The reflection on the rearview mirror caught an image of me reaching for the door, as two white hands flew towards my neck. A scream barely escaped my lungs before I felt myself being slammed against the truck. I struggled wildly, trying to turn to see the identity of my attacker. But the strangest thing was that when I turned to see them, all that was there was the fog from the heat of the woods. Nothing was holding my neck. I must have been seeing things. I got in the car.

It hadn’t been a good night. I didn’t like thinking about it, but it was all I could think about. I would get home from school, and in the rearview mirror of my car I would see it. A hazy hand reaching towards me. Look back, and it’s gone. The event was rehashed in my dreams each night, worse and more grotesque than before. In one, the fog had come out of Callie’s body, her eyes rolling up into her head as the misty hands reached out for me, tracing down my face with one long, cold finger. In another, 144

she admits her love for someone else, and I welcome the hazy hands round my neck.

Speaking of Callie, she and I haven’t texted much since the accident.

She didn’t remember anything since she got knocked out, so I had to fill her in. It’s not that she didn’t believe me so much as there was an air of something between us. We didn’t really have much to say to each other anymore. It was if invisible hands pushed us apart, never to reach each other again.

In the Palm of the Valley is based off a prompt given in class, and a family friend’s goat farm that my dad always told me about. In this piece, I wanted to portray the passage of time and memories of the people who lived here through the personification of the house.

In the Palm of the Valley Dusk is descending on the valley, washing the mountaintops in shades of gold and pink. As the sun sinks into the pits of the horizon, bright points of light shift into place in the growing darkness. From far off, some gully in a nearby mountain, a bird calls to the setting sun, and then takes flight.

It glides, sailing over a land blanketed with trees, to rest on the eves of a vacant farmhouse.

The old house, an aging majesty, sits on her haunches in the middle of the valley. She is slowly sinking back into the land, returning to where she first began. Tired shutters rattle and quake as a cool wind blows through the rooms, lifting curtains and lightly shutting doors. The house sighs, knowing that the memories of those who made a home for themselves between her walls will one day be scattered far away with the wind. From ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

It hadn’t always been this way. In the dawn of her life, her rooms were filled with the happy shouts of children and chatter of adults. Women’s bustling petticoats swept the parlor room floor as they gathered together for a cup of tea. In winter storms, the house hugged its inhabitants in a warm winter coat, protected from nature’s fury. Mice burrowed in the pantry walls, and bats made a cozy home for themselves among the rafters of the attic. Snug and hidden from the rest of the world, the little house sat serenely, year after year, in the palm of the valley.

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As crops grew and fell, as snow piled up and melted away, time began to take a toll on the house and its inhabitants. Parents’ cheeks sagged, and children moved away. Eventually, the house stood empty, a little rough around the edges, but still a resplendent sight in the setting sun.

Years came and went, and eventually the little house in the middle of the valley became a home to a different sort. These people had no money to fix her crooked chimney or squeaky doors. They didn’t ask for much, and they didn’t stay too long, but whenever a stranger with an empty belly came by, there was always a spoon ready. Times were tight, it was said, not just in this valley but in the rest of the country as well. Despite this, the house was content. Her belly was filled with love, a community of people helping each other out, and it was all she could ask for.

The times eventually changed, as times tend to do, and the drifters moved on to more prosperous lands. The next time smoke puffed from the little chimney, it was in an electrical age. Great tall cellular towers looked down over the valley, like gods surveying the land. The air buzzed with radio waves and messages sent from all across the world. Even so, the sun still set in the West and rose in the East, and the house was just happy to be involved.

And so the valley remained, for many years, until one night, a big gust of wind puffed up its cheeks and started to blow. It kept this up for several weeks, and with it came the typical rainy symptoms of one of nature’s temper tantrums. When the storm finally broke, people looked out of their windows to find that the giants of the valley were felled.

