The Marble Collection: Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts Spring 2017 by The Marble Collection, Inc.

SPRING 2017

MASSACHUSETTS HIGH SCHOOL MAGAZINE OF THE ARTS

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STUDY THE ARTS AT EASTERN! Come to Eastern Connecticut State University and study music, theatre and the visual arts in our new 118,000-square foot Fine Arts Center. At Eastern, you won’t get lost in the crowd. Full-time faculty will give you personal, one-on-one attention to blossom as an artist and scholar. You can start your artistic pursuits as a freshman, and don’t have to be a major to explore your creativity. MAJORS • Music • New Media Studies • Theatre • Visual Arts MINORS Art History; Costume & Fashion Design; Digital Art and Design; Film Studies; Game Design; Studio Art; and Theatre

Applications are being accepted for fall 2017; tuition discounts for Massachusetts residents. (860) . www.easternct.edu/admissions 2 465-5286 themarblecollection.org

TECHNOLOGY More than $4 million in new musical instruments, and audio, stage lighting and video technology EXPERIENCES Exhibition and performance opportunities; internships; study abroad; museum field trips; guest lecturers and artists SPACES • 400-seat Concert Hall • 254-seat Proscenium Theatre • 125-seat Studio Theatre • Art Gallery • Ceramics and sculpture labs • Scenic and costume design shops • Instrument and choral rehearsal rooms • Dance and performance labs • Drawing, painting & digital design labs • Printmaking and papermaking labs

www.easternct.edu/arts

Spring 2017

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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 11 Massachusetts organizations, including Artists for Humanity, ArtWorks, Big Brothers Big Sisters of Massachusetts Bay, Grub Street, Inc., Institute of Contemporary Art, Boston, Massmouth, Mass Poetry, 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) THREE-YEAR ONE-YEAR

$275.00 $75.00 $27.00

To subscribe or purchase single copies, please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/subscribe

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TMC: STAFF EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR WEBMASTER

Deanna Elliot Andrew Rakauskas

TMC: INTERNS & VOLUNTEERS EDITORS & ART JURORS

ACCOUNTING MANAGER

Natalia Mirabito A l e x i s P o u l o s Erica Redfern Tiara Robinson Amanda Spencer Alyssa Tkach Kristin Wissler Adam Zertuche Matheus Caetano Reis

COMMUNICATIONS EXECUTIVE

Lily Diallo

GRAPHIC DESIGN CONSULTANT

Rixy Fernandez

TMC: LEADERSHIP BOARD OF DIRECTORS

ADVISORY COMMITTEE

Meryl Loonin, Chair Zeva Levine, Secretary R o s s K l o s t e r m a n , Tr e a s u r e r Steven Bichimer Melody Forbes Donna Neal Jamie Ross Ryan Rourke Reed John Sadoff Leanne Scott Thomas Bentley Jack Curtis Susan Denison Justin DuClos Kathryn Lee Sarah Miller Allan Reeder Chelsea Revelle Carol Scollans

TMC Spring 2017

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 Closing Date for Reservations: Copy Date: Pu b l i c a t i o n D a t e :

April 20, 2018 April 25, 2018 May 15, 2018

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

TMC: DONATE With a gift of $150 or more, we’ll list your name on the Patrons page of the magazine. All donations include a complimentary subscription to the Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts. GIVING LEVELS All donations are 100% tax-deductible. • $1,000: Supports TMC’s Internship Program, providing college students with hands-on leadership and near-peer mentoring experience. • $500: Supports TMC’s Teen Publication Workshop, providing urban teens with the tools to share their voices through publication. • $275: Supplies an under-resourced school with a Classroom Bundle Subscription (25 copies) to the Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts. • $100: Supports TMC’s Pop-Up Gallery, a temporary art exhibition that features up to 40 works by our published teens. • $50: Supports TMC’s Mentoring for Publication Workshop, wherein teens are paired one-to-one with college student mentors to hone their work for publication and exhibition. To donate online please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/donate *** T M C PAT R O N S Thomas Bentley, Steven Bichimer, Priscilla & Ramon Chura, Yongtao He, The Bill Galvin Committee, Nancy Lough, Zeva Levine, Deanne Loonin & Elizabeth Renuart, Mathew & Barbara Loonin, Neil Fisher & Meryl Loonin, Chelsea Revelle, Elizabeth Scott, Leanne Scott 4

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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. SPONSORSHIP LEVELS All sponsorships are 100% tax-deductible. • $25,000: Underwrites our Mentoring for Publication Workshop, a 6-week oneto-one workshop for 100 published teen artists and writers. • $10,000: Underwrites our semiannual Pop-Up Gallery, which is a temporary art exhibition that features up to 40 works by our published teens. • $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 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 Fieldstone Foundation Boston, MA

The Llewellyn Foundation Cambridge, MA / llewellynfoundation.org

John Hancock Financial Services Boston, MA / johnhancock.com

Walmart Foundation Boston, MA / giving.walmart.com

Loonin Family Fund La Jolla, CA

Wuhan Flying Cloud Technology and Trading Co.

Rhyme & Reason Family Fund Boston, MA / tbf.com

University of Massachusetts Boston, MA / umb.edu

TMC is supported in part by the Massachusetts Cultural Council’s Cultural Investment Portfolio Project program as well as its Local Cultural Councils: Abington, Amherst, Attleboro, Boston, Burlington, Chelmsford, Chicopee, Fall River, Falmouth, Grafton, Hadley, Harwich, Holbrook, Ipswich, Lee, Lexington, Manchester, Middleborough, New Bedford, New Salem, North Adams, North Attleboro, North Easton, Oxford, Peabody, Pembroke, Pepperell, Stoneham, Stoughton, Sturbridge, Sutton, Wayland, Westborough, & Whitman. TMC Spring 2017

TMC: CONTENTS 8

Depth (Poetry)

31 The Difference Between (Art)

Suffocated Man (Art)

32 Diagnosis (Poetry)

Anonymous / Lexington High School Emily Pellerin / Oxford High School

10 The Tollund Man’s Lullaby (Poetry) Natalie Good / Cambridge School of Weston

11 The Pigeons (Art)

Yasmine Charrak / Burlington High School

12 The Knot That Binds (Nonfiction) Jiaming (Martin) Mao Wilbraham & Monson Academy

14 Moment of Silence (Poetry) Vivian Soong / Milton Academy

16 An Ocean of Desire (Poetry)

Emma Dhanda / Cambridge Rindge and Latin School

17 Waves on Sand (Art)

Sam Kielar / Lexington High School

18 Self Portrait (Art)

Dashaun Simon / Brimmer and May School

19 In Flames (Art)

Olivia Obrebski / Auburn High School

20 Dead (Poetry)

Rebecca Hetherson / Joseph Case High School

22 The Storm (Poetry)

Nikkolette Gerald New Mission High School / 826 Boston

23 The Brilliant Colors of Autumn (Art) David Kotler / Maimonides High School

24 Sunshine Love (Poetry)

Nailah-Imani Pierce / Groton School

Alexandra Paul / Milton Academy

33 Idealist (Art)

Kiley Sutela / Oakmont Regional High School

34 I Won’t Forget (Nonfiction)

Emily Dromgold / Wilbraham & Monson Academy

37 Copper Mug (Art)

Catalina Mengyao Yang Amherst Regional High School

38 Together We Stand (Art)

Armani Marquez-Chaves Bay Path Regional Vocational Technical High School

39 Represent the Human Race (Art) Shae Perez / Lowell High School

40 On first snowfalls and new beginnings (Poetry) Elisabeth Pitts / Belmont High School 41 Emerald Swallowtail (Art)

Jade Sweeney / Shawsheen Valley Tecnhical High School

42 To Nike of Paionios (Poetry) Emma Fuchs / Quincy High School

44 The Disaster of Forever (Fiction) Amelia Chen / Deerfield Academy

50 Chemical Beauty (Poetry)

Layah James Jeremiah E. Burke High School / 826 Boston

52 Being the Other Woman (Nonfiction) Samantha Lodato / Wilmington High School

25 On My Way (Art)

54 The Light at the End of the Tunnel (Art)

Kevin Torres / Lowell High School

Olivia Perry / Marshall Simonds Middle School

26 Love Is Not Gone (Nonfiction)

55 Come Land or Sea My Irish Memories (Art) Keara Moulton / Oakmont Regional High School

29 Rose Not Read (Art)

56 Peacock Feather (Art)

30 A Hindu in Catholic School (Poetry)

57 Tucker (Art)

Celina Rivernider / Wilbraham & Monson Academy Ashlyn Biundo / Burlington High School Aditya Gandhi / Milton Academy

Shaun Ferren / Burlington High School

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Ronika Patel / Burlington High School

Ryan Frasier / Lynnfield High School

TMC: Spring 2017 58 Through The Window (Poetry)

79 Enchanted (Art)

60 Saying Goodbye (Poetry)

80 The Asleep (Poetry)

Jolie Atwood / Marshall Simonds Middle School

Alexander Patano / Ayer Shirley Regional High School

61 Dancing in the Sky (Art)

Quanye Hoskins / Tech Boston Academy

62 Dog Attack (Nonfiction)

Lauren D’Angelo / Wilmington High School

63 One Step (Art)

Aleksa Wilk / North Reading High School

64 Forgiveness and Water (Poetry) Jillian Folger Ayer Shirley Regional High School

Yihan Luo / Lexington High School

Grace Waterman Abington High School / Mass Poetry

81 El Techo de Cristal en los EE. UU. (Art) Alyssa Blake / Oakmont Regional High School

82 Cut Paper Self Portrait (Art)

Sarah Lincoln / Hopkinton High School

83 City Bike (Art)

Roman Bolshakov / Holliston High School

84 A Cloud Gone By (Poetry)

Samantha Marshall / North Quincy High School

65 Sunset Tree (Art)

85 Gaju (Art)

66 America’s Quilt (Poetry)

86 The Woman of Louisiana, 1904 (Poetry)

Obiamaka Igwenagu / Auburn High School

Hann Tu Ayer Shirley Regional High School

68 Spilled Milk (Nonfiction)

Jeffrey Dimunah Lincoln Sudbury Regional High School

70 Answers from an Agnostic (Poetry)

Allison Steeves / Ayer Shirley Regional High School

71 Oceanside (Art)

Michaela Battistone / Burlington High School

72 The Hardships of Life (Poetry)

Christian Hoffmann / Ayer Shirley Regional High School

74 Jazz in the City (Fiction)

Julie Suh / Lexington High School

75 Sunrise Over the North End (Art) Christina Pesiridis / Burlington High School

Cindy Niyonzima / Burlington High School

William Blumberg / Lexington High School

87 Flowing Steps (Art)

Sameeksha Sharma / Chelmsford High School

88 Warning Signs (Poetry)

Jana Wright / Algonquin Regional High School

89 Hand (Poetry)

Alpha Bathol / Burlington High School

90 Starving Students Across America (Nonfiction) Emily Wright / Wilmington High School

92 To Play the Martyr (Poetry) Patrick Nie / Lexington High School

93 Innocence (Art)

Sydney Simons Somerset Berkley Regional High School

76 A Glass Mood (Art)

94 Ode to a Quaking Aspen Tree (Poetry)

77 Contaminated (Art)

95 Star-Crossed (Art)

Katherine Blood / Ayer Shirley Regional High School

Jessica James / Burlington High School

Emma Kindblom / Wilbraham & Monson Academy

Dakota Gleason / Auburn High School

78 I Do Desire We May Be Better Strangers 96 Who Am I? (Art) Rebecca Hope / Oxford High School (Poetry) Isabelle Pillone / North Quincy High School TMC Spring 2017

