SPRING 2014
THE
MARBLE COLLECTION
Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts
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BECOME A
TMC MEMBER TODAY.
“
To be published in a real magazine really solidified my faith in myself and my photography. My experience with TMC was amazing. – Colby Yee, Lexington High School student
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The Marble Collection
Spring 2014
Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts inspiration • creativity • community
TMC: ABOUT US W H AT I S T H E M A R B L E C O L L E C T I O N ? The Marble Collection, Inc. [TMC] is a 501 (C)(3) nonprofit organization that publishes the Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts — the only statewide print and digital juried publication that features students’ original artwork, writing, music and video. TMC also offers teens a unique e-Mentoring Workshop in which they are paired one-to-one with college student mentors who help them refine their voices and guide their work to publication for real-world audiences. At a time of drastic budget cuts to school arts programming and an increased curriculum focus on standardized testing, TMC creates a vibrant outlet for teens to express themselves through images, words and multimedia. M I S S I O N S TAT E M E N T TMC provides Massachusetts teens with literature and arts education and one-to-one e-Mentoring to advance their creative development.
TMC: PARTNERS TMC serves all Massachusetts teens, grades 8-12. Since its inception, TMC has grown to collaborate with a network of nearly 200 Massachusetts school and nonprofit partners. TMC partners with 8 nonprofits, including Grub Street and Raw Art Works, which share in its commitment to expand arts access to low income and ethnically diverse student populations. In 2013, TMC was awarded the prestigious Arts|Learning “Distinguished Community Arts Collaborative Multi-Disciplinary” Award for developing a model arts education collaborative between school and community cultural resources. To become a school or nonprofit partner, at NO cost, please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/participate *** ACCEPTING SUBMISSIONS YEAR-ROUND To submit, at NO cost, please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/submit
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TMC: STAFF EDITOR-IN-CHIEF SERVICE-LEARNING PROGRAM MANAGER LITERATURE EDITOR
ART JUROR ADVERTISING EXECUTIVE COMMUNICATION EXECUTIVE EVENT PLANNERS ACCOUNTING MANAGER WEBMASTER
Deanna Elliot Melanie McCarthy Erin Arata Cassandra Martin Steve Mortell Ashley Wiley Sarah Carlisle Elizabeth Connolly Desiree Obimpe Brett Groody Michaela Booth Morgan Simko Patrick Br yant A l e x i s Tr a b u c c h i Ve r a S u Andrew Rakauskas
TMC: LEADERSHIP BOARD OF DIRECTORS
ADVISORY COMMITTEE
STUDENT ADVISORY BOARD
Deanna Elliot Susan Hammond Meryl Loonin Larissa Matzek Chelsea Revelle Jack Curtis Susan Denison Melanie McCarthy Donna Neal Robyn Neill-Quan Allan Reeder Jamie Ross Jazna Stannard Shannon Sullivan Rachael Allen Pavitra Chari Emily Cox Irina Grigoryeva Ruting Li Jesus Miranda Jared Newman J a y n e Vo g e l z a n g Cary Williams Mitchell Zhang TMC Spring 2014
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TMC: FUNDERS TMC is supported in part by grants from the below local cultural councils, local agencies which are supported by the Massachusetts Cultural Council, a state agency. Abington, Agawam, Amherst, Ashburnham, Attleboro, Ayer, Blackstone, Boxford, Burlington, Chicopee, Concord, Cultural Council of Northern Berkshire, Eastham, Easton, Everett, Framingham, Granby, Groton, Hanson, Harwich, Holliston, Hopkinton, Lakeville, Lawrence, Lynn, Maynard, North Attleboro, Peabody, Plymouth, Reading, Rochester, Salem, Sharon, Somerset, South Hadley, Sturbridge, Taunton, Tewksbury, Wareham, Webster, Westford, Whitman, Uxbridge TMC is also supported in part by grants from Target and Walmart Stores.
TMC: MEMBERSHIP MEMBERSHIP LEVELS & BENEFITS Please join TMC in its mission to advance the creative development of Massachusetts teens by becoming a TMC Member today. Memberships are 100% tax deductible. $1,000 - Includes one-year print subscription for you and 20 Massachusetts libraries, plus your name will be listed on the Patrons page. $500 - Includes one-year print subscription for you and 10 Massachusetts libraries, plus your name will be listed on the Patrons page. $250 - Includes one-year print subscription for you and 5 Massachusetts libraries, plus your name will be listed on the Patrons page. $150 - Includes one-year print subscription for you and 2 Massachusetts libraries of your choice, plus your name will be listed on the Patrons page. $75 - Includes one-year print subscription for you and 1 Massachusetts library of your choice. To become a TMC Member please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/donate *** TMC MEMBERS Emily Blatt, MaryBeth & Joel D’Errico, Susan Hammond, Deanne Loonin & Elizabeth Renuart, Meryl Loonin, Denise Nagel, Allan Reeder, Patsy Rose, Ken Siskind & Julia Blatt, Shannon Sullivan, Mitchell Zhang THANK YOU. 4
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TMC: SPONSOR-A-SCHOOL TMC invites Massachusetts businesses to join us in our commitment to fostering youth development through the arts by sponsoring their local high school(s). Sponsorships support magazine production and ensure that the e-Mentoring Workshop continues to enrich the lives of talented teen writers and artists—at no cost to them. Sponsorships are 100% tax deductible. To become a sponsor please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/sponsor *** TMC SPONSORS Santander Bank Middleboro, MA www.santanderbank.com
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TMC: ADVERTISE With a diverse print and digital circulation, TMC is a one of a kind recruitment tool that maintains a distinct presence in and outside the classroom. Reach your target audience and showcase the unique programs your educational institution has to offer in The Marble Collection: Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts! NEXT EDITION / WINTER 2015 Closing Date for Reservations: Copy Date: Pu b l i c a t i o n D a t e :
December 16, 2014 December 30, 2014 Fe b r u a r y 1 , 2 0 1 5 ( a p p r o x i m a t e )
Reservations and inquires should be sent to: Deanna@themarblecollection.org To learn more please review TMC Media Kit by visiting: www.themarblecollection.org/advertise
TMC Spring 2014
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TMC: CONTENTS 8
I Call it not Ian (Art) Tristan Collins / Lynnfield High School
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Different Dancer (Art) Caitlin Clarizia / Lynnfield High School
10 Submarine Dreams (Fiction) Ariana Orne / Burlington High School
12 Argentina (Art) Patrick Creedon / Marshall Simonds Middle School
12 Blue Seat (Art) Lilli Patterson / Lynnfield High School
13 Windows to the Soul (Art) Katie Falkengren / Auburn High School
13 Spotlight (Art) Grace Colbert / Lynnfield High School
14 The Spot (Nonfiction) Olivia Adamaitis / Dennis-Yarmouth Regional High School
15 Close Call (Art) Katie Falkengren / Auburn High School
16 Dream (Art) Emma Sheils / Ayer Shirley Regional High School
18 Benjy (Fiction) Ariana Orne / Burlington High School
23 Thrift Store (Art) Janjira Sun / Lowell High School
24 In Life’s Footsteps, Death Admires (Poetry) Katelin Griffin / Ayer Shirley Regional High School
26 Hamburgers (Fiction) Pranav Menon / Burlington High School
27 Becoming Human (Art) Irina Grigoryeva / Burlington High School
28 WW (Art) Isabel Tze Chen Chun / Milton Academy
28 Top of Wachusett (Art) Shannon Barrows / Oakmont Regional High School
29 Venice (Art) Rachel Hunter / West Springfield High School
29 Shattered (Art) Katherine McDonald / Oakmont Regional High School
30 The Boy (Fiction) Siyu Lu / Milton Academy
31 Blending the Essential Solution (Art) Tanner Gauvin / Oakmont Regional High School
32 Tricycle (Art) Mateo Coronado / Malden High School
21 The Definition of Matthew J Rodwill (Art) 33 Beastie (Art) Matthew Rodwill / Auburn High School
22 Piece and Serenity (Art) Nicholas Zbikowski / Oakmont Regional High School
22 Trapped (Art) Nicholas Zbikowski / Oakmont Regional High School
23 Never Let Go (Art) Katie Falkengren / Auburn High School
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Irina Grigoryeva / Burlington High School
34 Preserving Chestnuts (Fiction) Rachael Allen / Milton Academy
43 Grinning Shadows (Art) Christina Ricci / Oakmont Regional High School
44 Reach (Art) Yang Hyun Cho / Groton School
TMC: SPRING 2014 45 Awkwardness of Adolescent Identity (Art) 66 Untitled (Art) Juao-guilherme Rosa / Malden Catholic High School
46 Masks (Poetry) Evelyn Marie Ruble / Ayer Shirley Regional High School
49 Apples and Pears (Art) Erin Kriger / Marshall Simonds Middle School
49 The Shadow of a Beast (Art) Christina Ricci / Oakmont Regional High School
50 Abigail (Fiction) Layla Varkey / Groton School
54 Gay Rights (Art) Anika Kawsar / Somerville High School
55 The American Flag (Art) Andrew Hamm / Lynnfield High School
56 째Celsius (Poetry) Jose Rosales / Ayer Shirley Regional High School
57 What Remains (Art) Yang Hyun Cho / Groton School
58 Ties (Petrichor) (Poetry) Jose Rosales / Ayer Shirley Regional High School
60 Divided Memories (Art) Katherine McDonald / Oakmont Regional High School
61 A Fall Perspective (Art) Minna Wang / Oakmont Regional High School
Abigail Dickey / Lynnfield High School
66 Dark Days (Art) Tom Powers / Lynnfield High School
67 Hungry? (Art) Jason Mills / Ayer Shirley Regional High School
67 Complexion and Intricacy (Art) Jason Mills / Ayer Shirley Regional High School
68 The Eternal City Sleeps (Fiction) Alex DeWitt / Atherton High School
72 Safety (Art) Mateo Coronado / Malden High School
72 The Past (Art) Benedict Grubner / Marshall Simonds Middle School
73 Young and Fearful (Art) Celeste Infantino / Oakmont Regional High School
73 The Monsters Inside (Art) Minna Wang / Oakmont Regional High School
74 How You Learn Grief (Fiction) Rachael Allen / Milton Academy
75 Patient (Art) Ly Huynh / Malden High School
76 Between Fear and Freedom (Fiction) Michaela Catherine LaPrise / Burlington High School
62 What is Heaven Like? (Poetry) Kassie Breest / Ayer Shirley Regional High School
78 For B (Poetry) Ashley Liu / Lincoln-Sudbury Regional High School
64 My Sun, My Moon, and all of My Stars (Poetry) Casey Worthen / Ayer Shirley Regional High School
79 Rotten Berry (Art) Rachael Berry / Somerville High School
TMC Spring 2014
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A R T Lynnfield High School
/ Grade 10
T r i s t a n
C o l l i n s
I Call it not Ian
p h o t o g r a p h y
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A R T Lynnfield High School / Grade 11
C a i t l i n
C l a r i z i a
Dif fer ent Dancer
p h o t o g r a p h y
TMC Spring 2014
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F I C T I O N Burlington High School / Grade 11
A r i a n a
O r n e
Submarine Dreams I work at a local pizza shop that we like to call “Submarine Dreams,” yet it is as far from a dream as one can get. Like any other restaurant the face of the business is beautiful. Everything is stacked in neat little piles at the front of the shop. The tables shine a polished black, complete with seasonal decorations. The chips and soda displays are perfectly organized and the open sign always glows neon pink. But let’s be honest, a “Tyrannosaurus Texas Toast” poster can only distract the human eye so much. The previous owner of “Submarine Dreams,” Mark, bequeathed the sandwich shop to his son-in-law ten years ago. Mark is the mastermind behind the shop’s most famous sandwiches, for example “Tasteful Tuna” and “Super Salami.” Mark is also responsible for the overall poor design of the restaurant in its entirety. Every good façade has a secret behind it. The front of the store may appear somewhat sanitary, but what lies beyond the kitchen doors is uncharted territory. Now I must warn you, this is not for the faint of heart. If you dare venture into the kitchen, you will be welcomed by an appalling stench that hits your nostrils harder than a brick wall. The trash or condiments, which ever you prefer to call them, are covered in a thick green slime that attracts swarms of flies. The grill is splattered with rust and is covered in the sizzling grease of every oil imaginable. Every day I must take a leap of faith walking through those kitchen doors. I often wonder to myself if minimum wage is worth the health risk and exposure to carcinogens. I have come to terms with the fact that there is no hope for “Submarine Dreams!” The place is a permanent dump, yet somehow the kitchen isn’t the worst part. Beyond the kitchen lies an old wooden staircase, but take caution if you don’t grasp the railing for dear life, you may never reach the bottom alive. Once descended into the submarine’s depths, a thick moldy aroma greets explorers with a smack in the face. A vile smell of rotten milk and moldy cheese mixed together. The purpose of most excursions to the basement is to retrieve vegetables from the freezer, which is ironic because the majority of the fruits and vegetables are scattered across the floor to feed the rodents. In the back corner of the basement sits a beautiful antique bookshelf. No one is really sure where it came from, but stacked ever so meticulously on its shelves are three porcelain dolls. Dolls you wish you never had the opportunity of seeing in person. One doll has two bright blue eyes and a dirt mark on her face. The other two sit perched behind her grinning sinisterly from ear to ear. I don’t think I know a single sandwich shop that wouldn’t be complete without an antique doll set somewhere on the premise. It seems I’ve done it again. Every time I describe my place of work to someone I leave out the most mysterious part. I guess I like to save the best for last. 10
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F I C T I O N A man about the age of seventy has cooked for “Submarine Dreams” for God knows how long. He was here when Mark owned the shop, and I’m pretty sure he was included in the lease. He does pretty much everything that is asked of him. He scrubs the dishes, makes pounds of eggplant parmesan, and sweeps the floor with every fiber left in his decrepit body. Although he is a hard worker, he is a lost soul. He has no identity. No one knows of him, for he never speaks to anyone. Does he have a family? A social life maybe? He speaks little to no English. To my knowledge, he enjoys the simple pleasures in life. You know, standing behind a grill and humming “La Cucaracha.” If we want a large sandwich to be made, it’s not “large,” it’s “grande.” Somehow I find this man to be the ugliest part of the whole establishment. No one has ever taken the time to learn his name, so we simply call him John. Yes, John the lost “perrito” flipping burgers for minimum wage. In an odd sense, John’s life sums up the restaurant in a nut shell—a lost soul sinking like a submarine in a sea of lost dreams.
