EmersonWRITES Anthology 2011-12 by EmersonWRITES

emersonWRITES an antholog y

2011-2012

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

Our special thanks to:

MJ Knoll-Finn, Vice President for Enrollment John Trimbur, Director of the First-Year Writing Program Tamera Marko, Assistant Director of the First-Year Writing Program

emersonWRITES is coordinated by: Sarah Ehrich, Christopher Grant, Kristina Kopic, & Mary Kovaleski Byrnes Layout Editor: Abby Travis Layout Assistants: Sarah Ehrich & Kristina Kopic Cover photo by Nicole Nelson-Campos

We would also like to thank the Admission Diversity Team (without whose help we wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be able to run this program): Rubi Godinez, Shakala Alvaranga, Elissa Bernstein, Donovan Birch, Kristopher Geeting, Veronica del Rosario, Andrea Torres, & Elvira Valencia

not to cry anymore and that’s when I started hoarding cats. They started taking over my house. I went from one, to ten, to twenty and more. I didn’t care. They were the only thing that didn’t leave me. I closed my notebook and sat at the desk. I closed my eyes and remembered me being asleep the night that John left. I heard crying. I thought Beth had a bad dream and I went back to sleep. I haven’t seen Beth in two years, since me and John broke up. My house has been taken from me until I complete the rehab. I’ve been home a couple times and my house is getting better. Being in rehab has made me realize why I haven’t seen Bethany in years. I sit and think to myself, “I’m about to get out in two weeks. I’m gonna keep my house cat free, well, maybe my first kitten.” I talked to my therapist, Mr. Chuckles, about how I felt and he told me I was on the right track. The last week I spent in my room writing. I was surprised John wrote me back. He told me Beth was doing fine and he was happy to hear I’m doing fine. The day I get back, he’s going to bring Beth over. Today is my last day in rehab. I grabbed my stuff, hopped on the bus and walked up to my house. I was so scared. I open the door. “Surprise!” everyone yelled. I saw John and Beth. She was beautiful at ten years old. I see my features in her. I embraced her and John. I enjoyed the party. I saw all my friends and family. After the party, me and John talked and I found out he broke up with his “boyfriend” because he missed me and knew he wanted to be together again. I was happy that we talked it out. Now me, John, Beth, and my kitten Bubbles are a family again. My life was great with my family.

emerson WRITES is a free creative writing

program for students in Boston Public Schools, co-sponsored by the Office of Enrollment and the First-Year Writing Program at Emerson College. EmersonWRITES is guided by the principle that writing is essential to intellectual engagement, self-representation, and access to opportunity. Students in the EmersonWRITES program engage in college-style creative writing classes on campus at Emerson College, where courses are structured to build writing and critical thinking skills and to guide students toward negotiating a range of writing genres and rhetorical situations. EmersonWRITES seeks to foster individual voices and engagement with the world through the written word.

our STUDENTS

represent a diverse range of high schools in Boston. They come to meet and collaborate with other writers. This anthology showcases their work, developed over 12 Saturday sessions: their poems, their stories, their scripts, their senses of humor and their individual voices. We invite you to enjoy their words and to experience each of their worlds.

emersonWRITES

Aaliyah Williams

Dorchester Academy, Grade 12

CATastrophe As Billy Bob looks up from her desk, she begins to think about why she’s in rehab. She started to cry. She really wanted to see her daughter. John had sent her a letter saying that ever since they left, her cat hoarding became worse. If she didn’t get help, she wouldn’t be able to see Beth. She decides to write in her notebook again: I never felt so alone in my life. I looked through the motel window to see my husband and the milkman stare at each other, like me and John when we first met. John looked out the window to see me staring with tears rolling down my face. I ran to the car, started it up, and drove as fast as I could. I never cried so hard, not even when my mother died. I was in a rage, he was the first man I ever loved, the man that met my mother before she died, the father of my child. I drove up to the house, looking as if I never wanted to set foot in the house. I went in to check on my daughter. She was fast asleep, thank God. I didn’t want her to question why my eyes were red. I sat on the couch, hugged one of the pillows and fell asleep. I woke up the next morning to see all my husband’s stuff was gone, and so was my daughter’s stuff. I found a note on the bed that read: Billy Bob, I’m sorry you saw what happened last night. I was going to tell you. I just didn’t know how. I’m so sorry, but after you saw what happened, I knew it was my time to go. I took Bethany because I felt it was the right choice. I still love you, but we started to grow apart. On the dresser are the divorce papers. Love, John p.s. You can still see Bethany, just call before you come and I’ll keep paying the mortgage on the house. I couldn’t believe it. They were both gone. I went into my daughter’s room, where I found a stuffed kitten. I decided to buy her a kitten from the local animal rescue league. I called John to see if I could bring Beth the kitten, but I kept getting a message that said I got the wrong number. I couldn’t believe it again. John got me. He took my only reason to live and moved far away. I was depressed for months, and one day I decided

2011-2012

Evelyn Soto

Nathanael Green Middle School, Grade 8

Table of Contents

A T-Rex Snacking I told Jason not to sneak into the zoo when he is drunk, but like always, he didn’t listen. After the Bruins winning the Stanley Cup, Jason (being the “good” husband that he is), took me to the bar to celebrate with some drinks. When we left the bar, he was so drunk he started to walk toward the zoo that was close to our home. “Jason, don’t sneak into the zoo!” I yelled at him. “Don’t worry Janey baby, I won’t get caught again this time,” Jason slurred. Then he left, wobbling from side to side. The next day, and he still hasn’t come back. Whatever, he is probably at his friend’s house passed out. I turn on the TV to watch the news and there Jason was. I was surprised to see that he was in the new T-rex statue that the zoo had just installed. I quickly and frantically ran to the zoo. “Jason, what the hell are you doing in there?” I yelled at his face. “I want my mommy! Mommy! I was only trying to congratulate the bear for winning the cup, then I saw this T-rex, then it roared and now it’s eating me.” Ugh, he is still drunk. Great, just great. “This is what you get for not listening to me,” I said as the cops (after an hour) got Jason out of the T-rex. “Jane! No! My Jane!” he yelled as he was put into the police car. Looks like I have to bust him out of jail again, or maybe not. But I did, and I regret it badly. He got caught again trying to congratulate the bear while he was drunk. (Again! Gosh! What is wrong with him!?) Now he’s in jail while I’m free. Yay!

emersonWRITES

Courses Beyond Labels: Discovering Your Self through Creative Nonfiction

Fiction and Poetry Fusion

The Music of Language

No Laughing Matter

Save the Drama for Your Script: Exploring Scriptwriting through Character

Writing Time: Finding the Story Inside a Moment

Cassandra Jean

Urban Science Academy, Grade 10

Fate Express: Chinese Food Fortune cookie plus one person equals a tasty treat after a small dish of teriyaki chicken with rice. Fortune cookie plus two people equals an interesting fortune. Fortune cookie plus a child equals disaster. “Beware Mr. Sung’s cookies,” the note read.

Angel, the New Kid “Class, please don’t forget to read chapters…” Riiinngg! Last bell of the day. Finally. I just want to go home. I hate being confined. I hate being here. I hate being a teenager. I hate being the new kid. In every class, an introduction, a couple of glances, and I grab the seat closest to the teacher’s desk. The lunch is barely edible. The upperclassmen swamp the much smaller students back and forth through the narrow hallways. All around me, I’ve had the misfortune of listening to completely pointless conversations. Anger. Sadness. Relief. They’re floating inside of me. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live like this. The bus pulls up and parks itself in front of me. Pushing and shoving. Possible kicking and endless shouting going on behind me. Dozens of people scurry past me for a seat. I’m still standing at the platform. Fly, a voice in my head whispers. Two minutes pass. Fly, the voice says in a normal tone. I watch everyone on the bus. Fly, the voice shouts. I run towards the edge of the platform. Underneath my red winter coat, my back is expanding and my lungs are gasping for air. I am gasping for air. Crack. The noise my ribs make. Pop. My skin rips while it peels away for the wings. I make no sound, but a stream of tears leak down my cheeks. A cool breeze licks at the rapidly healing wounds left from the bursting of my wings. Screams and a thousand pairs of eyes watch me from behind. They extend and I leap upward. A flap or two and the ground is no longer my friend. I now know what it’s like to stare down at the world from God’s perch.

2011-2012

Raymond Horsley

Urban Science Academy, Grade 10

Manbeater Outside rain pounded the windows and made the gutters clank. Harold sat on the couch in his tank top and boxers. His wife Haroldina was in the kitchen washing dishes. “You cooking my food?” Harold boomed. “No,” Haroldina answered. “Well hop to it,” Harold screamed. Haroldina picked up a knife and stabbed Harold in his gut. Oww, was Harold’s last word as he became unconscious. He woke up in the basement chained to a radiator. “Wh-wh-what the hell. Let me go!” Harold screamed. Haroldina sat in a dark corner of the room smoking a cigarette. “Can’t you hear? Let me go,” Harold yelled. “Why? Are you gonna cook dinner?” Haroldina asked. “No,” Harold replied. “Then you’re staying right there,” Haroldina responded. “No. We’re through. I’m cutting it off,” Harold said. “Hehe! I was thinking about cutting something off too,” Haroldina boomed. Harold looked down and then across the room. His boxers were half way across the room. “No! No! No! Please, you can’t do that,” Harold screamed. “Hahaha, but I can,” Haroldina said, laughing. She produced a knife and threw it at Harold. “Ahhh!” Harold screamed as he sat up in bed. “Oh God, thank you. It was only a dream.”

