Emerge 2015

emerge M A G A Z I N E (

a publication of North Yarmouth Academy Students )

ARTISTS ages 10-18

multi-media, multi-genre works

2014-5 photograph by Haize Fassett ‘16

emerge editorial staff 2014-5

Milla Rosenfeld ‘17 Sarah Austin ‘17 Hannah Hungerford’15 Mina Stam ‘15 Bella MacMahon ‘18 Grier Burgoon Miskell ‘18 Kara Jensen ‘18 Izzy Munro ‘15 Melanie Regan ‘15 Ellie Dickson ‘18

Artwork by Elliott Oney ‘22, black paper and tissue paper

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“Mother and Child” by Marina Poole ‘15, mixed-media

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The Hook

by Abbie Hinchman ‘15 The island is different in December.

The blue-green sea churns grey, crystalized kelp and ice fractures under its strain.

Winter here is a verb.

Snow covers my grandmother’s porch, burying sun-burnt skeletons and the ashes of a lab dead before I was born, under the heavy white.

The Atlantic consumes the Hook.

White caps, violent, insistent, crumble the island’s fringe, pulling it off shore.

The gulls are gone.

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Three weeks past eighteen and I’ve never seen it this way before, having only summers coating my skin like a film of salt water when the noise of cousins pushed across August water from the neighbor’s dock.

It’s quiet now. They’ve gone.

And I remain, Taller but not quite grown on a beach succumbed to snow, listening to the island break against the dark sea.

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“One Artist’s Waste” Sonia Lin ’16, white chalk on black

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Lucky Cigars

by Lindsay Tufts ‘17 As I paddle, I look up and see the stars shining.

Their glow leads us to our spot.

I get out and take my gun with me.

My Dad sets up: 3 geese 5 mallards 6 hens 4 wood ducks.

Just like always, the sun comes up.

We wait.

Two hours lead to nothing.

We talk and play games, both anxious to hear something.

Another hour passes.

With a smile on his face, he finally says it.

“It’s time to break out the Lucky Cigars.”

I eat a sticky honeybun and hear the clicking of the Mossy Oak Zippo lighter Finally, the warm, distinct smell of our Lucky Cigars fills the air, comforting me.

But I can’t relax.

Not yet.

The Lucky Cigars have never failed.

And before we know it, we hear something.

Faintly, but then distinctly louder, and then there’s more.

We look at each other with a slow smile.

We can see them now.

“Get ready,” he whispers.

I wait just a moment longer.

We stand up in unison, our guns already aimed.

The familiar smell of gunpowder fills the air mixing with the lingering smell of our Lucky Cigars.

He looks at me, smiling as neither of us missed.

“That’s my girl,” he says.

“That’s my girl.”

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photograph by Haize Fassett ‘16

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“After Obey” by Isabelle See ’17, graphite, paint, and collage

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“Hot or Cold” Henry Farnham ‘18 charcoal on paper

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Inertia by anonymous ‘15 I slow the car as yellow light turns red and we pause, drowning January’s starkness with the radio’s murmur. I turn my head towards your smile, one I see even in darkness.

This moment is one that I’m allowed.

Queen of choreographed conversations, I dance around the things I can’t say out loud, my masochistic centripetal motion.

Soon, life’s momentum will give me release and I’ll be free. But until I get clean I’m grateful for now, my private peace, if it’s all I get before the light turns green.

As the car rolls forward, toward falling black, something deep within my chest pulls me back.

photograph by Haize Fassett ‘16

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Newport Worker

by Xander Bartone ‘17

“Untitled” by Charlotte Eisenberg ’15, colored pencil

He stands on the sidewalk of the cotton candy mansion, a cap of sunlight spread out on his bald head.

He whistles as works, and paintbrush in hand, he drifts up and down the fencing, a coat of pearl trailing behind him. Shirtless, clothed only in paint stained overalls, his strong, black body ripples and glides as the sweat gleams on his body, dripping down from the corners of a slight smile.

Under the crushing handshake of the heat his arm rises and falls, ivory spreading from his delicate, purposeful brushstroke.

Behind him, the glowing mansion stretches up, reaching for forgiveness from the bluebird sky.