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

Anonymous

Depth At the surface of the lake, there floated three red kayaks, bobbing in unison above the sparkling water. Seventh day that week, and still a 70-degree afternoon. Sails stretched to catch the flaps of wind, while just below her surface, seagulls’ skinny legs could be seen through a blue filter as they rode the lake’s waves. below, shiny fish the size of fists folded their tails and darted among the more solid colors, not the spoonfuls of sunlight. but a few feet deeper was a few shades too dark, where vitamin d was rare, rare as the algae in which paddles didn’t tangle themselves in this area of the lake. down here, the casual observer could fill pages of notes with just her darkness, the smooth way in which the patches of anti-light would ripple and slice, then break with the stench of mud and mud and more mud. here, one could hold one’s breath with painful ease, just let the depth take over, burning down one’s nose to the very bottom of their cold lungs, until they could hold it no longer and, breathed in her truth

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A R T Oxford High School / Class of 2018

E m i l y

P e l l e r i n

Suffocated Man

d r a w i n g

TMC Spring 2017

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

Natalie Good

The Tollund Man’s Lullaby I enter the Silkeborg Museum, walk through an exhibition of the Iron Age, and there you are. Curled into a baby’s sleep, eyes soft as a worn jacket, a door closed behind you The rope still around your neck, braiding bruises into your skin Arms too frail to handle, the flesh melted away into pitch black bone, curved like a bow resting from the arrow’s shot You are a flower pressed between the pages of a book The bones fizzing out of you in the bog, acid and moss transforming you into a shell of organs and muscle and oily flesh You who felt the weather hurtle from rough to smooth to hot to cold You who felt fear suck the oxygen out of your town You of the leather rope You of the tree, of the height, of the fall The bog bloated with peat Not land, not water As mystical as the finely cut stars in the night’s silk cloth You weren’t the first, and you won’t be the last laid into the bog to rest, weary bones transformed into leathery skin held so fresh that those who found you thought that you had died a day, a week earlier You who tell us of Denmark and silver bowls cast into bogs You, a man turned reverse augur, whose emptied stomach tells of gruel and grain You with your cap still tucked on your head, speckles of a beard growing on your chin You are always on the downbeat of the rhythm, exhaling forever. 10

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A R T Burlington High School / Class of 2017

Y a s m i n e

C h a r r a k

The Pigeons

p h o t o g r a p h y TMC Spring 2017

N O N F I C T I O N Wilbraham & Monson Academy / Class of 2017

Jiaming (Martin) Mao

The Knot That Binds Before I turned 12, I had never worn formal clothes. My knowledge of such things came from my father. Every weekend, he would iron his own white shirts. The popping sound of the water vapor always drew me close even when I was lying on the sofa upstairs. The first time I heard the sound, I ran downstairs to see what he was doing. He was ironing a white shirt slowly and gently. Wrinkles on the shirt disappeared magically with the iron passing over it. I stared at my father’s movements, from collar to cuff, until he finished and put the iron away. I stuck out my tiny finger and touched the shirt. It was warm and smooth, and I imagined myself as a man who wore this shirt with a perfectly knotted tie. Over winter vacation when I was 11, I got my first chance to dress up properly. I traveled with my parents on a cruise. Formal dress code was required at dinner. The first night on the cruise, my father and I dressed up together. Standing in front of a mirror in the room, I examined myself in a white shirt and khaki trousers, feeling proud. My father taught me how to tie a Windsor knot: “First, pull your tie like this. Don’t make it too long or too short,” he demonstrated. “The tip of your tie should fall right on your buckle.” The Windsor knot was complex. My first knot was too big. The length of the back exceeded that of the front. The tiny piece of tie made me look funny. I tried again. This time, the tie reached my thighs. I finally tore the tie off my neck and threw it on the chair. But my father picked it up. He had a beautiful triangular knot on the collar with the tip of the tie right on his buckle. “Don’t be frustrated. Try again.” He put the tie back around my neck, untied his perfect knot and broke down the steps. Slowly and gently he tied his own knot. I stared at his movements, and my hands started moving through the same steps. With my two hands, I created a perfect Windsor knot, just as good as my father’s. He knelt and pulled my knot further up. While I could hardly breathe, the tight feeling on my neck made me comfortable. “Confucius said in Analects: ‘Be mindful of the li (Etiquette). One must not be ashamed for wearing shabby clothes, but one shall for not wearing them properly.’ Make sure to have your tie at the right length and pull your knot all the way up.” He patted my shoulder and said, “Check yourself in the mirror, what a nice young man.” Looking into the mirror, I saw myself dressed impeccably. My father’s recognition made me even more excited. Yet, the beauty of these clothes made me feel I should remain calm. So I did not, or at least I thought I did not, show much excitement. I pretended to be indifferent about my great achievement because a man would never be surprised about being able to tie a simple knot. I followed everything my father did. I held the door for others; I smiled and said, “Thank you” to the waiter 12

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N O N F I C T I O N who poured water for me; I sliced my steak into smaller pieces than I usually did. Every move exemplified perfect etiquette. A photographer took a picture of my mother and me. My hair was curled up because of sweat, but I raised my chin up and smiled proudly. Even when I finished dinner and returned to our cabin, I did not want to change. My passion for formal dressing did not last long. By the time I was a sophomore in a boarding school in the U.S., I could easily tie a Windsor knot, but I was no longer interested in becoming a gentleman. Dressing up every day was a habit, rather than an opportunity to shine. By repeating the same process over and over, I was able to get dressed with my eyes closed. Even worse, everyone around me dressed the same way. And in winter, which is particularly long and cold in New England, it was a pain to get up early enough to dress and make it to class on time. Not only did I become tired of dressing up, but I also lost interest in learning. When I first arrived at the boarding school, studying at an American high school fascinated me. I would debate over a math problem for 20 minutes, even if the teacher explained it the next day. The passion ended soon after I made the highest honor roll my first trimester. Before that, I had no clear understanding of my academic ability at an American high school, nor did my parents. When my parents realized a GPA of 4.0 was reachable for me, the bar was fixed even higher. And I set my own bar high as well. I started to care only about my grades, and I wasted no time on things that did not boost my grades. When someone asked me a math problem, my typical reply was: “It won’t be on the test, so why do you ask?” One day, my father texted me to send him a selfie in dress code, “I want to see if you dress properly.” So the next morning, I dressed up as usual. I took a photo in front of the mirror. The person in the picture was well dressed. He had his Windsor knot a perfect triangle and the tie at the right length—the tip on the buckle. Hurrying down to the dining hall, I held the door for a girl behind me. I smiled and said, “Thank you” to the server who made me an omelet. I stepped to a table and sat down. Although time was tight, I cut the omelet into small pieces before I ate. Then a sudden realization struck me: I was doing everything I used to think that men did. It was not only the appearance that my father cared about; the li was what my father wanted me to understand. So again I pulled the knot up tightly.

TMC Spring 2017

P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Class of 2018

Vivian Soong

Moment of Silence The ringing of the phone startles me awake. Fear pops my balloon of a lung. A phone call in the dead of night: I cannot breathe. I am 8 years old. My yeye—the father of my father— has died, but my father never tells me. He leaves the burden for my mother to unload. Years later, the bumps of the dirt road jolt me awake. My father and I are driving to Hushi— his hometown. I look out the window to see a dilapidated town with houses barely standing. The elderly sit outside and fan themselves to avoid the heat. Men are shirtless and smoking. Women peel lotus seeds from their pods, throwing whatever they don’t need onto the ground. This is my father’s birthplace. We pull up to a house that looks more modern— a brick house standing two stories tall with glass windows instead of square-shaped holes to let light in. Half of the town greets us. They tell me we are all one family. A man—possibly my uncle— takes us into a field where we burn money next to a great stone, so my yeye can spend eternity in luxury. This is the place where my family, including my yeye, is buried. It is too hot here, I want to leave. My aunt walks me back to the house and sits me in my grandfather’s room. Nervous, I open drawers and find a picture of my father in his cap and gown, graduating—something my yeye couldn’t attend. Others of my brother and me. I remember the day when the picture was taken. I didn’t want to sit in my yeye’s lap. And today, I don’t want to be at his grave. 14

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P O E T R Y My aunt tells me he would hold the pictures every night before he went to bed. She asks me how I am feeling, but Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m speechlessâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;any sound will break the dam behind my eyelids. Later I ask my father to tell me about my yeye, but he is not one to share his life. I go to my room because we are a family that grieves alone.

TMC Spring 2017

P O E T R Y Cambridge Rindge and Latin School / Class of 2020

Emma Dhanda

An Ocean of Desire Oh isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t it hard to navigate the ocean of desire? Isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t it hard not to hear the choir of lost souls who fell deep into the ocean blue? What a challenge not to crash into the jagged rocks of heartbreak What a challenge avoiding the sirens who wail from the rocks bawling over their sweethearts Those sirens Who moan and weep Who cannot sleep Who have felt the pain of unrequited love But To see the horizon That glows with possibility A smile A hand, running through hair Eyes, full of life The flutters of your heart And you set sail again under a sunset of dreams ignoring all the others who fell before you. 16

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A R T Lexington High School / Class of 2017

S a m

K i e l a r

Waves on Sand

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Spring 2017

A R T Brimmer and May School / Class of 2017

D a s h a u n

S i m o n

Self Portrait

d r a w i n g 18

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A R T Auburn High School / Class of 2017

O l i v i a

O b r e b s k i

In Flames

p a i n t i n g TMC Spring 2017

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

Rebecca Hetherson

Dead

11pm. eyes so asleep they’re wide open oceans of tears, but this time, they’re silent i’m sorry that there are things worse worse then me worse than the gravity that weighs me down in winter February, i am weak i am weak like the tired paper hearts they cut out on valentines day tired like my lips when i say i’m okay because how do i say i am not? i am rot i have sought for a reason why i couldn’t be okay at all. 12pm. my stomach still aches have you seen the movements my hands make i can’t stop shaking shaking shaking i wish i could break my fingers snap my bones maybe something else will grow back tired of pulling at hair bare skin feet scabs it’s bad, becca that’s bad you’ll leave scars on your face don’t do that but i want to it’s satisfying it helps me calm down i like the pull, the twitch, my hair ripping out but how do i tell someone that’s my sense of control. 20

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P O E T R Y 1am. i can’t breathe. eyes woven shut the angel of death can sew, who knew? my throat and lungs are turning blue if i open my eyes then i’m back to my life where i am what i see do i want to be me? i don’t know! i don’t care! stop pulling at your hair becca stop pulling at your hair no one knows that you’re there yelling at yourself at the back of your head and the angel of depression still pulling her thread and if you open your eyes in your room at night you might see nothing. 2am. sleep. 3am. paralysis. slapping your face in your dreams, trying to wake up wake up wake up wake up! 4am. bliss. i’m dismissed like she gave me a kiss and i wouldn’t mind as long as it fits in my lungs her thread her voice in my head saying pull your hair harder maybe then she’ll be dead.