Beyond Labels:

Discovering Your Self through Creative Nonfiction Lady Gaga says “you were born this way,” and according to Katy Perry, “you’re a f irework,” but how do you def ine yourself ? In this course, we worked to debunk stereotypes by discussing literary identity through memoir and personal essay writing. In writing about their own experiences and perspective, our students aimed to define a confident and empowered voice that comes to life on the page for any reader. As you’ll see, our students has succeeded. We encouraged our students to look beyond the somewhat meaningless labels often used to define individuals. The result is a theme that surfaces in each piece of writing featured here. Although we didn’t plan this, each student in some way writes about the divides they feel within themselves—the places where the self splits off, where the brain splits off, where emotion splits off—the different versions of themselves, of ourselves. Although we spent the fall working on more traditional nonfiction writing, we realized that there are many ways to express ourselves, some more effective than others, depending on what sort of truthwe’re trying to convey. We discussed the identity, memory, and honesty issues that creative nonfiction faces as a genre, as well as how memoir relates to fiction and poetry, and how the best writing blends components of all three genres. We are, after all, Beyond Labels. Our students didn’t only work beyond the labels that society puts on them and that they put on themselves; they worked beyond the labels and confines of genre. In their writing, you’ll see a wide variety of ways that we express ourselves: in voice and style, in form and genre. Here’s to our wonderful, wonderful students. Instructors

Susannah Clark is in her second year at Emerson College, pursuing an MFA in creative nonfiction. She is a Tutoring Site Coordinator for School on Wheels, a nonprofit that provides tutoring and school supplies to homeless children in Brockton, MA. Her work has been published in Popmatters, CQ Weekly, and The Free Lance-Star. Abby Travis is a second-year MFA candidate in creative nonfiction at Emerson College. This is her second time teaching with EmersonWRITES. She has taught composition in Emerson’s First-Year Writing Program, and is an editorial assistant and the senior nonfiction reader at Ploughshares. Her essays and book reviews have been published in The Rectangle, Rain Taxi, on the Ploughshares blog, and on Powell’s Books’ Review-a-Day online. She is working on a collection of personal essays that explore the pathology of miscommunication.

emersonWRITES

2011-2012

Nicola Briggs

Fenway High School, Grade 9

Brianna Gray

West Roxbury Academy, Grade 12

My Brain Thinks I’m Stupid

Gender of Both

As I sit in math class and think these thoughts, I also think about why I am even thinking these thoughts in math class. What I should be doing is learning how to do that hard thing on the board with letters like ‘x’ and numbers like ‘230’ that they call an equation. So I snap out of these stressful thoughts and I turn my attention to my math teacher. “Blaahhh blahhh blahhhhhhhh. Ms. Briggs, what do you think about this equation?” “God I hate when he does that,” I think to myself. As I look at about 22 faces, which is equal to 44 eyes looking at me, I take a deep breath and reply “ughhhhh ummmm” and I continue to do so until he gives up on me and turns to someone new. Don’t get me wrong, I try to understand this man but my brain doesn’t and we usually go through this conflict in every class. Brain thinking... brain thinking... brain shut down. I’m serious, my brain does shut down! I swear, I have to get a new brain. Maybe I’ll go to one of those new plastic surgery stores they opened downtown. I probably wouldn’t mind doing it if they did do brain jobs and yes, America, I am that dumb, but see I know that this dumbness is not genetic because my two sisters, older by six and seven years, are quite smart and I’m pretty sure they didn’t have to worry about if they were smart enough to get in college and that’s why they are in college and good ones to be exact, and now all my family members that care are like, “Nicola, apply to Harvard! Nicola, apply to Stanford! Nicola, apply to Columbia!” but the thing is Nicola kept a secret from all of you, she lied, she’s not as smart as you think; she’s quite dumb. She’s so dumb that she once said that she would get a brain job! Sorry, person reading that last sentence—that was my brain typing: Conflict 6,000,093. So I guess all the people who actually know this secret of mine, which is basically everyone, can blame this on my brain and not me. “Dear Nicola, Your brain is a part of you, you idiot. So people can blame you. Not sincerely, Your Brain.” Conflict 6,000,094. I just wish my feelings would stand up for themselves because my brain is like a bully. But enough about my stupid brain, this story is not about my brain, it’s about my education. I am not doing so good with that and I don’t know who to blame: myself or my brain. Lately I have been blaming my school. I usually say things like, “Well maybe if my stu-

“Are you a boy or a girl?” said Cyndi while looking at me straight in the eye. I tried to ignore her question because every time I try to answer it, I stutter, because out of two genders, I still can’t pick which one I want. We stood there awkwardly inside her parents’ bedroom “I am not sure yet,” I said as I hold my two private parts. She looked at me as if she was confused. She didn’t know how it felt to be in this position. As if I was in outer space when really, we came from the same place of a woman. She looked at me to try to figure it out. “That’s weird because you should know what gender you are.” I turned my head in embarrassment, seeing that she would make fun of me and that no matter what, they still would see that I am a freak in my position. I turned to the door to look away, but she grabbed my hand to stop me. She turned and said, “Well, whatever, let’s get to it.” She started to kiss me but it was too hard to get off. Her hands went all over the places throughout my body. Her kisses felt like smooth velvet and her as a whole was like she was a pleasing, yet forceful cover of life. It felt so satisfying that I forgot we were two individuals. My hands touched her hands without even noticing and as soon as I stopped her, I tried to stop myself, but I couldn’t. As if she was an alien out of society, like me, I stopped her to confess my life and how I got out to be this way. “Cyndi, I am sorry you have to deal with this. I just can’t help it that I am a gender of both.” She looked up at me and to the ground. “It’s okay, I am one too.” She stood on her feet and lifted up her skirt, showing that she had a penis and vagina like me.

emersonWRITES

2011-2012

Six Word Story Gaining popularity while self-respect in flames.

Allyson Gerace

East Boston High School, Grade 11

Boston Jewel Six-hundred thousand people. And then you.

Asymptoted He dials her number from memory, sneakers splashing in cold, shallow puddles. She answers cheerily, and Jordan asks, “Where are you?” “By the Science and Math Department. You’ll know once you get there.” He has work in an hour and the train station is on the other side of campus, but she was his first friend in middle school, and they mulled over college applications together, so he sighs and continues on. She’s standing there, under a tree with that look on her face, tongue sticking out from between her lips and eyes squinted. Her hair, curled despite her best attempts to tame it, is plastered against her forehead and temples. Upon seeing him, Maria smiles and points upwards. “My bike’s up that tree.” Indeed it hangs from a thicker branch, like a cat. Jordan takes off his Peacoat and hands it to Maria; she just about drowns in the fabric. He wheels it over to her once he’s down, and she thanks him. “How’d you manage that?” he asks. “Y=1/x,” she tells him. “It’s at the start of the graph—x=1/2 or so.” They stare at each other. Then they giggle and she brushes her hair back, tapping the toe of her Chuck against the pavement. He bought that with her, even helped her try it on—it was her first pair of sneakers, a smaller version of his own and it stands out against her floral dress. “Math major humor?” he asks. She nods, then casts her gaze upwards, just above his head. “Hey… Are you free?” “Er…right now?” “Yeah.” Her smile makes the corners of her eyes crinkle. “We could go out for pizza or something. There’s a place a block past the Humanities Center.” “I have work,” he says. “Oh. Okay,” She hooks a leg over her bike, staring at her hands clamped tight against the handlebars. “See you tomorrow, then.” “See you. Bye.” Fifteen minutes later, as he boards the train, he realizes what she was trying to say. The entire car stares as he swears at the top of his lungs. emersonWRITES 52

pid school didn’t have stupid teachers then I wouldn’t be so stupid!” I guess maybe it’s because I’m so shy and I think everyone hates me. I get offended by everything! If I get a one-word text from someone: that person doesn’t want to talk to me. When people don’t say hi to me first: they’re trying to ignore me. When someone forgets my birthday: they don’t care about me. If there’s no smiley faces in the text, especially if it’s one-worded, then they hate me even more! And that’s just a few of the things that go through my head. So yes, maybe my brain is right. Maybe it’s my fault, maybe I really am dumb. But will I ever confess? No. Will I have own to up to my actions? Eh... probably not, because it’s just easier to blame others than yourself, agreed? And if you don’t agree, please darling, stop lying to yourself. Everyone in college keeps telling me that I should stop panicking because I’m a freshman in high school; well I’m sorry I DIDN’T KNOW I COULD TURN INTO A FREAKING EINSTEIN BEFORE I’M A SENIOR! They’re just saying that because they’re in college and they have nothing to worry about. They know they hate me and they never said it but I think everyone hates me so I say they hate me. “God, why do they hate me?” If any of those people that I’m talking about are reading this, I’m kidding, but only if you’re reading this. If you’re reading this and you’re like, “Wow this girl is annoying, all she does is complain!” all I have to say is that I hope Lord Voldemort “accidentally” mistakes you for Harry Potter. ’Nuff said, and I’m not kidding. Last but not least if you’re a nerd and you’re reading this please contact me immediately; I need a tutor. I have a contract and it says: This contract is between you and Nicola. You will get paid $20 dollars a week; you will have to tutor her f ive days a week. If your tutoring doesn’t help her, then she will have the right to smash your computer, your PC games, your video games, your hacking system or whatever, rip your “intergalactic” loser posters, and she will be able to punch you in the face. If this tutoring helps her then she will love you forever and be the only friend you have other than your computer. Thank you and have a pleasant day. If you think this contract is unfair she will still smash your computer and don’t try to hide— she knows where you live. p.s. She knows where you live because she put a tracking device in your computer. She also has a button that she can press any minute and blow your awesome computer up. (Evil laugh, evil laugh.) p.p.s. She doesn’t actually have $20 dollars. She’s very cheap. She will pay you in pennies which means one penny a day and don’t get mad, just think of the poor kids in the world that have no pennies. If you didn’t think about that before I just said it, you should be ashamed of yourself.