He is ignored, invisible, and the tourists pass by without a glance, sunglasses held high-and yet he whistles as he works while they walk on, lonely, for they do not know their emptiness is from the paint that will not stain their hands and glisten with beautiful, accomplished sweat.

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Stalled

by Madison Argitis ’20 Fall helplessly without stopping for pain is no parachute, just unnecessary weight.

Time ticks by and by.

A soft light appears.

The end of the tunnel is closer, but still out of reach.

It taunts me with the promise of recovery.

Tomorrow will come.

One more step.

Until then, the tears fall helplessly without stopping because pain is no parachute, just unnecessary weight.

“Reflections” Amelia Demetropoulos ’17, charcoal on paper

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“The Rose” Amelia Demetropolis ’17, graphite on paper

Imitation Poem X

by Jesse Catir ’15 John Donne imitation Fear not the sword, in all its bright glory, For cold blades can murder you but once.

The may be used in the noblest of hunts, Yet tales of their danger are simply story.

With all the accounts of details gory, Comes the serenity each victim confronts, Of euphoria in sharp pain’s absence, As they realize their momento mori.

Fear instead the frost of a friend’s betrayal, The sharp stabbing of a loved one’s lie, For with these more than once shall you die And return to the ground in shivers pale.

Fear not the sword, in all its bright glory For tales of their danger are simply story.

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“Patterns of Our Emotions” Acacia Bright 16, mixed media

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Tea and Toast

by Lea Webster ‘18 Tea with milk, perfectly brewed English breakfast tea.

Just that right colour of golden-brown.

Even the teapot is that color, that lovely teapot from the thrift store in Vermont.

Toast with marmite looks the same way, sitting innocently by the tea.

Outside the window, autumn leaves rustle in the wind.

They cover the ground in a crunchy yellow-brown carpet.

Toast brown.

Tea brown.

It’s just that sort of October morning.

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Nocturne

by Mary Noyes ‘15

The notes are slower, and grainy.

They ring through the machine, whirling each gear.

--Static, Brass, and a handwritten Label.

So this is a cassette. A song from the past. The tune has been worn.

Its history is on the case.

Automatic stop. Tick, tick, tick, Click. I flip the tape.

The kitchen is still like dust in the sun.

Soft jazz ebbs from the Memorex.

Decades rewind as the tape rolls right.

Time gets thicker when no one is around late at night, late at night.

photograph by Haize Fassett ‘16

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photograph by Haize Fassett ‘16

Dry-erase Board

by Ellis Burgoon Miskell ’15 Sylvia Plath Imitation It bears the marks of hundreds of notes: NaOH + HCl, English essay due this Thursday, Calculus Chapter 4 quiz tomorrow . . .

“I WAS HERE” carefully written in block letters in the top corner Names are written in blue and green and red.

As days passed, its surface grew marred and scratched, And it no longer wiped clean, stuck a dull gray.

But in that dull gray are the marks of all those who used it.

Students learned and grew, more prepared than before to make their own way.

Without the streaks left over from drawings and definitions and the teacher’s child.

It is nothing. Just a blank space, tabula rasa, Begging to be filled.

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Halcyon

by Abbie Hinchman‘15 This is what they didn’t mention on the tours: Driving fast in your parent’s Subaru, the joy of back roads. Even now, as you build your future out of shellacked brochures, you notice the wind, the hills lined with sun.

You know you are leaving. Already time unravels, which once held you steady, the beginning of what cannot be undone.

Someday, when you remember seventeen, you’ll think of this moment: filtered sunshine on the dash, your heart above the tree line, radio on, this feeling of in between.

Years later, you’ll recall the smell of exhaust, open windows, the pull of something not quite lost.

“Boat” by Sarah Austin ‘17, oil

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Silver and Gold

By Carson Fassett ‘19 Paint me a picture of silver and gold.

Where apple trees blossom into an explosion of soft petal pinks and cherry reds in the spring.

And those blossoms, they should fall upon the silver dew that strays on the grassthey should sway down down down into the ground of gold.

“Library Door” by Sarah Austin ‘17, pencil

Paint me a picture in which nothing is left to the imagination.