TMC Spring 2017

P O E T R Y New Mission High School / 826 Boston / Class of 2017

N i k k o l e t t e

G e r a l d

The Stor m “I’ll never need a man. I’ve heard they’re no good anyways.” I swore to myself I would never need a man. And I swore it to my lady. As I walked away from my lady, Athena’s, temple, I wanted to cleanse myself in her waters, And rejoice in my newfound purpose. I washed my face as my golden curls tickled the surface of the ocean. And then I saw him. His eyes were the blue of the sea, There was no escaping his glance. His teeth were a scary white, and made it easy to distinguish his body from the rest of his domain. Poseidon, God of the Seas, was before me. His gaze was unbreakable. His voice was the roar of the waves. His touch was heavenly and would be disrespectful to refuse. His lips against mine were like stepping into warm sand; they sunk in right against mine. And I felt this storm inside of me. I didn’t want to stop, but the crashing of the waves got louder, and angrier. And I knew my lady had saw. Her voice echoed everywhere, making it impossible to see if she was anywhere. She told me I was weak. BUT HOW DO YOU REFUSE A GOD? WHY DID HE HAVE THE ABILITY TO GET TO ME, ON HER HOLY GROUND? As he dived back into the sea, I fell over looking for him, as my snakes taunted the surface of the water, teasing him to come back. 22

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A R T Maimonides High School / Class of 2017

D a v i d

K o t l e r

The Brilliant Colors of Autumn

p a i n t i n g

TMC Spring 2017

P O E T R Y Groton School / Class of 2018

Nailah-Imani Pierce

Sunshine Love Let’s walk in this sunshine bask in its unfurling rays soft as the underside of orange rinds remaining on the skin like citrus mists. Although old man winter tries to resist the impish southern wind’s whirling wit his frosty brow melts into puddled-birdsong laughter so that in the dusk interim of days later less and less cumulus gather to discuss the matter of solemn snowflakes’ distinctive displays The ice lounging beneath the tree’s shade becomes lethargic and slips into river bays passing mother oaks beckoning from shore that whisper stories of warmth as icicles become no more. Notice the avian neighbors making a welcome return twittering about Madame Spring’s southern sojourn how they had each looked for her in turn only to find her serenading the sky amongst holly buds a hymn to verdant vines a thousand times sung a season that patiently waits to be sprung to warm the trodden, new shades to touch greys a deep breath at last to sustain the new refrain of the jubilant heart facing April’s rain. Little buds and boys, she will not always remain and there is no guarantee that azure heavens will reign Little girls and gardenias play together today let’s walk in this sunshine, while it stays.

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A R T Lowell High School / Class of 2017

K e v i n

T o r r e s

On My Way

p a i n t i n g

TMC Spring 2017

N O N F I C T I O N Wilbraham & Monson Academy / Class of 2017

C e l i n a

R i v e r n i d e r

Love Is Not Gone Last winter was bitterly cold. It was the kind of cold that hurt as soon as you stepped outside; the kind of cold that numbed your fingers and toes no matter what you wore. Despite the cold, it was sunny, but the sun didn’t give off any warmth. It just reflected off the snow in harsh white. My house always smelled like the candles my mom lit around the holidays, and hints of wood smoke from my aunts and uncles’ houses across the street, and my grandparents’ next door. As usual, I was sick for a few days that winter, so I stayed home from school while my parents went to work. I don’t remember when my grandpa went to the hospital. I only remember my mom coming home from work very briefly and then leaving again to go to Mary Lane Hospital. My dad would stay home with me, and we didn’t talk about why there was an empty place at our table. My mom would come home smelling like the chemical sweetness of hospital soap that made my stomach turn. Not attending school for most of that week was a blessing and a curse. I was able to totally isolate myself in my room and think, but once I was alone in my mind, it took me a long time to get out. I had settled into a routine. Wake up, eat breakfast as I watched my mom leave for the hospital, then my dad for work for only a half day; my dad would come home, eat dinner, and then my mom would come home. When she came home, she would give me a hug, and she would be smiling. I could tell she didn’t feel like smiling. But I don’t think even she knew exactly how she felt. My grandpa was starting to forget things, and he couldn’t speak very well anymore. All of this happened within a few days. I knew he was sick before, but he always pulled through. It never worsened this badly, this fast. My mom was spending more time at the hospital, leaving earlier and coming home later. I closed myself off in my room and tried to distract myself with drawing. My hands would be covered in iridescent gray graphite, and there would be eraser shavings all over my bed, but I still couldn’t calm my mind. The thoughts that I had, I do not have words to describe. I simply had a crushing sensation in my chest, and dark thoughts swirled around my head vaguely, too fast for me to identify. I didn’t tell any of my friends when they texted me after they got home from school. I didn’t want them to say something like, “I’m sorry,” or maybe I wanted to keep one small part of my world as if nothing had happened. Then, one night, I lost what little hope I had for my grandpa getting better. My dad answered a phone call, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying because we were across the house from each other. For a few minutes, after he hung up, it was quiet, and I waited. Then he called me downstairs. I knew what he was going to say before he said it; there were tears in his eyes. He told me there wasn’t anything the doctors could do for my grandpa anymore. He wasn’t as strong as he used to be, and the diseases in his body and mind had finally caught up with him. I did cry then, but it was out of shock more than anything else. 26

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N O N F I C T I O N I don’t remember the next two days after that. They went by painfully slowly and all too fast at the same time. One morning, I was eating breakfast, and my mom’s phone rang. She answered it and listened for a little bit, then said she was coming. She kept repeating that, kept saying she was coming right away and waiting for her, her voice getting more strained with every word. She turned and said something to my dad after she hung up, then my dad said something to me that I don’t remember; just like that, my grandpa had passed away. I expected my food to go tasteless, or the room to start spinning, or something dramatic to happen. But everything stayed the same, even though nothing really was. My mom came home from the hospital earlier than the other days, and she and my dad watched TV together. It was almost a normal weekend, except it was a Wednesday and nobody felt normal. I couldn’t actually cry; I didn’t even tell my friends, I just sat up in my room and listened to music. I tried to focus on the lyrics instead of what I was thinking. Later in the day, just as dusk began to fall, I walked out of the house. I was only wearing jeans, snow boots, and a sweatshirt, even though it was freezing and the snow was so deep it went over my boots. I walked into the woods that surrounded all of the houses on our street, my legs and hands stinging. I followed a ghost of a trail and stopped just at the edge of the trees. I could see my grandparents’ house. It looked the same as it always had. Nothing had collapsed, the lights were still on in the living room, the small gardens still sat under lumps of snow. I thought I would cry then because all of the details felt shoved into my face. But instead, I just observed. The calling hours were the hardest time for me. I was in the receiving line with my grandma, mom, aunts, uncles, and my little cousin. I had no idea what to do. My dad had explained to me what would be happening beforehand, but I was just not well suited for that sort of situation. Of course, if I couldn’t handle it, I was allowed to leave. But somehow I stayed. Some people I knew very well, some were just familiar, others were total strangers who treated me like family, nonetheless. It made me feel sick. I knew these people were genuinely concerned and wanted to support my family, but the things they said to me were repetitive and useless. I was told to “give it time,” to “hang in there.” Time? How long? How was time going to fix that someone who was such a big part of my family was gone? Sometimes people even told me he wasn’t really gone. I wanted to slap them. I’ve never felt that angry at someone with good intentions, but it was so idiotic—his coffin was right behind them. I know they meant the whole idea of his legacy in his family or whatever, but at that moment his “legacy” was tearful and dressed in black. I just stood there politely: I shook people’s hands and shook my head when my dad asked me if I needed a break. I was afraid if I stopped and let myself think about what was going on, I would break down. TMC Spring 2017

N O N F I C T I O N Eventually, those thoughts found their way into my head. This time, however, they weren’t vague; they were loud and clear. I didn’t show what I was feeling. I didn’t let myself cry; I didn’t want to in front of all those people. All of the apologies for my loss and the pointless comforts merged in my head. Altogether, one thought louder than the rest reverberated through me when I finally allowed myself to look at the wooden coffin: “You’re never going to see him again.” It was strange how it wasn’t in first person. It was as if I divided into two parts, one that was trying to tear me to pieces, and another desperately trying to keep me together. That night, I finally did break down. It was the hardest I had ever cried in my life, to the point that it’s still painful to think about now. It felt like my whole body hurt, like I couldn’t stop until I shattered. The funeral was a blur. It was one of the coldest days of the year, and between that and trying not to cry loudly, I was having trouble breathing. There was a ceremony in the funeral home, and once they sang a gospel hymn, I started crying and could not stop until after the funeral was over. Since my grandpa was a World War II veteran, they fired off guns before they buried him. The funeral itself was simple but beautiful. It was beautiful because of the people who attended. My family loves each other so much that the in-laws on my dad’s side get along with my cousin’s wife from my mom’s side. That’s the true testimonial to my grandfather. I realized that, as the folded-up American flag was handed to my grandmother. Strangely, this comfort made the whole ordeal more painful. It hurt to have someone I love taken away from me, but it was almost worse to watch so many people I love in so much pain. After the funeral, there was a banquet lunch at a restaurant. I did pull myself together for a couple of hours, and I could smile when I held my baby cousin. But once we left there, once I was alone in my room again, I curled up in a ball on my bed and cried. On that day, I discovered two simple truths. The first was that no matter how kind I am, there are some people who do not care as much about me as I care about them. The second was that it was still worth it to be kind anyway. As I saw my family together, I could see the effects my grandfather had made on the people around him. I knew then that sometimes you aren’t around to see the proof of your greatest deeds. But it is still worth it, anyway.

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A R T Burlington High School / Class of 2020

A s h l y n

B i u n d o

Rose Not Read

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Spring 2017

P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Class of 2018

Aditya Gandhi

A Hindu in Catholic School I don’t believe in America, the land where my parents talk about Holi when the only colors I’ve ever felt are my brown skin in a white polo. The flash of the camera hit me like a sword, a photo that celebrated incense singeing my nose hairs and choirs singing against my ears like the hard-hitting priest in a guru’s robes, trying to blind me, crying god is with us— if only you sense him in nothing. If only you weren’t so Indian. When I gathered with the school in black-and-white uniform, I thought I was at a feast with pilgrims. They wanted me to eat flesh. I said I don’t eat beef, my parents don’t eat meat. Please, I don’t want to drink blood. At lunch, I clutched a veggie patty, did not eat it until I was in my mother’s car, the Infiniti logo sparkling more than the framed creature— sorry, god—high up on the dashboard. She watched me from an ocean’s length and could not see that I don’t like Diwali. The cops always think we are trying to blow up the nation. They remind me of the nuns who never knew: when they greeted my parents, their joint hands formed a globe with me inside, a heathen in the New World.

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A R T Burlington High School / Class of 2018

S h a u n

F e r r e n

The Dif fer ence Between

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Spring 2017

P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Class of 2018

A l e x a n d r a

P a u l

Diagnosis She writes too much about matches, the rough skin on her fingers. To be used, and flicked to the curb of some city, she stays awake to think. How a tail of light could turn a tawny body black. How the bruised base of a flame would burn hottest. Sitting in a psychiatristâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s office, he tells her about foxfire. How it lives in decay, virescent, bioluminescent, and warns. He tells her that some are not meant to sustain their own atomic burning-She shifts like water in a glass but only thinks of how he has a poetâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tongue.