2011-2012

Taylor McKinnon

Writing Time:

Boston Latin Academy, Grade 11

The Bookstore I am walking alone, in a black hoodie, in black pants, wearing slippers. Walking is a simple enough task. I have somewhere to be, there is no rush, yet I’m going so quickly. I think I’m sad, I’m not sure, I leave the world behind and join the one where the Man in my Head and I are in love, and dancing, or fighting, or running. Running doesn’t seem like a bad idea, I’m disappointed that I don’t know how to run. I am leaving the Ansin building of Emerson College. I remember walking out and saying goodbye, I wonder if they cared that I left. I wish that I was pretty, that my hair had been done, that my face hadn’t recently decided to have a teenage rebellion. I wonder why it is that I’m so tired, and alone. I remember that I am alone. Not so long before, I had been sitting at a computer, the rest of my writing class around me, click, click, clicking away at their keyboards, listening to loud music, breathing. I smell them next to me, I see their screens full of words, mine is empty. Why was I so sad, so lost. I felt a rushing across me, my body was seized with how lonely it is. I remembered that I have so much to do, so little time, since when was my life, not mine. My screen was still empty. I felt tears form at my eyes, my hands shook, my computer screen saw words. Roxbury Latin Certamen Tournament, where my certamen team of Latin jeopardists, competed against others. We got second place. We were upset. I promised Joanna I’d write it, where am I supposed to even start? I deleted the text once more, I reverted to typing up Latin vocab, I tried again, that was enough, I clicked out of Word. I hated it, the feeling that I had, that lonely helplessness, that feeling of eminent failure. She told me to write down my ideas, all I could think about was failing. Fail, fail, fail, fail, fail, I typed. I have a Latin Test on Monday, I’m going to fail, I have to take the SATs, the SAT IIs, the AP Exams, I’m going to fail. I have to go to college, I won’t get in. I’m going to be a teacher, I can’t do anything better, faiiiiiiiiiiiilllllllll. But I am walking away from all of that now. On the train, no more Wakey!Wakey!, his piano playing has vibrated my soul into the deep feeling of being alone and content, but the lack of a sun and crispy fall leaves has left the effect of desolation and pain. I want to be happy, that’s all I’ve ever wanted. Off the train, I go into the mall, and man do I look out of place. I make my way to Sephora, I look for what I need, I look lost. A kind older black lady helps me, her red lipstick comforts me, it’s dry and unbecoming alone on her mouth but somehow suits her face. It reminds 10

emersonWRITES

Finding the Story Inside a Moment Both in our lives and in the stories we read and write, a single moment can seem to stretch on forever. It was this idea—that great power and significance can be compacted into a tiny package—that inspired us throughout our Flash Fiction workshop. Like fireworks, the pieces of very short fiction that we created each week began with a bang and were over in a flash, but contained meaning and power that lingered beyond the page. As the semester progressed, we challenged each other to push the boundaries of how we handled the passage of time in our stories. In some cases, we froze time—stopping our characters mid-motion so we could explore their thoughts and feelings. In others, we sped it up—letting the action of the story whiz past the reader. In all cases though, we were driven by the goal of making slivers of time come alive in engaging and creative ways. Each of us has a story to tell and that’s exactly what we did this year. Whether we drew inspiration from popsicle sticks or a zombie apocalypse, we continually worked together to brainstorm, draft, and workshop the stories we brought to life. We also engaged in revision to help us understand that each word carries great significance, especially when stories can be as short as six words and as long as a few pages. But ultimately, despite all of the many story topics and writing challenges we encountered, our main goal was simple: Each week we came together to write and to genuinely enjoy doing it. Instructors

Lauren Picard (LP) is a third-time instructor at EmersonWRITES and a native Bostonian. In addition to her work with EmersonWRITES, LP also teaches in Emerson College’s First-Year Writing Program and tutors in the Calderwood Writing Center at Snowden International High School. She is currently a thirdyear fiction MFA student in Emerson College’s Writing Literature and Publishing Department and is working on a novel-in-shorts for her thesis. Erica Schweitzer is a part-time faculty member in Emerson College’s First-Year Writing Program and a first-time EmersonWRITES instructor. In addition to teaching, Erica is working toward her MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College, which she plans to complete this spring. While she dabbles in many types of writing, Erica always finds herself coming back to short and very short fiction and is currently working on a book-length collection of interlinking short stories.

2011-2012

Alejandra Rodriguez

East Boston High School, Grade 11

Going Against: A play Sophie: Papa? Are you here? Papa? Mr. Richards: Yes. I’m here. He is shuffling papers around his desk. Ink in his f ingertips. Sophie: Oh. Dad, you’re always working. You should take a break. It’s wonderful outside. Mr. R: Well Sophie, this is what a man must do in order to take care of his family. You go enjoy the sun; you cousin Kathleen is here. You can even go do some shopping. Isn’t that the only thing women are good for? Mr. Richards laughs a hearty laugh. Sophie: Papa, I really hope you’re just being funny when you say that I should go out shopping with Kathleen. She’s the most boring person in the world. I shall never understand why I’m related to her. And women are good for a great deal more. Mr. R: Now, now, don’t talk about Kathleen like that. She’s not boring, just because she’s not running around like you... And women... you know I don’t really like to talk about that... since your mom died... She was the one supposed to help you become... I don’t think I’m the right person to say this, but... you need to start behaving like a woman. You are not a boy, Sophie. Sophie: Well that’s why I came looking for you. Mr. R looks confused. Mr. R: Yes? Sophie: I want to go to college. Mr. R: What? Sophie: I want to go to college. Mr. R: And how does this make you more lady-like? Sophie: It doesn’t. Mr. R: Then, we clearly shouldn’t be talking about it. Sophie: We most certainly shall. Papa, I don’t want to be like the daughters of your friends. Married at eighteen and with four kids at twenty-two.

emersonWRITES

me of my grandmother long ago when she refused to leave the house without lipstick on. I ask her where to find the face wash I’m looking for. She tells me. I ask which of the two face washes are better. She tells me. I thank her and buy it at the counter. I consider this an optimal moment to text my best friend, with whom I have spent hours in Sephora. She replies. I reply. That’s the end of the conversation. Where to next? I go to my home away from home, Barnes and Noble, but, what is it with all the people? I just want to sit down and get some work done. But they line the walls, the aisles, the windows, they’re everywhere, and so I can be nowhere. It’s too open in the section I’m in, I go to the children’s corner. There it is, I’m crying again. I look up at all the books that I used to read. When I was a child, all I did was read. I never really played. There was something wrong with me. I sucked. I wish I could share these books with someone; the feeling of overwhelming happiness flipping the inked pages used to give me when I was young. I have decided that I want a child when I grow up, I want the opportunity to be a good parent, to cook and play with. I am confused about my future. I consider the option of children, but I become distressed at the idea of parenthood, single parenthood. One day, if I choose to have a kid, that kid will grow up to be one of the assholes of the world, a teenager who needs to Express Himself. One day, I will hate my child, for the person that he is, just because he is a person, just because no matter what I do, it’ll be something wrong. Now I’m crying, or at least trying not to cry, I’m alone. I saw everybody walking in pairs, sitting at a table with friends, smiling. I saw plenty of supposed college kids dressed in superhero garb. One guy I heard had an amazing British accent, he was dressed as Wolverine, in a long black trench coat, shiny fake claws. On the top of his head was a blonde-streaked wig but the Logan points at each side, thick fake side burns stretched down his square jaw. I stole looks at him. He interested me. Maybe if I weren’t so young I’d interest him. I often comfort myself with the idea that one day I’ll be pretty, and interesting, and appealing, maybe. I entertain myself with these lies, with the hope that I’ll be happy in the future. But I know that they are lies. I know this because I am crying in the bookstore, because I have no one to share the books with. Because I will never have anyone to read to at night, or tell the the story of The Seven Against Thebes, or Theseus, or all the superheroes I’m in love with. I’m crying because I know this won’t happen, I’ll be alone for now, and for later, for better and for worse, in sickness and in health, I’ll be alone. I’m crying in the children’s section of the bookstore, lined with its pink and yellow paint, with its light wood bookshelves, its overly pastel presence of happiness because I have nowhere to sit. There are so many people around me, so many happy people, with their friends, with their

