The Marble Collection: Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts Winter 2016 by The Marble Collection, Inc.

WINTER 2016

MASSACHUSETTS HIGH SCHOOL MAGAZINE OF THE ARTS 1

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Winter 2016

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SUBMIT TEEN ART

AND WRITING TO OUR MAGAZINE!

MASSACHUSETTS HIGH SCHOOL MAGAZINE OF THE ARTS

The Marble Collection (TMC) publishes the Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts, the only statewide print and online magazine of the arts featuring artwork, photography, poetry, and creative writing by teens, grades 8-12. We also offer teen artists and writers one-to-one online and in-person Mentoring for Publication Workshops, in which they are paired with college-level mentors, who guide their work to publication for real-world audiences.

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], a 501 (c)(3) nonprofit organization, publishes The Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts, a juried, professionalquality publication, and the only statewide print and online magazine of the arts featuring artwork, photography, poetry, and creative writing by teens in grades 8 to 12. TMC’s commitment to teen writers and artists does not end when they are selected for publication. We offer them one-to-one online and in-person Mentoring for Publication Workshops, in which they are paired with college-level mentors, who guide their work to publication for real-world audiences. M I S S I O N S TAT E M E N T TMC cultivates creativity and excellence in the arts by engaging teen artists and writers in a publication process that affirms their voices and deepens their learning.

TMC: PARTNERS At a time when budget cuts and an emphasis on standardized testing mean that fewer teens in Massachusetts have access to the arts, TMC collaborates with 200 Massachusetts schools and community groups to publish and mentor 100 teen writers and artists each school year. To make its programs more accessible to underserved teens, TMC collaborates with 12 Massachusetts organizations, including Artists for Humanity, ArtWorks, Big Brothers Big Sisters of Massachusetts Bay, Books of Hope, Boston Children’s Theatre, Grub Street, Inc., Institute of Contemporary Art, Boston, massmouth, Press Pass TV, RAW, Sociedad Latina, and UMass Boston’s Urban Scholars. In 2013, TMC was awarded the prestigious Arts|Learning “Outstanding Community Arts Education Collaborative Award” for developing a model arts education collaborative between school and community cultural resources. To become a partner, at no cost, please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/about/participate

TMC: SUBSCRIBE CLASSROOM BUNDLE

(25 copies per edition)

ONE-YEAR SINGLE COPY

$275.00 $27.00 $13.50

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TMC Winter 2016

Make a gift to ensure that The Marble Collection (TMC) can continue to offer its free publishing and mentoring programs that inspire teens across Massachusetts to share their creativevoices voicesand andvisions. visions. their creative We must raise $10,000 in the new year to bring our free Teen Publication Workshop to 10 additional under-resourced schools, reaching 250 new teen artists and writers. An annual subscription to our award-winning magazine is just $27 and makes a great gift. A donation of $100 or more helps us bring the Teen Publication Workshops to under-resourced schools across the state.

TMC: STAFF EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR WEBMASTER

Deanna Elliot Andrew Rakauskas

TMC: INTERNS & VOLUNTEERS EDITORS

ART JURORS GRANT WRITER ACCOUNTING MANAGER COMMUNICATIONS EXECUTIVES

Kate Betts Jenna Cavanaugh Dana Hortman Corrine Nguyen K a t r i n a Ta y l o r A m a n d a We i k e l Anna Xie Michaela Lake James McCabe Andrea Palagi D m i t r i y To k a r e v Alysha Ali M e g h a n a Va l l u r u p a

TMC: LEADERSHIP BOARD OF DIRECTORS

ADVISORY COMMITTEE

STUDENT ADVISORY BOARD

Meryl Loonin, Chair Chelsea Revelle, Secretary R o s s K l o s t e r m a n , Tr e a s u r e r Melody Forbes Kathryn Lee Donna Neal John Sadoff Leanne Scott Thomas Bentley Jack Curtis Susan Denison Melanie McCarthy Nakia Navarro Allan Reeder Jamie Ross Jazna Stannard Elizabeth Case Emily Cox Annalisa Flynn Tiancheng Lyu Jazmin Rosario Julie Suh

TMC Winter 2016

TMC: ADVERTISE With its diverse print and digital circulation, and distinct presence inside and outside the classroom, TMC is a one-of-a-kind recruitment tool. Reach your target audience and showcase the unique programs your educational institution has to offer with TMC! NEXT EDITION / SPRING 2016 Closing Date for Reservations: Copy Date: Pu b l i c a t i o n D a t e :

April 20, 2016 April 24, 2016 May 15, 2016 (approximate)

To learn more, please review TMC Media Kit at: www.themarblecollection.org/advertise

TMC: DONATE TMC needs your support to offer our quality programs free of charge. Your donations ensure we can publish and mentor 100 teen artists and writers each school year. With a gift of $275 or more, we’ll list your name on the Patrons page of the magazine. All donations are 100% tax-deductible and include a complimentary subscription to the Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts. GIVING LEVELS • $1,000: Supports 10 teen artists in TMC’s e-Gallery, an online exhibit to showcase and sell teen artwork. • $500: Supports TMC’s annual teen art exhibition and magazine release gala, Spring into Art. • $275: Supplies an under-resourced school with a Classroom Bundle Subscription (25 copies) to the semiannual Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts. • $100: Supports the development of the online, semiannual Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts. • $50: Supplies 2 under-resourced schools with a TMC Starter Kit, equipped with a tutorial slideshow and educational materials. To donate online please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/donate Please make checks payable to: The Marble Collection, Inc. University of Massachusetts, Boston Campus Center, Office 3410 100 Morrissey Boulevard Boston, MA 02125

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TMC: SPONSOR TMC’s programs and events provide businesses and individuals with standard or customized sponsorship opportunities that boast significant marketing benefits. All sponsorships are 100% tax-deductible and ensure that TMC can continue to offer its publishing and mentoring programs at no cost to more underserved teens across the state. SPONSORSHIP LEVELS • $25,000: Underwrites our semiannual Mentoring for Publication Workshop, a 6-week one-to-one workshop for 100 published teen artists and writers. • $10,000: Underwrites 20 workshops in under-resourced schools, community organizations, and public libraries to educate teens about the publication process. • $7,500: Supports training sessions for our college student interns for one year. • $5,000: Sponsors 2 semester-long internship positions for college students. • $2,500: Supports the production of the semiannual Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts and distribution to 100 under-resourced school libraries. To become a sponsor, please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/sponsor

TMC: SUPPORTERS University of Massachusetts

Walmart Facility #2184

Rhyme and Reason Family Fund

The Llewellyn Foundation

Boston, MA

Seekonk, MA

Boston, MA

Springfield, OH

umb.edu

giving.walmart.com

tdf.com

llewellynfoundation.org

TMC is also supported in part by grants from Massachusetts local cultural councils, local agencies which are supported by the Massachusetts Cultural Council, a state agency. *** T M C PAT R O N S Richard & Liz Allen, Priscilla & Ramon Chura, Michael Conkey, Kevin Fachetti, Susan Hammond, Bob Kustka, Scott Lombard, Mathew & Barbara Loonin, Neil Fisher & Meryl Loonin, Chelsea Revelle, Jen & Mike Vogelzang THANK YOU.

TMC Winter 2016

TMC: CONTENTS 10 Welcome (Poetry) Jazi Charbit / Lexington High School

11 The Light (Art) Miriana Hamze Peabody Veterans Memorial High School

12 The Reversal (Fiction) Sophie Baker / Groton School

16 Sail (Art) James Cirrone / Burlington High School

17 Beauty in Dots (Art) Susanna Mykoniatis / South Shore Christian Academy

18 Gone (Poetry) Sophie Baker / Groton School

20 The New Season (Poetry) Ben Birnbach / Marblehead High School

21 El Tambo (Art) Alison Banks / Groton School

22 Thoughtful (Art) Alison Banks / Groton School

23 Splash at Sunset (Art) Marc Budd / Lynnfield High School

24 Mother (Fiction) Hanna Kim / Groton School

28 Dingy (Art) Riley McHugh / Marshall Simonds Middle School

29 Middle Street (Art) Sarah Schissler / Marshall Simonds Middle School

30 Affectionless (Poetry) Jessica O’Neil / Brockton High School

32 Aquaintances (Fiction) Tess Davies / Amherst Regional High School

33 Colorful Fall (Art) Jade Sweeney / Marshall Simonds Middle School

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34 Innocence (Poetry)

Tess Davies / Amherst Regional High School

36 Punk Has Class (Art)

Amihra Eliosof Blue Hills Regional Vocational Technical High School

37 Dusk (Art)

Emily Moreira / Burlington High School

38 2. (Poetry)

Jessica O’Neil / Brockton High School

39 9 Days (Art)

Lindsay Conley / Burlington High School

40 The Lunch Box That Changed My Life (Nonfiction) Jeong Hyun (Lilias) Kim / Groton School

42 2x4 (Video)

Ismael Diallo / English High School Institute of Contemporary Art

43 Mimi and Bobby (Video)

Margaret Gill / Concord-Carlisle Regional High School Institute of Contemporary Art