TMC Spring 2014
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A R T Marshall Simonds Middle School
/ Grade 8
Argentina
Patrick Creedon
p h o t o g r a p h y
Blue Seat Lynnfield High School
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/ Grade 9
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L i l l i
Pa tter s o n
A R T Auburn High School / Grade 12
Windows to the Soul
Katie Falkengren
p h o t o g r a p h y
Spotlight
G r a c e
C o l b e r t
Lynnfield High School
/ Grade 11
TMC Spring 2014
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N O N F I C T I O N Dennis-Yarmouth Regional High School / Grade 11
Olivia Adamaitis
The Spot
My whole life I have been addicted to finding my own secret locations. Ever since I was ten, I have been going to an isolated dock a half mile down from my father’s house and have been spiritually connected to the place ever since. When I first found the little dock stretching out into a vast lake, I thought I was the only one to ever set my eyes on the scene and the first to ever step down the stairs hugged by green leaves and ragged branches. I would ride my bike to the spot whenever I was upset so I could breathe in the low tide and watch the snails race through the murky water as I dangled my feet over the edge. My love of the spot increased. I showed one person that I found worthy of seeing this part of me, a place I called my own. As he took his steps down the stairs and looked out across the pond to the large homes and traveling boats, I never felt more satisfied to share a place so serene and calm. But as time went on and we both grew, the spot was slowly forgotten and was no longer my sanctuary. As I sit here now, reminiscing on the liveliness of this dock, remembering each creak in the boards, each plump leaf dangling down to block my eyesight, and each shining mussel shell peeking through the ripples, I begin to miss the innocence I captured when I came here. Over time, I faced destructive struggles, and so did the spot. It is now mangled with overgrown weeds, surrounded by old beer cans and missing boards. The wood is decaying, and I’m not sure if it can even hold my weight much longer. The spirit of this dock has vanished, and I feel lonely now, where I used to feel welcomed by each form of nature that reached out to my soul. It is still eerily beautiful, but for any stranger passing by, they would believe it was a forgotten collection of old pieces of wood, poorly put together and unknown for a reason. As time goes on I may become one of those strangers, but the feeling the spot allowed me to develop will remain in me. I feel guilty for neglecting this dock, but also proud I once gave it emotional meaning. Before I fall through the boards, I will attempt to carve a heart into the wood, so others can see the heart that it holds, even if they don’t feel it like I do.
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A R T Auburn High School / Grade 12
K a t i e
F a l k e n g r e n
Close Call
p h o t o g r a p h y
TMC Spring 2014
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A R T Ayer Shirley Regional High School / Grade 12
E m m a
S h e i l s
Dr eam
p h o t o g r a p h y 16
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F I C T I O N Burlington High School
/ Grade 11
A r i a n a
O r n e
Benjy
Chapter One: Fork or Spoon? I always fiddle with something in my hands to keep me distracted in school. I need a way to ignore Mrs. Murphy, my teacher, who wears high heels and prescription glasses that make her look like a bug splattered on my windshield. She has a blue and yellow hair elastic, Mickey Mouse pen, and old, contorted, rusty paper clips all perched on her desk. It has almost become a game to me, getting caught and then giving her that queer side smile as I count the endless knick-knacks lined up that at one point all belonged to me, but were confiscated. Now I am playing with a spork I got in my Lunchable. I bite on it, twist it, do whatever I can to get her a little hotheaded. Then I count in my head, “…1 Mississippi…2 Mississippi…” and she turns around, “Benjy, are you serious? Honey…” I hate when she calls me honey, it makes my skin curl, so I take a spit ball, place it in my spork, and fling it so it lands directly between her eyes. “BULLSEYE!” I scream as loud as my insides let me. She just freezes and gives me the usual eyeball through those bright, yellow-framed glasses. I know she’s disappointed, once again; I assume I must have done something wrong, so I just hang my head. She walks over with a wrinkled tissue she pulled out of the store brand, blue box on her desk and confiscates my spork. I tear up a little but then I remember how Momma told me I am a big boy, so I ignore the temptation to cry. As I look around the classroom, I see a young girl walking by. The girls here are so pretty, and I don’t understand why they are not in my class. I watch Mrs. Murphy as she scribbles what appears to be upside down, sideways letters and numbers that are supposed to be math problems. I think that woman thinks she is an artist, pretending the marker is her paint brush and the board is the canvas. She goes and goes and forgets I’m here! I scream out, “Mizz Murphy, Mizz Murphy! I no get!” “Benjy! Try saying, ‘I don’t understand’ But anyway, hun, what don’t you understand? We have been learning this all year!” I look at her, flustered, and the temptation takes over: I begin to cry. I hate that word, hun. “Mizz. Murphy, I just don’t get it!” I break my pencil in half and watch it roll to the ground. Then I remember what Momma said, “You were born this way Benjamin, just accept it and try your best.” I cry even more and then I see my spork in the trash, and my mindset changes and I begin to chuckle to myself and wonder, Who ever thought to mash up a spoon and fork to make a spork? Chapter 2: Mouse With No Way Out Sometimes during school, I get to play outside. On the way outdoors we get to walk through a very big building; I call it Super Maze. There are stairs and walls 18
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F I C T I O N with all different colors and tiles and buttons! I see pretty girls everywhere. They are
all my girlfriends and I tell Mrs. Murphy, but she’s too busy trying to get me to keep walking. These kids are much taller and skinnier than I am, they are very beautiful, but all have the same look on their faces. They used to whisper, but now they just smile, as if I am a baby fresh from the womb, as if I am a foreign creature to the world, but I like it. I like the attention, as if I am a superstar making my way down the red carpet, all the way to the playground. As soon as I get out there, I run for my favorite spot. Another sequence in today’s episode of Pirate Benjamin and, today, I need some buried treasure since Mrs. Murphy always confiscates my knick-knacks. Today I go straight to the sandbox and take a running dive; I find a treasure immediately –– a shiny, yet rusted toy car is face-first in the sand. The poor souls inside the car probably didn’t like the way they crashed… As we walk back inside again, I am swarmed with pearly whites and just give everyone the same big grinned wave that I always do. They all look so much younger than I am, but I know we are all the same age because we all go to the same Super Maze! When I approach my classroom, Mrs. Murphy makes me take a bathroom break; I never have to go but she always forces me so I stand there and stare at the writing on the wall. I am not a very good reader, but I understand the words, just not the meaning. The words “Good time?” are painted and then a bunch of numbers. I don’t really know what a good time would be: 9 o’clock, 10 o’clock? People are crazy. I make my way back to the room, but of course Mrs. Murphy sends me back because I didn’t use the turning-on water fountain. Finally, I go back and make my entrance. The day is almost over, the only reason I know this is because all the slamming begins. Out in the hall each pretty girl and boy gets a square in the wall and then they all slam them! I block my ears and squeeze the blue ball Mrs. Murphy gave me, but finally the banging simmers down. I get my sack and head down stairs. Out the window, I see a big yellow blob filled with my pearly white pretty friends, and I wave but they don’t see me! I wonder what it is like inside those yellow blobs, but then my minivan pulls up and Bruce tells me to get in. Bruce drives me to my house every day and always gives me pixie sticks. On top of my minivan, there is a triangle sign that reads, “School Bus.” Bruce told me he likes it better when I call it the taxi. As we pull up to my house he hands me one more pixie stick and yells, “Good luck, kiddo!” I don’t know what that means, but I slug inside with my sack dragging behind me anyway. Chapter 3: The Big, Small Day As soon as I get home, Momma says, “Benjy! Get in the car we’re going to your sister’s house!” My sister, Lisa, is one of those pretty girls. She also has two pretty kids, one boy and one girl. When we get to her house, she runs right to the door. “Benjy! Are you excited for today? I’ve missed you! Come inside and get some pizza!” I still don’t know why I should be excited, but I love me some pizza so I give Lisa a big hug and a kiss and zoom right past her so I can choose the first piece! Momma tells me I can only have one because she wants me to eat healthy. I pick it up and let the cheddar yellow cheese ooze down my throat and GULP! Everyone TMC Spring 2014
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F I C T I O N chuckles as I chow down on my pizza. I don’t even leave room to swallow; I vacuum it all down at once. “Benjy! Slow down!” Momma yells. “You’re going to get yourself sick!” She has said this at least three times, but I ignore her requests, and when she’s not looking I slurp down a second, third and even fourth slice of pizza pie. Suddenly Lisa looks and giggles and says, “Oh Benjy! Did you finish the pizza?” I think for a minute. My cheeks turn a flush magenta and simply say, “No.” They nod their heads and laugh, ask me a few more times and then continue in conversation with one another. As I sit there and brace myself for the lump of pizza in my stomach, my mom and Lisa begin to chat. They are unaware of my capability to hear everything, but I fail to respond or grasp any of it. Lisa looks at my mom and whispers question after question, “So he’s starting work today? How have things been on his IEP plan? Do you think the medication is working? Have you considered a group home?” My mom answers each question with short blunt answers; I know she doesn’t like to get into these details. I watch her as her face ages by the second. I wish my mom didn’t have so many lines in her face. I know each one is a line from something I did. When I fell down the stairs, Momma grew a wrinkle. When the doctor said it was Downs, Momma grew a wrinkle. She hasn’t hunched over yet like the other old ladies, though. She still stands tall and proud and wraps her arms around me and gives me a squeeze when I’m not feeling like myself. Suddenly Momma goes in the kitchen and comes back with a silly smile on her face. She says, “Benjy, are you ready?” She takes the deep blue apron and puts it around my neck, I fidget but just let her do her thing, because my Santa belly of pizza has immobilized me. She stands up, hugs Lisa, and assists me out to the car. I give her a glance, but I never question where we are going. Then we pull into Piggly Wiggly. This is where Momma gets me snacks! I love it here! She brings me in and blurts out, “Benjy, welcome to Piggly Wiggly. This is where you will be spending your afternoons. They will give you money and all you have to do is put groceries in a bag. How does that sound?” I look at her as if she has four eyes, but Momma looks serious, so I just nod. Suddenly she leaves me and I am stranded with a man who looks like he just woke up and braided his beard. He shows me the clear bags with a pig snout on them and puts some items inside; he gives me a lecture, and then leaves me by the metal counter. He says, “Alright bud! You’re on your own. Holler if y’all need anything!” But in reality, when have I ever known what I need? I watch as my momma walks away and the man with the long greasy beard with a braid trudges off. My mom looks back at me and holds her hand over her special place on her heart to let me know she loves me. I do it back and turn around. I know that all I ever need in life is what my momma provides for me, like the carrot sticks she packs me every day for lunch with my favorite ranch dressing. I turn around and shoot my first customer the grandest, happiest chin to chin grin he has ever seen, despite the fact that I am completely unaware of what I’m doing and throw his eggs in a bag. I smile and make the best of it, like I always do.