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Class of 2018

K i l e y

S u t e l a

Idealist

p a i n t i n g

TMC Spring 2017

N O N F I C T I O N Wilbraham & Monson Academy / Class of 2017

Emily Dromgold

I Wo n ’t Fo r g e t I remember being taught how to draw a heart when I was three or four. I loved coloring in the shape with glitter and markers. My unsteady hands would draw two sides with much contentment as I thought about all my friends and family. Eka was my babysitter since I was two, but she was old enough to be my grandma. Her real name was Erika, but I couldn’t pronounce it and instead called her Eka. I’d stand at the front door and press my nose against the glass in anticipation of her arrival. I’d have to stand on my toes to see out the window. As soon as I saw her black car pull up the driveway, I’d run out to meet her without wearing shoes. She wasn’t a fast walker so I’d bounce in circles around her until we’d reach the front door. Eka had greying hair and pale skin. She had a slight Swiss accent and spoke in soft tones. Her light blue eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled and her laugh matched her gentle features. She wore subtle red lipstick. Innocence is bliss. I had just begun piano lessons and would play songs for Eka. I’d slide a chair next to the standup piano and bang out some tune about monkeys. It had a fast melody and was probably my favorite piece at the time. Her clapping and encouraging words made me feel like the next Bach. I didn’t know what a crescendo was or what dynamics meant but it didn’t matter. “I remember one song from when I was your age!” “You do?” I loved to play outside and I loved a good adventure. I’d take an armful of stuffed animals with me to explore. Eka would help give them voices. Dogs and cats would dot the yard by the time I reached my favorite tree. It sat on the sidewalk between my neighbor’s house and my own. I didn’t know if it belonged to my family or my neighbor but I decided that its ownership would be split in half. The tree changed appearances depending on the season. In the fall, it sprouted fuzzy buds along sweeping branches. I’d take a bud in my hand and pinch it between my fingers. I’d spin it in circles and then split the side open, revealing green leaves the color of lima beans. Digging through the layers of green, I’d finally reach a center filled with magenta petals. The tree never bloomed pink flowers so the buds’ interiors remained a mystery. “I want to make perfume! We can use the flowers back there!” “Alright Emmy, just don’t take all the petals from one flower. Take a couple from here and there.” Through seven-year-old eyes, anything was possible. One day I wanted to make perfume. A row of purple irises lined a garden in my backyard. I picked bright purple petals from each iris. Eka followed with an empty water bottle in hand. I kept running up and down the length of the garden grabbing petals to add to the bottle. We poured in water. After a few minutes, the mixture turned a rich purple. The garden had no flower petals left but with a little help I made perfume. The idea I had envisioned became reality. 34

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N O N F I C T I O N “How’s school, Emmy?” “It’s good!” “Who are you friends with again?” “Emma and Taylor and-” “Oh, I remember them now!” We’d get takeout from Boston Market, which I called Boston Chicken. I’d eat chicken and mashed potatoes swimming in gravy. I’d move my corn around the plate to make it look like I ate some. I struggled to read Roman numerals on the clock, VII. Eka would drink tea with lemon. Eka looked puzzled as she held the cards in her hand, “How do you play this again?” “You played this last time you came over!” All of us laughed. We figured it was old age. Eka would tell stories before bedtime each night she came to my house when I was a child. I had a strange fascination with misbehaving children. I’d sit in bed propped up by pillows and wait for another story. The star of our tales was Steve. He lied, broke into his neighbor’s house and went to jail. At the end, he always managed to apologize. Every day with Eka had a happy ending. Memory is skewed. “Hi Eka!” “Hi Emmy! How old are you now?” “I’m twelve now. How are you?” “Wow! You’re growing up so fast! How is school going?” “It’s great.” “What grade are you in?” “I’m in seventh grade. Hey, we’re excited to see you next weekend! Can you believe it’s almost Christmas?” “Wow! Oooh, I’m so excited…How old are you again?” Every few months, Ron and Leslie (family friends) would invite my family over for dinner. They also invited Eka because she had babysat their son, Tyler, when he was a child. Leslie would place water glasses painted with spots on her table. She’d serve beef stew or meatloaf decorated with fresh peppers. Dessert would be topped with creamy vanilla ice cream and raspberry sauce. Ron and Leslie moved away but my family was able to visit them for dinner. Eka wasn’t able to make the trek to Rhode Island. “Can I say hi?” “Sure.” Leslie passed me the phone after she gave Eka her remarks. I walked into their living room with deep oak lining the fireplace. “Hi Eka!” “Hi Emmy!” Her voice was so carefree it practically had no weight. “How are you?” I forced a cheery tone. “I’m doing well. I’m grateful for my good health.” My chest tightened. “Hey, do you remember Steve…The boy who would be in all the stories you’d tell me when I was little?” TMC Spring 2017

N O N F I C T I O N “Ahhh… No.” My eyes burned. “Well, can I tell you a story then?” I tried to swallow. “Okay, Emmy.” I’d thought about this for a long time. I wanted to give something back. Eka liked the story, but she probably didn’t remember the first sentence. The last time I saw Eka was her eighty-first birthday party. It may have been her eighty-second. Eka’s daughter arranged a small party for her at an Italian restaurant in Longmeadow. I stopped by after a tennis match. I made it just in time for cake. A fruit filled piece was passed to Eka first. She looked at me and smiled. Her eyes were glazed but her joyful personality hadn’t changed. At the end of our visit, my mom said goodbye to Eka after I gave her a hug. Eka’s expression wavered as her memory of my mom was lost. There is nothing I can do. I cannot bring Eka’s memory back. I can only try to sustain my own. Eka’s warm heart may be the same as before but she is hollow. We were two halves of a heart and I am the only side left. My love for Eka will not change. In fact, it will continue to grow as it colors in the missing half of my heart. I won’t forget.

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A R T Amherst Regional High School / Class of 2019

C a t a l i n a

M e n g y a o

Y a n g

Copper Mug

p a i n t i n g

TMC Spring 2017

A R T Bay Path Regional Vocational Technical High School / Class of 2017

A r m a n i

M a r q u e z - C h a v e s

Together We Stand

p h o t o g r a p h y 38

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A R T Lowell High School / Class of 2019

S h a e

P e r e z

Represent the Human Race

d i g i t a l

TMC Spring 2017

a r t

P O E T R Y Belmont High School / Class of 2020

Elisabeth Pitts

On first snowfalls and new beginnings To feel a snowflake caught in my tired, ink-crusted lashes on the first whispering snowfall of winter is to feel the first thrumming heartbeat of a butterfly’s paper thin, pollen-sticky wings unfolding. It’s in the curl of an infant’s pink tadpole fist unfurling. The silent courage of a dandelion’s skinny green neck peeking through a sidewalk crack. The first glimmer of a blue flame sunrise over the sugar-frosted tops of tough bristle pines. My breath is a gossamer cloud, an electric sizzle on the air. The rustle of glittering brocade leaves swirl around my feet on a silk ribbon wind. The thin blue ice cackles beneath the heel of my boot, and splinters into diamond dust.

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A R T Shawsheen Valley Tecnhical High School / Class of 2020

J a d e

S w e e n e y

Emerald Swallowtail

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Spring 2017

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

Emma Fuchs

To N i k e o f Pa i o n i o s I there are oceans behind you when you run are they stitching themselves to your ankles— threads of histories? because I know you’ve seen them before (repetitions – histories histories repeat themselves they say, and i am not too young to witness) II i want to last like you i want to let my toes imitate the Earth, crumble when the Earth crumbles beneath them. you are a statue so i will taste of you so i will taste of stone when they chew me i will splinter their teeth. and still i will become so small that i will be everywhere (this is my victory – i cannot be made small enough to be erased) so let me taste like kissing ground and let me stick to lips as grit so let me be dust and i will never evaporate— so let me be sand and i will become an alchemist so let me be swallowed and i will churn in stomachs and turn to pearl. 42

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P O E T R Y III let beads shatter on ocean floor so i can remind myself how sharp i can be how i am more than just a body how you are more than just a body how you are intricate and i am intricate and how you are an ancient figure IV whose teeth were more diamond than your marrow? than your bone? i see the fissures in your ankles, the cracks in your kneesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; have you never let yourself be consumed by others? have you never tantalized others let yourself float between lips like words? you look too honest to be immortal strength does not come only in independence (there is a reason i still look up to you; i need more than just me) V some days i think i will only be satisfied when i am as stone as you as solid as you as big as you and if i cannot be as big as you let me be as small as you in the palms of Athena Parthenos and if you will not hold me let me be the oceans so i may chase you and stitch my fingers to your toes with constellations threads of histories. let me crumble over a thousand years because we are too big to be held in these bodies TMC Spring 2017

F I C T I O N Deerfield Academy / Class of 2018

A m e l i a

C h e n

The Disaster of Forever One Her first life ends in a hospital, amidst a blur of white. White tiles, white sheets, white static that presses on her ears even while she is asleep. She hardly notices the nurses that float into her room or the robotic attendants puttering about and giving her shots. Everything seems to be stuffed with cotton, her limbs as useless as those of a scarecrow standing guard in a field plagued by crows. Her face is thickly wrapped with sticky NuSkin, with only a small gap for her eyes. By the time the doctor sputters into the room, she has found that she can roll her eyes around and blink. She hears a pen clicking to her right. A mustache looms over her field of vision, then a pair of coal-black eyes. It hurts to furrow her brows. “Hello, Evangelica.” His voice is too honey, too soothing. “I’m not sure how much you remember. You were brought in last week as one of the victims of the flash flood that devastated a quarter of the homes around town.” At once the memories start assaulting her. Mom and Dad and Anthoni, breakfast. Churning in the distance, crunching on rocks. Pancakes adorned by pink and blue soyberries. Milk in a glass, rattling. Water rampaging through the walls like a wildebeest. Silence. Silt. Suspension. No breath, no air, nothing but yellow water and blooming red and the strangled onset of blackness. There was no pain, she remembers. She hadn’t even had time to scream. “You arrived at this hospital with severe injuries to your vertebrae and deep lacerations all over your body. We stopped the bleeding and reset your bones as best as we could, but there is a good chance that you will be permanently paralyzed from the neck down.” The NuSkin is still too fresh and rubbery to allow for any facial movement. She manages to squeeze out a couple grunts, eyes watering at the pain. Useless. She knows before the doctor even says anything. She’s paralyzed, but not brain dead. He bit his lip and for the first time, looked away. No. It can’t be. For the first time she realizes how young the doctor is. The moustache does little to disguise that he’s only a couple years older than she is, maybe only twentyfive. The little hairs are all twitching. She can count each individual strand. A ceiling fan roars from somewhere deeper in the building. The pen is clicking again, almost deliberately, like an incessant scratching inside her brain. “...I’m very sorry. There was nothing we could do.” 44