44 The Uncharitable Ones (Poetry) MaryGrace King / Montrose School

48 Any Buyers? (Art)

Neil Pandit / Marshall Simonds Middle School

49 North (Art)

Jeff Wu / Franklin High School

50 To My Hair (Poetry)

Lesley Ells / Excel High School

51 Falling (Art)

Catherine Sullivan Blue Hills Regional Vocational Technical High School

52 The Five Day War (Poetry) Vinny Souto / Natick High School

53 Fallen Soldiers (Art) Aurora Golden / Marshall Simonds Middle School

TMC: Winter 2016 54 Inferno (Fiction) Daniel McCarthy / Burlington High School

57 Human Clock (Art) Alisha Mithal / Chelmsford High School

58 Eye of the Tiger (Art) Maddy Ward / Boston Latin School

59 Vietnam #1 (Art) Chloë Hammond / Amesbury High School

60 Memory’s Paint (Poetry) Isabel Griffith-Gorgati / The Winsor School

62 Within the Eyes (Poetry) Aurora Golden / Marshall Simonds Middle School

63 Agony (Art) Tori Livingston Blue Hills Regional Vocational Technical High School

64 Autumn Was Her Name (Poetry) Marysa Lee / Needham High School

65 Dark Art (Art) Hannah Emerson Blue Hills Regional Vocational Technical High School

66 The End of the Search (Nonfiction) Julie Suh / Lexington High School

69 Seeing the Light (Art) Erin Kerr / Burlington High School

70 In Your Own Words (Poetry) Hanna Kim / Groton School

71 Self-Portrait (Art) Alisha Mithal / Chelmsford High School

72 The Last Thoughts of a Sour Patch Kid (Poetry) Natalie Good / Cambridge School of Weston

74 A Sickly Sweet Romance (Fiction) Alycia Nichols / North Attleboro High School

75 Lost (Art) Ryleigh Barrucci / Burlington High School

76 Watermelon (Art) Sarah Schissler / Marshall Simonds Middle School

76 Many Boats (Art) Sophia Lupo / Burlington High School

77 Profile Falls (Art) Ashlyn Biundo / Marshall Simonds Middle School

77 Tea Time (Art) Alison Martin / Burlington High School

78 Society Has Only Two Senses (Poetry) Alana Burgess / Abington High School

80 To Break Free (Poetry) Alexandra Lamson / Groton School

81 Pet Portraits (Art) Amber Murphy Blue Hills Regional Vocational Technical High School

82 Slow Hallway (Art) Meghan Flaherty / Burlington High School

82 Table Talk (Art) Tori Livingston Blue Hills Regional Vocational Technical High School

83 Red Jeep (Art) Sophia Lupo / Burlington High School

83 Classic Harbor Line (Art) Jordan Kalatchev / Burlington High School

84 Water Soldier (Fiction) Dat Le / Excel High School

86 Mom’s Doctor (Fiction) Ethan Woo / Groton School

87 Rock, Paper, Scissors (Art) Arthur Lauretano / Andover High School

TMC Winter 2016

P O E T R Y Lexington High School / Class of 2015

Jazi Charbit

We l c o m e Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. Give me your thrill-seeking, your dream-catching, your small town kid with a will to be something big, something great, something anyone wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t forget. Give me your pushed envelopes, and your broken boxes, tattered, shattered and all. Come dance up on the peaceful roofs, and sing from the dirty streets below. Give me those who desire adventure forever, and think passion to be the key to success. But beware dear dreamersâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; for those who wander through life, in search of anything new, may find themselves troubled, once they see everyone else is too.

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A R T Peabody Veterans Memorial High School / Class of 2015

M i r i a n a

H a m z e

The Light

c o l l a g e

p h o t o s h o p

TMC Winter 2016

F I C T I O N Groton School / Class of 2016

S o p h i e

B a k e r

The Reversal He fiercely slapped her across the cheek, creating a burning sensation which spread over her face like a disease. His firm hand against her soft skin was like snow on a summer’s day; it didn’t belong there. As she pulled away, Hudson glowered at her contemptuously, “Don’t yuhh everrr taulk baack to me,” he slurred. Zoe’s face reddened as she stared back in terror; all she had done was refuse to wash the dishes—she was weary and yearned to go to bed. He had taken her words offensively, for he was the one who decided what she could and could not do. Zoe was Hudson’s little puppet, she had no independence of her own. She wasn’t surprised he had hit her. For the past couple of months, his reprimanding had become more violent. He escalated his typical verbal abuse into physical punishment. His words seemed to deteriorate in their effectiveness; he now slurred and mumbled half of the things that came from his mouth. Zoe was not sure what the cause of this was, however, for he never drank. His slurring was only a recent occurrence. When they were first married he was extremely eloquent, his words flowed off his tongue like butter. This was what made Zoe initially gravitate towards him. Zoe and Hudson lived isolated from society. This was Hudson’s choice, of course. Zoe had wanted to live in the midst of a city; she desired to socialize with fellow adults and discuss the current weather or books she had recently read, maybe even politics. Instead, they lived on a corn farm in the middle of Iowa, several miles away from any town. Hudson preferred to live in solitude without other people creating complications in his life. This way, he wouldn’t have to worry about other men stealing Zoe away. Zoe took care of the household chores: she cleaned, dusted and washed their clothes. When she wasn’t cleaning, Hudson forced Zoe to knit and sew. He said that’s what women are supposed to do in their free time, although she hated such menial tasks. It was like torture to her. With every stitch came a sharp pain in her heart. As she sat and stared out the window each day with needles in her hands, she would lose herself in the immensity of the vast corn fields which encompassed their home. Sometimes she yearned to work out there, to get her hands dirty in manual labour. She imagined herself planting seeds and watering them each day. She would look after them as if they were her children. When it came time to pick the final crop, she would cry as if her children were taking their first steps or graduating college. Hudson forbid her to do this however, for he worried it would weaken her delicate physique. “Don’t want yuhh to breahk a nail,” he would say in his garbled manner, “it might prevent yuhh frum completin’ yurr cleanin duties.” 12

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F I C T I O N Their little house was dark and dreary, worn down from abuse due to the harsh elements of summer and winter. Few windows covered its walls, preventing sunlight from brightening the small gloomy rooms. Zoe would spend her winter days scrunched up by the fireplace, searching for hope in the warm flame of the fire. In the summer however, she would sit on the porch in her rocking chair and stare off into the distant landscape which had been unscathed by the powers of industrialization. She would let herself drift off into a faint dream, imagining that she lived in a bustling city. Her life would be utterly different. While she would work as a successful doctor or lawyer, her husband would stay at home and complete the housework. Inevitably, Hudson’s reprimands would snap her out of this meditative state. He would venomously object to her not completing her duties as his wife. And only with the blows that followed was she completely brought back to reality. Hudson’s work was to sell the corn which he harvested. He would drive down to the highway in his old pick-up truck and sell it roadside for three dollars a bushel. When he wasn’t selling corn, he was hunting with his various guns which he kept on display in their living room as if they were his most prized possessions. There were a total of fifteen, mostly shotguns and rifles with a couple of hand guns mounted on lower shelves. Alongside them were the stuffed heads of several bucks which he had shot down in previous years. Zoe despised these busts. Their eyes would follow her as she moved across the room, as if keeping watch to make sure she was completing her chores. Hudson would leave for hours on end to go hunting and come back with all kinds of game which he made Zoe cook and prepare for meals. Most of his quarry consisted of duck and turkey, with the occasional deer to feast on. Sometimes he hunted right on their property, within eyesight of the house. Zoe would watch in awe as he loaded up his shotgun and aimed for his target. She noted how he would wait for several minutes before he pulled the trigger. He could block out all distractions and hit the desired beast with one simple shot. In the past couple of weeks, however, Zoe had watched repeatedly as Hudson missed the animal altogether. The gun would sometimes even slip out of his weakening hands and plummet to the firmly packed earth. He would then proceed to yell out of frustration and scare the game away for good. On these days he would return to the house frantic with a longing to release his anger in some way. He would beat Zoe until her skin turned blue, until they both crumbled under his wrath. Zoe spent most of her time inside because Hudson always told her the elements would ruin her fair skin. She had little communication with the outside world and lived a quiet, mundane life. To her, it seemed as if she was imprisoned by Hudson’s desires. One summer day, curiosity overtook Zoe as she wandered into the corn fields while Hudson was out hunting. She galloped through the mazes, filled with a spontaneous urge never to return to the imprisoning house. She felt liberated, a feeling she had experienced only a distant time ago. She now saw the beauty of her surroundings: the vivid blue sky and miles and miles of picturesque fields. Then she looked back at where she had come from, the house which had imprisoned her from her own life. The house didn’t belong in these magnificent fields, it contaminated the landscape. TMC Winter 2016

F I C T I O N Suddenly a voice shouted out from behind her, “What arr yuhh doin’ Zoe!? Did aye say yuhh could leave the houuse?!” Zoe whipped around to see Hudson just a few feet away, gun in hand. She had been too entranced to hear his hefty footsteps as he dragged his legs across the earth. He then proceeded to lift the gun up and strike her on the side of the head. The blow consisted of enough force to knock her down and fill her with pain, yet with less power than his usual blows. Still, Zoe had no capability to prevent the hit. She watched as her hope for freedom dissolved before her eyes and she collapsed against the hard dirt. Hudson followed her lead, for just seconds after he had struck her, his knees buckled and he crumbled to the ground. The blow had consumed all the remaining strength in his body. They lay there concurrently in silence, enclosed by corn fields, looking up into the heavens, both too weak to stand up. Several feet separated them, yet it seemed like miles. Her mind began to race as her vision faded and her eyes latched shut. Fleeting visions of when she and Hudson were first married flooded into her conscious. She envisioned when they were in love, although it perplexed her to imagine such a time. They would venture into the fields and lie down together to watch the sky fade from blue to black. As they lay there together, a plethora of colours would permeate the blue before darkness reigned. With fingers interlocked, Hudson would state that he loved her, and she would echo in response without hesitation. They were too lost in each other’s souls to realize that darkness was devouring their worlds. Hudson was undergoing a significant transformation. It was not obvious to her then, not until the past several months, that he had encountered a life-altering condition. His state of being had slowly deteriorated into something alien. The once charming, compassionate man she loved had turned into a monster. She did not know who he was anymore, and neither did he. Their love had not only evaporated, but transformed into a nightmare. Zoe opened her eyes to see that the blue skies had darkened solemnly to night. Her head pounded as the darkness encompassed her thoughts. She turned to see Hudson lying next to her, eyes wide open. His chest heaved up and down, but he remained motionless. She outstretched a shaking hand and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hudson, are you alright?” she asked worriedly. His mouth cracked open, but no words followed. She repeated the question, this time he answered with a slurring of different syllables, “Arghhhhh gshhhhh,” he mumbled incomprehensibly under his breath. But she wasn’t relieved from the response as she predicted she would be. Instead, she felt encumbered by his living soul. Zoe gradually forced herself to stand up, yet she remained unsteady from the blow she had taken. The wound was not critical, but the effects were extensive: her vision had been blurred and she felt woozy to an extent which she had never experienced. Opaque blood had crusted around the large lump which had formed. But Zoe had learned to withstand harsh beatings. They had actually strengthened both her mental and physical state of being, allowing her to block out the throbbing sensation which disseminated through her body. 14

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F I C T I O N As she looked at the flaccid body of the man she once loved, she struggled to decide whether to flee from the darkness or to assist Hudson when he most needed her. Then, once again, she remembered the cohesion that they once felt, before the beatings had begun. She took Hudson by the arms and dragged him back into the house, his bulky body wilted from its once lively state. She heaved him though the front door and onto the hardwood floor. He garbled a slur of nonsense, repeatedly yelling out in horror, but Zoe ignored his useless attempts to communicate. She refused to pity him, abandoning his hopeless body and retiring to her bedroom, neglecting to scrub the dishes from the previous day’s dinner. The next morning she awoke as the morning’s sunlight gleamed across her face. The room appeared brighter than its usual dismal temperament. She felt enlightened as she walked down the stairs to where Hudson lay. He hadn’t changed positions, his eyes still wide with terror and arms flailed across the ground. Zoe felt no sympathy as she grabbed a shotgun from the display shelf and loaded it up. Hudson’s eyes darted back and forth, shocked that she would dare touch his prized gun and frightened by what might come next. He whimpered as Zoe turned around maliciously. She didn’t think twice before she reached out and slapped him with as much force as she could possibly muster up. His eyes fixated upon her as she pulled her strong arm away. His skin began to redden as the disease spread across his face and throughout his veins. Zoe could sense the immense terror in his eyes; it was almost tangible. She felt her inferiority diminish as she fed off of his fear. She glowered at him contemptuously until her hunger was satisfied. She then stepped out of the front door, shotgun in hand, and jumped in the old pick-up truck. As she opened the glove compartment to grab the keys, a picture of her and Hudson on their wedding day tumbled out and onto the floor. Both of them were smiling, filled with an unmeasurable amount of joy. She snatched the photograph off the ground and ripped it straight down the middle before she started the ignition. As she reversed the truck, Zoe flung it out the window into the breeze. With a strange feeling of liberation, she drove away from the imprisoning walls without a single glance back.