Show me how the ocean dances during a summer storm. tell me tales, where mountains are splattered with snow and rain, and everything is connected.

Draw up a story of words, to tell me of how, when a door closes, a window opens elsewhere.

But don’t just leave it there.

I want to see if the wood splinters because of how emphatically that door is slammed and hear the soft click of the handle as it is nudged back into place against its frame.

Is that window cracked? stained?

Does it show a reflection of someone in pain?

Paint me a picture of silver and gold where my eyes can close, but I can still see the world.

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photograph by Emily Taylor ‘16

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“Untitled” Bairu Chen ’16, white chalk on black You Can’t Cheat Death

by Milla Rosenfeld ‘17 The years of waiting— those were the worst Defying our fate Eluding our curse

Their hands are of flesh That’s all that I see The rest is stone They reach out to me

In an act of alarm I break their glass shears I flee in a panic Not hearing their jeers

The last that I saw Was her vibrant read hair Her passing was something My conscience must bear

Whispering my name As if it’s a chant They say, “Come with us!”

I know that I can’t

They curse as I run I shouldn’t have fled If only I stayed I wouldn’t be dead

No shoulder to cry on They blame it on me Friends, lovers, allies, My own family

“My sister, forgive me!”

I say to the sky “I love you, I miss you, But I must not die!”

I collapse in the arms Of someone I know My friend strokes my hair She says not to go

Sent to the fountains Where the fates lie To bring back her soul Even if I must die

The fates laugh at me They call me a fool They wind the whole thread of my life on a spool

Smiling at her I take my last breath “I love you, my dear, But I cannot cheat death.”

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The Snake-Clasp

by Michael Pitts ‘18 The first time I saw my dad raise his hand over his broad shoulder I flinched.

The second time, I noticed something that dazzled me: the snake-clasp of the belt he held in his hand with light glistening off its perfectly proportional edges.

Its inner beauty compelled me to want to see my dad raise his hand over his shoulder once more.

Father

by Kara Jensen ‘18 Clouds of birds swarm around sun-slashed faces.

Father stands in the middle.

The third time, I didn’t flinch.

Instead, I was excited.

The belt comes up and back down: The snake bites, Strikes, Devours.

His beard of flame sets his face on fire.

Father becomes the devil when he drinks.

The hiss of indrawn breath from The clouds of birds, and father is back to himself.

But he is never really back.

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“Eyes” by Sonia Lin ‘16, finger paint Emerge Magazine

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Eyes and Sea and Night

by Anna Hoffman-Johnson ‘18 She sits alone gazing out from her upholstered window seat in the silence of her hollow home She sees the summer’s midnight sky casting eggplant shadows through the trees and the hottest part of a bonfire reaching towards the sky like a drowning man trying to stay alive under the water’s surface

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“Uptown Girl” by Hannah Hungerford ‘15, mixed media

Wish to Burn

by Elizabeth Sevigny ‘19 I seek the oxygen That gives me life.

I glide through the room.

I dance as I please.

Alarms announce my arrival; I ignore them.

Water is a veil, That attempts to subdue my movements.

I ignore it.

Thumping, from running footsteps echo; I ignore it.

Panicked voices compete with the smoke.

They fill the air; I ignore them.

They want me contained; I wish to roam, I wish to engulf, I wish to burn.

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Size

by Ben Frank ‘20 A redwood looms, big and tall, and casts its shadow over all.

It is truly the greatest tree-even greater than Lady Liberty.

With a trunk that no one can beat Its roots dig down a hundred feet.

Its the biggest tree ever known-a king atop his golden throne.

You’d think that this colossal beast would be the best, to say the least, but these mighty trees don’t have it all-there is some good in things big and small.

Just take the apple tree.

Its height in feet just thirty three.

It may not stand above us all, but it gives sweet treats every fall In its orchard it grows up in health and gives the world apples to put on a shelf.