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A R T Auburn High School / Grade 12
M a t t h e w
R o d w i l l
The Definition of Matthew J Rodwill
2 D
d e s i g n
TMC Spring 2014
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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11
Piece and Serenity
Nicholas Zbikowski
p h o t o g r a p h y
Trapped
N i c h o l a s
Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11
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Z b i k o w s k i
A R T Auburn High School
Never Let Go
/ Grade 12
Kate Falkengren
p h o t o g r a p h y
Thrift Store
J a n j i r a
S u n
Lowell High School / Grade 10
TMC Spring 2014
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P O E T R Y Ayer Shirley Regional High School / Grade 12
Katelin Griffin
In Life’s Footsteps, Death Admires The sound of her laughter, ringing like bells In descriptive, twisting ear-shells Her voice––so lively it was––slithered intoxicatingly around his head Coercing him, enticing him, to being lead Where ground soil smelled of sickeningly sweet petals Mocking he, the lord of the Underworld, where he’s been landed by his brother, the king of Olympus, who cheated Whilst his treacherous brother bathed in glory among the clouds He, the second oldest of the three, was left among the dead Whose deaths were not always upon deathbeds, but on sheets of bloody red. Never ceasing were the screams of the damned in the pits of Hell, The lord of the dead could only see with envy, And the ever-present loathing he held with his younger sibling, so he continued to dwell Never once considering another emotion could swell In his hardened, grave soil-covered heart Alack––crawling from the pit of the very decay and despair, Cloaked in multiple layers of black robes suitable, Sullen and deeply stitched sorrow-eyes eyed the air, Heavy with scents of flowers of every kind, But namely of her, who scorched his mind For though her outer beauty shone brightly Her inner beauty burned radiant Leaving him, the proud ruler of the land of the dead, in awestruck stance For the first time in his forever existence The way she walked The way she talked Her friends and admirers flocked And shower her with adornment Cracking his ice cold shield open Releasing long-neglected emotions from dormant How could she, life itself as she breathes life into all around her, lend him torment When he has always been the one to lash out, the one who always lamented? 24
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P O E T R Y From the canopy of shade the trees offered, He followed her, studying her Her very form was his lure Even at the distance he was, it was obscure, Far from her side as it were, that she would have him in her grasp, Never to tell of a plausible cure To which she, in her golden innocence, had unknowingly set upon him to find Is it possible for Death to love Life? It certainly seems so, for he boiled and churned and endured strife To capture this longing for her in a viceLike grip, to soothe her of her nightmares Even though he was a walking nightmare himself, The new, foreign sensation of overwhelming and deep adoration Commands him to hold this goddess, this dove, Who deserves nothing, but of which love He sought to offer her deep below the heavens above What was he saying? Even as he watched the goddess taking dead flowers and springing them back into life With a gentle, caressing breeze, How could he be oh-so-daring in even addressing Of one worthy the throne her father, his brother, the hated king, Sat upon, completely full of himself with ease, Of cursing his elder brother to where sun rays cease? The serene god, his ashen face pulled down in a crease, Was a fool and knew it, too, but the feeling he felt seared his Brittle flesh and bone and boiled his secluded heart Why not he, so deserving of a little life, Be free to have it and finally be appeased? As he moved in to confront and steal away with the woman, He muttered her name in an uncharacteristic sigh of symphony A name, a word, which meant everything and beyond: Persephone
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F I C T I O N Burlington High School / Grade 12
P r a n a v
M e n o n
Hamburgers It was late and the Arizona diner was a ghost town. The leather of the bar stools and booth seats were torn and bled yellowed stuffing every time they accommodated the weight of a local citizen. An ancient waitress read from a worn paperback behind the counter. Two young men sat in the booth farthest from the door; one sipped a cup of coffee, the other ate a hamburger. “I don’t even know anymore... Cynthia’s been pushing for counseling, but...” Angèl sighed. His younthful face was lined with fatigue and anxiousness, and his shoulders drooped. He stared off into the space surrounding Damien’s hamburger as he stirred his lukewarm coffee with a dirty spoon. Damien picked up his hamburger, finished it in a one large bite, leaned back into the booth seat, and belched. “Sounds like you need a vacation, amigo. I heard New England is nice this time of year. Vamos, Angèl.” “Like I have the money, Damien. Stop mocking me.” Damien laughed a scratchy, ‘60s-comedy-record laugh. But today, Angèl would not have it. Angèl glared at his friend. Damien had a knack for being irritating when tough times fell on their lives. “Qué es te pasa, Damien? You’ve been struggling to get by for years. Your family went back to México. How can you be so... relaxed? Don’t you want something more out of life?” Damien considered his friend’s words, and replied softly. “As a matter of fact, I do want something more.” He motioned for the waitress to bring him another hamburger. “Extra ketchup, por favor,” he called after her. Angèl shook his head and threw himself back into the booth seat. He decided against ordering another coffee when he saw his hands shaking. Damien gave him a hard look. “I suppose my family is happy back home. That is what matters to me.” Angèl looked up, and saw Damien slowly breathe out his youth and shed his smiling façade. The truth looked back at Angèl, wearing a stolen smile. “Damien, I didn’t mean to...” “Nah, hombre, don’t worry about it. You worry about too many things; I should not be one of those things,” he said, chuckling. The waitress brought over a fresh hamburger and set a bottle of ketchup beside the plate. She smiled and nodded at Damien and Angèl, and returned to the counter in the diner. “Here,” Damien said. “You need to taste this; they are the best hamburgers I have ever had.” Angèl smiled up at his weather-beaten comrade and accepted the hamburger. He took a bite. It was delicious.
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A R T Burlington High School / Grade 12
I r i n a
G r i g o r y e v a
Becoming Human
d r a w i n g
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A R T Milton Academy / Grade 10
WW
I s abel
Tze
C h en
C h u n
p a i n t i n g
Top of Wachusett Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 10
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Shannon Bar r ows
A R T West Springfield High School
Venice
R a c h e l
/ Grade 12
H u n t e r
p a i n t i n g
Shattered
Katherine McDonald Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12
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P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Grade 11
Siyu Lu
The Boy Under the bruised afternoon light, the boy practiced Beethoven sonatas, watching his fingers flex across the keyboard as if he were weaving silk. Five clocks ticked on the wall – clocks in different time zones, zones in which he did not belong. The wall was the color of dust, the color of ages, the color of rusting memories stroked by his furious chords. He buried daily newspapers beneath music scores and pinned bottled-beer caps up against his piano. He was so sickly beautiful – beautiful because he was suffering, suffering through the arc of his first love. Never would he love again after he augmented the pain in many diminished scales. The room was just dim enough for him to make himself blind in the world of Beethoven. How he admired those irritating harmonies – irritation that could never be found in Mozart’s minuet, Chopin’s ballade, or Schubert’s fantasia, fantasies for which he once dreamed of and had now forgotten. All windows were plastered by cement. He refused the touch of sunshine and loathed the smell of air. Between the presto sixteenth notes, he suffocated and curved himself into a high C on the treble clef. In the night, his heart started to hunger – hunger for the cool breath of innocent girls, girls who resembled the thrill of a new sonata. He sought them in the narrowest streets and shadowed them to the darkest corners, his fingers flexed against their breasts and his body curved under their arcs. When the breath left them still, he would kiss their marble faces and wrap them in white satin dresses, letting their bodies float on water as streams of music. They must have thought that the boy was God, because Satan had been dead for years.