TMC Winter 2016

A R T Burlington High School / Class of 2015

J a m e s

C i r r o n e

Sail

p h o t o g r a p h y

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A R T South Shore Christian Academy / Class of 2015

S u s a n n a

M y k o n i a t i s

Beauty in Dots

d r a w i n g

TMC Winter 2016

P O E T R Y Groton School / Class of 2016

S o p h i e

B a k e r

Gone

The heavy clouds puffed in short gasps; They were running out of reserves. They searched, but not a clean molecule was found; With each breath came poisonous toxins, With each breath, the venom of humanity, And the murkier they became; Their snowy coats turned to grey, Thickening with each inhale. They expanded over the infinite blue, Creating a limit to its perpetuity, Slowly suffocating it, Feasting off Its existence Until it was Gone. Then they overtook the fiery orb of light, Their dense pelts wrapped around its entirety As they claimed it as their own And set up a sign, “NO TRESPASSING.” They didn’t let anyone in to see it They didn’t let it out to see the world. No one was allowed to feed it, No one was allowed to watch it twirl. So it ran out of nutrients; No more vitamins, No more minerals. It could barely move, Let alone whirl, So they sacrificed it To themselves. They devoured Its entrails, They sucked up All its light. Until it too was Gone.

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P O E T R Y Their thirst was quenched for a while But one can only go so long without a drink, So they turned to the glimmering specks That shined in the darkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;when the orb was gone. The clouds swallowed each shimmer In one single gulp, One sip One swill One swig. And then Everything Was Gone.

TMC Winter 2016

P O E T R Y Marblehead High School / Class of 2018

Ben Birnbach

The New Season Snow was melting. Gleaming bright. Trees were blowing, Left to right. Wind was whistling, A melodious song. Even the birds, Joined along. Joy was in the air With cries of the new. It need not declare: Spring was long overdue.

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A R T Groton School / Class of 2016

A l i s o n

B a n k s

E l Ta m b o

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Winter 2016

A R T Groton School / Class of 2016

A l i s o n

B a n k s

Thoughtful

p h o t o g r a p h y

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A R T Lynnfield High School / Class of 2015

M a r c

B u d d

Splash at Sunset

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Winter 2016

F I C T I O N Groton School / Class of 2017

H a n n a

K i m

Mother I.

She woke up knowing that the world was waiting for her. She carefully swung her legs over the side of her bed, her feet instinctively finding the slippers she set on her rug every night. She padded over to her dressing table, on top of which there were tubes and bottles and tubs of makeup, arranged meticulously by function. Her hands, white and smooth from the care she devoted to them, hovered in anticipation over the curling iron, mascara, and lipsticks. She caught her own eyes in the mirror, and blew herself a kiss. The early morning light cast a white light over her soft features. Her face was moist and clean from the cream she had applied last night, and—wait, were her eyebrows uneven? She seized her eyebrow razor, shook out her silk-black hair, and set to work. Through her lace curtains, she could see that sugar-spun clouds had appeared in the sky. She stood up from her table and inspected her handiwork: porcelain skin, dark smoke-whipped eyelashes and eyebrows that were outshone only by the mischievous blackness of her eyes and bubblegum pink lips. Satisfied, she tiptoed to her closet, and swung the door open with a flourish. The inside of her closet reminded her of the fragrant herbs and flowers she used to crush inside a bowl and leave around the house, the only beacons of color throughout her otherwise dreary house. She chose a skirt that was short enough to keep the boys wondering, but long enough to keep her mother quiet. She took her special tube of rose-scented lotion from the white porcelain box next to her bed, noticed she only had a little left, and returned it to the box. She pulled a light, white blouse a size too small over her head, and bent down to do the tiny white buckles of her heels. She checked her leatherstrapped watch: it had only been two hours since she had woken up. She had made good time. At 12:03 p.m., she finally walked out of her house, 33 minutes late for the lunch she had promised her friends, but she looked like she owned the world and all the beautiful things in it. II. She looked down at the hem of the most beautiful dress she would ever wear in her life. Although her future husband—and first boyfriend—stood waiting for her, equally unsure about his choices, she couldn’t bring herself to raise her head, because she was afraid of the wall rather than the open gate she would see at the end of the aisle. She could feel the eyes of the daffodils, lilies, and white roses that lined the aisle; she only noticed the chipped petals and dying stems of the flowers she 24

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F I C T I O N picked out because they symbolized love and marriage. The brightness of the wedding hall certainly had a dazzling effect, but it seemed to serve only to illuminate her uncertainty. Creamy silk ribbons lined the seats that her family and friends were sitting in, who were impatiently waiting for the ceremony to be over so that they could continue living their own lives. The happiness of others would only light a candle in their minds for the briefest of moments. She barely registered her father’s murmured goodbyes and the sweet music played by the orchestra. She finally looked up. Her soon-to-be-husband, not much taller than she was, held his fists clenched at his sides. Her mother, sitting behind him, suddenly faced her, her eyes shining with a sad exuberance. It was not the freedom of a relieved burden: it was more the lingering emptiness after achieving a lifelong dream. The air was too full of too-jumbled emotions, just as the thick fragrances of the flowers mingled somewhat chaotically with each other. Sweat was making her dress stick to her back. Yet she managed to mechanically move her feet in her white sandals forward, empowered only by the love she felt for the man standing at the end of the path that would change her life. Or the love she thought she felt. III. He didn’t treat her right, or at least as right as her mother thought he did and should. He had the temper of thunder and the whims of a storm. He kept giving up on what he began: they lived in fourteen different neighborhoods in the space of two years, and he decided to move on from engineering, even though he had been a promising student in college and had even been considering starting up his own business. He told everyone, more as a reassurance to himself than as an explanation of his action, that he was “trying out new things” and “waiting for the right break to fall into his path.” She only saw it as a trying experience for both of them, and that he himself was falling into paths that ended as soon as he brushed himself off and took a step forward. When he told her that he was going to “start from scratch” and become an intern laboratory assistant for a company that created facial cream, she tried to talk him out of it. She pleaded, she begged, she cried, she threatened, she called his family members, who were unsupportive, and she wept. But once he decided on a path, he plowed through it. He became abusive to her when the internship earned him nothing, not even knowledge. He knew she had been right, and that he had been wrong, and it was almost a kind of jealousy that fueled his stinging words and blows. He was his own authority, but thought he was the authority of everyone else. She tried everything to get him to return to his engineering business, but that made him all the more determined to continue the internship, perhaps to prove her wrong. She slowly withdrew into herself, and he took up all of the space she used to inhabit. She lost her words, and his defiant shouts filled her ears, already bruised from his blows. Only one thing was keeping her from falling apart or even worse: me. TMC Winter 2016

F I C T I O N IV. I woke up at an ungodly hour to continue writing a history paper. I was exhausted and frustrated, and waking up when the sun wasn’t up only worsened my mood. I blearily trudged to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of ice-cold water. The ice was numbing, but it only served to heighten my fatigue. I heard my mother stir from her bedroom, probably from the sound of the refrigerator door slamming shut. Sleepily, she came out and murmured her sympathies about my being up so early. “Are you hungry?” she asked. Wordlessly, I returned to my room and shut the door, louder than I had meant to. After a short pause, I could hear the fridge door opening again, some rummaging, and a drawer being slid open. I wished she hadn’t gotten up, so that it would be quiet again. I blinked into the screen of my laptop, already scratched after only four days of use. A plate being placed as quietly as possible on the counter. The juicy crunch of a knife cutting into something. Water rushing out of the tap. Distractions. Just as I was about to shout through the door to my mother to stop making noise, my door opened. She quietly walked in and put a small plate of fruit on my desk. Just before she walked out the door, I said, “Knock next time.” “Sorry,” she whispered. “I will.” “I don’t even like apples,” I said. “Sorry,” she said again. I plugged my earphones into my laptop and turned the sound up as my mother closed the door as quietly as she could. I had been slumped over at my desk in frustration—the essay lacked only a conclusion—when my mother came back into my room. I pretended to be asleep so that I wouldn’t have to talk to her again. The apples were almost completely brown when she cautiously took the untouched plate from next to me. She put a blanket around my shoulders, took my earphones out of my ears and quietly left the room. V. I straightened out the hem of the second-nicest dress my mother would ever wear. My father, as unrelenting as ever, was too busy with his new electrical engineering company and had left right after the service, or perhaps he was too scared to watch her, the only woman who tried—but failed—to love him, being lowered into the ground. Her nails and toes were bare, and she was wearing the only jewelry she owned. She had lived her whole life as a mother. She had given up her youth, her beauty, her time—all of herself—to me. She had been a devoted, caring, selfless mother, and as I nodded to the undertaker to close the casket, I could still feel aching pangs of regret that reverberated from her past. 26

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F I C T I O N The undertaker lifted the dark wooden lid and propped it against his hip to hand me a tissue. I hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even realized I had been crying. My mother looked so peaceful. I hoped she had been at peace with herself during her last moments. Her long, white, work-beaten hands were folded serenely on her stomach. The heavy lines on her forehead she had always complained about were not visible anymore. Her hair, dyed frequently, had lost a lot of its luster. I was struck by how I noticed these indications of age and hard work after I could show my gratitude. I hoped she had felt like she had done well in this world. I hoped she knew how much I appreciated all that she had sacrificed for me. I hoped she had known how much I loved her, and that she had shown her love for me the best she could. But I had never told her these things: how was she to know? She never knew that I sometimes went into her room at night to lay her blanket over her, because I knew she got strangely cold when asleep. I never had the chance to tell her that apples were actually my favorite fruit. How was she to know that everything she gave up had been worth it? And the lid was finally closed over her. Never again would I see the woman who had loved me more than anyone else ever would. After she had been lowered into the ground, flecks of snow falling with the mud I shoveled over the casket, I returned to my house. My wife had been called back to work. I opened my bag and took out the white porcelain box, one of my motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s only personal possessions. Inside, I found an almost empty tube of hand lotion, a tattered cream ribbon, a tiny white baby shoe, one of my history essays with a large red A written at the top, and photo after photo of me.