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F I C T I O N Something flickers in her eyes. She wants to thrash her limbs, to scream and yell, to break something, but her body lays stubbornly still. Only the tears still flow freely, punctuated by guttural groaning. Good god, she can’t even cry properly anymore. The doctor sees her crying and hesitates, then slowly raises a finger. “...I think we can still do something for you, however.” She glares at him. Go on. “It’s a technique that’s only been just developed enough to test on humans, by an organization of enterprising neurologists and biochemists. You have something that constitutes your identity, your ‘you’-ness, right? And when you die, there is not only a ceasing of bodily functions, there’s a definite loss of ‘self ’ that has been observed throughout history. Your – for the sake of simplicity I’m going to call it a ‘soul’ – your soul passes from this realm into another, but has to pass through a special space in order to do so. “It turns out that Limbo – that waiting space between life and death – exists. Limbo isn’t white like people thought, but more like outer space, all black and empty, and… the closest term would be sticky, but in a very abstract sense. Your soul can get stuck in it, like a fly in amber. So far the research has shown that nobody gets permanently trapped in Limbo, but just passes through relatively slowly, within a range of a couple days to a few weeks. “What we can do, now, is take souls out of Limbo. So if you die and we’re ready, we can take a pair of metaphorical tweezers and extract your soul from Limbo, then insert it into a new body. We can replicate the process as many times as we’d like, providing that there is a body available for transfer. Hypothetically, we could do this forever. “It hasn’t been tested on humans yet, but RedonoTeq has been successful on most mammals, including chimpanzees. There is a 62% probability that an operation on a human will succeed. I, however, believe that in your case, the benefits outweigh the risks.” He looks at her expectantly. “Well, Evangelica? Would you like to live again?” Evangelica stares. Her throat itches. All her tears had collected on the top flap of the NuSkin under her eyes and were congealing into opaque beads, glittering in her peripheral vision. “To be honest, we don’t know how much time you have left. You are currently stable, but precariously. Any of your organs could fail at any moment. I need an answer now. You can get that second chance. Please blink once for ‘no’ and twice for ‘yes.’” She blinks once. Then twice. Yes. A few days later, Evangelica flatlines, and slips into Limbo with hopeful determination. Forever. What a wonderful word. TMC Spring 2017

F I C T I O N Two Evangelica wakes in her new body, one without flaming hair and mossy eyes but rather all shades of brown, dark and shiny. She marvels at the fluffiness of her new curls, the smooth skin unmarred by freckles. It had been one of the brain-dead patients who’d been rescued from a nearby earthquake and been miraculously unmarred other than a fracture to the skull, which was easily patched up. The hospital never told her the old identity of her new body. She never asked. Evangelica leaves the hospital with delight, an identification chip chirping merrily from her wrist. The sun is bright; she can almost make out a smile shining out of its blistering yellow. The streets are too lovely. For a moment she forgets and stands at the hoverbus stop, ready to hop onto the next circuit home. Then as she swipes her chip she makes the mistake of glancing down. The automated doors close behind her. Evangelica staggers to the nearest empty seat and stares out the window at the green blur of passing buildings, rubbing a scar on her hand. It doesn’t have a story. It isn’t hers. She gets out at the bank. It’s a modern structure, glass and ivy, meant to both help reduce emissions with its translucent solar panels and promote the reintroduction of native plants after they were all nearly wiped out a few years ago. Evangelica walks past the first section of self-service booths, staffed by simple AI that can process most tasks, and enters the back part of the bank. There are fewer human employees than ever; for every person she counts two desks, onto which the hardware for the AI is conspicuously piled. The bank hasn’t completely cut its human personnel, though, for which she is glad. The girl at the front desk is dark and lovely, impeccably dressed, with a little ribbon pinned to her collar. She looks up as Evangelica trudges in, and smiles like a picture. “How can I help you today?” “I’d like… I…” Suddenly her shoulders shudder and her upper lip quivers. Evangelica inhales deeply. “I was involved in an accident. My family is dead. I need to collect... to collect whatever they… left me.” She places her left forearm on the desk. The girl scans Evangelica’s chip. At once Evangelica’s information unfolds on the monitor. The girl looks at it, pauses a moment, and glances back at Evangelica. “I’m sorry, miss, but I cannot allow you access to those accounts.” “What? Why?” As Evangelica asks this the girl is scanning her face, causing the monitor to issue a series of error tones. Evangelica flinches as the red light shines directly into her eyes again. “...The facial recognition software is not matching up at all, either. You have been denied access by the system as well.” “That can’t be right. The system should’ve been updated by now. Okay. I’m Evangelica. I went through a life-saving operation a few days ago that has altered my appearance, but my chip contains all the pertinent information about my identity. You know these chips are impossible to steal or fake. You see, they’ve created this new technique that can bring you back to life; so basically, they can take your soul – your soul, which is another way to say, really, your sense of self – and pluck it out of this place called Limbo and stick it into a new body, which is what they did to me, so I died and was put into this body and so I’m alive again – ” 46

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F I C T I O N Evangelica falters. The girl is squinting at her, lips pursed. There is no mistaking the mistrust in her gaze. The room is icy with silence. Evangelica slams both hands onto the desk. “Goddamn it, I’m Evangelica Evans, daughter of Stefen Evans and Hally Evans, who both passed away in the flash flood from a couple weeks ago. I’m all that’s left. I’m all that’s left!” “Miss, if you do not calm down, I will have to ask for you leave the premises. At the moment, we cannot recognize you as Evangelica Evans. You have no right – ” “No right?! They were my goddamn parents! I have a right to whatever they left behind – ” At this moment a pair of robotic tendrils snake around her body and pin her to sturdy metal casing. The security guard gags her with a fluffy towel the entire way out. Evangelica can see the girl going back to work as if nothing had happened, as pristine and serene as before. What the hell? She’s deposited onto the sidewalk and sits there in the blinding sunlight for a couple seconds, dazed. Someone nearly mows her down with a hoverboard. Cursing, Evangelica stands up, scans the street, and breaks into a dead sprint. The Vinyl Record is just around the corner. She knows for sure that she’ll find Bryant there. Bryant will know what to do. Bryant always knows what to do. He’s been that way since they were kids. He’ll recognize her. Of course. Definitely. Won’t he? Evangelica bursts through the doors of the cafe like the apocalypse is right on her tail. Swiftly she takes in the black discs on the walls and the ambient lighting, and zones in on the raven-haired boy sitting in the back at their favorite table, the little wooden one with mysterious stains and the marker graffiti. She crosses the room like fury and grabs Bryant by the shoulder. His coffee spills and arcs in a hot streak across her jeans, but she has no time for that now. She shakes Bryant by the shoulders. “Bryant. Bryant. Do you know who I am?” A tall, dark woman looms over him, digging her claws into his shoulders. He sputters. “Who the hell are you?” “Bryant. It’s me, it’s Evangelica, don’t you recognize me?” He glares at her. “What is this, some kind of prank? Evangelica is dead. Nobody survived that flood. Nobody. Now get away from me, you creep.” But – Evangelica is about to plead her case when she sees his expression, that one that freezes his eyes over and sets his mouth into a thin line, the one that lends a deadly glint to his gaze and never spells anything good for its recipient. She lets go. Evangelica leaves town that very day, hopping hoverbuses to the nearest city. Every day her new body presents her with new faults. Her curls are untamable. Her skin is always dry. Her menstrual meds aren’t strong enough to keep blood from soaking through her underwear. She finds new friends who teach her how to deal with her mane and remind her to buy lotion and to up her dosage. She doesn’t quite fit in, but they mother her kindly and accept her strained silence. They bring her to parties, and she sits in a corner nursing her juice until one day she snaps and downs an entire bottle of champagne, dancing as if possessed by one of the pagan gods of millennia ago, whooping along with the rest of them, deranged. Crazy. Insane. TMC Spring 2017

F I C T I O N It is after one such party that it happens, when she is stumbling along the road with her arms slung around her friends, twirling the toy pistol from her vaquero costume in time with her guffaws. There’s a crack and searing pain, and the last thing she knows before she plunges back into Limbo is that the officer is calmly keying something into his wristpad, muttering about apprehending a suspect who “fits the description, tall and black…” of the evening’s armed robber. Three She doesn’t remember much from her third life, just a kaleidoscope of limp brown hair and veiny hands that blend into a need to be a model citizen, a desperation for the safety that invisibility grants her. She now flinches whenever she sees a cop, no matter how kindly he smiles when he hands her a Commendation Token. Evangelica can’t remember what race she is anymore. Does it matter? From what little news her portable Holoscreen plays for her before she leaves for her shift, she can tell that the disasters are getting worse. The images have haunted her throughout all her lives: charred bodies dug from the ashes of Mount St. Helens, frostbitten faces caught unawares by a blizzard in Haiti, eroding rock around a dark hole where Miami used to be, a flooded Sahara and a Red Sea of only salt… No one knows who made the frequency of disasters increase. The media blames the scientists, the scientists accuse the billionaires, the billionaires point to the government, and Evangelica wants to scream, We all did it, we did it together, we tried to fix everything but our tampering only made it worse… It’s not long before a sinkhole plunges her back into the dark ink of Limbo, and she resets again, and scurries off to find a new city to disappear into. Thirteen By her thirteenth life, everybody looks the same; same caramel skin and chocolate eyes, all cultivated from the same batch of stem cells. It’s disorienting to walk on the street and see your face copied and pasted hundreds of times. They all try to differentiate themselves – pastel hair, piercings, bands of ink dancing across their faces – and it kind of works, but it always takes Evangelica a couple seconds to piece together the person standing in front of her. It doesn’t matter anyway. They’re all the same, lives monotonous except for the thrills that the disasters can bring. They chase storms now, court tornadoes for days on end, craving the adrenaline rush that floods in while standing in the eye of a hurricane, the buzz that fills the head while surfing a tidal wave, the kick that comes from dangling inches from the lava of an active volcano. It’s not like there’s anything better to do, thinks Evangelica. She walks off a cliff with only the smallest of parachutes. The clouds do not move as she falls.

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F I C T I O N Twenty-six This is Evangelica’s twenty-sixth life, and she’s dying. Beneath a hunk of concrete, she draws in struggling breaths, her body dead still except for her darting eyes and heaving chest. It’s a beautiful day, sky blue and cloudless, sun dazzling as only a star can be. Everywhere is still wet and muddy, still covered in bloody ocean. Salt crusts on her face, scraps of city still not washed away. The waves scrape at her and pain stomps throughout her body, a chorus of dull agony. Dull. Dull. Dull. The word thumps around her brain like the lingering thunder from the bullet-train timpani of eons ago. Her mouth tastes bland, that matte stickiness when you wake in the morning. Everything is flat and leaden beneath the humid atmosphere. So sore, so tired. She can’t remember what her family looked like anymore. It’s been forever. Forever. Such a terrible word. Evangelica can feel the familiar black fog nibbling on her consciousness and pushes it away, settling instead on the fire that laps at her veins. It’s been so long since she felt anything other than numb. Numb, dumb, numb. She lets the fire carry her away, lets it flood her with rocking waves, back and forth and back and forth, until finally her eyelids flutter and she finally sleeps…

TMC Spring 2017

P O E T R Y Jeremiah E. Burke High School / 826 Boston / Class of 2020

Layah James

Chemical Beauty Dark skin– but she feels trapped. Thick hair– keeps it tied back. Follows their standards Like it’s her duty. Working hard To buy chemical beauty. Straight hair, bleached skin. Is this for you? Or is this for them? Expectations getting higher. Dark skin getting lighter. Make up gets caked on. All girls wanna be an icon. With their short shorts And their crop tops. High heels from the thrift shops. Bad behavior gets expected. Black girls don’t get respected. Stereotypes proven right. Acting up out of spite. ‘Cause they’re told who to be. They’re not given a choice. People’s negativity Can really bottle up a voice. Dirty magazines ‘Cause we gotta please the boys. It’s not a mystery We’re told to look like barbie toys. ‘Cause these goals are unrealistic. Girls aren’t taught to be authentic. With their hair gel, skin bleach, Shameless clothes, stiletto’d feet. Bodies riddled with chemicals. Can’t say the name– It’s got 20 syllables. 50

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P O E T R Y Thought that they’d buy it; Saw it in commercials. Can’t see the risks, They’re too focused on visuals. I don’t speak for everyone, But at least I speak for some. I speak for all the dark skinned girls Who love where they come from. The girls that show off all their chocolate To the face of society. And keep their heads held high Against the era of chemical beauty.