And from these apples we can make cider, sauce, and even cake This apple tree, although little, its trunk not straight, its branches brittle, teaches a lesson to us all: we make a difference, big or small.

photograph by Emily Taylor ‘16

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“Omit” -detail

by Diana McLeod ’15, oil

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The Boy’s Flower Tree

by Ellie Griswold-Craft ‘19 It was the secret that everyone knew. It was the hushed whisper that had worked its way into all the houses of Woodfield Road and circled the dinner tables like an ill-intentioned snake. The ancient and broken down house sat like a tombstone on the corner of the block and caused the kids of the neighborhood to ride their bikes with more rapidity than usual around that cursed bend of the street. I heard the whispers from my parents’ and my friends’ conversations. The boy had tumbled from the top of the stairs into the basement; the fall sent him to an early grave.

The sun was tinted autumn, and the air was filled with rosy leaves and gossamer. I noiselessly observed the “haunted” house, with its broken shutters and diminishing, sandy paint. Just looking at it across the street made my heart rate pick up, and I could almost see the boy’s ragged and ghostly presence walk out the dark cobalt, front door. But the aspect of the house that caused me to shudder most was the towering, uncut grass. I could only imagine the despicable and vile demons that lurked in its mysterious depths. The grass’s green coloring was of deathly, and it was like it had died with the boy. Every now and then the grass would part as if an apparition was roaming through, even if no wind was present.

Fear coursed through my veins like an untamed current. Yet with the fear, a curiosity came to light.

Never before in my weekly observations had I seen the rustic flower tree planted on the side lawn of the house. The tree was stout and stable, and its flowers drooped but were livened by their coral color.

The tree sat, untouched and unmoving, just off the gravel driveway. Suddenly, I felt compelled to move towards the tree and the house. I climbed upon my bike, fear stricken yet curious, and I did something unimaginable. I turned my bike in the direction of the flower tree, and I felt some outlandish obligation to touch the tree. It felt like a secret mission to find the good in this weighted-down house. My tires effortlessly rolled up the deteriorated driveway. I could see myself reaching out to graze the tree with my fingers when my bike collapsed in deathly green sea of grass. The impact of the fall shocked my back like an electric bolt, and I soon became aware of my location. Sparks of pure terror soon ignited to a roaring fire, but despite this intense fear, I felt I could not move. I couldn’t breathe. Again, I saw the image of that navy door creaking open by a haunting force and the boy drifting tirelessly out. But this time, I imagined myself in the direct lane of danger. I wondered if he would hear the sound of my heart, which was thumping outside of my chest. Was that the wind? Or was that the gradual and agonizing opening of that door? I decided not to wait and find out. With a burst of movement, I sprinted at breakneck speed toward my home. The crisp and cold air stung my body as I ran, but I did not care.

Each step was a step closer to safety.

I sat on the wooden rocking chair in my room, looking at the ghostly house. The sun began to dip into the earth, which left an orange glow on the surface of the world. I imagined, yet again, seeing the boy walk out the door. However, this time, he seemed lonely and desolate. He soundlessly walked over to the flower tree and picked the coral petals off of a lone drooping flower.

Spring came later, and soon the lonely tree’s flowers blossomed. Their golden and apricot petals almost warmed the appearance of the barren house, and also warmed my heart. Perhaps this boy was not evil—he died when he was just my age. Perhaps he was just lonely and was just as stuck in that house as the flower tree was to the lawn. Over the course of that bright spring, the ghost came to represent a sense of kindness and loneliness rather than hatred and fear. Although an unfading part of me was still afraid, I found a more significant part of me looking out to the lone flower tree with compassion.

“Apricot Tree” by Angmo Stanzin ‘16, oil

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Donuts)

by Hannah Austin ’15 John Donne imitation Come chocolate donut, be my love, Glaze and coconut you have lots of And rainbow sprinkles and butternut, For you a long line I would cut.

You would be dense and chocolaty You would go well with cocoa or tea; With you, I enamored will stay And never with vanilla stray.

When you appear upon the shelf Many want you for themselves, We would fight through thick and thin, But eventually I would win.

If you don’t want to be alone And have all of your friends be gone, Another donut I will eat, And with my hunger I will defeat.

“Donut Day”

by Diana McLeod ’15, oil and sprinkles

Let others watch you with unease, Saying for their health you do not please, Or that they will eat other food To them a donut’s not as good Others will eat salad and ignore, Yet they will soon wither to nothing more, And live their lives in ignorance, Never giving donuts a second glance.