TMC Winter 2016

A R T Marshall Simonds Middle School / Class of 2020

R i l e y

M c H u g h

Ding y

p h o t o g r a p h y

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A R T Marshall Simonds Middle School / Class of 2020

S a r a h

S c h i s s l e r

Middle Str eet

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Winter 2016

P O E T R Y Brockton High School / Class of 2016

Jessica O’Neil

Affectionless Woven, unwoven, interwoven, unspoken Still mouths rounded red and slick. Black tar lungs and yellow tongues Forked, pointed and short, stuck. And what luck, I find, in each undulate break, What’s at stake? I am young. Infect, defect, affect, what effect? Which effect? To which extent am I Rendered still? Bloodless and mad Hung and run dry, Halted, shook, stopped: Pressing feet and stomping thumbs, Pushing and pulling me numb You are sick. Sick as any sick could sicken me We pour it from our green veins and question Its color. We mark our names on white gates with stained fingers; Now ours— We are purposeless. But all we ever want is purpose. Purpose, purchase Nails painted by the dirt of our jealousy and The past in which we have used Abominably. Pompously. Self righteous. Eyes tight and lids cypress. I am not who I used to be. I am what you made me. Horribly bloated, compressed and goaded Repressed, oppressed, depressed by your Wishes. Waxed and lulled, mulled over like a claim Pondered. Wondered, wandered, over the mass graves of our futures we saunter. You are ill. 30

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P O E T R Y And I am blind. Fine thin, fine prim. Wound and unwound, rewound We whine and wind the sparse roots of our present mistakes around both wrists. And they cut deep; and they sweep short and sweet through our veins and wane as the journey becomes steep. I am not what I used to be.

TMC Winter 2016

F I C T I O N Amherst Regional High School / Class of 2016

T e s s

D a v i e s

Acquaintances I met him when I was fourteen years old, on the day he saved me from a terrible, terrible storm. A storm strong and furious enough to drown my future, to send me swirling away down a current of bad choices. I was running, running fast, my bare feet stabbed by pebbles as I splashed along, thinking I could outrun the storm. Bullets of rain blinded me as clumps of mud nipped and bit at my feet and up to my knees. That was when he reached out, gently, one strong arm halting me in my tracks and pulling me in. He stood alone, rooted to the spot. He was tall; relatively young, but nevertheless, towering above me. He used his body to shield me from the sheets of murderous rain, absorbing each blow without so much as a wince. “Wait with me,” he whispered, and I did. His skin was dark and rough, crawling with life. His body was strong and sturdy, as if it would take a team of lumberjacks to knock him down. He was the definition of safety. From that day forward, he was my best friend. I held on until the storm was over, my aching arms covered in scrapes and scratches. I promised him I’d be back tomorrow, and I left. I took a piece of him home with me that day, something soft and green and full of being. At first, I returned to him every day. He was always there, waiting for me, stock still in the field where we first met. On rainy days, he shielded me; on sunny days, he shaded me. Sometimes he’d lift me up in the air, careful not to drop me. I only fell once. It was my fault, but he apologized for weeks. We spent all that summer together, and into fall. Mid-autumn, he began to change, becoming more beautiful with each passing day. We were happy. But by winter, he was tired. He was thinning; he looked frail; his joints seemed creaky and brittle. And he got sad, his whole body drooping, as if it pained him just to stand. Sometimes he got angry, refusing to see me for days on end. On his worst days, he would strike me, but I knew he never meant it. By spring, he was better. He was his old self again, but it was too late. That little piece I had taken that first day was brown and shriveled. So even when his bark became moist, his leaves thick and green, his endless branches once more stretching towards eternity, I knew we could only be acquaintances.

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A R T Marshall Simonds Middle School / Class of 2020

J a d e

S w e e n e y

C o l o r f u l Fa l l

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Winter 2016

P O E T R Y Amherst Regional High School / Class of 2016

Tess Davies

Innocence Before you know what innocence is You must hold it. You must be careless, And footloose, And unaware, But unaware in the best of ways.  The way that a child may not know tragedy, Or a puppy oblivious to abuse. Only gentle unknowing. Before you learn that innocence Is a blessing not a curse You must resent it. You must beg to know, Without a clue as to what You even want to know, The way a young girl is dying to grow up. Only after you envy those Who carry the painful burden of knowing – Like soldiers With packs on their shoulders – Can you appreciate What it is Not to know. Before you know that innocence Disappears in a second You must see it – With your own eyes – Crumble. See the mind of yourself Or someone close Simply faint with the force of realization. 34

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P O E T R Y Then you can acknowledge Who you were before And you were after. Then you can judge When you were happier, Before or after. Then you can realize Each has its own charm, Before, And after.

TMC Winter 2016

A R T Blue Hills Regional Vocational Technical High School / Class of 2016

A m i h r a

E l i o s o f

Punk Has Class

d r a w i n g

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A R T Burlington High School / Class of 2017

E m i l y

M o r e i r a

Dusk

p a i n t i n g

TMC Winter 2016

P O E T R Y Brockton High School / Class of 2016

Jessica Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neil

Her bones are sloughed to child-chewed dandelions, but her teeth glitter a gold. She breaks me down in tight spasms, and I am suffocated in her tubes and bloodless roots, abundant petals. Her leaves are worn brown. Her skin is rough as earth; It splinters my fingers. She picks herself out of me in certain places where her bark pricks. In an autumn decay, She Ever yellow, never yellows; And withers away.

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A R T Burlington High School / Class of 2016

L i n d s a y

C o n l e y

9 Days

p a i n t i n g

TMC Winter 2016

N O N F I C T I O N Groton School / Class of 2018

Jeong Hyun (Lilias) Kim

The Lunch Box That Changed My Life Growing up in Oakville, Ontario, I lived everyday admiring the beauty of my town. During rides to school every weekday morning, I squished my face on the car window and sighed at the sight of the glistening waves of Lake Ontario. Rolling down my windows to see Mary Street, I took pleasure in breathing in the fresh scent of maple trees. And Tim Hortons stood proud on every other block, the crux of Canadian culture. I thought of myself as a Canadian. What else could I be? In a checklist of what was considered being a Canadian, I had ticked them all, twice. My mother, one day, addressed to me the fact that all my friends were white. That I was the only Asian, more specifically Korean. However, I did not face blatant forms of racial discrimination. My friends always treated me with respect and overall with no bias. Thus, I deceived myself in thinking that I was one of “them.” My view on life, interests, and the language that I spoke seemed to be the same as that of those. The only detail that I acknowledged that set me apart from my classmates was my food. My mother, traditional and conservative, always packed a single thermos full of white, sticky rice, containers of side dishes consisting of myeolchi (roasted anchovies), kongnamool (seasoned bean sprouts), and pieces of bulgogi (Korean barbecue) wrapped in aluminum foil. Growing up and lacking the fondness of lunchtime that my friends felt, I utterly loathed eating at school. Lunchtime was when I was forced to be my unwanted identity—I had to be someone that was different from the rest. It was the time to take out my food containers, which unremittingly released a pungent odor of seasoned vegetables, dried seafood, and meat. I suddenly heard a thunderous voice over my shoulder. “What is that? Is that even food? That looks gross. Is this what you have to eat every day? That beef doesn’t even look like beef. Does your mom not know how to make a sandwich? Why don’t you eat normal food?” Justine McCarney didn’t stop. She shouted in my face. The echoes of her vehement voice rung in my ears. I felt small beside her. I felt as though my culture was inappropriate, that it was unwanted. Her long brown hair swung from left to right as she made disgusted faces. Her fingers squirmed in my food, digging for an impossibly understanding of my culture. Her eyes rolled as she looked away. As she went on and on, my confidence in my cultural identity diminished. I was suddenly ashamed of who I was and what I was eating. Looking around, I realized that everyone was different from me. In all my classmates’ hands were forks and sandwiches, but in my hands were chopsticks and rice. Their nose, hair, and eyes were different from those of my own. But why was I the one to be different? 40

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N O N F I C T I O N That night, I went home, weary. I felt deceived and lied to. No one had told me that I was different. I couldn’t understand what I had done that set me apart from my peers. Already aware of my situation, my mother took me into her caressing arms and cautiously dried my tears. She told me to stand firm. She reminded me of my Korean background and descent, that I was apart of a great family lineage that traced itself back to 50 A.D. Listening to her tender voice speaking in Korean placated my heart, I felt calm and relaxed. My passport didn’t determine who I was, but where I call home. My mother whispered to me, “The world is not always what we expect it to be. We can’t expect much from it actually, but we can make the best of it. You’re growing up and you’re forming your own identity. Whatever your friends say, it’s the truth. You’re different from all your Canadian friends. That’s not to say through that you’re not normal; you’re just special. But remember that even though you live in Canada, you yourself are a Korean.” Back then I didn’t understand how to be proud of who I was. I despised the fact that I was “unique” and that I would have to face racial discrimination solely based on my outward appearance. My perspective on racial differences and the way I view myself has changed significantly since I was in second grade. I used to hide myself in the corner when listening to Korean music. Whenever my friends saw me speaking Korean to my parents, I switched to English. I tried my best to hide my accent and purposefully rolled my r’s harder. Overtime, however, I have grown to learn that there are so many different cultures that I am not aware of. I have learned that the best approach to learn about them is to be open-minded and respectful. Having a closed, stubborn mindset is ineffective from both parts—the expert and the beginner. I have also learned that not everyone in this world has the privilege of being exposed to so much cultural diversity. Having lived in three countries, I believe that my identity has not only been shaped by merely one culture but by a myriad of cultures. I’ve been able to experience the both ends of the spectrum: the fast paced urgency of Koreans but also enjoy the natural, unhurried lifestyle of Canadians. Many of my friends in Oakville are able to explore only their own neighborhood. Rather they remain in their hometown; they are born in Oakville, grow up in Oakville, and will most likely go to college in Oakville. So often my friends remind me of how blessed I am and how they wish that they could fly internationally every other month. Looking back, I realize that my timidity was foolish. Today I stand firm in my Korean identity and classify myself neither solely as a Korean nor Canadian, but both. Second-grade Lilias was not capable of answering the questions Justine asked; I feared her reaction to my answers even before I took action. Justine’s questions remained with me to build my character. Without the realization that I am different, I would not have had the chance to grow stronger and become who I am today.