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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12
T a n n e r
G a u v i n
Blending the Essential Solution
p a i n t i n g
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A R T Malden High School
/ Grade 12
M a t e o
C o r o n a d o
Tric ycle
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A R T Burlington High School
I r i n a
/ Grade 12
G r i g o r y e v a
Beastie
d r a w i n g
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F I C T I O N Milton Academy
/ Grade 12
R a c h a e l
A l l e n
Preserving Chestnuts When I was fifteen, my aunt was in the army. At least, that’s what I imagined when we watched her commercial on television. Huddled in our living room, we saw her figure lean out of a top floor apartment in Boston’s North End and beckon her television son home for dinner as if she were waving American planes onto the tarmac. Anthony, Anthony! Her voice rang deep, gritty. The announcer called for Prince Spaghetti Pasta, the slogan brimming with what felt like Auntie’s call for John, her real son, a corporal in the 604th Air Commando Squadron, to come sit at the head of the table. Dad liked to say that after Auntie took her husband’s name over twenty years ago, her name didn’t sound very Italian. Mary O’Brien. My name, though, fitting my olive skin and curly brown hair, sounded like a cartoon character. Francesca Fellini, Frankie Fellini. Nickie used to joke it sounded so goofy that I would look good at the drive-in next to Donald Duck. Maybe I’d make the title shot with Sophia Loren if people believed I was related to Federico Fellini. Auntie would have hated it if I became an actress. “Do something with those brains of yours, Frankie!” she liked to say while I was at her apartment eating something, usually fiadoni cookies or a piece of ricotta pie. She’d pinch my cheek, bloated with pastry dough, and screw her eyebrows up, the way she did when her Italian soccer team was losing. She’d sigh, “Que faccia bella!” All through that October of 1969, I had been waiting to tell Auntie about my first job until we were alone. “At Russell’s Mart, the one off Atlantic Avenue, Auntie.” We were sitting at her kitchen table, my head bent under the low-hanging light. Auntie’s apartment was the human-size version of a mouse hole. Everything knit together: couches skinned with sheets to block sunlight, the television wedged in a corner, tuned to the news, its antennas kinked like Auntie’s hair at the end of the day, and four kitchen chairs glued to the linoleum floor. Auntie was forty-one, Dad’s younger sister by four years. Widow to Uncle Sean, Auntie was still pretty. She was the type of pretty that made men hasten to open doors for her and producers pluck her off the street to be on television. I only noticed when her face relaxed and she looked unfamiliar, a beautiful guest in her own home. Auntie would have made a good actress, without even trying. I guess she did. “How much are they paying you down there?” Auntie narrowed her eyes. She was tracing patterns in the sticky wooden table as she looked at me. “$1.60 an hour.” “$1.60? For dealing with the loons in this town?” Auntie called everyone a 34
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F I C T I O N loon who wasn’t Italian. “Here, I’ll double that if you clean my basement.” She got up for her purse. “You already promised that to Nickie.” I paused. “Not that he’ll do it.” Nickie milked his position as eldest son in the family now that John was away—he got everything and did nothing. Auntie sat back down, money in hand. “Take it anyways.” She took a couple Jordan almonds from the bowl in the center of the table and placed them on top of the bills. “What am I supposed to do with the money from the commercial anyways? Spend it on pasta?” “Thanks, Auntie.” I gnawed on one of the almonds. I could never get just the sweet topcoat. “You shouldn’t be working. Remind your father. Marry you to a doctor, lawyer—” “—Engineer. I know. Auntie, I’m only fifteen.” “I was only two years older when I married your Uncle Sean,” Auntie said. She stood and moved two steps to the stove to start dinner, a lemon patterned dishcloth thrown over her shoulder. I ate another almond to keep from saying that she didn’t marry a doctor, lawyer or engineer, but an army drum major. Auntie was on television almost every night. I sometimes waited for it, sitting cross-legged in front of the television, holding my breath or counting the dents in the ceiling or something else mindless until her voice sounded from the screen. It was as if she were standing in our kitchen, calling Anthony! the way she used to call John when he and Nickie would take too long to come in for dinner. Auntie hated waiting. “Food doesn’t taste good cold,” she’d say, then seat herself at the head of the table before one of the boys had the chance. “Dad, can I go out for dinner tomorrow night?” Nickie asked Dad one Thursday night during Auntie’s commercial. Mama and I were sitting on the couch, cloth crumpled between us, the result of Mama’s attempt to hem a stout man’s suit from South Boston. Mama sometimes tailored clothes or mended curtains from home to bring in more money, dropping off the repaired pieces at the drapery factory off of the highway. I went with her once to deliver curtains she’d made and pick up her check, and felt glad she worked at home, glad she wasn’t bent into a seat in the factory, barely touching the fabric as it bit through a sewing machine that beat ceaselessly against itself, one in a hundred machines studding the warehouse. Dad looked at Nickie, then glanced at Auntie on television. The screen switched from her to Anthony running through the streets of the North End. The voice-over filled the silence. “With Rich, Steve and Chris?” I could tell Nickie was trying to look taller by the way he pushed his shoulders back. He held his arms against his sides, as if he were preparing to salute a lieutenant. Dad shook his head. Nickie’s shoulders deflated and Mama sat up straighter. TMC Spring 2014
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F I C T I O N “Angelo…” Mama nodded towards Nickie, who had sat back down and was sullenly digging his fist into the couch. “Regina,” he said with the same inflection. He started speaking in Italian. His words slurred together around Mama’s responses, the rhythms fading to background noise. Their accents didn’t sound so strong within our house, not the way their words seemed to clip like broken English at the store or at school. Nickie and I didn’t know Italian, other than the basics and random words like “handkerchief ” or “fig.” Dad always thought we should learn, but Mama wanted us to be American, dunked straight into the pot. Auntie was plunging pasta into boiling water on television. The steam flared up at her. Dad looked up when they were ready for us to understand. “Nick, you can go, if—” Dad held out his hand for Nickie to shake, “—if, you apologize to Auntie for missing dinner with her and you walk Frankie home from the market next week, so she doesn’t have to walk alone in the dark.” “We have dinner with Auntie almost every night,” Nickie said. “It’s just one time.” “Don’t be disrespectful.” I kept my eyes focused on the screen, watching for a hint, a plate placed down too casually or a smile too wide when the boy walked in, some motion on screen to expose the Auntie of us from the Auntie of them, the clean cut Italian family who wore their immigrant status on their sleeves. I sometimes wore long sleeves in the summer to keep my skin from tanning too much. “Sorry.” Nickie shook Dad’s hand. Auntie’s commercial ended. “And walk Frankie home next week.” Dad winked at me as Nickie frowned. I smirked at Nickie. I knew Dad was proud of my job. His smile had twisted approvingly when I told him a few weeks ago, an expression Mama in particular usually reserved for Nickie. I had found him at work, the place where Dad was tucked into the in between, the neutrality of the airport and its unknown crowds. For ten years, he had worked at the lost baggage claim, the foreign man with the wide toothed grin behind the desk, amidst the conveyor belt of people entering Boston and losing parts of themselves. “A job that will never be outdated,” he liked to say. “People will always be losing luggage, Frankie.” He had clapped his hand on my shoulder when I first told him. “Good for you,” he said, ears rising with his grin. His accent was fainter in the airport, or maybe I just wasn’t as aware of it. Waiting for his shift to finish, I wandered around the airport that night, feeling proud, as if the airport and its terminals were mine, as if I could condense them and pack them inside me. I sat in the domestic flight waiting area for an hour and watched the flight list rotate, sporadically clacking to another place in America. Auntie once decided we should go on a cruise. She planned the whole thing out: we would go the last week in September because that was Dad’s slowest time at 36
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F I C T I O N work; we’d get a room for Nickie and John, a room for Dad and Mama, and then a room for her and me. “We’ll get the one closest to the pool,” she told me, and my nine-year old self smiled, feeling special. She began saving too, picking pennies and quarters up off the ground during her walks as if her old jam jar could be filled up with enough metal to furnish our trip. “I just want to move around,” she told Dad one day during dinner, tugging her wedding ring on and off. “We’ve moved enough,” Dad replied. The planning ended when the wait ended, three weeks long, short now compared to John’s year long absence. Auntie got the call she’d been expecting ever since Uncle Sean lost his job at the shipyard and decided to enlist in the army. There was a misfire incident at Fort Chaffee. He died quick. The army base was not at fault. They were sorry for her loss. His name came with the honor of dying for the country. I remembered playing checkers on the floor with Nickie and John the week after and hearing Auntie and Dad in the kitchen. “Private O’Brien, they said, Angelo!” Auntie was talking fast. “Mannaggia, not even Sean O’Brien! Some stupido allegiance to a country.” I let John win that round. Auntie spoke only Italian for the next two weeks and John started swearing in his mother’s language. I wondered what John was like now. It had been a year since Auntie’s only son, freckled and pale like his Irish father, had tucked himself into the American Air Force. John was probably the one who told the most jokes and stayed the longest after drills, and I bet he had no idea his mother was now on television. That’s what Nickie would be like anyways. Dad was different though. Dad, unlike Uncle Sean, served for four years in World War II. I only heard him talk about it twice. The first came the night after John was drafted. At dinner, Nickie said he wished he were a year older. Dad put down his fork and stiffened, turning towards him. “Don’t wish to fight for something you don’t know.” The second time happened during a car ride to get my braces checked. At stoplights, Dad turned and looked at me, then let slip some detail about his tour in Europe. At one light, he told me that the sergeant would take him outside the classroom during training and give him tests orally, since he was the only one who couldn’t read English. At another light, he said he was assigned to Germany, and then to Rome to flag down American planes onto the tarmac. “They liked us there,” he said, referring to himself and the eight Americans stationed there, “the uniforms. Just four years older than you. Nineteen.” He said it again, before realizing the light had turned green. Dad’s accent was even thicker when he talked about Italy, Auntie’s and Mama’s too. I usually didn’t like them to talk to my friends from outside the five blocks of our neighborhood because then they might think I sounded different, too. Auntie’s accent wasn’t as noticeable in the commercial, but she had the strongest accent, the most pronounced gap between her front teeth, the “Fellini Gap.” We all had it, TMC Spring 2014
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F I C T I O N
except for Mama. Mine had finally started to close with my braces.
I liked hearing them talk about Italy, though. It felt as if we were special, sealed safely into our four by four kitchen. Auntie started telling us the most stories once John left, narratives of Nonno John coming to America when Auntie was two and Dad six. He worked as a cobbler and sent money home each month, until Dad finally came over at sixteen, having never met his father. I could hardly picture Dad in any way but the now, my father with the slight build and hunched shoulders that somehow made him appear stronger. I tried to envision the story of a younger Dad in Italy winning an orange from his father for packing the most tomatoes into a glass bottle to store for winter. Auntie had to wait inside and wedge chestnuts in jars of sand to preserve them, the bark of eleven chestnut chunks plopped into earthy grain callusing Auntie’s fingertips. She kept busy while Dad got to play outside by the water fountains. “Naples wasn’t so dirty then,” Auntie said that New Year’s Eve, blowing smoke between her lips. We were all crammed out onto the fire escape, waiting to see fireworks over Boston Harbor. Dad was inside, his head bowed out the window. I leaned against Mama’s legs, the backs of my thighs laced with the metal pattern beneath me. The air tasted stale from Auntie’s cigarette. Auntie rested against the railing, hand curving over bumpy metal. Her voice fit into the night, whoops and hum of cars falling into place behind her. She told us how she and Dad would run up and down the stairs from the town center to the wharf, the smell of humid fish sticking to them. When Dad was twelve, he snuck onto the back of a poultry cart set for Casadrino. I watched Dad. He was looking away, watching the lights crack in the sky, but Auntie was still talking, unfazed. A trail of smoke from her cigarette marked her hand gestures as she spoke. Dad blinked roughly as it blew his way. I didn’t know what to say when Dad became serious. “He went to find our uncle because we were out of money. We’d already spent Nonno John’s money that month on a doctor when I had the mumps.” Auntie glanced at Dad, waiting for him to jump in, but he just looked at her. I had heard the story so many times, I knew how it went, how the cart had to pass Nazi officers, how they checked the back for stowaways, how Dad had to lie down by the chickens, holding his breath, feeling his heart strike his chest and feathers tickle his nose as he tried not to sneeze, the strobes of American planes patrolling above flickering through the slates in the cart like the fireworks above us. Dad told us to go to bed after that story. The heat from the radiator bit at us, tingling, as we went inside. I heard Nickie switch on the radio in his room. I closed my eyes, turning into my pillow. I could feel my shoulder start to numb under my weight and I imagined Auntie calling Anthony home for dinner, which morphed into John in Vietnam, uniformed in airplane cockpits, flying over Dad like crows. Russell’s Mart was the kind of store where nobody bought more than vegetables for dinner or where the infrequent passerby chose to ask if he could use the restroom. The store’s stout frame was wedged between two much taller office buildings. Its brick exterior blobbed with graffiti was painted over white but for a small window.