2011-2012

books, with their seats. I am lost in this sea of people, I have nowhere to go. The people that I do know live just fine without me. I have friends, but every day I leave school through empty hallways, alone. I don’t know how to be in a team, how to click with a group of people, how to be funny, and interesting. How to speak the language they speak. They say I’m an old soul, my best friend says I’m too much of an adult. It’s just because I’m afraid. They talk about sex and love, how I am afraid of intimacy, I don’t believe their lies. They talk about food I don’t eat, stores I don’t shop in. They look at me funny when I mention Whole Foods, and the Paper Source. They stare me down with utter disgust when I talk about vegetarian bacon and organic. I’d do so many things for them, give them anything, teach them everything, show them whatever, but I can’t bond with them like they do with each other. They’d be just fine without me. I don’t fit in their puzzle; I’m a black sky piece that you can’t tell is missing. Even my sisters and my brother are distant, they bond to each other like ions, but not me. I’m empty, I’m boring. I say to myself it’s the age difference. It’s not. So, I am crying in the bookstore, avoiding the man dressed as Wolverine. Man, he was really hot, I think. I sigh. I wipe my eyes. I leave the section of Charlie Bone, and Harry Potter, I leave Stargirl, and Frindle, and How the Grinch Stole Christmas. I leave it all and I leave the busy bookstore, the busy mall, I get on the packed train, alone.

emersonWRITES

Patricia Pedriali Boston Latin Academy, Grade 11

Cake, Spoons, and Other Things... A café, outdoor or indoor. A table with two chairs, Mark’s sitting down eating a slice of chocolate cake with a spoon. Mark: I was talking to my mom, on the phone earlier. Jamie: What were you guys talking about? Mark: What kind of cake we should get for my dad’s birthday. Jamie: Well, that should be easy! What kind of cake does he like? Mark: That’s just it, we don’t exactly know. Every year he usually tells us but this year he told us to surprise him. I wanted chocolate cake but my mom doesn’t like it because she says it’s too messy. Jamie: What’s wrong with being messy? Like I said earlier, messy makes life fun. Mark: Well, I have a big family and since he’s turning 50 we’re having this huge family party and there’s going to be a lot of kids there. She doesn’t want the kids getting chocolate all over their faces and stuff, she thinks vanilla’s easier to clean up too. She’s a very careful type of person. Jamie: I can see the reasoning in that, but that doesn’t sound very fun. It’s kind of boring. I remember when I was little, we’d have family parties and all the little kids, myself included, would always get chocolate all over our face from the cake. The adults just kind of let us until the end when they wiped it off. It may have been messy but it created a lot of family memories and some really cute pictures. Mark: What do you mean good pictures? Jamie: Haven’t you ever eaten chocolate as a kid, gotten it all over your face and then had someone take a picture of you like that? My parents used to all the time, I was a mess but it created one cute picture. Some of the happiest pictures I’ve seen and have little kids eating chocolate ice cream or cake with chocolate all over their face and hands. No kid looks happier than when they’re a mess. That’s what I think at least. Mark: Really? And no that never happened to me. Like I said, my mom is a very careful person, she never really let me near chocolate. And even when I did she’d have a washcloth at the ready the second I got within a 5-mile radius of it. Jamie: So this is your way of rebellion then?

2011-2012

Bethany Owens

Urban Science Academy, Grade 9

Cierra Morson

Boston Latin Academy, Grade 11

A Good Businessman

Let’s Play Bathroom

In this piece, I display a stereotypical businessman, one who is snobby and feels superior to all. The other two characters examine the snob and conf igure his true, gnarly, personality, which ultimately could shoot him down in the end. Who will win?

“Let’s play bathroom!” my sister exclaimed, heading up the stairs with a mischievous look on her face. For some odd reason, Jamica always looked mischievous, even when she wasn’t up to her nonsense. At the time, I was six and she was five and playing bathroom was not something that would be uncommon to hear in my house, my sister and I being children of strange pastimes. “Sure, sounds fun,” I said, heading up after her. Jamica is my younger sister, but in those days of childhood I could always be found following her around, mostly being the innocent bystander, and the accused whenever she, or we, got into trouble. It isn’t much different now, I might add, but I have acquired a mind of my own. Jamica was very slim and petite with large, dark brown eyes that would win the heart of any adult in times of punishment. She had a beautiful dark complexion and people were always swooning over her and how beautiful she was and how she would be a model someday, or an actress, because she could make herself cry in a heartbeat, an attribute that she still abuses today. I, on the other hand, was short and not so slim, with small, ugly eyes that, while innocent, would also get me into worlds of trouble. My hair was pickity and a nasty color brown, which never seemed to hold any kind of decent shape. I was known, much to my dismay, to look exactly like my father—no young girl wants to look like a full-grown man. I had a large, bulbous nose and my complexion was a nasty, sickly brown. My clothes never did fit quite right and, when placed next to Jamica, I looked even worse. When we finally reached the top of the stairs we decided that we would play in our closet, which was particularly large for children our size. It was summer, and during the warm times of the year my grandmother was accustomed to pack away our winter clothes in “giant green trash bags,” as she would call them. She would keep these bagged-up clothes on the closet floor for safekeeping. Naturally, we chose the closet to play bathroom in so that we would have nice, cushy pillows for our bottoms as we stooped and pretended to do, well, whatever. During this period of my life I was known to take things very literally, and very seriously. I was also known to be lazy, an attribute that I still have the pleasure of possessing. To understand what I did next, one must understand the layout of the upstairs of my house. At the top of the staircase, there was a bathroom and to the left of the bathroom was my

Peter: (nervously smashing his coffee cup in his hand) I asked you a question! Can one of you idiots please tell me what time it is! Stanly: It’s 2:00pm. Peter: (showing signs of relief) Thank You. Stanly: Or is it 4:00pm? Or is it already after 5:00pm? Peter: You fool! The off ice door opens up once again, and the same woman from earlier steps into the room. Stanly: Ah, Ms. Ferral, we’ve been waiting for you! Ms. Ferral: Aww, that’s nice. Can I have Stanly W. in my office please? Stanly: (standing) Ah, yes, that would be me. Peter stares in horror. John: (sarcastically to Peter) Do you still feel like a good businessman? Peter doesn’t respond. He slouches in his chair, pretending to read a newspaper. A few minutes later, the off ice door opens and Stanly exits. Stanly: (to Peter and John) Good luck, Ms. Ferral isn’t an easy interview! Stanly leaves the waiting room. Peter: (after Stanly, angrily) I can still get this you know! A good businessman never gives in! Read the full script to f ind out what happens next!

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2011-2012

grandmother’s room. In front of that, there was a small hallway, which held the towel closet, and a small bedroom occupied by my foster brother, Shawn, and my other little sister, Jasmin. Farther still was the bedroom that Jamica and I shared. The journey for a child of my small stature from my bedroom to the bathroom was quite a long one. It was a journey that I wasn’t willing to make too often. Jamica went into the closet first and grabbed a bunch of balled-up papers that I had scribbled the word “newspaper” onto. She sat on the bags of winter apparel and closed the door behind her (a sliding door) and pretended to do her business. I waited anxiously outside the door, knocking, pretending to be a businessman who “had some business to attend to.” Finally, she stepped out of the “bathroom” and advised me to use some air freshener because she had dropped “quite a load.” I, then, stepped into the closet, with the austerity of a professional man. Whenever we played these games, I always had to be the man, for I was the larger of us two, and had the more masculine features. As I sat, I realized that I actually had to use the bathroom. In my mind, I had two options: I could both interrupt the game and make the epic journey to the bathroom, or I could do the easy thing and pee in the closet, which was supposed to be a bathroom anyway. With my six-yearold logic, I chose the latter option and released my liquid onto the bags, which slid down and settled onto the closet floor. Jamica, being of very keen senses, smelled what I had done and whispered, suppressing a scream, “You actually peed! Oooooo, I’m telling!” “No!” I pleaded with her, and gave her some reason why she should keep my secret, although I don’t quite remember what I said. She decided to keep the secret, which she still often does for me, today, as I am expected to return the favor. I still don’t know why she kept the secret, maybe for her own personal reasons, to keep me forever indebted to her. Months later in late October, after forgetting about the incident completely, it was time to prepare for winter and take out our winter clothing. Upon removing the bags from the closet, my grandmother turned up her face in disgust and said, “Who did this, who peed on the floor?!” Instantly remembering everything, I had a horrified look on my face. This was surely not the first time that I had gotten caught for the same offense (peeing in places other than the bathroom), and I thought that this was the end for my small life and me. I wouldn’t even get to say goodbye to my friends. It was running through my mind that after she found out, she would tell all of her friends, and my friends, too. Then, she said, “It must have been your awful, trouble-causing cousins. They are so terrible!” With that, my brain started humming as it began to devise a bril14

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Meghan O’Donnell

Boston Day & Evening Academy, Grade 11

The Fighting Roommates— Morgan is done playing nice with Adam Morgan is sitting in her room while she waits for her roommate, Adam, to return. She is at her boiling point because of him and his partying all the time. Morgan: I can’t take it anymore! Adam is not going to be my roommate after the lease on this apartment is over. He can go live in a barn with his animal of a girlfriend for all I care. He parties all the time, he never cleans up anything, and he always brings his little girlfriend over. I’ve dealt with it before, but this is the final straw! His girlfriend takes my brand new clothes, wears them, stains them, and then just throws them back in the closet. That’s not even the part! His friends always bring the party to him, in our apartment, while I’m studying and trying to sleep. Get the picture? Well, during the most recent party, someone stole my laptop! What am I supposed to do about all the work I am supposed to hand into my professors?! It’s gone and I know I’ll never see that laptop again... (sighs) I should have listened to my friends and stayed in a dorm room instead of signing the lease for the apartment with Adam. When he gets back I’m telling him to get out. No ifs, ands, or buts about it!!! Adam opens the door and enters the apartment. Morgan: Speak of the Devil. Morgan stands up from the chair and faces Adam. Morgan: I’m done playing nice...