TMC Winter 2016

V I D E O English High School /

Institute of Contemporary Art / Class of 2018

I s m a e l

D i a l l o

2x4

To watch please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/magazine/winter-2016/video

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V I D E O Concord-Carlisle Regional High School / Institute of Contemporary Art / Class of 2016

M a r g a r e t

G i l l

Mimi and Bobby

To watch please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/magazine/winter-2016/video

TMC Winter 2016

P O E T R Y Montrose School / Class of 2016

MaryGrace King

The Uncharitable Ones Onward we walked, the Noble Sage in front, Myself slightly behind, following his staff’s thin trail of light Through the dusty darkness. “Wise master,” I inquired after a time, “What sinners should we see next, And in what punishment should we find them?” “Up ahead are the Uncharitable Ones: Those who failed to lift even a finger to help a neighbor Or to deign to understand the sufferings of a friend,” My guide noted to me. “Indifferent, Cold-hearted, aloof, you might call them, But their real fault lies in their choice to be so; For all are created with hearts set to love, And those who disdain that gift in life Find themselves thus confounded in Hell for it in death.” And, walking further on, I began to hear Distant, discordant rhythms And as prisoners, chained in a line Might pound wearily with hammers and chisels In a mountain tunnel, sentenced permanently to extract Precious metals or gems they would never see polished, So I heard the slow, unbearable clash of rock on rock Clacking and grinding with a singular, hopeless intent Never to be satisfied in this dull place. Drawing yet closer to the noise, I made out An openness in the ground before us, and looking down I saw a shallow yet wide pit with walls of slick marble;

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P O E T R Y Figures milled in the center and also Along the sides, slow-moving and sluggish As if they carried heavy burdens, although I saw none. Peering through the dim, I made out The origin of the echoing clashes: The sinners themselves were beating with bare hands At the smooth walls of their open prison And with a start I realized their hands were of stone, Rocks pounding rock with the slow beat of eternity. Above the cacophony, I turned to my guide With uncomprehending wonder in my eyes, and he Was swift to explain what was in front of us. “Human hands are made to help: To lift up the poor and to mend the broken. Charity manifests through our fingers, but these The sinners below us had still hands in life, Tight fists instead of ones reaching to care. In truth, they did not reach to hinder, But in their passivity their hands did not respond To the compassion their hearts urged them to feel; And so, if you look closely, now their hearts are of stone As well as their hands.” The Noble Sage, sighing, Leaned on his staff as if his own heart grew heavier Upon looking at the sinners’ slow struggle below. Still unsatisfied, I plied again: “But why do they Lift their fists against the wall? Is that part of their Punishment or do they choose to do so?” My benevolent guide responded, “Perhaps Speaking to one of them might answer your questions Better than I could. Go now, lean down and ask.”

TMC Winter 2016

P O E T R Y So I knelt to bring my face closer to the sinners below. I called to the nearest beneath me: “Sinner, what Reason do you have to be beating an unyielding wall? Is it the law of Hell that drives you or some Other cause?” My words flinched and limped Unwanted among unwelcome stone hearts. Finally the soul stayed his fruitless business And, as if my questioning were of great irritation to him, He answered, “To leave this pit is my only desire And my only intent. Being surrounded by such Inferior beings pricks my flesh with a thousand Needles and scrapes my insides as if with nails. It is their fault for my agony in this pit: Despicable weakness deserves no aid, so I offered none; But in that sentiment, I found myself tossed down here. Were I only rid of these stone fists and I might Beat at my escape a little faster; but for lack of nimble flesh I am reduced to sounding my fury by the rhythm of a dirge.” To mark his point the rock-fisted figure Raised both arms and crashed them as one on the marble; In rebounding his stone hands swung wildly And hit the figure standing next to him Sinking rock into flesh with a dull thump. I noted with unease that neither seemed to care. I also noted the surface of the marble walls It was as polished and unmarked as if Sinners hadn’t been pounding it for an eternity. Last, I noticed that the space between me and The sinner could be met by joining hands: Me reaching down, him, up to me.

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P O E T R Y I spoke again after a pause. “If your one desire is To leave, as you say… Has it not crossed your mind That every soul here could easily escape By hoisting first one, then reaching down and pulling Up another? The marble may be hard and slippery But it is low; all could gain in a minute what Eternal pounding could not.” Those in the pit Gave no indication of hearing my words, but still I was afraid I had planted ideas contrary To Divine Justice in the minds of Hell-dwellers. I glanced at my wise mentor with anxiety, But he soothed my fears and answered for the silent sinners: “Their contempt for each other surpasses Even their desire for freedom. I would not Try reasoning with them as souls in Hell Have no reason at all; Instead, We should move on from this pit, Having learned all there is to learn. The most gained from cold hearts and listless hands Is a burden of stone, but in lifting up each other We find ourselves uplifted as well. Come, Let us journey on.” And the two of us continued Threading the way through Hell with a point of light The Noble Sage in front, myself following a step behind.

TMC Winter 2016

A R T Marshall Simonds Middle School / Class of 2019

N e i l

P a n d i t

Any Buyers?

p h o t o g r a p h y

themarblecollection.org

A R T Franklin High School / Class of 2016

J e f f

W u

North

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Winter 2016

P O E T R Y Excel High School / Class of 2015

Lesley Ells

To M y H a i r Manipulating you over and over, the flyways never seem to go away. But I love when the sun kisses your shafts and you begin to shine luminously. You sway with life like a palm tree on a windy day. But you’re my headache, and you never seem to be perfect but in this world nothing is perfect. You’re, dry when I give you nothing, frizzy when it’s screeching hot, split when I forget to get a cut, rough when air-dried after a wash, silky after a fresh press, smooth when the coconut oil slicks down your follicles, layered when I decided to try something new. Your unexpected behaviors blow my mind. You change with the seasons, manageable when it’s cold like a freezer. A pain when you’re tangled and just a mess after a long strenuous day. I know you hate when I get lazy and decide to just throw you in a bun and go. I forget to nurture you but don’t be mad at me. Your capricious behaviors irk me. Sometimes I just want to chop you off and other times I’m obsessed with you. Sometimes you flow with the spring wind like a butterfly spreading its beautiful wings glistening in the sun’s rays. Other times you’re coarse when the winter air is harsh and unbearable, when the creamy crack hasn’t laid on your shafts you’re too much to handle. We just love and hate at the same time but I will never give up on you.

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A R T Blue Hills Regional Vocational Technical High School / Class of 2016

C a t h e r i n e

S u l l i v a n

Fa l l i n g

N LLI

A L

G d i g i t a l

a r t

TMC Winter 2016

P O E T R Y Natick High School / Class of 2015

Vinny Souto

T h e F i v e D a y Wa r The war began with a single bang, a bullet whizzing through the air And on the first day of the war, the sound of sirens at full blare. The planes and bombers filled the sky, an endless wave of bombs, Though the government assured us, that it wouldn’t be all week long. The second day of the war, the infantry marched down the streets, All lined up like dominos, they stenched of death’s foul reek. Does the war not please the ones, who begged it to start? Just as long as it’s not their sons who are torn apart. The third day of the war, all was silent in the towns, Everyone had left it, not even the prisoners were bound. Where had they all gone, had they all gone up and left? No, they did not leave; they were simply hiding from the death. The fourth day of the war, the sirens were at full blare, The planes were back up in the sky, fear ran through the air. A bomb, big and gray, fell from the largest of the planes And what would follow next, would be centuries of pain. On the fifth day, the generals met to end this thoughtless war, But also because the governments could no longer fund it anymore. So was it all worth it? A simple five-day war? Well, just ask the dead, there are a million more.

themarblecollection.org

A R T Marshall Simonds Middle School / Class of 2020

A u r o r a

G o l d e n

Fa l l e n S o l d i e r s

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Winter 2016

F I C T I O N Burlington High School / Class of 2017

D a n i e l

M c C a r t h y

Inferno

I put tulips under all the pillows, and then I set fire to the house. The flames spread in all directions, greedily consuming the polished oak furniture that had once littered the house. The heat felt like a thousand suns had exploded instantly, and I was the only one who could watch the spectacle. With matches in my right hand, and a can of gas in my left, I stood still on the street. I had wanted everything gone-the stairwell, the dining room, even the garden. I wanted it all gone. --- Before -- My father was a salesman; he sold home radios to a population whose fanatic leader was almost exclusively heard and thus idolized over radio. This, along with my father’s own personal fetishization of Hitler allowed him to do very well as a salesman. His selling point was that his radios could deliver the powerful speeches of the Führer to any family. My father would’ve done just as well in life as Joseph Goebbels himself. Mother never thought twice about father’s racism. She always sat in her chair, not uttering so much as a whisper, and agreed to father’s asinine, prejudiced words. It was always the same--she’d mention something, anything to start polite conversation: “I heard they’re opening a new factory in town.” He’d find a reason to blame the Jews: “Yeah, and guess who’s going to take those jobs away from honest, hardworking Germans?” He’d start banging on the table, yelling to the whole world and God as she folded her hands across her apron, nodded, and said, “Yes, you’re right.” She was always the softer one; she tucked me in at night, she gardened with me, she cooked dinner. It was dinnertime when I first heard about Mr. Fleischer. “So he’s Jewish, then?” my mother asked my father. “I should’ve known. He was always a slippery bastard,” my father growled. “What’s going to happen to him?” I asked Father. “Hopefully he’ll leave, before he gets what he’s got coming to him.” Mr. Fleischer was the local butcher; he cut, packed, and sold his meat in a little shop down the street from our house. I remember my one encounter with him. My parents sent me down our street one day to pick up some pork, to be served at a party, at his store. I paid for the meat, dropped it as I went out the door by accident, and then turned and saw Mr. Fleischer, with a thin smile on his face, handing me a new cut of pork. I remember him standing there. I didn’t take it at first, because I was staring at a funny-looking bronze pin on his apron. It stood out on his pink and white apron, which was why it caught my eye. I wasn’t sure why he was wearing it, but my gaze broke when he nudged the new meat closer towards me. He seemed nice enough to me. Why is Father getting so angry? I thought. 54