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F I C T I O N I had been walking home from school with Eveline Rogers to pick up her mother’s curtains Mama had patched. We went inside the market to buy wax bottle candies. The wax tasted like dried glue and I ate only the blue ones, spitting the rubbery tops onto the sidewalk as we stopped to watch the television perched in the small corner window. Eveline had somehow reached the topic of Dad’s job. “They don’t get confused and think he’s a tourist?” she said. I squinted a bit and swallowed. “Oh, did you get a sour one?” She pointed to the candies. I shook my head. I turned to the television for somewhere to look. News about the war, then an insurance commercial, and then Auntie. Auntie said marry a doctor, lawyer or engineer, but there she was, wide face, gap grin, heavy voice hemorrhaging into the screen. I didn’t say anything to Eveline, wanting to hoard Auntie’s presence myself, as if I could fill up that much space too. I asked the store manager for a job at the market the next day, thinking that Auntie’s commercial was telling me go do something, Frankie. Most days I stacked shelves, but Wednesdays I worked the slushie machine. The blue sludge was mostly bought by the middle school girls who made their cups sticky with Bonne Bell crescents and filled the tip can considerably, not wanting to carry change. “Frank!” Nickie walked in the door on a Wednesday. His friends, Rich and Steve, loitered behind him. Seventeen and almost out of high school, they tucked themselves into oxford shirts and high-waisted pants, Nickie wearing a leather jacket. He nodded towards my nametag, which the manager had printed “Frank” and I had added “ie.” “You haven’t quit yet?” I rolled my eyes. “What’s up, Nickie?” He wouldn’t be spotted buying something from me unless he had to tell me something. And he had long since abandoned his promise to Dad to walk me home. “Ma’s working tonight. Dinner’s at Auntie’s.” Nickie started to turn towards the door. “Oh, and Rich here will have a pack of cigarettes.” Rich and Steve, who were flicking pennies into the tip jar, cracked up. I glared at Nickie. “This is the slushie counter. Go over to the cashiers.” Nickie copied my face. “Fine.” He glanced over his shoulder and saw the manager was looking. He jumped up to reach me over the counter and pinched my cheek. “Que faccia bella!” he said loudly, laying on an accent. I swatted his hand away, knocking over a plastic container of straws instead. The manager still stood by the canned foods aisle, watching. “Go away, Nickie!” I said. He laughed and ducked outside, friends behind him, and the manager turned back into the aisle. I jabbed the straws back into the container one by one. It was the fourth night we’d had dinner with Auntie that week and she was particularly focused on chopping peppers. She’d been having dinner with us almost every night since the New Year. That New Year marked a new decade, and, for AunTMC Spring 2014
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F I C T I O N tie, a three-month silence from John since her last letter. Auntie lived two streets down from us, in an apartment on Prince Street. It bulged out of the alley where she and her neighbors sat at night to smoke and talk. In late summer, when the feasts came around, we’d drape a ribbon of dollar bills out the window to the statue of Madonna. Auntie would blow a kiss out the window to the people trailing below, in the way she blew us kisses out the door when we would leave. Auntie liked to think she knew everyone down the North End. I lay on my back that night by the radiator, feeling the heat on my scalp. I could see Dad cutting up vegetables for the salad next to Auntie. Their shoulders bent in the same way from this angle. The boiling water foamed as Auntie tossed in a pinch of salt. I knew she had done that motion hundreds of times, but she stepped back quickly as the water hissed. Dad put his hand out behind her back. We turned at Nickie’s intake of breath. He was fiddling with the porcelain figurines that dotted the windowsill, the smallest of which had almost fallen. “Nickie, be careful with those. John sent them back from Saigon last summer.” Auntie said Saigon with a certain twinge in her voice. I stiffened at the mention of John. Auntie didn’t usually talk about him. Nickie’s cheeks visibly burned. He placed the figurine back gently as if the glass were already shattered. Auntie turned back to the stove. I stared at the raised paint pattern on the ceiling. The heat dried my eyes. It stung like the time Nickie and I tried one of Auntie’s cigarettes. I was nine and Nickie eleven, the two of us sitting cross-legged on Auntie’s living room floor, the box in front of us as unimposing as the cigarette box we had at home, jammed with screws and nails. I started crying once Nickie lit the rolls, afraid the smoke would fog up Auntie’s four windows until we couldn’t see. “Frankie,” Nickie called ten minutes later that night. “Can you get the cheese? You’re closest.” He smiled so I could see the chewed pasta in his mouth. “No. Gross.” I sat down and reached for the bread. Auntie looked at me and I knew what was coming. “Fine! I’ll get the cheese. Because Nickie’s my brother.” I tugged open the refrigerator door, almost knocking down a cutting board from the top. I put the bowl of cheese in front of Nickie, letting it clatter. Auntie flinched. Her hands moved quickly to pat her hair. “Regina’s working tonight?” Auntie said. She spooned cheese onto her pasta. Dad nodded. “Rush order on curtains.” Auntie had moved the spoon too hastily. Grains of cheese spilt onto the tablecloth and she exhaled sharply. She got up for the sponge and began scraping the cheese into her palm cupped below the table. I watched crumbs escape onto the floor. Auntie walked to the sink and threw the sponge in, clapping her hands loudly over the drain to brush off the cheese. “I’m thinking of selling books,” she said suddenly. She turned to face us, reddened hands grasping the countertop behind her. Dad looked up. 40
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F I C T I O N “There’s this bookstore, down by Fleet Street that sells books in Italian, and I was thinking of working there.” She flipped a strand of hair back into her bun, then seemed to remember her hands were still sticky. She pulled it back out. “Do you…need to, Mary?” Dad was clearly uncomfortable speaking about money at the table. Nickie stared at the ceiling. “I need to do something. John isn’t here.” Dad seemed to recognize something more in that sentence because his shoulders softened with his voice. He put down his fork. “Mary, you can’t blame him for going.” Auntie turned back to the sink, letting the water splat against the metal. I could see her starting to detach, the way she did when someone would mention John or the war or, at one point, Uncle Sean. Nickie and I were too young to remember, it being ten years ago, but Dad told us that after Uncle Sean left for the army Auntie wouldn’t talk about him. A week after his departure, she started taking walks around the harbor at five in the morning. One night on his way home from work, Dad found her sitting on someone’s boat. Auntie told him she was waiting for the fish to emerge from the water, watching the wrinkles they made from beneath, the flicks of their tails. “I know. I can’t blame him for missing Christmas.” Auntie had raised her voice over the running water, twisting the word “him” as if she didn’t know John. I realized Auntie didn’t believe John was coming home. She seemed already preparing herself with the commercial, the dinners, the eldest male respect for Nickie. Maybe it was so unconscious at first that she missed the awful irony of calling another son home in a commercial only to return to her vacant top floor apartment. I didn’t talk the rest of dinner, trying to find the moment when Auntie had changed and I had missed it. I went over to Auntie’s the next day after work. She was stuffing chestnuts into an empty jar, the way she had saved coins for our cruise. Leaving a red lipstick mark, she gave me a kiss on the cheek, then motioned for me to sit down and help. “I bought them from the supermarket this morning,” Auntie said, moving the brown paper bag of chestnuts closer to me. “Don’t you think they’ll make good presents?” She pointed to one of the ribboned jars she had finished, crammed with chestnuts stuck together with sand. I nodded. Last night, I watched Auntie’s commercial on television while waiting for Nickie to finish taking a shower. Auntie had told us she pretended she was Mary Tyler Moore all throughout filming, even when they brought in new boxes of tomatoes and pasta for each of the takes, uneaten food she’d take home for dinner. The producers loved that. “‘Authenticity, right there,’ they said when I packed up the food,” Auntie said later. “But really, they think I look young enough to be a twelve-year old’s mother?” And she didn’t look young enough to be a twelve-year old’s mother. She was pressed flat into the screen, her voice bending to the wrong son. It was all wrong. TMC Spring 2014
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F I C T I O N The little boy with the curly hair was wrong and the pasta plunged into the pot the wrong way and Auntie kept smiling even though I knew she was just filling her time with waiting for the wrong son. I dropped one chestnut in the jar and it cracked when it hit the bottom. “Your father working today?” Auntie asked. “Yeah. Mama, too.” Auntie placed a filled jar to the side and started a new one. She seemed comforted by the motion. I thought of a question and bit my lip. “Auntie,” I said. She glanced up and smiled and looked like Dad. “What did you want to be when you were my age?” She paused for a moment. “An artist. I liked to paint the ocean.” She went back to filling the jar. “I also wanted to be a pilot, though.” Auntie laughed quietly. I smiled. I liked thinking of Auntie as a pilot, flying across oceans. She looked up at me then, fixedly, and she seemed like Auntie again, the one who filled up the streets of the North End with her voice. “You need someone for security, though,” she said. “More than just money.” I started to nod automatically, then stopped. I could see myself years from now, hair twisted up, Dr. F. Fellini, combing through medical charts of patients who would come to me, in some hospital, somewhere. I wanted to break the wait. I wanted John to come home. I wanted to topple over the stacked jars of chestnuts that balanced on the table before us, for the glass to break and the pent up chestnuts to tumble out, gutted open to wrinkled caramel flesh, for sand to spit out on top of them like a gash without a tourniquet.
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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12
C h r i s t i n a
R i c c i
Grinning Shadows
p h o t o g r a p h y TMC Spring 2014
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A R T Groton School / Grade 10
Y a n g
H y u n
C h o
Reach
d r a w i n g
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A R T Malden Catholic High School
J u a o - g u i l h e r m e
/ Grade 12
R o s a
Awkwardness of Adolescent Identity
d r a w i n g
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P O E T R Y Ayer Shirley Regional High School / Grade 11
Evelyn Marie Ruble
Masks
All the galaxies were written on my finger tips. My heart was made from the sun. I was robed with all the stars and planets. Light filled the utter darkness around me, and the moon was set underneath my feet. I took pain and sorrow and molded it into beauty; I cared about everyone because I thought it was my sense of duty, until one day a serpent came along my journey. He said, “A taste of this fruit and you’ll have knowledge for eternity.” One bite and I knew, I knew I was naked and had to cover my shame. I veiled myself with the only thing I was given: A Mask. Now this mask was unlike any other; It held gold, silver and jewels. Beauty itself could not compare, for me to leave without it was rare. I had this fake self that none knew about, and I loved it. My mask hid the truth from the world. I lived a lie. My mask made me feel safe. I lived a lie. My mask covered every flaw. I lived a lie. Even though my lie had a million truths to it, I still lived a lie, But then you walked in, book in hand, smile on your face. I remember that feeling of rage and being out of place. I thought of you as a threat to take down my walls and win. Yet you gave me sudden acts of kindness; You loved me though I was bitter and stubborn. I had a war inside my head, monsters to tame, and nobody knew — 46
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P O E T R Y Nobody knew, but one sit down and it was like you could see right through me. Instead of pushing me aside you simply broke down my pride; You called me out upon the waters, the great unknown. You called me your daughter, you called me your own. You said I had too much to keep hidden. I had a heart of sun, not stone. People just passed me by, but you. I no longer had a desert soul, a mind in the drought of summer. You gave me life. Sometimes I wonder who taught me to wear a mask, or if I learned it on my own, but I do know who taught me to wear a crown. Now this crown was unlike any other. It had bravery, courage and awareness engraved on its crescents and fine cuts. I take it everywhere. So what are you wearing? A mask or a crown?