2011-2012

Caitlyn McMahon

Boston Latin Academy, Grade 11

an excerpt

liant plan that would not only keep me out of hot water, but place the blame solely on someone else. I wanted to smile, cheer, and pat myself on the back for my genius. With a wink at Jamica and a smile on my face, I said: “Yeah, it must have been them.”

It is the early 1900s in England at Colin and Rose’s mansion. Colin is working at his desk and begins to fall asleep. Colin awakens with a sudden chill and decides to get a glass of water from the kitchen. It’s about 11:30 PM. He enters the kitchen and sees a bunch of dead roses all over the ground and table.

Colin: What’s this all about? Hello is anyone in here? What’s this... a letter? (noticing something on the table) How could that have gotten here? (He begins to read.) Meet me at the top of the staircase at midnight. Charles did you put this letter here? (He calls to his butler. No response.) He retreats to the staircase. He turns around to go to his bedroom when he sees a glowing. Colin: Who’s there. Show yourself. (putting his f ists up) Rose’s ghost: (laughs) What are you going to do. Its not like you can hurt me I’m already dead, thanks to you. Colin: (trembling) Wha-What’s that supposed to mean? Rose: Don’t play dumb with me. I know it was you who pushed me down these stairs. You thought that you could stop me from stopping you, admit it. Colin: Okay fine, I admit it but you were trying to stop my business deal. Were you aware of how much money I would be getting from that deal. I wasn’t going to let you and your stupid charity prevent that from happening. (snickers) Looks like I’ve won. Rose: I can’t believe I was forced to marry you. My foolish mother wanted me to marry a rich man and sacrifice my happiness. I played along with her little game and look at where it got me. Those children were the ones who got me through that terrible marriage of ours. I was planning on taking over the orphanage and even though I’m dead now doesn’t mean I can’t stop you. I am not going to let you force those poor orphans on the street. You were an orphan once, you know what it feels like, why can’t you show some compassion? Colin: (screams) I was beaten and tortured at that ridiculous orphanage. Those children would be better off on the streets. They should really be thanking me if anything. Rose: You know that’s not true. Those poor children don’t have anywhere else to go. You are turning into those mean people who tortured you when you were younger. Don’t let what happened to you happen to them. You need to learn how to care for other people and stop being so greedy and selfish, and this is the only way to show you! She screams and pushes him down the stairs and he is now unconscious. emersonWRITES 46

2011-2012

Roy Owens

Urban Science Academy, Grade 11

Life “Lesson” Hot Saturday morning, too hot to be exact. Outside? That’s a funny joke, when we’ve got video games, computers, and texting in this Century. Inside on this labor-free day A slight hissing disturbs my peaceful realm of 60 degrees. Then a scream and a quick call to God knows whom. Fast forward ten minutes, BANG! Outside, that funny Joke is now: Reality. A Very hot and sweaty reality full of hard work and no shortage of teenagers to do all the dirty work. Who else is there, you ask? Of course it’s an adult doing what they do best: sitting in the background and supervising my epic fail in this hot hot sun. Can this adult I call Uncle do this himself ? Yes. Will he do it? No. Why not? Something adults call a “life lesson” so I stay sweaty and Hot and learn this “lesson” Can I do what has been asked of me in this joke gone terribly wrong? Maybe. Did I do it the end? Sure, why not? Was I humiliated while learning this “lesson?” Who are we kidding, of course I was. Here we are in the heat, what you might be asking yourself if you are still reading, 16

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Ashleigh LaRose

Auburn Senior High School, Grade 11

an excerpt Quentin is being interviewed on a nationally broadcasted morning news/talk show.

Interviewer: (overly enthusiastic) Today with us we have Quinton Green, a modern day hero. But with the amount of coverage this brave man’s story has gotten, I’m sure you’re all familiar with his heroic tale: On the fateful morning of December 18th, Quinton Green along with 70 other people boarded a flight bound for Boston, Massachusetts that would end in tragedy—Quinton, how are you doing today? Quinton: I’m alive; I guess I don’t have too much to complain about right? Interviewer: (chuckles) Well yes, I guess that’s true! Why don’t you go ahead and share you story with the audience! Quinton: Quite honestly, you probably know more details about the story the story than I do. Interviewer: What do you mean? You were there Quinton. You were a first hand witness. (pauses) You survived. Quinton: I uhhh I remember waking up that day. I remember rushing to catch my flight. I remember making it just into time to board the flight. I remember that instance of fear that took hold of my body right before it happened, and I remember waking up in the hospital two weeks later. I know the basics of what happened, but only because of what other people told me or what I saw on the news or in newspapers. I don’t need to know details. Interviewer: (flustered because the interview is not going as planned) Oh. Wow. Ok. Uhm. Well, for those of you who don’t know in late December of this year a flight bound for Boston experienced a fatality after the pilot suffered a heart attack behind the control panel. The plane ended up crashing into the Charles River—Quinton and the Pilot were the only survivors. Quentin, do you believe there was a reason you survived that day? Quinton: I’ve tried hard to believe there was a reason why I survived, or to even find a reason but none of it makes any sense. Sometimes I see it as more of curse than a blessing. Interviewer: Why? Quinton: Why it doesn’t make sense? Or why I see it as more of curse? Interviewer: Let’s start with why you think it doesn’t make sense? Quinton: It doesn’t make sense that I’m here and 70 other people’s bodies are now laying somewhere at the bottom of river making food for fish. There were children on that flight.

2011-2012

Tyler DiBenedetto

East Boston High School, Grade 9

The House Harold: Oh... It’s you. Anthony: (smiles) Yes... It’s me. Harold: I’ve told you people once, and I’ll tell you again. I will NOT sell my home! Anthony: It’s been a year! Sir we are giving you an offer you can’t refuse and— Harold: (interrupts) Watch me refuse it! AGAIN! Anthony: I beg of you! If I don’t get this house by the end of the month, I’m fired! Harold: What a darn shame. Anthony: Why do you even want to keep this house? It’s old, creaky, the heating system doesn’t work anymore, and the roof doesn’t even protect you from the rain! Is it in spite of me? Harold: I’ve spent my whole life in THIS house. My mother, father, grandpa, and my wife have all died in this home. But you don’t care about that now do you? You don’t even care about this house, you only want the land it rests on. Anthony: I... Harold: Yea, you can’t say anything. You only want this house so you can destroy this house and replace this house so you can finish your mall where THIS HOUSE is. Anthony: Looking a little stressed there, Harold. Harold: That’s Mr. Fitzpatrick to you you little rat. Anthony: I prefer the name Anthony... Harold: Get out of my home! Anthony: Have you considered retirement? Harold: I’m only 49 you little pipsqueak! (pushes Anthony out of the home) Anthony: (glaring back) THAT’S IT! Over a year trying to negotiate with this man and all he does is yell and scream at me. Well no more! I will not lose my job and have my kids starve because this old man is a greedy arrogant waste of flesh! I will solve this “problem”... one way or another.

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changing a tire in the hot sun Saturday, a day of no work no worries all play guess it was all a lie I’m clearly in the sun Outside, in the hot, hot sun learning a life “lesson.” Joy and fun are happening elsewhere though. Three feet behind me in the shade, in a lawn chair, listening to MY music only to be fair teaching this life “lesson.” What did I learn? Every six months or when my mom’s tires start looking shabby leave, Disappear, run like hell, there’s no hope if I stay behind Otherwise it’s sitting in the Hot sun for a time much longer than necessary learning another life “lesson.”

2011-2012

Ajea Stupart

Meghann Breton

Concord Carlisle High School, Grade 11

Little Annie Lost and misguided Dazed and confused Little Annie tries to find her way.

But other than that, she’s doing good. I’m glad you asked.

She stumbles and stumbles and never seems to get up.

Hey, can you do me a favor? What? Tell Little Annie I called.