TMC Spring 2017

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

Samantha Lodato

B e i n g t h e O t h e r Wo m a n The names have been changed in this story. “Just go out with him one time. If you don’t like him then I will never bother you about it again.” Ashley was always trying to set me up with guys. I know she meant well, but she never really understood that I didn’t want a boyfriend. I was focusing on me, just starting to love myself; I wasn’t ready to deal with a relationship. “I don’t know Ash, I don’t even know this kid,” I protested. “His name is Josh. He’s 19 and a freshman in college. He’s a total theatre nerd, just like you. He’s super hot, trust me,” Ashley tried convincing me. Believe me, Ashley and I had very different opinions when it comes to how guys look. “Fine,” I gave in. “One date, that’s it.” “Yay! I already told him you’d meet him tomorrow to go bowling.” “Ashley! You didn’t even get my permission before you planned this?” I scolded. “Because I knew you’d say yes.” She hung up before I could reprimand her further. I didn’t even bother calling her back. I just went to sleep dreading what was to come the next day. I hadn’t been on a date since I was 13, and let’s just say dates when you’re 13 are very different than dates when you’re 16. I didn’t know what to wear or how to do my makeup. I just decided to wear my everyday look, jeans and a sweatshirt, simple eyeliner and some foundation. It was December, it was snowing and too cold out to wear something cute because the only cute clothes I had were summer clothes. Embarrassingly enough, I had to have my mom drop me off because I still had a month until my driving test. I had her drop me off down the street; I didn’t want her to embarrass me like she always did. When I finally got inside the bowling alley my face was bright red and I was sniffling from the cold; I looked like a mess. Ashley texted me saying Josh was running a couple of minutes late due to the bad road conditions, so I sat down and pretended to be texting for the next ten minutes. With my eyes down on the screen of my phone I heard my name come from an unfamiliar voice. “Sam?” said the deep, mysterious voice. I looked up and saw the most attractive male I had ever seen. He was tall, a little over six feet, he had natural tan skin and his smile was one that could melt a frozen heart. If I hadn’t been nervous before I definitely was then. “Yeah. Hi, Josh right?” I stood. “Yeah. It’s nice to meet you,” he said. It seemed like we both didn’t know what to do, so we ended up awkwardly shaking hands and headed over to the counter to pay for the lane and the shoes. He paid even though I tried to pay for myself. The next half hour consisted of uncomfortable small talk; the weather and how school was going. At some point I managed to accidentally roll the bowling ball behind me instead of down the lane; I was so embarrassed my face turned bright red. 52

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N O N F I C T I O N After getting more relaxed with each other, we started laughing and having more fun. I ended up winning by a landslide (he definitely let me win.) The rest of the night was wonderful, we laughed and connected really well. He drove me home and kissed me. I blushed uncontrollably for the rest of the night. Everything seemed perfect. I could see myself being in a relationship with this guy. The only part of the night I didn’t enjoy was getting the “I told you so” text from Ashley. The next few months consisted of mainly texting because he was living at school in Vermont. We messaged each other at least five times a week. I always looked forward to hearing my phone ding and seeing Josh’s name on the screen. It would brighten my mood a little bit every time. On occasion he would come home for the weekend and since he only lived one town over we would always put the effort in to make time for each other. When the end of May came around, he finally moved back home for the summer. That June was the happiest I had been in a long time. We would see each other whenever we could. We would laugh and talk for hours, driving around singing our favorite songs to each other. But Josh and I were not a couple. We would hold hands and kiss, all those cute things that couples do, but we were not boyfriend and girlfriend. Josh said he was not ready to be in a relationship, I respected that and did not force it upon him. During June and July life couldn’t have been any better. But then August came, and my hope for love was crushed. In the almost 8 months I had known Josh, I had never added him or even looked him up on social media. I guess it never really crossed my mind, but one day I was telling a friend about him and she asked me what he looked like. I didn’t have a picture of him, so I decided to search him on Facebook. I typed his name in the search bar and his was the third profile on the list of people with that name. There was a girl in his profile picture with him. “It must just be his sister,” I thought. But when I clicked on his profile my heart dropped. I saw something that made me want to scream. It made me want to punch a wall. It made me want to scream at him and punch him. “In a relationship with Jessica since February, 2016.” He had been cheating on his girlfriend with me for six months. I had trusted him. I opened up to him. I knocked down my wall for him. In that moment that wall immediately rebuilt itself. I called him and he answered in his usual “Hi Sweetie, what’s up?” And then I screamed. I let the anger flow out of me and I yelled and cried and asked him how he can live with himself knowing that he hurt not only me but Jessica as well. He apologized multiple times trying to plead with me that he really did care about me, but I didn’t believe him, not this time, not after what he did. I told him I never wanted to speak to him again and that he could shove his apologies where the sun don’t shine. I hung up. I hung up the phone and I promised to myself that this would never happen again, I would never let a guy hurt me again. Even though it has been seven months since I hung up the phone, I still think of how much it hurt and it continues to bring a pain to my chest. I never thought that something so wonderful could hurt so bad. It’s hard for me to look at any guy that I would typically find attractive because my view of men has been damaged. I know that this won’t last forever, that the pain will eventually fade and I will find someone who treats me right. But until then, I have decided to work on loving myself, because no matter who I end up with and no matter how much they love me, I should always be the one who loves myself the most in the world.

TMC Spring 2017

A R T Marshall Simonds Middle School / Class of 2020

O l i v i a

P e r r y

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Class of 2017

K e a r a

M o u l t o n

Come Land or Sea My Irish Memories

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TMC Spring 2017

A R T Burlington High School / Class of 2017

R o n i k a

P a t e l

P e a c o c k Fe a t h e r

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A R T Lynnfield High School / Class of 2018

R y a n

F r a s i e r

Tucker

p h o t o g r a p h y TMC Spring 2017

P O E T R Y Marshall Simonds Middle School / Class of 2021

Jolie Atwood

Through The W indow Sunlight shines through the cracks The rays fractured Branches stretch toward the sky Reaching for the unknown Leaves shiver and then fall Fall down Down Down A breeze sweeps through Like a whisper Lifting the leaves on a bumpy ride Then setting them down softly A smile reflects on the glass As I watch the sun set into the ground To return another day The moon glistens in the cold glass And the stars gleam like diamonds Soft light peeks through the clouds As the night carries on The night is a void of darkness And the moon is the only light The bare branches of the trees Loom like strange creatures Twisting and winding Playing with my imagination A wish on a shooting star Helps those who close their eyes Find their greatest desire And from afar I wish I could find My way to the land of dreams The frost leaves the ground And the grass grows The trees blossom And the leaves come back Flowers, rich in color Grow from the ground 58

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P O E T R Y Bees buzz busily back and forth I crack open the window To smell the sweet fragrances The garden is now filled With different plants of many kinds Vegetables and fruits Animals peek from their burrows Awake at last and ready to multiply The world comes to life Giddy laughter fills the air As children run to and fro People sigh as the night arrives An escape from the unforgiving sun Which beat down upon them Lanterns are lit The glowing orbs seem to float In the darkness descending Marshmallows are roasted On an open fire How I wish I could join them But the time is not right They sing sweet songs And I fall asleep to the sound Of their soft voices The days stretch into months The seasons change, years go by And still I sit and observe The window a barrier Protecting me from harm The sun and moon rise and set An endless cycle That I watch over and over Until deep inside me Something awakes Calm fills my mind I am ready To finally enter the outside world And begin my life As it is meant to be

TMC Spring 2017

P O E T R Y Ayer Shirley Regional High School / Class of 2017

A l e x a n d e r

P a t a n o

Saying Goodbye Constancy is comforting, But that is not life’s choice. The passengers board, My heart pounding, My palms sweatingI know that I must keep moving. We sit, and I take comfort that, Millions have taken the same journey, Down the same road, Flying away from what they loved. The engines roar, The runway is a blur, The end approaches Quickly, Too quicklyI’m not ready to leave! How can I say goodbye? Eyes closed, Fists clenched, Stomach dropping through the floor. The time has comeLeaving everything behind. I yearn to turn back, Go back to my life, Greet my friends and Never leave again. But I’m airborne. Flying highSoaring somewhere new. Saying goodbye, One last time. 60

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A R T Tech Boston Academy / Class of 2017

Q u a n y e

H o s k i n s

Dancing in the Sky

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TMC Spring 2017

N O N F I C T I O N Wilmington High School / Class of 2018

Lauren D’Angelo

Dog Attack All I wanted on that humid summer afternoon was to feel the breeze on my face as I strutted down the dock, diving recklessly into the brisk water. Instead, I ran for my life as a furry creature double my size attacked my four-year-old body. I can still picture that blue and white elephant life jacket vividly. It now hangs on a rusting hook at my cottage, with bite marks visible. I wanted to be just like my brother Sam, and dive off the deep end into the refreshing lake water. As my courage built up and my heart began to race I started on my journey to the end of the dock. I wasn’t even halfway down before I heard the thudding and scraping of claws coming my way. I turned to look over my right shoulder, only to see a not-so-friendly pit bull furiously running at full speed toward my little body. I immediately whipped my head around and scurried as fast as my four-yearold feet would go. Without hesitation, I began screaming and crying as I threw myself off the end of the splintered wooden dock. As I plummeted into the water I thought for a split second that I was safe, until a second much larger splash landed directly on top of me. Before I could even get up for air the unstoppable 100-pound beast began attacking. His long, sharp claws and pointy yellow teeth sank into my skin and life jacket. Unable to swim, the only thing keeping me afloat and alive was my little blue life jacket. The pressure of the relentless dog held me underwater as I nearly drowned. My whole world seemed to come to a halt as I simultaneously struggled to catch my breath while screaming for help. I was quickly inhaling water into my lungs, which culminated in putting me in a traumatized state. In the midst of the struggle, another splash landed directly to my left: my cousin Paul. He ripped the dog off by his metal choker collar and grabbed me by the inflated blue rim of my life jacket. Swimming in the opposite direction of the panting pit bull, Paul dragged me back to the sand where my family sat anxiously in shock. Soon all the attention was directed my way as they watched the tears pour from my eyes. They were all blown away by what they had just witnessed. For weeks after the incident I recall being terrified of any dog that was in my path. To this day, the mere thought of a pit bull returns those scarring images to my mind that I wish I could un-see. I have grown to be a lover of dogs and developed back trust in pit bulls, but that day will forever live on and be with me wherever I go. Thankfully I don’t still hold my grudge over the attack because I wouldn’t have such a good dog that I consider my best friend. A dog or animal has never laid a claw on me since that day and I hope that neither I nor anyone else would ever experience that again.