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A R T Marshall Simonds Middle School / Grade 8
Apples and Pears
Erin Kriger
p h o t o g r a p h y
The Shadow of a Beast
Chr istina Ricci
Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12
TMC Spring 2014
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F I C T I O N Groton School
/ Grade 11
L a y l a
V a r k e y
Abigail
She woke again with the bleary rays of light penetrating the arching windows of her bedroom. Dazed, she rubbed clarity into her eyes and surveyed her familiar four-post bed, its oak columns reaching up around her from all sides. A feeling struck her, the same one that struck her most mornings – not gratefulness or expectance, but disappointment. It was a cold disappointment that lodged itself into her side and remained there like an arrow all day. There was only one person who could remove that arrow, one hour a week where Abigail didn’t feel terribly, horribly disappointed. She got up and approached the basin in the corner of her room, washed her face and combed her straight, listless hair. She looked at her reflection in the glass before her, and felt that cold arrow digging further into her side. A storm of freckles assailed her cheekbones, and her unintended dimples gave her an air of innocence. Her blue eyes were set wide open and far apart; thus she perpetually looked on the verge of discovering something for the first time. She felt that her face had betrayed her, made her seem entirely naïve and unworldly. Finally, she slipped out of her nightgown and into one of her plain muslin dresses, this one the pale green of a sky sickened before a thunderstorm. Abigail took a step back and inspected her closet, the row of colorless dresses nestled together like stacked spoons, each with the same high neckline and too-long sleeves. She couldn’t help but remember the closets of girls in the books she read, closets teeming with silk and necklines that accentuated one’s...how did they call it? Décolletage. And above all, color. How Abigail dreamed of aubergine, cerulean, scarlet: colors that gave a woman presence and possibility. “Abigail! Come down, it’s yet late and you haven’t finished your sampler!” Abigail trudged down the stairs, pale green muslin hissing with every step. She reached the drawing room and sank into a parlor chair with her needlework. With a swish of silk, Abigail’s mother entered the room. “Abigail, there you are. Let me see what you’ve done so far.” Abigail handed over the sampler, looking down at the thick imported carpet, covered with vines and clusters of fruit. She felt as if she were locked inside a velvetlined jewelry box. “What is this? You’ve barely done anything! When Elizabeth was your age… well. You and your sister couldn’t be more different. You haven’t much time left; we must begin working on your trousseau now. Also, Richard is coming in an hour, so sit here until then and finish this. I simply can’t understand what you find so arduous about a little needlework.” Just then, Elizabeth slipped into the room with a mischievous smile. “What’s this? Mother, were you just talking about me?” “Well-well, yes, Elizabeth, I was. I was just telling Abigail how simple embroidery was for you...if only she could be just a little more like you in that way.” 50
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F I C T I O N Elizabeth smiled, tossing her curly auburn hair over her shoulder. “Needlework, Abby? What is it that you find so hard about it? Let me see your sampler.” Abigail handed over her unfinished needlework to her older sister, eyes fixed on the carpet. Elizabeth clicked her tongue at all of Abby’s uneven threading, the frayed ends and wobbly letters. Then she laughed softly and tossed the sampler back into Abigail’s lap. “Don’t fret, Abby. I suppose you simply weren’t made for such things.” Abigail ignored her sister — she could think of nothing but Richard is coming. Richard, Richard...she sat up straight with a new fervor in her heart and hands. She would finish this needlework today. Abigail had already managed to finish her pictorial embroidery, and now she was to work on samplers stitched with Bible verses. This one was to read, “Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting, but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised. – Proverbs 31:30” *
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Fifty minutes later, Abigail had finally finished the sampler. Her head ached from squinting at tiny threads in the dim drawing room; her fingers trembled. She had retired to her bedroom, looking for something, anything to occupy her. Her room was sparse and unadorned. On her desk were a few slim volumes of poetry and French workbooks, which Richard had given her. She remembered the first time she had heard him speaking French, the first time he told her about Provence. Suddenly, there came that familiar three-fold rap on the door…Richard was here. Breathlessly, she gathered the textbooks off her desk and rushed downstairs, green muslin purring with every step. Finally, she saw him standing in the doorway, illuminated from behind by the sun. He wore a blue tailcoat around his steady shoulders, and a ruffled white shirt kissed his Adam’s apple. As always, a white handkerchief stuck out of his breast pocket, embroidered with his initials: RF. Elizabeth had opened the door for him, and she was talking to him animatedly, her coppery hair bouncing across her shoulders. Abigail admired her sister’s new violet dress. As Richard talked to Elizabeth, Abigail drank in his sweet smile and the tiny crinkles at each eye’s corner. He didn’t notice Abigail until she coughed quietly into her sleeve. “Abby, my sweet. How have you been?” “Why, um, perfectly well… and yourself?” “Well, but better now for seeing you. Shall we begin?” “Yes...yes. Yes. We shall.” “Splendid. Elizabeth, promise me we’ll continue this conversation later.” Together they walked into the sunroom where they held their weekly lesson. Strong, happy shafts of light flew into the room through each window; already could Abigail feel her headache begin to lift. “So, dear Abby, how are you faring with the poem we started last time?” “Good...I — it’s beautiful. I’ve started memorizing it.” “Bien fait, Abby! May I hear it?” She cleared her throat. “Yes. Yes, you may. I guess I’ll just, er, begin, then...” She cleared her throat and began to recite. TMC Spring 2014
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F I C T I O N Viens-tu du ciel profond ou sors-tu de l’abîme, O Beauté? ton regard, infernal et divin, verse confusément le bienfait et le crime, Et l’on peut pour cela te comparer au vin. 1 Although she stumbled over a few words and the recitation had a distinctively Irish taste, Abigail’s voice took on a certain strength and femininity that neither had heard before. “My dear Abby, that was lovely. Thank you. Merci. You made me feel as though I were at home in Provence just then.” “Oh, pray, Richard, tell me about France again.” He laughed, shaking his head as he laid one finger on Abigail’s translucent wrist. “How you love to hear about France...you are the companion of my soul. Well, in Provence, all the earth spills over with flowers. There are no expectations, only desire — yes, that’s it! France is a place of volition.” As Abigail listened to Richard’s voice, every syllable cascading over the next, she felt a longing sharper even than disappointment. His handkerchief fell out of his pocket and onto the table. Why, it was all right in front of her…she leaned on her elbow, slanting her face towards the sun. Her wide eyes opened impossibly wider. “France seems a paradise. I must go there...Richard, you must take me. Please.” He shook his head and smiled. “Maybe one day, Abby. Maybe one day.” At the end of their lesson, he led her out of the sunroom. As Abby turned to open the door for him, she saw him pause at the wooden table in front of the drawing room. Rapidly, he placed a small white card onto the table. He then hurried to the door, blushing as he met Abigail’s eyes. “I, yes. I’ll see you soon then, Abby. Right. Goodbye.” After closing the door hastily behind him, Abigail rushed to the table and read the card. I don’t know why I’m writing this. All I can say is that you are entirely unlike any other woman I have ever met. I don’t expect you to come, or even to care at all, but I’ll be at the Brazen Head pub across from Christchurch tonight. I can’t help but hope wildly. Just know that talking to you is the most perfect part of my day. -RF *
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Abby was reeling. Caught between the four columns of her bed, she could do nothing but replay those few moments again and again. Why, her wrist was still throbbing where he had brushed her hours before. And the letter, the letter…she had already committed it to memory a hundred times over. Unlike any other woman… most perfect part of my day. There was no question, it seemed, that all her secret longing was requited, perhaps had always been requited. That was it. She had to get out of this stuffy room, to find Richard. Abigail sprang up from her bed and caught sight of herself in the mirror. For one glorious 52
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F I C T I O N moment, she had no idea who the woman in the glass was. Her hair was charmingly disheveled, her eyes alight, and a glow permeated through every pore of her skin. The only problem was the dress...the odious, incorrigible dress. This was not a dress for a woman. Abigail darted down the hallway to Elizabeth’s bedroom; just as she had hoped, it was empty. She drew towards Elizabeth’s closet, knowing already what she needed. As if independent of her body, her hands found it – the satin dress, crimson, with a scalloped neckline. Entranced, Abigail slipped back into her room and into the dress. The fantasy was complete. She left the house with nary a word nor backwards glance. Once outside, she gulped in the Dublin air. She felt the strange, heady sensation of being both lighter and heavier at the same time – the lightness of possibility and the weight of presence. Oh, and how far away the wooden posts of her bed seemed from here! How far the hateful samplers! For every time she had ventured outside of her house, her Dublin had never tasted quite like this — was it the city or her senses that had changed? She was walking further into the depths of Dublin. The streets got narrower and the cobblestones more precarious. She heard raucous music, yelling, all sounds Abigail had never heard before but somehow had known all her life. The women here were different. They were birdlike, exquisite, all humming with every step. She turned before the cathedral to the glowing pub and peered through the windows. It took time for her to process what she saw. There were groups of people swaying and falling towards each other, carefree and animal. A group of men was singing together, arms round each other, veins popping out and jaws open wide. In the corner, there was a couple caught in a familiar, sensuous embrace: a woman in tempestuous violet and a man in a dark blue tailcoat. His hands flew up and down her back, as if searching for something he had lost. He kept smoothing down her brassy, reckless hair. Their lips were tangled together, and Abigail could feel the heat radiating from them as she watched. Then, in some sort of drunken stupor, the man lurched forward and braced himself on the table. His glass overturned and handkerchief spilled out of his breast pocket. Without stopping to check, Abby knew what it looked like. White. Chinese silk. Two embroidered letters, unraveling on the bottom right corner. She recoiled from the window and rushed away; without knowing how she ended up back at home, in her airless bedroom. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and blanched at her childish reflection. With tears she herself did not understand, Abby clawed the crimson off of her waiflike body. In nothing but her thin cotton chemise, she threw her French and poetry books off of her bed and sank once more between the columns.
1
From Charles Baudelaire’s “Hymn to Beauty”: Do you come from Heaven, or rise from the abyss, Beauty? Your gaze, divine and infernal, pours out confusedly benevolence and crime. And one may, for that, compare you to wine.