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F I C T I O N I cleared my plate and asked if I could be excused. I climbed up the stairs, went into my room, and shut the door behind me. My room always elicited a mixed response from me. It was clean, always kept orderly and spotless by our maid. It was lavishly decorated with polished oak dressers and a wooden bed frame to match. Objectively, my room was very pretty. But despite my father’s attempts to flex his own affluence in his child’s room, the shallowness of it all made me sick. I preferred things that were alive--something that simply existed something that could be cared for and could then respond to that care, something to show for your work. For me, that something was my garden. It was more a row of large pots lined up under the door to the backyard, but I liked to think of it as a beautiful garden. Mother and I worked on it together; she planted roses and daisies, and I planted tulips. I crouched down in front of the pots, gazing upon the vibrant row of life. Mother’s roses were a rich red, fully bloomed despite the weather, which was only getting colder. Her daisies were planted just a week ago and so were still barely anything more than just stems. I looked down at my tulips. They were just beginning to flower, but I could see the bright orange already begin to show in the petals. I gently poked it as I poured some water from a cup into the pot. I cherished it as a baby would cherish its mother. “You still have the garden?” my father said from the doorway. “Yes,” I replied. He leaned against the doorframe. He wore a smile that threw me off guard. “I don’t understand why you have the garden, Klaus. You’re a boy, you should do boy things,” he said. “I don’t want to,” I told him. “Klaus, I will repeat again what I have told you a million times before. You are a boy. Boys do not grow pretty little flowers with their mothers. Boys should be out on the street, chasing each other or playing toy soldiers.” “Father, I don’t want to play soldiers. I don’t like to kill.” He banged his hand into the frame. “DAMMIT, KLAUS!” he yelled. I flinched. He walked down the steps and sat down on them. He put his elbows on his knees and took a deep breath. His voice was low now. “I do not care what you want. You are a boy. You will do boy things. I want you to get rid of that garden, or I’ll do it for you.” He went back inside. I heard the front door being opened and then slammed shut. That night, I awoke to the sound of the door being opened and then slammed shut, followed by hushed whispering. That night, I crept out of my room and into the stairwell. That night, I heard Father’s sins. “Where were you? It’s past midnight,” my mother whispered. “I was part of the revolution,” Father said. “What revolution? There’s no revolution.” TMC Winter 2016

F I C T I O N “The righteous revolution, Irene. The revolution in which our people expel the damned Jews from our nation. The revolution to please Hitler.” “You mean the riots? Oh my god, Erwin. People died during those!” “It was necessary, Irene. I wasn’t the only one; we all had blood on our hands.” “What do you mean ‘it’ was necessary? What did you do?” “I did what was necessary, I did it for us.” “WHAT did you do Erwin--?” Mother tried to catch herself when she heard her volume rise. Father’s hand beat her to it. As my mother rubbed her cheek, my father straightened his posture and dropped his voice low, leaning in closer towards mother. “I killed someone, Irene.” Silence from my mother. I was near tears now. My father had killed someone. My father had taken another human’s life. And Mother said nothing of it? I stifled my sobs and listened further. “Who?” she whispered. Silence from my father. “The Jew, the butcher.” “Mr. Fleischer?” “Yes, Fleischer.” I had heard enough. I slowly crawled back up the stairs and into my room. I closed the door behind me. I turned to my dresser, where I picked up my pocket watch. It was a birthday gift from my father when I turned ten. I wanted more then anything to smash it right then and there, but I needed it just in case. I set the alarm to 3:00am, two hours from then. I sat at the edge of my bed, hands folded across my lap. I had no intention of going back to sleep, but I needed to be sure I didn’t miss what I was about to do next. The alarm went off. I walked out of my room and down the stairs. I went into the basement and picked up a can of gasoline next to the car. Then I picked up a box of matches from the shelf above and to the right of the basement doorway. I walked outside then, to the garden. I tore my tulips from their earth. I walked back inside and then upstairs, to the bedrooms. I crept into my mother’s room and poked her awake. “What is it, Klaus?” my mother asked; “Why? What’s the matter?” she said, worried. “I need you to see something. It’s in the garden.” “Klaus, I’ll look, but I’ve told you before, there’s nothing hiding in the garden.” She put on her robe, and went down the stairs and out onto the back deck. I stayed back and let her go ahead. I put tulips under all the pillows, and then I set fire to the house.

themarblecollection.org

A R T Chelmsford High School / Class of 2016

A l i s h a

M i t h a l

Human Clock

d r a w i n g

TMC Winter 2016

A R T Boston Latin School / Class of 2017

M a d d y

W a r d

Eye of the Tiger

d r a w i n g

themarblecollection.org

s c r a t c h b o a r d

A R T Amesbury High School / Class of 2017

C h l o ĂŤ

H a m m o n d

Vietnam #1

p a i n t i n g

TMC Winter 2016

P O E T R Y The Winsor School / Class of 2017

Isabel Griffith-Gorgati

M e m o r y ’s Pa i n t You’re turned toward a memory you see settled beneath the layered dust on the wall in front of you— Or are you really turning away? Your fragile body is shrinking with early age in the billows of ill-fitting clothes that you’d thought you’d made for another person, at another time. A time when the green of this wall was fresh with youth, not crawling with mold along the cracks in crusting dust, rotting with recollections of children who will never grow into the dresses you sewed. You never spoke of them, but I think we saw them reflected in your cloudy sky eyes when you looked at us—the images of four frail daughters who left you one day on death’s early breeze. And we—someone else’s leftovers, daughters from a country unfamiliar enough as to be invisible to you—were strong enough to catch the wind, and fill your empty rooms. You adopted us so we could adopt the role those little girls had abandoned. Were you ever with us, anyway? Have you been creating your memories out of dust all this time? Was that your work of art – the early bright ribbons on delicate braids and waists, the spinning of conversation and skirts? Was this room your canvas, and then what were we? Mannequins for dead children’s robes – a strange painting for you to obscure with visions of the world you once had. Now, all the dresses sewed to trap are empty. All of your mind’s canvases stolen. Grime preserves the years in your fading blonde hair, which is tied at the nape of your neck like a tired cascade compliantly quieting against a dam. The paintbrushes have hardened your ripped nails with old hues you refuse to wash off. Those hands that once twirled our hair into elaborate visions are now pretending to hide in the long, sweetly rotting sleeves of your blouse. The dust on the wall comforts you. But our presence no longer stirs this room that won’t stop mourning. As soon as you couldn’t keep us, we left this house you never let us call our own. We saw only green mirrors of envy in its paint. But we’ve always been bigger than the children you loved, bigger than these walls, bigger than the confines of your own delusion, and you wrapped yourself in our voices like you wrap yourself in these oversized gowns now, every morning. How does it feel to be alone? It’s the loneliness of empty space in a vacant room and an emptying chest, as everything that you absorbed slowly leaks, and you let your eyes eat away at the ever-darkening paint of this room’s walls. 60

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P O E T R Y It is only a dutiful sort of pity that brings me back to your folding, lost face. You thought you were awaiting our return, but really you were waiting for the you that went with us. And we’ve felt you there, pulling at our steps, still pretending to be a mother to little girls that seemed even from the beginning to be climbing to a height you couldn’t see; big children that were never your own, who left behind the robes you sewed to confine them. Now you have been trapped and shrinking in that hideously cheerful fabric for a decade. You thought we’d follow your footsteps always, as long as we paced circles around the length of one room forever. And did you not see me standing in front of you now because the green wall in your mind was too high? Or perhaps, when not draped in the robes of a dead child’s remembrance, I am a stranger. Do your eyes simply not recognize a face you’ve never looked at before?

TMC Winter 2016

P O E T R Y Marshall Simonds Middle School / Class of 2020

Aurora Golden

W ithin the Eyes Within the eyes of a man; I am crestfallen, Pitiful; I am a figure of forsaken hope. With nothing to carry, and nowhere to go; I stand before the average man on my knees, for nothing but a scrap, a meager piece of food; Anything to keep me breathing, My heart beating, Myself alive; But they toss me away; I am punished for my efforts of living. A man does not want to feed the hungry, or pay the poor; I ask for little, They give me less. I was brought from prosperity and comfort, To destitute with not a penny to spare; Within the eyes of a man, Not only do I possess nothing, But I justify nothing.

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A R T Blue Hills Regional Vocational Technical High School / Class of 2016

T o r i

L i v i n g s t o n

Agony

d r a w i n g

TMC Winter 2016

P O E T R Y Needham High School / Class of 2017

Marysa Lee

A u t u m n Wa s H e r N a m e She was never the thundering type, Her temper was invigoratingly strange. She crept in softly through a closed door, In her baggage was nature and change. Although her presence is initially dire, By now summer is only lukewarm. Popsicles and paradise slipping away, Replaced with a slow motion storm. She paints the leaves in shades of warmth, And exhales spice scented air. Cold blows the wind and shy is the sun, Her cheeks are rosy and fair. On her palette she uses shimmering hues, Crimson, rust, scarlet and gold. Softly she takes your hand in hers, Your soul no longer feels cold. She lights up a fire and counts dancing embers, Kissing the rain that knocks the roof up above. She swears on October but smells like December, She knits by the hearth and reads poems she loves. Lighting small candles and brewing mint tea, She wears peacoats and riding boots, sweaters and leather. Embraces the harvest and laughs with strangers, Her grin is contagious no matter the weather. When she wanders through amber fields, The blue sky above holds no fear. Holding within a young heart and old soul, She lives in the cozy and clear. She is Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cosmic catastrophe, She visits town every now and then. Whenever she whirls in with her fresh breath of life, Everything starts over again. And so watching from a single window, As snow clouds the frozen frame, Remember who visited not long agoâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Autumn was her name. 64

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A R T Blue Hills Regional Vocational Technical High School / Class of 2016