But me, I need no such deceit, For my meal a donut I will eat: Compared to those who eats salads tall, I am the happiest person of all.

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Untitled”

by Anna Cherry Bilodeau ’15, mixed media

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Fireworks

by Aaron Densmore ‘18 Fireworks flare in the night. a flourish of paint upon a dark canvas.

Exhilarated, I burst in the sky.

My little fibers disperse throughout the galaxy.

A glance, another burst.

Aromatic sulfur coats the sky.

I am a firework—explosive colorful majestic

“Ellie the Hippo” by Lila Coleman ‘24

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Moon Dancing by anonymous ’17

N

othing ever stirred the silence more than the eerie moan of a wolf’s howl. It pierced the forest

with a low rhythm, lulling me into a deep sleep long after my rude awakening. My mother had swept into the room at midnight, her voice a series of gravelly growls. In contrast, the wolves’ sensual songs conveyed a soothing, familiar depth of understanding. The great beasts understood me. My mother never had.

Snuggling down into the warm blankets and my endless thoughts, I watched the darkness seep through the slit between the curtain and the window. It had been sunless for four months now, and would surely continue for another two. That was Alaska; I was used to it. Yet I wasn’t used to the starless nights.

The stars used to twinkle, ethereal torches casting light about a forgotten land. Some nights, I thought I could touch them. They seemed so close, like little fireflies just waiting to be trapped within my palms. I missed them. Maybe the wolves did too.

The howls continued.

“Lionel?” A different sound now reached me, one significantly less pleasurable than the rest. “Get down here,” it snarled, loud in the midnight quiet. “I don’t care where you are. I know you can hear me.” I nestled in tighter, pondering a decision. My choices were simple, and though my mother had always told me I wasn’t the most intelligent child, I could still identify that I had two. My first was simple: I could mope across the wooden floorboards of my father’s empty bedroom and fall straight into my mother’s waiting grasp as I always did. Or … or I could undo the metal latch. The latch that held the back door to its frame, a quiet barrier between me and the steadily drifting white outside. It wasn’t even a choice. I jumped up, bony feet brushing the rugged floorboards, and scampered to the back door. Before he’d left, father had taught me how to open the latch. A quick pull, the scraping of metal, and chink, the door slid open. I tentatively stepped through.

Within seconds, the flakes of ice were burning my calves. My socks were soaked, and I was sufficiently chilled to the bone. Defiance wasn’t suited for a scrawny boy like me; I wasn’t brave. Military men like father never turned back. But freezing in the cold of the Alaskan wilderness just for the sake of opposing my mother made me question that defiance.

And then I heard it. In a sudden rush, my bravery came flowing back in a tidal wave mixed with curiosity and awe. It was the feeling I’d never even dreamed of. A mess of nerves and elation tangled in my brain with each blink.

Huruph, huruph, the breath brushed against my neck, tepid like a summer breeze. I turned to find golden eyes mirroring my emerald ones. His nose dripped with ice. He towered before me, standing on tall feet like padded eskimo boots. A musky, spring fragrance stuck to his fur, and his pelt was the embodiment of winter, white as snow.

“Season,” I whispered, voicing his name.

Never had I seen a sight as serene as a wolf’s eyes. They stared right at me, beholding a sort of purity. It was a wild wisdom, one that I hoped I would never forget. Had mother forgotten? Season huffed in my face for the last time, turning to trot away. Then he stopped: waited.

Howls filled the air as five other of his pack emerged from the shadows to join him. They were moon dancers, frolicking in the cold that no one else would brave; except for me. When the moment was at its close, Season stayed to glance back at me once more. His eyes held a rare kind of pure intention, one that in my unbridled state I felt that humans had always lacked. You are the tellers of truth, are you not? I wished to ask. If only parents were as honest. Maybe then I would’ve understood what the sleepless nights meant; he was dead, and never coming back.

As Season left, so did I, prancing back to the safety of my father’s lonely bedroom. Once tucked beneath my sheets, I fell asleep with thoughts of wolves moon dancing in my head.

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