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A R T Somerville High School / Grade 9
A n i k a
K a w s a r
Gay Rights
m i x e d
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m e d i a
A R T Lynnfield High School
A n d r e w
/ Grade 11
H a m m
T h e A m e r i c a n Fl a g
p h o t o g r a p h y TMC Spring 2014
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P O E T R Y Ayer Shirley Regional High School / Grade 12
J o s e
R o s a l e s
°Celsius
The Embers slowly burn out on the end of Her Newport, Cinders seamlessly floating out the back seat window. (Like the red dragonflies we searched for as children) Staring at each vibrant highway light as they soar by, each dimmer than the Last silent, stoic, a perfect statue. Calmly, She Ignites what’s left of her Smoke. (The same way Her father used to, when She sat on his lap.) The wine red glow envelopes Her cheeks, fragile eyes draw, shimmer even, with a somewhat consuming emptiness. She’s hungry for a purpose, a means out of this Thriving Metropolis~ She takes what She Swears is her Last Drag… Her fingers wrap around Her knee, writhing, in pain, She makes that face as She Inhales. (The one She made when he left) She hates itthe Bitter Taste, the Burn of the Smoke. Her choke extinguishes only the evidence of lit Ash. Blowing the Last Cloud of Smoke in my face, with closed eyes (wishing) i Inhale. i light my own Cigarette… Cough, assess myself in the reflection of the window. In that rainy mirror i exhale“Save Us from the Fire” °
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A R T Groton School / Grade 10
Y a n g
H y u n
C h o
W hat Remains
d r a w i n g
TMC Spring 2014
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P O E T R Y Ayer Shirley Regional High School / Grade 12
Jose Rosales
Ties (Petrichor) Immersed in rubble: concrete pillars, mosaic pathways, ancient frescoes a skeleton, an empty shell, a film of dustthe Once prolific verdure, reduced to the dregs and remnant pieces, of a Golden Age. rather an age of Iron painted Gold, Rusted~ Engrossed in mere granules. the unendurable Heat, like geysers this Fever Deliriumpulls an Elixir from my core, to resurface as simple droplets. Undisturbed domes like tears down Her cheek bones, chiseled by meticulous hands. the room over filled, with recycled air waves, So much So (breathing is easily forgotten.) Confined to the Barren graveyard, Consumed by a volatile scent December needles. spiritual awakening, no, slumber, yes. astral projection. a self-portrait, forced to face the face. a stoic Subliminal psycheAged by the day, Dorian Gray. Cuffed to the ticking of the cuckoo Clock. each tick a Cold reminder another string Binding this Puppet, to its Master. Imprisoned in a Casket, 58
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P O E T R Y for a Basket case drowning in Ambrosia, within a Flask to tasteA Memory. A long Forgotten me Cast like pennies in a fountain, or single stones into the Sea. outrageous fortune, not bestowed to i so Immersed Buried Cocooned in these sapless, soil Lies. the seed of Adolescent Arrogance, the Presumption of Grandeur a decrepit Soul lingers. a Single pristine Raindrop lifts cindersof a faint flame, of a soul. to give Life to these Ties, that bound both You and i. Alone no longer Petrichor~
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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12
K a t h e r i n e
M c D o n a l d
Divided Memories
p h o t o g r a p h y
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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11
M i n n a
W a n g
A Fall Perspective
p a i n t i n g
TMC Spring 2014
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P O E T R Y Ayer Shirley Regional High School / Grade 10
Kassie Breest
W hat is Hea ven Like? Strap on your wings and grab hold of her hand the angel will guide you to a utopian land. There are pink clouds and rainbows and sunshine galore and God waits for you in front of a huge golden door. Ever since we were born this was drilled in our heads, only good things come once we leave our death beds. Is it a native root from the soil of our minds? Or is it a seed that was planted in the beginning of our time? That’s what we were taught That’s what we were told But how will we know until we grow old? Is your heaven my heaven or is my heaven yours? Do I get to choose between two different doors? Do our souls all collide in one meeting spot? Or is your fate determined by your train of thought? Is it actually peaceful or just a cluttered mess? Did Marilyn fight Diana for the last beaded dress? 62
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P O E T R Y What if we don’t make it there? Would we instantly come back, as a bird or a camel, with a hump on its back? What is heaven like? My head is filled with doubt because everyone who went in can’t find their way out.
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TMC Spring 2014
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P O E T R Y Ayer Shirley Regional High School / Grade 10
C a s e y Wo r t h e n
My Sun, My Moon, and all of My Stars I was the sun and you were the stars that shine only at night while he was the boy on the moon. I shine beaming smiles onto lost minds, but I am distracted. On summer nights, when I am long asleep in my cocoon, you light up the eyes of children who cannot find sleep. The money to cool their homes was thrown into a register drawer at the local liquor store. On autumn nights, when I cannot find sleep, the boy on the moon is capturing the gaze of those who wonder why the moon is following their car as they drive down winding roads or why he keeps track of those walking under streetlights with no particular destination. I, too, wonder why he follows me even now. The stars are shining spotlights onto reckless and brave teenage hearts. You are shining onto you and me laying in damp grass, our minds raging about the ceaselessly mind-grasping view. 64
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P O E T R Y In the nights of our brief crossings, your eyes were illuminated by constellations that you created. Those nights were sunsets and sunrises when the sky turned to flames using the sparks that we created in our time together. The sky lit up when the boy on the moon vacated my thoughts, leaving room for you. Alone in the sky all day, I do not think of you, the stars, or the fire in the sky. I think about the boy on the moon whose path no longer crosses mine. The lonely sun always ends up alone by morning.
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A R T Lynnfield High School
/ Grade 9
Untitled
A b i g a i l
D i c k e y
p h o t o g r a p h y
Dark Days Lynnfield High School
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/ Grade 9
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T o m
P o w e r s
A R T Ayer Shirley Regional High School / Grade 12
Hungr y?
Ja s o n
M i l l s
p h o t o g r a p h y
Complexion and Intricacy
Jason M ills
Ayer Shirley Regional High School / Grade 12
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F I C T I O N Atherton High School / Grade 12
A l e x
D e W i t t
The Eternal City Sleeps No, this is not a good town for psychedelic drugs. Reality itself is far too twisted. Hunter S. Thompson It was never my intention to go to Rome with Lewis. I hardly knew him, and what little I’d learned about him during our time together suggested that we wouldn’t get along very well. The wayward child of an already wayward family, he would hide behind a pair of blue-tinted sunglasses at all hours and gawk at the clockwork brutality of the world around him. His personal hygiene was questionable, and he spent far too much time telling the same stories, over and over. Sometimes I thought everybody else knew his history better than he did. After the debacle in Florence, though, I had to scrap any old plans. Lewis had planted a bullet in the wrong man’s skull, and I’d just stood there and watched, wide-eyed and useless. It was a shame, really. I liked the tempo of that city. In the month we’d been holed up in a flat on the south side of the Arno, I’d even been seeing a local girl. Her name was Beatrice. She was a tall girl with an unruly mane of blonde hair and an old Hollywood sense of elegance. Our goodbye had been far too quick. After Lewis and I got word from our employer, we cleaned up the flat quick as we could and took the next train down to Rome. Beatrice saw me off at the station, and told me to find her in Ravenna if I ever got the chance. We had the hotel room booked for six nights. We were supposed to lie low for the week, and then Piotr Sokolov, our boss, would get in touch and tell us where we were headed next. Lewis and I decided to keep our mouths shut, our heads down and our profiles as low to the ground as possible. This discretion went well for about an hour, until I stopped in a tabacchi to pick up a fresh pack of smokes. I left Lewis alone for only two minutes, but when I came back outside, he was clutching a small, brown bottle in his left hand. “It’s adrenochrome,” he explained. “Bought it off a Moroccan. Strongest hallucinogen on God’s green earth. A few drops of this stuff and you’ll be set for the night.” Such a thing seemed terribly unprofessional, but at the time I didn’t see any other way I could cope with spending yet another night with Lewis. As long as we maintained a certain level of composure, I thought, we’d turn out alright, more or less. I gave into temptation, and we split the contents of the bottle between two glasses of sour red wine. Then we let the night run its course. Things started out amiably enough, but, as the evening progressed, I lost momentum rather quickly. By the time we’d arrived at some park due east of the Tiber, I was beginning to lose it. That stuff had hit me strong. The madness in my mind approached hysteria. My thoughts were everywhere my feet weren’t. A state like 68
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F I C T I O N this can make a man terribly dizzy. Lewis was giggling in a chemical stupor as we wandered across the lamplit grass. He was content to play the fool. I treaded more lightly, afraid of whatever demons lurked just out of eyesight. We moved through shadows like boorish ghosts, free to haunt the streets until the sun rose. Any longer than that and we might offend the locals. “Hell, do we really have to leave this place?” Lewis was saying. I thought he was talking to me, but I could never be sure. The boy talked to himself quite often. “This city suits me. Where is Piotr shipping us off to next?” “He didn’t say.” “Did he sound angry when you talked to him?” “Angry? No. I’m sure he’s very sympathetic.” In truth, when I had spoken to the man on the phone, he’d said something along the lines of mounting our heads on his mantel, although his Russian vernacular never translated well. “Oh, good. I knew he’d understand. It was an honest mistake, I swear.” “Where exactly are you from, anyhow?” I asked him. “Me? Well, if you must know, I’m from Barstow. You know Barstow?” I hadn’t even the faintest clue where that was. The name just conjured images of a dusty town guarding a burning wasteland, a final attempt to warn off the brave and foolish who wished to venture into the lawless land of the old gods. I didn’t even want to think what waited there in the desert. It was a land of raving fiends, all chasing some ancient dream until they dropped dead, quietly and inevitably, of exhaustion. The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed that Lewis had come from such an awful place. I glanced over at him. His shaggy black hair fell right down to the collar of the gray sweater his mother had knitted him. He’d been grinning like a madman for the better part of the evening. Somehow, recent events had failed to make an impression on him. He was, I decided, either completely oblivious or simply at ease with his own inevitable damnation. I was glancing around for a street sign — a futile endeavor in a city park — and I could feel Lewis’ eyes on me as he searched for something to say. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re really weird?” I wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or flattered. “Heard it once or twice.” There was an uncomfortable lull, so I added, “Believe it or not, I used to know how to be cool.” We continued on in silence. I didn’t mind, but I could tell he couldn’t stand it. Paranoia always got the better of him if too long a stillness passed by. I could have said something to put him at ease. I didn’t. The quiet lasted until we had found our way to a road that rose up above the skyline of the city. “Villa Borghese,” Lewis said, as the city shone below us like a sea of dying candles. “That’s the name of that park.” The road brought us south, to the top of the Spanish Steps. The Piazza di Spagna lay empty. The stone staircase, once crowded with tourists and lovers and gypsies and junkies, was stark naked. A tree, erected in honor of the holiday, stood on TMC Spring 2014