H a n n a h

E m e r s o n

Dark Art

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Winter 2016

N O N F I C T I O N Lexington High School / Class of 2017

Julie Suh

The End of the Search “Hello?” The one simple word rang throughout the small hallway, bouncing off the walls with so much unfamiliarity that I wanted to snatch the sound from the air and stuff it into a box. Flinching, I raised my head to catch a glimpse of the face to which the voice belonged. Confirming my horror, the unfamiliar face resided on an equally unfamiliar body that appraised me from behind the silver door. “This is,” I eked out, “this is my grandparents’ apartment.” My heart palpitated and my insides twisted as I immediately regretted the steps I had taken to arrive at this shiny door. The woman behind the door seemed mollified by my small frame as she realized that I posed no immediate danger, but frowned in confusion at my words. “Honey, no it isn’t,” she started. *** My legs swung back and forth as I sat on the jungle gym in the playground that faced the apartment building. I stared at the glass door of the edifice that stretched towards the clouds and sighed when my grandfather failed to come out. I began to pump my legs up and down more vigorously, my sneakers becoming smears of pink and white as they whipped in and out of my view. He had left me alone moments before, promising to return in just a few minutes. So where was he? I looked around the playground, which was devoid of all life besides myself and two other boys. I hated being alone in public whenever I visited my grandparents in Korea because of my lack of fluency in Korean. I felt a familiar twisting in my stomach whenever this happened, just like now as the boys gleefully shouted at each other, their rambling drifting into meaningless words I couldn’t understand. I strained my ears to try to unlock the meaning behind their words, but it escaped me, disappearing into the air like a bubble just before it’s popped by small hands. I let out a frustrated sound, struggling to ignore the peals of laughter cutting through the air, and glanced towards the door again. Unconsciously, my feet fell to the ground with a decisive thump and walked their pink and white selves towards the door. As the glass door slid shut behind me, I felt cool air rush past me through the small hallway and my eyes took in its varying shades of silver. I shuffled forward towards the elevator, the sound of my footsteps reverberating down the hallway. After what felt like an eternity, the echoes halted as I paused in front of the elevator and pushed the up button. My heartbeat began to increase as the elevator silently glided down in front of me and its shiny, metallic doors slid open with a cheery ding! I knew that my grandfather had specifically told me not to go anywhere, but I reassured myself, fairly confident that he lived on the 12th floor. 66

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N O N F I C T I O N When I stepped onto the elevator, I noticed my footprints had left a faint trail of dirt on the smooth tiles, which was even more noticeable on the silver floor of the elevator. I felt a sudden urge to sprint out of the elevator and furiously scrub at the ground, removing any evidence of my disobedience, but I kept it in check, convincing myself that everything would be fine once I found my grandfather. After the doors closed, I studied the glossy rows of numbers on the side of the elevator. Uncertain, my finger hovered the 12 button, then the 11 button, finally drifting over the 10 button. I closed my eyes and jabbed at one of the three buttons, pressing the 12 button in the end, trusting my instincts. As I waited for the elevator to move, I considered my face reflected in the mirror on the opposite wall of the elevator, surrounded by colorful posters and flyers plastered to the walls, covered in writing I couldn’t understand. *** Still unable to believe that this wasn’t my grandparents’ apartment, I craned my head around the woman’s waist and saw a familiar hallway leading away from the doorway. This was enough for me to confirm what I thought was true. “Yes it is,” I confidently interrupted the woman’s bewildered attempts to reason with me. I darted into the apartment, ignoring the woman’s startled protests. However, as soon as I entered the apartment, a foreign scent slammed into me, causing me to skid to a halt. The smell pervaded the entire apartment, but my nose and mind rejected it, unable to accept it. It was the scent of somebody else’s home. It was the scent of something categorically and ineffably wrong. Panic swelled from the pit in my stomach as I barreled through the alien odor and into the living room, taking in the different furniture. Bewilderment crashed like waves in my head, crowding out any other thought as the parts of the room I found amiss only multiplied. The layout of the apartment was exactly the same as my grandparents’ apartment, but the furnishing was utterly different. My eyes darted across the room; searching in vain for the blue vases my grandmother had lovingly wiped clean every day since I was a baby and the side table that supported numerous picture frames of my brother and myself. They simply weren’t there. It was as though they had vanished without a trace and had been supplanted by foreign substitutes. Stunned, I sat gingerly on the couch. Despite being situated in the same side of the room, everything felt slightly off. Isn’t...isn’t the couch supposed to be black? The woman returned to the living room with a man in tow, gesturing at me vigorously. The man blinked a few times, as if he hadn’t believed before that I was actually in his apartment. He gave an incredulous look at the woman before approaching me. “Are you sure this is your grandparents’ apartment?” he asked. “Yes,” I insisted. “And you’re in their apartment. Who are you?” Taken aback, he was silent for a moment. “And uh...what is your name?” I stared at him stubbornly before finally surrendering my name. “What’s your grandfather’s name?” he ventured. TMC Winter 2016

N O N F I C T I O N “...Grandpa?” I was unable to comprehend some of the words he was using or answer some of his questions so I repeatedly asked where all the furniture had gone. “Don’t you know that the layout of the apartments are exactly the same on every floor of this building?” Shocked into silence, my mouth clamped shut and though the man attempted to wrestle more answers from me, I refused to speak, staring at the familiar whorls of the hardwood floor. Of course in reality, I had never seen those particular whorls before. I could feel a storm of tears coming but I sniffed it back. Amidst the overwhelming panic and urge to cry occupying all parts of my thoughts, I had the presence of mind to realize that from a distance, the man was now making a phone call. I sat listlessly as my ears picked up a few fleeting words: apartment...lost...little girl. As the woman sat awkwardly in front of me, I wondered if it was too late to escape this inexplicable apartment and reseat myself on the jungle gym. However, my thoughts were interrupted by a series of loud knocks. My eyes jerked up from the floor and though I remained limp on the couch, both the man and woman simultaneously rushed to the door where a flurry of words was exchanged with a voice that sounded like my grandfather. I stood up, hesitantly shuffling towards the door. As soon as my grandfather’s warm, crinkled eyes, the familiar wrinkled contours of his face, and relieved smile came into view, I dashed towards him, clinging to him tightly while he briefly reprimanded me for running off. I was instantly comforted by the familiar smell of his beige coat and barely paid attention to his admonitions, basking in the presence of someone I knew. In the rest of the brief time spent in that apartment, he apologized to its rightful owners then brought me to the elevator once more, pressing the correct button. “I was worried about you,” he scolded as the elevator began its ascent. “I know.” I looked up at him with a slight smile. He sighed and ruffled my hair in return. I turned to face the mirror once more and after a moment, my grandfather mimicked my position. We looked at our reflections, which were framed by the same unintelligible posters and flyers as before. But this time, I didn’t mind.

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A R T Burlington High School / Class of 2018

E r i n

K e r r

Seeing the Light

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Winter 2016

P O E T R Y Groton School / Class of 2017

Hanna Kim

I n Yo u r O w n Wo r d s But sometimes you just canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t put feelings into words, because feelings are so raw and helpless: they would fall right off the page. And when your heart feels like itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s about to overflow with the nightstand ink you spilled on your faded manuscript that you worked on for many days, you empty it out into the waves that spin around and around and around And the metallic smell, like dried-blood, of the keys to your heart that rubs off onto your careful hands. The edges of the broken glass look like the cliffs you fell off every night in your smoky, sullen stories, but when you try to piece the pieces together again, the o of your screaming mouth does not fit into the curved c of your clawed hands. Your back, broken with burdens like a wilting r, will never again straighten up to an l. And of course, the jagged z of your scars are afraid to stand next to the o, because if it moves too close, the o will explode with the feelings you lost. But you try anyways, to catch your drifting feelings in the sweaty palms of your words, until it is dark outside.

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A R T Chelmsford High School / Class of 2016

A l i s h a

M i t h a l

Self-Portrait

d r a w i n g

TMC Winter 2016

P O E T R Y Cambridge School of Weston / Class of 2019

Natalie Good

The Last Thoughts of a Sour Patch Kid Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dark and everything is quiet. Stillness rests over the red velvet and settles upon dusty floors. A lone man shuffles in, broom in hand: Passing through rows, picking up eviscerated popcorn buckets, and half-guzzled Icees. A lemon-colored wrapper is my armor and I wait, making myself as small as possible, Trying desperately not to crinkle. His shoes clack on the floor, Echoing from aisle to aisle, Sounding my ultimate doom. I feel my artificially flavored heartbeat increasing as he lumbers his way past the last aisle and into mine. He uproots my snacky brethren, Dropping them into his trash bag of oblivion. I shudder in a perfectly blended combination of terror and hatred (Much like my perfectly blended mix of the flavors sour and sweet). I close my eyes and say my prayers as the footsteps of death approach. Before this, I was an outlaw, traveling to different worlds under the seat A14; although, I admit my career was as short as my sugary stature and marked with uneventful movies. I have been forgotten, stepped on, and passed by. I just wanted to be noticedâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; perhaps on the bottom of your shoe. 72

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P O E T R Y He plods past my seat and I breathe a heavy sigh of relief, Exhaling to the tips of my itty-bitty toes. Until his clicking stops, along with my heart. He folds onto his knees. My corn syrup blood pounds in my head as meaty fingers curl around me and lift me into the air. I am terrified. I hold my breath as I fall into the abyss.

TMC Winter 2016

F I C T I O N North Attleboro High School / Class of 2016

A l y c i a

N i c h o l s

A Sickly Sweet Romance There is a sweet, sizzling sort of feeling that comes from breaking someone’s bones. It starts in your fingertips, fizzy and tingling, like the wonderfully shocking feeling you got the first time you had a soda. It then bubbles up through you, through your blood and veins and body and mind. It makes your heart race in a daring sort of way, like the first time you held your first love’s hand. It was probably in some cheap diner, at the booth in the back left corner. Both your hands were probably clammy and trembling, faces red and sweaty from joyful embarrassment, both pairs of eyes like stars. There is a gentle and mysterious sort of tenderness that comes with breaking someone’s hands. You can’t break fingers well if you don’t know the hands well. So, you must spend hours upon hours holding hands. You must feel every part, soft and rough, calloused and smooth, pale and dark. You must trace every bump and curve until you could draw a map of every line and vein, creek and river; you must understand and cherish every detail until you can feel the exact form of each hand burning into every part of you. There must be some balance and so they must mark your being, like a brand, for only then will the act be exquisite and right. There is an ethereal beauty that comes when breaking someone’s hands. When done correctly, it produces the most heavenly, pure sounds. It’s important to mute the recipient, (I prefer to use shots and pills of sorts, don’t bother with gags,) because the screams ruin the delicate, harmonious choir of dancing, shivering bones. Crackling is one of he most easily understood and appreciated sounds. Think of the warm, welcoming, snapping cries of a fire; the hot, delicious, popping sighs of perfectly aromatic and crisply fresh bread. It’s almost biblical; the experience, the feeling, the song. The tragic downside to all of it, however, is that once you’ve broken a bone, no matter how well it heals, it will never sing again. And so, there is a horrifying, tasteless job that comes after breaking a body. You must kill it. As many a woman has claimed, beauty truly is pain. And, as many a demon has likely to have claimed, everything comes with a price, nothing great in life is free. When I held your hand for the first time, our eyes were stars. When I broke them, we were like fire.