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A R T North Reading High School / Class of 2018

Aleksa Wilk

One Step

p a i n t i n g TMC Spring 2017

P O E T R Y Ayer Shirley Regional High School / Class of 2019

J i l l i a n

F o l g e r

Fo r g i v e n e s s a n d Wa t e r The trees that sway in the August wind Against the current of the murky water Blow a gentle breeze into the girlâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face. The sand moves for her painted toes. A hundred times she has been in the same spot, Making her mark in a tiny vicinity of sand castles and holes. Her fear overwhelms her each time, like the strong wind, Sharks circle, the water bubbles and swirls. She cannot touch the freezing, thundering, intimidating water. The water that holds her heart and her hate. And the wind changes, It warms. And she is older. She understands that the water was not the reason, and Without a thought, her painted toes brush the water. After last summer, the water had not felt the same, Had not been home. Her memories of loss vilified the lake, Killed her love for doing a dive into the water that She once thought was her oldest friend. Drowning had never been on her mind Until last summer. The water was a danger, Who took away the things that she held dear, And it had been the only thing coloring her mind All year long. It was time To reacquaint herself with her long-lost friend The friend that she had to forgive, Her first love, The murky lake next to her summer home. Slowly, she walked into the water In that warm August wind. And suddenly, all was forgiven. 64

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A R T Auburn High School / Class of 2019

O b i a m a k a

I g w e n a g u

Sunset Tree

m i x e d

m e d i a

p a i n t i n g TMC Spring 2017

P O E T R Y Ayer Shirley Regional High School / Class of 2017

Hann Tu

A m e r i c a â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Q u i l t The colors are intertwined, Like a mosaic of stories and tales, Stitched by calloused hands, Where the united string trails. With colors of red and white and blue, They fix the seams with ink-like threads, And tie knots at the withered ends, To mark the history, we have tread. The quilt was torn in fractured shreds, Fabrics spilling from the seams, For every color and every story, Stabbed needles in rivalâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dreams. Sewing and stitching began the race, Began the deadly quest, To rid the quilt of any trace, That it was poisoned upon the breast. But their hands were sore, And fingers too numb, For every needle pinched their thumb. And the stitchers grew weary, Of the infinite tear, For each seam, they re-stitched, Left the ragged quilt bear. So, lay the quilt upon its needles. The strings formed webs between each row, Until there was no fabric left shred, But the stories of colors buried below.

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P O E T R Y Someday there will a be memory, Of how the needles mended each tie, Of how each color and story and fabric, Were balances set awry. They will huff and heavily sigh, Perhaps a determined grin. Raise the needle with a cry, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Let us mend the quilt again!â&#x20AC;?

TMC Spring 2017

N O N F I C T I O N Lincoln Sudbury Regional High School / Class of 2017

J e f f r e y

D i m u n a h

Spilled Milk

This personal narrative contains strong language, which our editorial staff believes is essential to its impact. When I was young and heard the word “race,” I’d think of fast cars and finish lines. I went about my days thinking I was brown; I was just a kid. That changed in mid-April, 2006. I was six and full of curiosity. My mom was going to Walgreens to pick up medicine for my grandmother living in Nigeria. As the youngest in my African family, it was my responsibility to accompany her wherever she went. It was a responsibility I embraced because it made me feel older. So we picked up the medicine and were on our way out when my mother halted and said, “Chimdi, do we have milk at the house?” “No,” I replied. “You sure?” she asked again. “No.” “Well then go get some!” I skipped to aisle twelve, where an incident that would change my life took place. In that aisle was a white man. I did not pay him much attention as I picked up a gallon of milk. What if I brought two milks? Mom would be so proud, I thought. The man was still browsing. I ignored him and hoisted what felt like a thousand pounds onto my arms. Next thing I knew, a powerful white current of liquid splashed at my feet. I was shocked, and as I looked up the white man was staring. “Aye!!!!” he yelled. “Some nigger just spilled a carton of milk.” A white female employee sprinted over. The white man continued, “These f#@#! niggers, man, stealing our jobs, stealin’ our land and now look, wasting our goddamn resources.” The woman looked at him in disgust. “You alright, little guy?” she asked. “I’m fine.” “Well, then, let’s go get you cleaned up.” She took me by the hand. When I looked back, the man had disappeared. As soon as I came out of the bathroom, I saw my Mother’s stern expression as she waited for me. “Did he give you much trouble?” She asked. “No, not at all, ma’am!” the woman exclaimed. “Then we’ll be on our way. Sorry for the mess.” I kept my head down. In the parking lot, we heard shouting. “Why don’t you shit-colored niggers go back to where you came from?” It was the same white man. My mother ignored him. She held my hand tightly and would not loosen it until we reached the car. 68

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N O N F I C T I O N “Why does he hate me?” I asked. “He doesn’t hate you.” “You heard him!” I exclaimed. “He sai-” “He doesn’t hate you,” she interrupted. “He just believes you’re different and different in some people’s eyes is evil.” “I’m evil?” “No, you’re not.” “But I’m different?” “Yes, you are.” “How?” “You have a darker skin tone, Chimdi, and in some people’s eyes this difference may be seen as a blessing while in others it is seen as a curse.” “What do you think it is?” I asked. “Neither. There is a phrase that is commonly repeated in Igboland, ‘Kweere nwere ike ife efe na nke nta ka nwa okoro nd? kas? ibu mba, ma ? b? g? na-ekpebi ihe ha kweere na.’ It means ‘beliefs can infect the smallest boy to the largest nation,’ but it is up to you to decide what to believe in. Now Chimdi, I am not going to tell you what to believe in or what I believe in; instead, I ask, what do you, Jeffrey Chimdiebere Dimunah, believe in?” “I don’t know.” Tears ran down my face. “Yet.” She smiled, “You don’t know yet.” I gave her a hug, not because I needed tender love, not because I hadn’t found my definition or “belief ” on being different, and certainly not because of the spilled milk. I hugged her because she helped me realize that being different was okay, and it was up to me to decide how much weight it would hold in my life.

TMC Spring 2017

P O E T R Y Ayer Shirley Regional High School / Class of 2017

A l l i s o n

S t e e v e s

Answers from an Agnostic On a quiet beach, a single oyster washes ashore. Inside is a pearl: Gleaming, radiant, divine. The silver centerpiece of any woman’s neck: Rare and desired, precious and admired. But handle it crudely and avarice will breed, Kino’s bane can inspire strange deed. Inside it’s empty: Murky, opaque, absent. The briny remnants of a saltwater shower: Dark and frustrating, tragic and enervating. Yet some can subsist on the rubbery meat, Sometimes it’s nothing that makes us complete. I can let my brain bubble, But for only so long. Neither angelic Atlantis, Nor the spiritless shallows, Can quell this sleepless squall. So never open the oyster, Let the sea take it back. Come my time to float in the froth and the foam, I’ll contently embrace the I don’t know.

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A R T Burlington High School / Class of 2018

M i c h a e l a

B a t t i s t o n e

Oceanside

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Spring 2017

P O E T R Y Ayer Shirley Regional High School / Class of 2017

Christian Hoffmann

The Hardships of Life Game seven of the World Series: Two outs, bottom of the ninth inning On a cold night early in November. The batter steps to the plate, Coming off terrible at-bats. His first time up, the pitcher threw 2 fastballs, He fought off into foul territory, Only to be struck out by a jaw-dropping curveball. His next time up, He swung at the first pitch he saw, Only to ground out to the shortstop. His last time up, He laid off a changeup in the dirt, Then he swung at the second pitch fastball. “Finally,” he said, “I finally did it.” Rounding first base, The ball was caught on the warning track. Strolling to the dugout, His spirit seemed to be history. Now let’s get back to the game, As the crowd hopes the batter can get something going. The crowd is getting antsy and wants a victory, Placing their trust in the batter who is hitless on this night. The batter digs into the batter’s box, Spitting towards the pitcher, Meaning business, As it is his last chance to save the day. 72

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P O E T R Y The pitcher misses the plate on the first three attempts, Bringing the count to 3 balls, no strikes. Two fastballs flame by the angry batter, Making the crowd nervous. This is it, the payoff pitch, If the batter misses, we go to extra innings. The pitcher shakes off the fastball, Looking to throw the insane curveball the batter hasn’t touched all night. He’s set now, winds up, The ball is curving toward the dirt, But the batter swings hard and – Oh my, the batter hit the ball! This one has a chance, The left fielder is going toward the wall, But he won’t get this one, Because that ball is gone, gone, gone! The batter has a look of joy On his gleaming face. The look of a face, That has just won the World Series for himself and his team. The batter has provided a fairytale ending, For him to tell for the rest of his life.

TMC Spring 2017

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

J u l i e

S u h

Jazz in the City There is only stillness on the street this evening. There are no suited men, leftover from the evening rush of the city’s denizens, hurrying down the cobblestones to a warm home. Instead, as the color of the sky deepens into dark blue, the lights of the lamp posts seem to pulse a little brighter. The only detectable movement is the faint sound of saxophones drifting on the slight breeze, tracing back to one of the brick buildings lining the street. Even before its heavy door is cracked open, a man’s throaty croon can be heard, pervading a dimly lit bar decorated with faded drapes and dusty, velvet upholstery. Cigarette smoke curls lazily in the lights illuminating a modest stage. Jazz players gently rock as they release a tune that lingers in air thick with smoke. The room, though evidently expansive from the outside, feels even more so inside. The bar is lit only with the stage lights, obscuring the edges of the room; it is impossible to judge where the darkness halts at a wall. Enough can be seen however—silhouettes of wide-brimmed hats, flashes of crimson on lips that curl upwards in an indulgent smile, the winks of diamond as champagne flutes are lifted and set down. Though the murmurs of quiet conversation buzz pleasantly beneath the music, the bar is mostly devoid of chatter farther out from the stage. In the back of the room, a man sits alone. His table is empty of company and drink. With his closed eyes, he could be mistaken for asleep were it not for his posture, his muscles stiffening and relaxing with the ebb of the music. As the hours slip past, the gray of his hair seems to darken and the streaks of decade-old stains on his coat fade. The musicians play for long stretches, filling the expanse like an empty stomach at Christmas. Their notes settle in drinks, carry warmth to the darkest corners, swelling against the net of haze over the room. When they remove the instruments from their lips for the final time for the night, the silence is shocking. The sense of their miniature universe’s steady expansion is punctured, each inhabitant suddenly aware of the room’s narrow parameters. Though most of the disappointed patrons begin to rise, one by one, the man remains seated, his crow’s feet once again deep grooves beside his eyes in the sudden dearth of sound. Even as the heavy door begins to open and shut repeatedly, letting in the brisk wind, he sits, as though he can still hear the jazz of the city.