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F I C T I O N the landing halfway down. We stumbled to the bottom, making quite a scene for the absent audience. As we crossed the piazza, I heard some splashing coming from the fountain to our right. I stole a glance over my shoulder and saw two young women in the water. They had stripped down to their lingerie, and they flitted about the pool around the sunken marble ship. Their clothes were strewn about the gray cobblestone next to a bottle of peach-flavored Keglevich. They swam like water nymphs in the light of the fountain. Laughing softly, pupils dilated, they acted like the last two women on Earth. One of them, a girl with fair skin and straw-colored hair like Venus, filled her cupped hands and drank, grinning like a child. They didn’t see us. Innocent and oblivious, they rolled with the waves, and their sound became all I heard. I listened to the water as we passed by the glass windows of all the glamorous shops. The sound followed me ceaselessly. That same sound had been the last thing Keats heard before he passed on in blood and sweat. Here lies the one whose name was writ in water. I began to panic. This night would be the end of me; I knew it. This city would never let me go. The Olympians had no power here anymore. The gods of the Vatican now ruled, and they were haughty, suspicious, ready to condemn me for the slightest offense. I could feel them, peering down like sentinels from the rooftops, waiting for me to falter and fall. “Lewis, I’ve got the Fear. Their gods are watching us. We’ve nowhere left to hide. They’ll tell Piotr everything.” Either he hadn’t heard me or he didn’t want to further my delusions. He just chuckled as we turned left onto the Corso. “It’s December twenty-second,” he said. “Yesterday was the end of the world.” The Corso, the busiest street in the city, forever crowded with people rushing, scrambling, pushing and shoving like righteous animals, was empty. The Christmas lights, though, endless strings of them, criss-crossing between buildings, covering the sidewalks like canopies, crawling like electric vines all the way from Piazza del Popolo to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, buzzed in all their glory. The night air was cold, the breeze uncomfortably sharp, and my feet ached from all our aimless, wasted hours. The artificial euphorias were drifting away. Lewis had gone quiet, hypnotized by the bright lights, and he faded effortlessly into the backdrop of palaces and souvenir shops. I felt lonely. Lewis made for terrible company, and for too long now I’d been sleepwalking city to city, town to town. Hotel rooms and trains, weapons and targets, an endless cycle that I kept spinning because the money kept pouring in. There was an emptiness in my gut, a restlessness in my heart. This night now seemed like a terrible idea. We had a full week left in Rome, not long at all, but as I staggered along, a week felt interminable. This city was my goddam purgatory, halfway between the unsullied mountains of the north and the scorched lowlands of the south. I was just another sinner in a sea of millions. We were damned, all of us, imprisoned in the turmoil of mad emperors and holy men. Salvation was almost entirely out the question. 70
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F I C T I O N Now, before I had taken the train to Rome, Beatrice had slipped me a note. She often wrote notes and letters to her friends, usually without any clear intent. On this scrap of paper, she had jotted just a few lines down in purple pen. To Robert Side 2 Track 2 We’re just two lost souls, swimming in a fish bowl, year after year — Running over the same old ground, what have we found? The same old fears. Wish you were here. Beatrice was a remarkable girl. Her hopefulness was astounding. She was in a better place, and she knew I would find her soon enough. I thought of her then, waiting in Ravenna, close to the sea she loved so much. Then there was Piotr, with his lists of names and clients and the trails of bodies he left wherever he went. Maybe the chemicals in my veins just made me bold, but under those streetlights, I decided I would run. We would run. And try as he might, Piotr would never find us. Because even though I was stuck, at least temporarily, in a city that refused to die, there was no cycle too strong to be broken. I would find her again. And there wasn’t a thing anyone could do to stop me. “Lewis?” I said. “Huh?” “We’re getting out of here. Not today, perhaps, but someday, and once I’m gone I’m never coming back.” He hadn’t the faintest idea what I was talking about, but he must have sensed I was at ease for the first time in several hours, because he asked no questions. There was serenity in these empty roads. They were haunted, for sure, a breeding ground for all the bleary-eyed ghosts of the underworld. Nevertheless, as we neared the end of the Corso, I felt a certain confidence. If I could press on and not look back, not even once, paradise would be just around the corner.
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A R T Malden High School
/ Grade 12
Safety
M a t e o
C o r o n a d o
d r a w i n g
The Past
B e n e d i c t
Marshall Simonds Middle School / Grade 8
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G r u b n e r
A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11
Young and Fearful
Celeste Inf antino
d r a w i n g
The Monsters Inside
M i n n a Wa n g
Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11
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F I C T I O N Milton Academy / Grade 12
R a c h a e l
A l l e n
How You Learn Grief It starts at Christmas, for no other reason than one day it just does, socked feet padding after a remote controlled car that prods potted plants and balled wrapping paper until a shoe catches it off guard, as it flips and splits open, bright red paint skinned and wheels still turning, wires protruding like skinny, black intestines. Then come the goldfishes flipped upside down in their tanks, the days after school when the other kids fold themselves into minivans and you wait for yours, only five minutes longer, stomach taut as if you were holding your breath underwater. There are the nights you lay awake, too hot in bed, moon barring ceiling, listening for the rumble of the garage door and the shhupp of the back door, or, then, there’s the highway where you see a coyote walking alongside the railing in a straight line, fur sticking up, body wavering slightly, cowering from the cars like the way your father’s shoulders hunch over the piano bench after his father dies. Soon come the different schools, the words you don’t know the meaning of, the empty containers of peanut butter put back in the cabinet, the way your father folds socks in front of the television one day, tells you to go do homework in the other room. You, being ten and curious, instead sit in the kitchen and watch from between the legs of chairs smoke pluming on the television and don’t know what to feel when you see your father rub his phone in his pocket like an itch. You forget this, because then come the CDs that feel lonely to listen to alone, the amusement parks in winter, the fishing trip one January with no fish, the story your friend tells you about tiger salamanders eating their young. You laugh like you laugh when someone leaves a voicemail for the wrong number on your answering machine. You play it again and wish its apology were for you, wanting someone to feel that much for you. That night you don’t sleep and think only of the voice looping, hi, it’s me, Sunday, sorry, really, can we, you, call, me, you, you, bye. There are some mornings when you wake and feel the cold hit you, feeling something finished, like your old cat spread under the flat pressed mulch in the backyard or the day starting when you’re not quite ready.
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A R T Malden High School / Grade 11
L y
H u y n h
Patient
d r a w i n g TMC Spring 2014
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F I C T I O N Burlington High School / Grade 10
M i c h a e l a
C a t h e r i n e
L a P r i s e
Between Fear and Freedom I felt my entire face turn bright red as my name was called. My legs trembling in fear as I stood up to face the courtroom. I could feel my nerves churning my stomach. It felt as if one hundred butterflies were slicing my insides apart with their fluttering wings. The audience’s glare burned holes through my skin as I made my way to the stand. Sweat began streaming down my forehead washing away the excess dirt from my face. I raised my hand promising to “tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” As I took my seat I locked eyes with my father. His glare reminding me of the pain he would inflict upon me if I were to expose him. I looked down at the black and blue bruises covering my arm. A rush of panic surged through my body as my eyes began to swell with tears. The sound of my father’s hand slapping my face was still fresh in my mind. I looked up to face Mr. Wilson who was standing in front of me with a curious eyebrow raised. I immediately ducked away from his eye contact, feeling embarrassed. “Ms. Ellis can you please explain to the jury exactly what had happened on the night of October 23rd, 1998?” My eyes wandered towards my father as I hesitated to answer Mr. Wilson’s question. I desperately searched my father’s eyes for guidance but all I received back was a stoic glare and a simple nod. I was on my own. I quickly tried to piece together a less incriminating story in my mind, yet flashbacks of that night clouded my judgment. The sound of sirens still reverberated in my ears. The memory of my father raising his beer bottle in retaliation seemed to play on an infinite loop inside my head. I could picture it vividly. I had never seen him so infuriated, nor have I ever been so frightened. “Ms. Ellis would you please answer my question?” I felt suspicious. “Uh yes.” I replied. What could I possibly say to make them believe me? I glanced at my father. His emotionless stare once again causing me to draw a blank. I was no longer able to hold back the tears; small droplets began to dribble down my face. I watched as my father dropped his head and clenched his fists in frustration. I covered my face, hiding the shame behind my hands. “Ms. Ellis, is everything alright?” “I’m sorry...Its just hard for me to talk about.” I said as Mr. Wilson handed me a tissue. “That’s okay, Ms. Ellis, we understand. Take as much time as you need.” I was unable to stop my tears. Why are they putting me through all this? It felt like I was the one on trial. All this stress was giving me a headache. I wasn’t sure 76
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F I C T I O N if I could follow through with my father’s expectations. The entire weight of his case rested on my shoulders. “Ms. Ellis, I must remind you that lying under oath is a criminal offense.” I glanced at my father. His arms were tightly crossed and he was shaking his head. I looked back at Mr. Wilson and then down again. I was more than just upset, I was angry. How dare this town put my father through this embarrassment! What were they trying to prove? “How about we start with a simpler question. Tell me something, Ms. Ellis, how often does your father drink?” The knot in my stomach tightened “Not that often.” I lied. “Interesting.” Mr. Wilson eyed the jury. Damn it! I shouldn’t have lied. My entire body trembled with fear. I sat back crossing my arms and allowing Mr. Wilson to continue his questioning. “Since your father doesn’t drink that often, Ms. Ellis, can you please explain the shattered beer bottle and open containers found at the scene of the crime?” I covered my face, running my fingers along the groove where my father had struck me. My tears quickly reemerged. What happened that night was more than I could handle. Mr. Wilson leaned in closer. “Has your father ever tried to harm you in anyway, Ms. Ellis?” He asked in a calm and sympathetic voice. A newfound rage coursed through my body. I looked around at all the staring faces eagerly awaiting my reply. I stood up and pounded my fist against the stand. “What are you trying to prove here? My father is a good man, and frankly all of this is nobody’s business! I’m done being interrogated. I refuse to answer another one of your ridiculous questions!” I could feel steam bursting from my ears as I stood enraged in front of the courtroom. I hated Mr. Wilson for tarnishing my father’s name. He had no right! “Fair enough.” Mr. Wilson said as he glanced back at the jury. “No further questions.” I could feel the eyes of everyone in the courtroom following me as I stepped down from the stand and returned to my seat. My mind was saturated with the fear of my father’s rage. I messed up big time; He was going to kill me! As I attempted to dry my tears I felt somewhat relieved that I no longer had to answer Mr. Wilson’s incriminating questions. All I could do now was remain quiet and pray my father was acquitted.
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P O E T R Y Lincoln-Sudbury Regional High School / Grade 12
Ashley Liu
Fo r B
isn’t it beautiful how our mirrored reflections touch in ways we never will? the shadows distort our awkward feet and pale hands so they hesitantly meet and the glass lies if I could I would lean in and fill the sad empty tired spaces in your arms until these rainless clouds no longer bothered you for all the people I have ever been are filmy waif-like strips plastered gauzily over each other every fleeting façade blending into something unfamiliar but dear dear, because of you my layers are melting away cascading down like colored candlewax with each of your glances your lips consume my thoughts and I wish you would lay down those worn-out black frames perfect vision is not a prerequisite for this
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A R T Somerville High School / Grade 12
R a c h a e l
B e r r y
Rotten Ber r y
p a i n t i n g
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LOVE WHAT YOU DO Bachelor of Fine Arts Program
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No. 11
M I N D O V E R M AT T E R p ain ting
ISSN 2156-7298
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Rene Fleming
Auburn High School / Grade 11 themarblecollection.org