Her feet must be glued to the pavement, or maybe its just her imagination. She never thought she’d ever meet someone like you. So pure, so true, you gave her reasons to believe. You set her heart on fire and then things just changed. C-H-A-N-G-E-D. One word, seven letters. Hard to comprehend once it becomes real. R-E-A-L. How is Little Annie doing now you might ask? She’s still trying to pick up the broken pieces that you left for her. 18

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Homeschool, Grade 11

My Second Chance The hospital hallway. The mother and younger sister are still sitting on a bench. Younger Sister: I promise to from now on stop looking at my life as... bad. Instead of looking at the depressing things in my life, to look at the non-depressing things... the happy things. To even when I’m sad, in the worst of times and I just want to put my head down on my pillow and cry until tears will no longer fall from my eyes, to put a smile on my face and have the courage to face the world. To look on the bright side instead of the dark side. That way I can be there when my family needs me the most. I will be their shoulder to cry on. The one to pick up the pieces when everything falls apart, like you do for me. To help whenever with whatever is needed. To... just help everyone to get through the rough times. Most importantly to stop fighting with everyone especially my sister because she is the only one I have and I don’t want to lose... lose her... (she starts to cry again) and I don’t want to hurt her or anyone ever again... Mom: What are you talking about sweetheart? Younger Sister: (she dries her eyes) Mom... I... I have to tell you something. Mom: What is it? What’s wrong? Younger Sister: I know you are going to hate me for this and I am ok with that because I deserve to be hated. I... I hate me right now... Mom I... It was me... Mom: What do you mean? Younger Sister: I... I am the reason that sis is in here... I am the cause... Mom: How? (The mother gets up and backs away from the younger sister in shock.) (She can’t believe what she is hearing.) No... No you couldn’t of... you wouldn’t... Younger Sister: Mom, I’m sorry. I... Mom: How could you? Younger sister: I didn’t mean to. I really didn’t. Mom: What do you mean you didn’t mean to! You... you put her in the hospital... in a coma... you... you could have killed her... what do you mean you didn’t mean to! You knew perfectly well what you were doing. You...you disgust me. Younger Sister: Mom, you have to listen to me... Mom: No, I’ve heard enough.

2011-2012

Save the Drama for your Script: Exploring Scriptwriting through Character

Marlene Price

Boston Latin Academy, Grade 11

Behind the Bathroom Door We see characters portrayed on TV, in movies, onstage, and in people we meet in real life. In this class, we explored the art of storytelling through the eyes of a dramatist, mining the world around us for elements of drama. By exploring setting, language, and character, students ultimately created compelling scripts to tell the stories that haven’t yet been told. In the fall semester, we explored drama through the lens of Aristotle’s six elements of drama: theme, plot, character, language, music, and spectacle. We spent each class focusing on one element, considering the role it plays in drama, how we can approach it in our own writing, and, of course, using the element to create new characters, stories, and worlds. Through improvisation games and writing exercises, we created an atmosphere where anything could, and did, happen. During the spring semester, we narrowed our focus from the world of drama to the creation of a single play. We applied what we learned and created in the fall in order to develop ten-minute plays that we performed with one another. The following pages contain excerpts from original plays written by our class members. These pages are only a glimpse of the emotion and comedy that these playwrights have captured in their works.

Instructors

Joelle Jameson is in her third year at Emerson College as an MFA candidate in poetry and is the sporadic host/producer of High Volumes, an online literary radio show (highvolumes.wordpress.com). She also writes theater reviews and teaches playwriting. She writes poetry because poems are not required to be certain or true—plus short stories are just too long—and owes any and all poetic inclinations to Shel Silverstein. Betsy Milarcik recently completed her MFA in fiction at Emerson College. She currently teaches writing at colleges in the Boston area.

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No one knows what lurks behind the bathroom door, they don’t care to find out either, that this angel, this sweet, sweet angel, stands on fallen knees, one hand clutching the lower abdomen, another resting desperately on the side of a porcelain bowl, being what keeps her from tumbling into the abyss of recycled water, and losing what was left of her, if anything was left of her. Gulping air, she wanted to just feel again; to be whole. Looking down, without instruction, her hand reached to clasp an area of flabby skin. Internal voices scream obscenities like, You’re disgusting. No one loves you, or will ever love you. Just stick you f inger down your throat and hope to God that you’ll be a little less fat than what you are now. Sitting up, her stomach rumbles for the food that she gave up, and all she wishes for is a container of Oreos, a bag of Cheetos and two liters of soda. Something that will temporarily fill the void in her chest that bleeds black for the love of her father, something that will take her from the poverty-vanquished home, the bullies at school, the blindness of her mother. Because Oreos don’t call you ugly as you try to make your way to your Latin class, before your teacher gets mad. Because Cheetos don’t leave you in poverty, and abandon you without a care in the world and somehow expect forgiveness. Because soda wouldn’t care if you were just a little bit closer to taking that knife and sliding it against your wrist ever so slightly.

2011-2012

Fiction and Poetry Fusion

Kamilah Thorne

Match Charter Public Middle School, Grade 8

Himberly and Bill Zambody In this hybrid writing class, we used history as a jumping-off point to inspire fictional stories and poetry. The goal of our class was to recognize that historical events, as well as smaller-scale facets of the past and present can be integrated into writing. Since October, we have gone on field trips to the Central Burying Ground in Boston Common and the Will & Grace set in Emerson’s library and we have watched clips from Forrest Gump, Singing in the Rain, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Cold Mountain, Downton Abbey, Clueless, and many others. We have also discussed various aspects of writing from character and plot to form and style, and have experimented in our writing through exercises and games. We are so proud of our students’ progress and we hope this is just the beginning of their writing careers.

Instructors

Sarah Addison is a second-year MFA student studying fiction at Emerson College. She is interested in playwriting, screenwriting, novel writing, and short story writing, especially linked story collections. Sarah is from Baltimore, MD and received her undergraduate degree from Johns Hopkins University where she double majored in Writing Seminars and English. She recently had a story published in the first issue of Words Apart, an online literary magazine started by Emerson College graduate students in writing and publishing.

(The news is on in the background.) News Reporter: —and with the french fry strike f inally over the McDonald ’s stock is sure to rise soon. In other news… Himberly: YOU’RE SO STUPID AND LAZY I CAN’T BELIEVE I EVER MARRIED YOU! Bill: Oh yeah? You was the one that said we would not be rushing anything if we got married. Himberly: Yeah well I lie about a lot of things, okay? Bill: Like what? Himberly: Like when I tell you I love you—NOW LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME SAY! Bill: RIGHT BACK AT YOU WOMAN… GOD all this happened because you went to work all day and can’t make me mac-and-cheese when you get home because your back hurts and you’re tired! Sooooo lazy! Himberly: At least I have a job as a lawyer and not flipping FREAKING BURGERS at freaking McDONALD’S! News Reporter: —and that’s not all—we also found 10 pounds of illegal drugs! We’ll be right back after the break. Bill: Now that you’ve calmed down, are you ready to make me mac-andcheese? Himberly: NO! Let me spell it out for you: G-O J-U-M-P O-F-F-AB-U-I-L-D-I-N-G Bill: ummm... g... ummmm.....o..... oh I messed up I have to start over. Himberly: GOD! It spells GO JUMP OFF A BUILDING! Bill: DAMMIT HIMBERLY! I had just gotten to number P!

Gabrielle Flam is a first-year MFA candidate in poetry at Emerson College. Originally from California, she studied comparative literature at the American University of Paris for her undergraduate career. She enjoys sharing the joy of writing with kids and looks forward to a career of teaching.

emersonWRITES

2011-2012

Kalaina Thorne

Match Charter Public High School, Grade 10

Red Riding Would Red Riding Hood rode to Grammy’s house and on her way ran into a mouse. “How do you do” the mouse said. “Better than you,” and she shot off his head. Red Riding Hood rode to Grammy’s house and on her way tripped over a blouse. Mice came out and kidnapped Red, brought her to Grammy’s and tied her to the bed. Red Riding Hood was trapped at Grammy’s house with Grammy, who apparently married the mouse. Furious and grief-ridden, Grammy was outraged, so she decided to lock Red in a cage. Red Hood was caged at Grammy’s home and other than Grammy, she was all alone. Grammy started setting up her tools to attack but Red escaped out through the back. By the time the wolf arrived, everything was a mess. “Aw crap” he cried and beat on his chest. “There goes my dinner, a grandma and a girl. Now I won’t eat” and the wind began to whirl. Red Riding Hood woke—it was all a dream And knew it was not all that it seemed. There was a wolf, a Grammy, mice, and a red house. In the afternoon while out for a walk, she ran into a mouse. Startled, she said “How do you do?” “Payback is a glitch” and he shot off her head.

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Arielle Ballard

Foxborough Regional Charter High School, Grade 12

Yin and Yang As the silhouette of a man approaches the oasis, he unknowingly taints the sacred place with human contact. The rainbow of assorted koi fish sense his presence from within the clear transparent water and react violently, darting back and forth in the water. He takes in the sight of the pond and examines how the sunlight makes the water sparkle, hears the rush of a waterfall easing its way into the pond, and feels serenity in the wondrous place. He glances across the lush green area, the cloudless baby blue sky, and the cool rocks under his feet, too mesmerized by the scenery to notice its chilly touch. The man inspects the pond further and a pair of koi fish catches his eye. One is black with a white spot on its forehead, the other white with a black dot on its forehead. They circle each other in perfect harmony, never disturbing the rest of the fish darting within the pond. He dips his hand in the water, grazing the scales of the fish astonished by their warm slick touch, rather than the cold slimy feeling that he expected. As the man pulls his hand out, he gapes at the black water that emerges as soot falls from the red sky. He staggers back as the ground ferociously shakes, creating a crack in the land that travels to the pond, destroying it entirely. A fire rages uncontrollably in the distance, causing great chaos to the sanctuary. The grass turns brown and crispy as the trees deteriorate to brittle little twigs. The man knew he caused the debris once he selfishly disturbed the fish by halting them from circling with his hand, but it was in his nature to disrupt others. He considered no one in his decisions and didn’t think of the effects his actions brought. This became his most recent demolition, but not his first or last because he has been rummaging throughout the world, obliterating peace and seizing the superficial wealth held in their environments. Others joined him in watching their surroundings set ablaze, not one feeling remorse strong enough to stop the mayhem. Their shadows walk away, yet again as the victors from the once serene area, on the prowl for more terrain to plunder.