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A R T Burlington High School / Class of 2017

R y l e i g h

B a r r u c c i

Lost

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Winter 2016

A R T Marshall Simonds Middle School / Class of 2020

Water melon

S a r a h

S c h i s s l e r

p h o t o g r a p h y

Many Boats Burlington High School / Class of 2018

themarblecollection.org

S o p h i a

L u p o

A R T Marshall Simonds Middle School / Class of 2020

Pr ofile Falls

A s h l y n

B i u n d o

p h o t o g r a p h y

Tea Time

A l i s o n

M a r t i n

Burlington High School / Class of 2018

TMC Winter 2016

P O E T R Y Abington High School / Class of 2018

Alana Burgess

Society Has Only Two Senses Do not see your repugnant, disfigured, and disappointing body. See your actual body. Do not see your imperfections. See cellular respiration, human anatomy, mitosis, nuclei, vacuoles, and mitochondria. Mitochondria are the powerhouse Of the cell You are the mighty mitochondria of life. Do not speak about how mundane your life is and how insignificant you are. Speak about how each day new and dangerous bacteria enter your body. And you fight them off like a navy seal. Do not speak about how unorganized you are and how it will never change. If your teeth can be fixed with braces, then you can fix your life. Speak about how you have the power to change anything that makes you unhappy. 78

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P O E T R Y Do not speak about your inability to conform to social norms Speak about that 100 you got on your Spanish test, the raise you got at work, how the warm sun feels on your skin, or how everything will eventually harmoniously settle. Do not blame your God for your problems. Blame the person not fixing your problems. Do not blame society. Blame the creator of labels: yourself.

TMC Winter 2016

P O E T R Y Groton School / Class of 2016

A l e x a n d r a

L a m s o n

To B r e a k Fr e e She steps carefully over the stones That cement her to reality With the balance of other dreams, Other heartaches. As the tenacious trickle of time, Flows through soft whispers. A consistent continuation to cope With the calamity that fills her, Awakes her soul to the sweet melody of isolation, while avoiding others. She cries to me. Pushed to the point Of destruction in a silent manner. Grasping on to anything, everything In her chaotic, obsessive mind. Hoping for a chance To break free.

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A R T Blue Hills Regional Vocational Technical High School / Class of 2016

A m b e r

M u r p h y

Pet Portraits

p h o t o g r a p h y TMC Winter 2016

A R T Burlington High School / Class of 2017

Slow Hallway

M e g h a n

F l a h e r t y

p h o t o g r a p h y

Table Talk

T o r i

L i v i n g s t o n

Blue Hills Regional Vocational Technical High School / Class of 2016

themarblecollection.org

A R T Burlington High School / Class of 2018

Red Jeep

S o p h i a

L u p o

p h o t o g r a p h y

p a i n t i n g

Classic Harbor Line

Jordan Kalatchev

Burlington High School / Class of 2018

TMC Winter 2016

F I C T I O N Excel High School / Class of 2015

D a t

L e

Water Soldier I was a drop of water, pure and innocent. I lived in the ocean. Honestly, I shouldn’t say “the ocean” because he is my dad. He is wide and generous. He is my home, my love and also home of many brothers and sisters: turtles, shrimps and dolphins. We all lived together, peacefully. We lived with my dad for such a long time that we even couldn’t count it. I love traveling from place to place, dancing on the skin of sister dolphin. I enjoy the moment when I floated to the surface and looked up the sky, embraced the warmness of the sun. The most amazing experience that I ever had is being a part of a whale. When the whale absorbed me and held me in his body. I could feel the way he felt and though the way he thought. We are one and always are one. Life was beautiful, life was blue. Then one day, it was brother turtle’s funeral. He was 70 years old. He just passed away yesterday-not because he was old (he was supposed to live more than 200 years) but because he couldn’t breathe, and he was poisoned. Around his home was covered by a layer of something black, disgusting and toxic. It covered a broad area and killed many of my brothers and sisters. My dad told me to stay away from it. Millions of them were dead. They were freely float on the surface. Their souls left their bodies. Their innocent soul were shining like stars on the sky, went far away. “Be prepared my son,” my dad told me. “Dad, prepared for what?” My big innocent eyes wide opened. “War.” My dad pointed his finger at the area full of high and big box on land, full of two-legged creatures he called humans. “Humans, a creature on land that has killed trillions of my children. We have suffered it for a long time. Now we can’t stand it. Your mother just told me to let you join the army.” My dad looked up at the sky. “We will fight until humans stop killing us! we have to raise our voice, our true power my son.” I asked him, “But dad, where do humans come from? Why are they so brutal?” My dad looked far away like he was trying to recall something. “From this home, son. They used to be our family. In the beginning, your mother nature created everything and let me raise them up. Everything, everyone used to be a family. A family my son! Time went by and now humans think they are the smartest creatures on Earth. They think they are the only creatures who know how to talk but the fact is they are the only creature on Earth who can’t communicate with other creatures. They try to dominate us. It’s a huge mistake. We have to raise our voice my son. Join the army, be strong!” I cried, I hugged my dad. I didn’t want leave here. I wanted peace and others wanted it too. But we have no choice. If we don’t raise our voice, we all die together, including humans. So I had to leave. 84

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F I C T I O N My body get hotter and hotter. I felt very light. My whole body lifted up, out of my home and head up the sky. On the way up, I could see everything. Humans- they burn, they chop trees. They dump their wastes into our home which will stay there for thousand of years. They infect from bacterias to small fishes to bigger ones. I can hear the cry under my feet of the mother fish when the baby fish all dead before it has a chance to form their bodies. Humans even killed their own kind. It is disgusting. I held my fury and understood my mission. I joined a special training. I gathered with trillions of my friends, up the sky. We learned about the history of the Earth when everything was in harmony till the now when the Earth lost its balance. We learned that in the past, there were also other civilizations which went on the wrong track like the situation we are facing then what happened was the whole civilization had to went to an end. They had to leave the Earth to keep it in balance. Then everything started once over again from scratch. We also learned how to approach the Earth and how to evaporate and get out of land when the sun is ready. Eventually, we trained and suffered from an extremely cold temperature and became stronger than ever. My whole body transformed into a snowflake soldier. We waited for the order. Three, two, one...Fight! I jumped of the sky and headed toward Earth. After a while, I landed on the head of a child trying to plant a seed amidst a smoking city.

TMC Winter 2016

F I C T I O N Groton School / Class of 2016

E t h a n

W o o

Mom’s Doctor “Damn,” Mom mutters. The paper slices open her index finger. It stings. Twenty years of violent misuse have made her skin saggy and flimsy. She clings to her hand and gropes for the chapstick. In one clean stroke, the pain dissolves. She continues working, unfazed. Her body’s tight and rugged, disproportionately toned from years of hard labor. She’s pretty, in a homely way that makes you feel at ease. Her hands are a messy patchwork of hurt and blood. They’re scarred and slashed, always crusty with scabs. She once showed me how she had cut through her thumb, right down to the bone before pouring alcohol that she’d stolen from the CVS down the street over the wound. She tore off a sheet of gauze with her teeth and wrapped thick layers of the stuff over her finger, casually reciting the dragon fairytale she’d read so many times to me. I’d sat on her lap after. That’s what she always wants me to do when she’s hurt. I sat on her lap for hours when Dad left. “See,” she’d whispered in my ear, the blood from her finger already soaked through the cotton. “We can be doctors too.” She always acted like it was a fun game when she did things like this. Like everyone did it. All the time. She once had an accident with a nail that was drilled into her hand. I watched as she unfurled a coat hanger and curled up the tip in a small fish hook. She spent two hours picking at the inside of her palm, trying to get the tiny thing out. I had to stitch her hand up and she gave me the nail - this bloody little metal peg - to keep for being a good helper. It reeked of wet copper. Mom always smelled like that. Her hand opened up, eventually. She didn’t want to sew it up again; it took too long and she wasn’t patient. A splotch of duct tape held the two plates of skin together, leaving a chalky scar when she ripped it off with a flourish. One night, Mom came home, her hand wrapped in a swatch of cloth she’d torn from her shirt. She unveiled it, with the same sense of attention-seeking drama she’d used with the duct tape. It looked like a balloon from hell. Her veins curved in sharp, bloated arcs. The blood and skin were almost the same color and her waxy hand melted as she drained the pus into the pot we used for soup. That was the only time I couldn’t watch Mom be a doctor. It was too much. I put chunks of ice into a Ziploc bag, set it neatly down on her hand, my head pointed politely in a different direction. She repeated her motto about being doctors. She was fired a week later. It was only a matter of time. She screwed up a lot. Sometimes we have to be our own doctors. But it’s usually better to just not get hurt. 86

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A R T Andover High School / Class of 2017

A r t h u r

L a u r e t a n o

R o c k , Pa p e r , S c i s s o r s

d r a w i n g

TMC Winter 2016

had an amazing year... We partnered with the University of Massachusetts, Boston, allowing us to reach more urban teens.

We published 100 teen artists and writers in the Massachsuetts High School Magazine of the Arts.

We launched a free publication workshop to encourage teens to take part in our programs.

We guided our teens through publication with our 6-week one-to-one mentoring workshops.

Now, we need your help... To raise $10,000 in 2016 to ensure that we can offer our free workshop in 10 under-resourced schools, reaching 250 more teen writers and artists. Make a gift today to inspire teens across Massachusetts to share their creative voices and visions.

DONATE ONLINE:

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The Marble Collection (TMC) publishes the Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts, the only statewide print and online magazine of the arts featuring artwork, photography, poetry, and creative writing by teens, grades 8-12. For teens, it is a free opportunity to take part in an acclaimed statewide arts forum and strengthen resumes, college applications, and portfolios. Please support the creative talents of Massachusettsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; teen writers and artists by subscribing to our semiannual Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts, released in December and May.

Subscribe online: www.themarblecollection.org/subscribe Or remit payment to: The Marble Collection, Inc., University of Massachusetts Boston, Campus Center, Office 3410, 100 Morrissey Blvd, Boston, MA 02125

Long Walk from the Rainbow painting / digital

Yarenis Sanchez

No. 14

TechBoston Academy / Class of 2017 UMass Boston Urban Scholars Program

www.themarblecollection.org

themarblecollection.org

ISSN 2156-7298