After that, things were different. Damage from the storm had to be assessed, and the family that lived in the house began to notice the offkilter chimney, doors that never closed properly, and the community of mice in the pantry. The family packed up their bags and locked up for the last time, and so the house sat deserted once more.

They say that there is a time and a place for everything, and when something ends or someone dies, they have given all the good they have to give. Grass grows tall and green, the sun shines down on it, and then it withers away. There is no way for any being to escape this cycle. And so, after many years, and much good given under the cover of its roof, the house knows that it is her time. Her walls begin to lean into each other, knock-kneed, and her roof sags. Vines web the slats of wood siding and reach their scraggy little arms into the gutters. The whitewash that once 146

painted the cheery face of the house is long gone, faded by sun and rubbed away by the wind. One word spoken too harshly, one step too heavy, and the years of love and laughter that are etched into the walls of each room will be lost forever. Here was where the ladies gathered for tea, where their petticoats swept each Sunday. And there, a metal ladle of a bygone era, an artifact from the charitable inhabitants who had little to give. But such is life, and the life that exists after it.

So under the cover of twilight, the house gives one last sigh, one last breath, and sinks back into the valley for good. Its remains will decompose back into the earth and come up in the spring as the little flowers that dot the floor of the valley. Cupped in the palm of the mountains, the memories of the moments of life that were spent here live on, even though they will never be again.

This is Martina’s first year at EmersonWRITES. She is a junior at MVRCS, and a writer for Aspirants Magazine. Her passions include art, taking photos on her film camera, and learning more about people. She creates with the hope that her writing will facilitate needed change in communities around the world.  

Illustraion by Martina Taylor 147

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 publisher’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 graphic design concepts and develop the theme and cover aesthetic for this year’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 an affiliated faculty member in the First-Year Writing Program at Emerson College. She is the owner and operator of Rozlyn Press, a small press for womxn writers. 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 fourth year designing SPINE.

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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, WLP; Curriculum Coordinator & Co-Founder, EmersonWRITES Christopher Grant, Associate Director of Student Success, Program Coordinator & Co-Founder, EmersonWRITES EmersonWRITES Faculty Diana Fernandez

Cindy Govender Christina Montana Brandon Melendez San Pham Jayne Roberts Marin Sklan Fion Wu

EmersonPUBLISHES Faculty Alayne Fiore

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 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, Department of Writing, Literature and Publishing cl

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 Jessica Sisavath, HR Service Center Associate, Human Resources Carol Smolinsky, Associate Director of Student Success 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 Bethany Owens, Media Arts Production, Class of 2019 Antonio Weathers, Writing, Literature and Publishing, Class of 2020 Hailey Norton, Writing, Literature and Publishing, Class of 2021 Madison Wilson, Media Arts Production, Class of 2021 Annalise Ella Englert, Performing Arts, Class of 2022 Special Thanks to School Recruiters Alicia Googins Cindy Govender Nehal Mubarak Hailey Norton Raina K Puels Jayne Roberts Marin Sklan

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IN THIS ISSUE

Antigone Brandel-Iuliano Bru’Nya Brown Mah Camara Kelly Chen Katherine Colglazier Jacqueline Maestre Diaz Rejeila Firmin Keianna Trinica Rena Grant Ava Hawkes Shermarie Hyppolite Seba Ismail Winter Jones Louckens Joseph Devna C. Langat Aaron Lucchesi Valentina Martinez Cecil Mena

Faith M. Pan Paola Andrea Ruiz Manrique Arianna Ruiz-Rivera Yaritza Santana Anna Shahbazyan Bob Sherwood Rachel Silva Laurel Simpson Ebony Smith Essence Smith Shayla Spencer Rasheed Sully Martina Taylor Kaylah Tshitenge Kyaralind Vasquez-Liriano Talia Viera Rebeca Sarai Villatoro Alvarez Caihong Wang

VOL. 9

Abbie Langmead

Jael Nunez Alexander Oke

S P I N E

Gabriela Barroso

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• 2018-2019