2011-2012

Alejandro Hernandez Boston Day and Evening Academy, Grade 12

excerpts from “Mills Sophia Clare” A piercing sound rang through the woods. The wind carried it through the trees and whipped it against the Clare’s wagon. Mrs. Clare sprung from her sleep, and as startling as the sound may have been, what really shocked Mrs. Clare was that the sound was a crying baby. Anna Clare quickly exited the wagon. The baby’s cry had left Anna anxiety-ridden and somewhat curious. She had to investigate. Robert Clare on the other hand was still drowsy when it occurred to him that Anna had left the wagon... Anna: I scanned the clearing and it appeared that some sort of ritual was taking place. A circle of candles enclosed a baby and a silver dagger lay to her right. Something was off. Neither I nor this baby were going to linger long enough to find out. I quickly ran over to the baby and blew the candles out. I kneeled and my knees touched the firm dry ground. I felt the soil and it was stale as was the air. Not one blade of grass grew here, not one tree sprout. I placed a hand under the baby’s head to support her and lifted her from the circle. I could make out wolves howling in the distance and something rushing towards me... I took the baby and hid behind a tree. I peered down to see pale skin as soft as ivory and hair that resembled the pelt of a newborn fawn. This baby was a girl; she was fragile, she needed protection... Robert and Anna discussed the fate of the baby girl the entire night, but Anna surely got her way. They took the baby to Salem town and moved into their new home. No one saw how different the baby appeared from the golden-haired light-eyed Clare’s; they just saw an adorable child. Anna and Robert raised the baby and they named her Mills Sophia Clare... She was smart for her age so she quickly realized the difference between her and her parents... Anna came to Mills’ aid once again and they wrapped up the mess, but it wasn’t that simple this time. Two deaths in one year, of Mills’ father and husband, warranted a full investigation on Mills, and Anna already knew the outcome would be fatal. She had to get Mills as far away from Salem as she could. Mills and Anna ran to the woods, provisions packed Anna sent Mills south to Boston. Mills needed her mother, Anna needed her daughter. They planned to escape to Boston, then from Boston they would go West, away from all of the witch hunts... Anna: I had finally made it from Salem. I was weary from travel. The hope of my new future with my daughter is what’s driving me for22

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down the street from here with kids who always wanted a dog— Bob: Really? Gamma-Child: No not really. I, like, furiously wrung its neck and probably won’t lose any sleep over it. So, anyway, I decided to come confront Super-Lady and finally be, like, the one who destroys her. Bob: You know, I don’t understand you super villains. Why would you willingly go to your doom? The bad guys never win, okay, get it through your thick, radioactive head, it’s freakin’ written somewhere in the comicnerd’s Book of the Galaxy: Nerd Laws. You can dream and even give great speeches on how you’ll win but you actually won’t freakin’ win! Gamma-Child: ...Like, shut up man, okay, before I blast you into oblivion with my here Gamma-gun. I just want to know where she is! Bob: Well, sorry to disappoint you anyway, but Super-Lady doesn’t live— Charlotte (off-screen): —Sugar-lips, who is it? Bob: Nobody sweetheart, just some girl scouts! Gamma-Child: Like, what did you just say? Bob: Uh, I said a possible spouse... for our cousin Nancy Gamma-Child: You want to hook me up with your cousin? Uh, like, didn’t you hear what I said about the dog? Bob: Ha-ha, nonsense, the dog deserved it, what monster steals another monster’s sandwich? I think Nancy would take a fancy to you, and she makes a mean grilled cheese sandwich. She went to Antarctica to study polar bears. You should give her a visit. Gamma-Child: I’m getting sick and tired of your lying. Like, everybody knows polar bears live in Australia. Now where is she?! (Enter Charlotte AKA Super-Lady. She holds a cape in each hand.) Charlotte: Hon, should I go with the red or yellow cape? I think red screams out “fierce and wild” while yellow screams “look, she’s vulnerable, PSYCH NO SHE’S NOT, she can kick your ass”—Gamma-Child! Ironbuns, why did you let in Gamma-Child?! Gamma-Child: Super-Lady!... pfft... wait, what? Like, did you just call him Iron-buns... pffft (Gamma-Child cackles like a madman, holding the stitch in his side. BOB’s cheeks flush.) Bob: Shut up.

2011-2012

Oumar Sarr

Boston Community Leadership Academy, Grade 10

My Charlotte Misunderstands Bob, an utterly sarcastic man, is married to Charlotte AKA Super-Lady, an overbearing, morally ambiguous woman. After a marital disagreement, Charlotte leaves the room. The doorbell rings. (Bob opens door after three chimes.) Bob: What do you want? I live with a psychotic wife and I need all of my focus to stay alive, so I don’t have time answering doors! Gamma-Child: Uh... like, what? Never mind, it’s, like, raining out here, could I come in? Bob: NO. (Gamma Child pushes past Bob into the house.) Gamma-Child: Thanks man, it was freezing out there. I came for Super-Lady. I, like, know she lives here Bob: Ha-ha, of course she doesn’t. Why would you think such a thing? Gamma-Child: Long story... like, can you close the door, it’s windy... there’s a grilled cheese, and a dog... you wouldn’t be interested... but would you like to hear it? Bob: No thanks, it’s alright, maybe I’ll hear it another time, bye now! Gamma-Child: You sure man? Cause its like, really, really, really, realliii... long— Bob: What are you talking about? I said I’m good, maybe another time— Gamma-Child: DAMN MAN, calm down already, I’ll tell you the story! So: like, I was in Upper-Downtown, right, and I’m done stealing this grilled cheese sandwich from a vendor who didn’t seem to mind at all and from, like, out of no where, this big-ass stray dog—I’m talking bigger than a minivan—runs towards me and so like, it freakin’ jumps up this high and grabs my sandwich with its teeth and keeps running. So I paid, like, nothing for it and that’s a really great deal for a sandwich, so I ran after it just like I’m sure you would have. And this damn dog, this damn big dog, runs and runs and runs, and I’m still running after it, no sweat, right, since I have super stamina and whatnot. And this dog that has stolen my grilled cheese sandwich leads me to this street, your street, and I finally catch him only to have him bite my hand—see, right here, it really hurts... well, not really, since my skin is, like, really hard, but the dog didn’t know that, so it was trying to intentionally hurt me, so not cool—and while I’m wrestling my sandwich from his foaming mouth I hear a woman shout “ME, SUPER-LADY ” and after, like, finally getting my sandwich back, I take the dog and give him to a nice family 38

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ward. I carried myself to the tavern to gather supplies... I sat at a table nearby and overheard some of their conversation. They were talking of the death of a witch. I had to know if it was Mills. My heart was weak and I couldn’t bear the thought, I pushed it aside. I asked the men where they buried this so-called witch and of course they told me… I began walking towards the Common. I spotted the graveyard and a few cows out to pasture. Mills wasn’t anywhere in sight, so I took a look at where this witch was buried. A gaping hole met my gaze and I knew. My precious girl was in there. I crept closer and her face was full of rage. I didn’t cry, not one tear. I got angry. I wanted to bury her properly, she deserved that much. Anna buried Mills and marked her grave “Mills Sophia Clare 16731692.” Mills was a Clare. When Mills was properly buried Anna was depleted. Her heart was waning and she wasn’t going to hold on for much longer. She lay against her daughter’s grave with her hand face down, as if she was holding Mill’s hand. Anna muttered “I love you.” A hand arose from the soil with Anna’s last breath and intertwined with hers. Men and women crowded around the grave only to find the body exactly how they left it, a woman lying face up. They threw a torch into the grave and watched the flames rise hollering and laughing. A whisper pierced the laughter “I love you too mother” and the flames consumed all those around the grave. Only a single woman walked away from the scene.

2011-2012

Yalia Joyner

Belmont High School, Grade 11

excerpts from “Dear My Beautiful Wife” I don’t know who else to write to anymore. Nobody has written my back to me since I got here. It’s been really hard for me...so many of my friends are gone now. All dead. They’re with you now, I suppose. You were all I had, but since you passed I feel empty. You know, it’s strange, sometimes while I’m lying in these trenches I hear your laugh. But when I sit up to find you, you’re never there. You had the most beautiful laugh... the most beautiful smile; you were the most beautiful woman in the world inside and out. But you’re no more. I don’t think I can take being here anymore. There’s no hope of this war ever ending. The Germans attack, then we attack, the Germans attack, then us again, and on this never-ending path of destruction so many die. I have no choice but to just sit and wait for it to be my turn. Last night, I was at my breaking point. I had finally gotten past the foul smell of decaying flesh and fell asleep. But I was awoken by the sound of a grenade being tossed over to the other side. At this time I begin to realize that I had no one to go back to even if I were to survive this crazy war. So I got up and climbed to the surface. When I reached the grass I just dropped to my knees. Tears were falling from my eyes and I prayed... you know I was never big on praying sweetheart. But that night I prayed. I prayed for God to just set me free. I pleaded, “Please! Just let me go. I’m begging you. I have nothing else to live for. You took her! You took the only woman I loved. She’s gone because of you. Please. I needed her. I need her. I have never asked you for a single thing. I didn’t ask you to let my mother make it through her illness, nor to let me stay in Britain with my wife for her last few months. No nothing, all I ask is for this simple request...” I was interrupted by one of my comrades trying to pull me back down into the trench. He continuously screamed at me asking me what I was doing. I didn’t answer though. I had shut down. First my heart, now my soul. Every once in a while I hear the soldiers around me talking about how I’ve gone crazy, and quite frankly I think they are correct but I don’t care. I don’t listen, I just look up at the sky and imagine you and me together. When I’m not thinking about you or praying to God, I’m living in reality but that never lasts long. Because the short instant of reality I see is full of rats, bloody soldiers, darkness, and hatred. Imagine living in a world of hatred all the time with no means of escape. Countries fighting for pointless reasons. There’s no love because there is no true loss. 24