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A R T Burlington High School / Class of 2017

C h r i s t i n a

P e s i r i d i s

Sunrise Over the North End

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Spring 2017

P O E T R Y Ayer Shirley Regional High School / Class of 2017

K a t h e r i n e

B l o o d

A Glass Mood A glass sitting still, Almost empty, But not quite. Holds different contents: Some denser than othersAnd heavier to handle. But even the lighter contents Can wear out the glassEach day is different. Whether full or emptyA glass is a glass, No matter the capacity. All glasses serve the same purposeTo stay strong while holding different contents, But some have a harder time with it than others. The glass comes across as sturdy, Like itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s supposed to. But after many uses, it becomes weak. Damaged, DentedIt has taken so much. Slowly losing strength, CrackingBut not ready to be thrown out. Each day more fragileSmall pieces breaking at a time, But not shattered yet.

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A R T Burlington High School / Class of 2018

J e s s i c a

J a m e s

Contaminated

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Spring 2017

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

Isabelle Pillone

I Do Desire We May Be Better Strangers We, Two seeds; planted in the Dark, Damp soil, soaking in the cool Moisture of the Imminent. We, Two stems; a barely Visible jade, sticking Out of the ground, Reaching towards each other to find some Comfort.

We, Two branches; spreading Apart, Distancing ourselvesa subtle Freedom in our Detachment. We, Two leaves; Falling to the ground, from Opposite sides of our worldour Demise more evident with our undeviating Decline.

We, Two saplings; Intertwining through the humid Zephyr, growing under the canary Rays. We, One tree; Inch after Inch, Year after Year, becoming Convalescent as time goes On.

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And We, Too, will start again One Day.

A R T Lexington High School / Class of 2020

Y i h a n

L u o

Enchanted

p a i n t i n g

TMC Spring 2017

P O E T R Y Abington High School / Mass Poetry / Class of 2020

G r a c e

W a t e r m a n

The Asleep All they say when they see me Is a memory. In The Asleep, Everything happens after a second’s pass passed. I can not, Cannot react, Not even after the second second’s passed. They never seem to know what’s happening, Of my dreary eyes, And empty smile. They cannot, Can not feel what you feel. No One Can Understand Anything. They keep talking, Glossing over the sorrow of my infinite despondency. They try to break the strong steady wall, I have built in my steel mind, For the heavy part of me, Will never reverberate in others. Their own self-absorption plagues their care. Too wrapped up in worry of tomorrow, To earnestly try to dent my walls. They cannot, Cannot Break The Asleep. My Asleep-scourged mind, Fills it with constant thinking thinking, Worrying, Wondering, Wishing, Hoping to someday be in The Awake. The Awake to escape. To be heard. To be more than the pitiful, Asleep, part of me.

themarblecollection.org

A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Class of 2017

A l y s s a

B l a k e

El Techo de Cristal en los EE.UU.

p a i n t i n g

TMC Spring 2017

A R T Hopkinton High School / Class of 2017

S a r a h

L i n c o l n

Cut Paper Self Portrait

m i x e d

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m e d i a

A R T Holliston High School / Class of 2020

R o m a n

B o l s h a k o v

City Bike

d r a w i n g

TMC Spring 2017

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

S a m a n t h a

M a r s h a l l

A Cloud Gone By Looking down on a green slice of earth, noticing its tiny blades begin to sway, back and fourth like an old backyard swing. I stand still, chilled by the wind, warmed by the sun, casting a shadow upon the vivid green grass. Looking up at a once ocean blue sky, noticing its captain begin to take over with eyes of pride and determination. A deep grey, pillow-like cloud sails across the sea as if it were on a mission. Looking back down observing the deep shadow fade into something bright. The darkness has gone. The ship has gone, Yet we all remain.

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A R T Burlington High School / Class of 2018

C i n d y

N i y o n z i m a

Gaju

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Spring 2017

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

W i l l i a m

B l u m b e r g

The Women of Louisiana, 1904 Way down in Louisiana where the willows weep and the cicadas hum and the cherry blossoms dance through air heavy with sunshine, the women sit. They are bound by vows of chastity—unbroken in flesh but shattered in spirit—and the branches of trees they can trace for miles into the past. Their fingers are tangled in needle point thread. It wraps around their limbs, cuts deep into their cheeks and ties them tight to the wide, sunny veranda. Sets of plump lips keep locked secrets—yes! Secrets!—unimaginable by you or me for neither of us has lived as a glass butterfly held in a jar who wishes with all her earthly and other being to return to the womb and be born back. And if not, then a swift hammer hit would do fine to strike down— way down where the willows stand and the cicadas sing and the sun runs hot through every afternoon, the women sip spoonfuls of sweet nectar given by their gracious gods and burn fires in the pits of their hearts. 86

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A R T Chelmsford High School / Class of 2020

S a m e e k s h a

S h a r m a

Flowing Steps

d r a w i n g TMC Spring 2017

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

J a n a

W r i g h t

Wa r n i n g S i g n s I should have listened to the way he touched me during 6th period. His fingers twirled through my hair and he traced A painting on my shoulders with his breath. I said, “Stop, you’re distracting me!” but he smiled, and I did too. I should have listened to the weather, Un-blossomed buds on the freshly thawed branches And ice cream sitting at its freezing point. I should have listened to his car at the bottom of my street That never met my driveway. It bumped and banged, it belonged in a dump. But it’s a stick shift— “Classy,” I say. I should have listened to the setting sun beyond the field. It will be dark soon, an adventure. It was quiet, aside from the occasional passing car And the moan of a grazing cow. I should have listened to the empty parking lot. And the ice cream has not been touched, only spilled. I throw away $6.87 and two spoons. I should have listened as he took the wrong turn. “Please proceed to the route”. I am scared. He touched me again, just like in math But this time I did not smile. And he did what he couldn’t do in math, Perhaps what he’s always wanted to do. I should have listened to his hand inching up my thigh. I cannot speak and I cannot think. I listened to the music. I watched the road. I was a shadow, unmoving in moonlight But his colors were rapid as they moved over me. And just like that, it was over, But it didn’t feel like it, as we raced down backroads At one hundred miles an hour, Back to where home felt like home more than ever before. I listened to his car rattle away and I never looked back As he left with a part of me.

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A R T Burlington High School / Class of 2018

A l p h a

B a t h o l

Hand

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Spring 2017

N O N F I C T I O N Wilmington High School / Class of 2018

E m i l y

W r i g h t

Starving Students Across America Picture this: you’re sitting in class and you realize you forgot to pack a lunch. A horrible sense of dread spreads over you because you know you only have two options: go hungry, or take your chances with the school lunch. If you’ve had a similar experience, then you’re just like almost every other student across America. In this country, students everywhere are suffering because of the poor quality of their school lunches. Although laws have been made with the purpose of “improving” school lunches, students are still given extremely short periods of time to eat their lunch, very small portions, and low quality food in terms of taste, nutritional values, and appearance. When thinking of how to improve school lunches, most people will think of the actual food, without considering the circumstances they are eaten in. In America, students are given an average of 20 minutes to eat their lunch. This short amount of time is one of the main reasons that students often turn to throwing away most of their lunch opposed to eating it. This 20 minute period has cause students to eat 12% less vegetables, 10% less milk, 23% less fruits, and 13% less of their overall entree than they should have. In addition, students could be eating lunch as early as 10:30, which leads to students purposely skipping breakfast, knowing they will have the opportunity to eat lunch in a little over an hour. The majority of students are also athletes, meaning that they need to consume more calories than the students who are not involved in after school sports. Kindergarten through fifth grade students are given a maximum of 650 calories. Sixth through eighth grade students are given a maximum of 700 calories. High school students are given a maximum of 850 calories. These amounts just barely meet the calorie intake that student athletes need. However, given the short time period, and the poor quality of the food, most students will resort to throwing their meals away, and therefore consuming maybe half of these calories. This means that athletes will be leaving school and heading to practice with an empty stomach and therefore no energy. The biggest issue regarding school lunches is the overall quality of the food given. In 2010, the Healthy, Hunger-Free Kids Act was passed to help with the issue of childhood obesity. This act calls for 100% whole grain and extremely low sodium levels, among other requirements. This means that the meat is processed down to remove fats until it is almost unrecognizable, the bread is always an odd color with no flavor, and students are forced to take some sort of fruit or vegetable that they might not like. Overall, the meals may be healthier for students, but they are certainly not appealing. This is the main reason why the lunches are immediately thrown in the trash, or not bought in the first place. Chris Burkhardt, director of child nutrition in 90

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N O N F I C T I O N the Lakota Local School District in southwestern Ohio, claims, “We lost 15 percent of our revenue when we started putting the Healthy, Hunger-Free Kids Act into place.” Take into account that in France, where the childhood obesity rate is lowest, gives students a two hour lunch period and a four course meal that includes salads, main pasta dishes and often a pastry of some kind for desert. This school lunch provided in France would not pass under the Healthy, Hunger-Free Kids Act, due to the grains, fats, salt, and calories. Considering that these problems with the school lunches are present after “improvements” have occurred, changes have to be made. Students should be given a longer lunch period and should easily have access to bigger portions without having to bring food from home. Students should also be given many options for lunch. Food can be healthy without it being so processed down that it doesn’t look edible anymore. With these issues still present, students are continuing to suffer from the dreadful school lunch.

TMC Spring 2017

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

P a t r i c k

N i e

To P l a y t h e M a r t y r My heart wishes to play the martyr. The door knob implores me to clutch it in my bloody hands. But to grasp the handle Would be to betray the very essence of my ethics, To comply to the devilâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s demand, And to smother the fire that is my spirit Until all that remains is a lake brimming with indecency. My heart wishes to play the martyr. The deed can be done with the single stroke of a sword, Or the pressing of an anxious trigger. But my heart fears, And another one drowns in the lake. My heart wishes to play the martyr. A task much easier said than done. But when the sun sets, My heart is a lamb, Too timid to even test the waters.

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A R T Somerset Berkley Regional High School / Class of 2017

S y d n e y

S i m o n s

Innocence

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Spring 2017

P O E T R Y Wilbraham & Monson Academy / Class of 2017

E m m a

K i n d b l o m

Ode to a Quaking Aspen Tree Quaking and shimmering, you dance with the wind. Your beautiful greens have morphed into stunning silvers. The blues peek through the gaps you leave, but it only adds to your mesmerizing nature. And then he stops, your dance ceases. From not so far away I hear your partner rushing back to you. Running over the tops like a mad man. Two gorgeous leaps over the clearings and heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s back. You are back. Reunited in a rustling embrace. And you resume, because a dance is simply unsuccessful without your partner. There is no quake, or shimmer, no silver, or glimmer. You lie still, and wait. For him to come sprinting back. He always does. In the fall, it hurts him to watch you leave. In the winter, all he does is cry. In the spring, he flies with angst. In summer his joyful rustle leads your dance. And with that you begin the vicious cycle all over again. Quaking and shimmeringyour beautiful endless dance continues. 94

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A R T Auburn High School / Class of 2017

D a k o t a

G l e a s o n

Star-Crossed

p a i n t i n g TMC Spring 2017

A R T Oxford High School / Class of 2017

R e b e c c a

H o p e

W ho Am I?

d r a w i n g 96

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Being here has never been better.

Belong*

*As a student here, you belong to 17.625

our UMass Boston family. Be here.

TMC Spring 2017

No. 17

Floral Mind painting

Nadine El Nesr

Algonquin Regional High School Class of 2018 www.themarblecollection.org ISSN 2156-7298

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