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Antonio Banrey

John D. O’Bryant High School, Grade 10

Tuesday I wake up and everything is bright white The blanket will not do to shield my eyes. “Now where in the name of God is my bright silver belt? I had it right there!” I cry. Frantic and in a rush, I head outside without my belt. I make it to the school on time, with halls reeking of cyanide. In class, not feeling intellectual and with my luck I get to present first With all eyes on me, I speak without will. The feeling of their laughter is the worst I look and see my pants at my ankles. And now I feel my heart make a great leap! And then I hear my alarm go *BEEP-BEEP*

2011-2012

No Laughing Matter

In this course, we examined the wonderful world of comedy writing. We dived into fiction, personal essay, satire, parody, poetry, and screenwriting—always with our focus on the humorous. To help guide our own work, we looked at successful examples of comedy writing, ranging from Twain and Voltaire to Dave Barry and The Onion. The results were some truly imaginative and humorous pieces of writing, as evident in the collection of work that follows. Our students are so innately funny, so tuned in to the essence of comedy that it was not only easy, but truly a joy to teach.

Until one loses the one they truly love, they will never be able to see anything but war and hatred. You see people are funny like that; they must experience nothingness before they can truly see the cruelty of the world and be happy. Remember? You helped me understand that. You were my angel. You were my light. And now that you’re gone, I don’t know what to do, I’m lost. God has yet to answer my prayers although I have prayed over a hundred times within the last couple of days. I’m actually starting to question if there is a God. What am I saying? Of course there is, you’re up there with him… Tonight’s the night I find out I guess right. Again I will climb up out of the hell hole we call trenches, and again drop to my knees. Only this time there are to be no tears. This is to be my final salute. As my hand comes down I’ll slowly pick up my gun and put it under my chin. Some say suicide is the key to hell, but I say there is no hell after death when you’ve been living in it all your life. So with a smile on my face, I’m saying “Goodbye to this dark place and Hello to my dearest wife.” Sincerely, Alexander Jacobson

Instructors

David Snyder is an aspiring writer with a penchant for comedy, humor, and synonyms. Keena Boling writes poetry, but thanks to Dave Snyder and her wonderful No Laughing Matter students she feels a bit more confident in her abilities to write beyond her preferred genre.

emersonWRITES

The Music of Language

Poetry is everywhere. It’s in the rhythmic beat of your alarm clock in the morning. It’s on the advertisements posted on the side of the bus. It’s in the melody of the way we speak. You write it, you need it, and if you didn’t know, you already love it. Students in “The Music of Language” discovered the places where poetry can be found, from head-bobbing hip-hop to the whimsical words of William Shakespeare. They became a part of the music and learned how to develop your voice through self-expression and style. English playwright Christopher Fly once said, “Poetry is the language in which man explores his own amazement.” Throughout the course of the class, students learned more about themselves and just how amazing they actually are. It is with pleasure that we present some of the art that they’ve created! They really are fantastic.

smile or cry. I wish I knew the career that was right for me. I wish I could fly to the moon, or even teleport, and make a whole new world where everyone has food to eat, and dreams are easy to fulfill with an abundance of opportunity. We wish poetry could be the music that brings us together as people. Poetry is the love of our lives. We want that marriage to grow, the thought of it could make everyone smile. We’re here to meet people who love it too. Not just the teachers, the pizza, or the candy—we’re here for the poetry, the voice that stands up for you and me. I I I I

wish... wish... wish... wish we could stop wishing.

Instructors

Amy Fant is a first-year poetry MFA graduate student at Emerson College, and she currently teaches ESL to international students in Boston. Donald Vincent earned a BA in Writing & Public Relations from Loyola University in Maryland and is now pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College. This is his first year teaching with the EmersonWRITES program.

emersonWRITES

2011-2012

Ashley Dixon

Amari Flaherty, Nate Kamyron, Serina Gousby, & Ashley Dixon

Boston Latin Academy, Grade 11

What I See

I Wish I don’t want a million dollars, but I wish I had $5.62 to spend on a Venti Mocha Frappuccino and OPI Orange Lacquer nail polish. I wish I could be invisible, but I don’t wanna fight crimes. I could hide from my school lunch that’s out to kill me. Like, why are they feeding me something that’s not going to help me live longer? Well, I heard absence makes the heart grow fonder. I wish that girls checked the “yes” box on post-it notes, instead of “hell no,” “I don’t know,” or “maybe so.” Or that I could be sick for just one day, instead of 3 days, 9 hours, 29 minutes and 52 seconds. I’d stay home and watch PBS— “Everyday when you’re walking down da street, Everybody that ya meet Had an original point of view What a wonderful kind of day! Hey!” Where my hair wouldn’t have fly-aways, And Waka Flocka would stop yelling. I wish it snowed more, but I wish it was warm enough to melt that ice cream tattoo off Gucci’s cheek.

I was Walking down the road Heart Filled With a heavy load Then some Music reminded me That I needed to breathe I know this Makes no sense But in this World that we live in Some people Have no food to eat Some just don’t know What it is to believe And all it Takes to make it better Is a Heart felt made letter To link our Souls together So we can Live forever

I wish I could meet the funny people on YouTube, like That Dude McFly, The Annoying Orange, Sophia and Rosie singing Nicki Minaj. I wish I understood the meaning of the meaningless music of Nicki Minaj: “Ayo Willow, didn’t I just see you in China?” I wish I knew what college I was going to so I knew whether or not my mother would 34

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2011-2012

Ashley Dixon

Boston Latin Academy, Grade 11

The Mirror The mirror partially transparent And I could see Sun-kissed raindrops Undulating from up high Bouncing off of leaves At the top of the tree Then I noticed it was me Staring out the window Crying

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Nate Kamyron

Snowden International High School, Grade 12

Black Man Hello I’m just a black man Just a black man That’s what you see first huh? No name I’m just like any black man Pants down Nigga, nigga, nigga that Negro please Stereotypical If radius is 3 Then pi times the radius square equals 28.247433388 discriminate discriminate How stereotypical can you get? But yet I’m uneducated Yeah I chill with my boys ALL BLACK EVERYTHING As if we still segregated Knowing DAMN WELL That’ been degenerated Well let me tell YOU SOMETHING! You don’t know me! Last time I checked Only god could judge me!

2011-2012

Serina Gousby

Cambridge Rindge and Latin School, Grade 12

Amari Flaherty

Community Charter School of Cambridge, Grade 11

Haikus

Rhythm and Poetry I am the rise of these hood streets Where bullets are sour and blood is sweet Each day, each story is up to me To make it known for our history Behind the shady prison bars Where life and death can go so far You hear a voice that speaks your mind Your spirit change within the time For years and years, the rhythm plays Power is deep, pain goes away But then I change, from rocks to gold My story is no longer told My smile is diamonds from my chain I drive my pride into my brain I lost myself, where is the fight For peace, love, and my fair rights Where is the feel of poetry? I rhyme for the sake of Barbies Now Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m going through resilience Now Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m punch lines before brilliance I am defeated by these false words Where bullets and blood is deferred.

I hate stupid men Thinking with their you-know-whats They can kiss my butt

Go die in a ditch Fall down, head first, break your neck Go to hell and burn

Flowing red like blood I see your face everywhere In my nightmares

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2011-2012

Serina Gousby

Cambridge Rindge and Latin School, Grade 12

A Black Woman’s Motto My skin drowns in pure red wine, Lips sweet as nectar from a rose bush. My strength is a set of two gold stones, Never fully broken, but I am lemons. Lemons without sugar to mix the sour Only prayers to help us breathe Twisted in words that offend and abuse Compared to the half-naked girl on the Lexus. I refuse to be a vision of a man’s physical wishes. I don’t call myself a ‘Bad B.’ No dog, I am beautiful. And for the last time, this is my hair!

I am strong, with iron growing inside my bones, Fire spitting out through my eyes, a brain to cast Out every opportunity that you don’t think I can do. Well, let me tell you, My hips, my legs, my behind, my breasts, my mind My color is a part of me. Black women are precious creatures that cannot be defined.

Even if it wasn’t, why do you care? I am not angry, rude, or ghetto. Don’t let my voice or style mix with your assumptions Or the degrading rap music videos you see. Determine who I am or what I want to be. Dreams fluttering beyond my horizons Separating the stereotypes of my black women Not only am I human, I am phenomenal. Black mothers, sisters, daughters, lawyers, Doctors, scientist, musicians, poets Even the First Lady of the United States. What can I say, we are great. But we are subject in society’s misconceptions. I can no longer stay silent because They disrespect and mess with my mentality. You think I can’t hold on with my pride? And let weakness determine my choice in life? You are wrong. 30

emersonWRITES

2011-2012