The Marble Collection: Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts Winter 2017

WINTER 2017

1

MASSACHUSETTS HIGH SCHOOL MAGAZINE OF THE ARTS themarblecollection.org

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

#MyFirstChoice Outstanding undergraduate and graduate programs, extensive research opportunities, and a commitment to helping students discover their life’s passion – the University of Massachusetts Boston is the right choice.

Chancellor J. Keith Motley, PhD

www.umb.edu/firstchoice TMC Winter 2017

3

Winter 2017

themarblecollection.org

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) ONE-YEAR SINGLE COPY

$275.00 $27.00 $13.50

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

2

themarblecollection.org

TMC: STAFF EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR WEBMASTER

Deanna Elliot Andrew Rakauskas

TMC: INTERNS & VOLUNTEERS EDITORS & ART JURORS

ACCOUNTING MANAGER COMMUNICATIONS EXECUTIVE

Rixy Fernandez Namzey Gentso Elise Grenier To n e s a J o n e s Caitlyn McMahon Alessandra Russo Phuong Mai Natiah Camillo Judnise Guillet Huyen Le

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 Kathryn Lee Donna Neal John Sadoff Leanne Scott Thomas Bentley Jack Curtis Susan Denison Justin DuClos Sarah Miller Allan Reeder Chelsea Revelle Jamie Ross

TMC Winter 2017

3

TMC: ADVERTISE With its diverse print and digital circulation, and distinct presence inside and outside the classroom, TMC is a one-of-a-kind recruitment tool. Reach your target audience and showcase the unique programs your educational institution has to offer with TMC! NEXT EDITION / SPRING 2017 Closing Date for Reservations: Copy Date: Pu b l i c a t i o n D a t e :

April 20, 2017 April 25, 2017 May 15, 2017 (approximate)

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 10 teen artists in TMC’s e-Gallery, an online exhibit to showcase and sell teen artwork.

• $500: Supports TMC’s annual teen art exhibition and magazine release gala, Spring into Art. • $275: Supplies an under-resourced school with a Classroom Bundle Subscription (25 copies) to the Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts.

• $100: Supports the development of the online Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts.

• $50: Supplies 2 under-resourced schools with a TMC Starter Kit, equipped with a tutorial slideshow and educational materials.

To donate online please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/donate *** T M C PAT R O N S Richard & Liz Allen, Priscilla & Ramon Chura, Susan Hammond, Kim Kerr, Ross Klosterman, Bob Kustka, Zeva Levine, Scott Lombard, Mathew & Barbara Loonin, Neil Fisher & Meryl Loonin, Leanne Scott, Charles Zhang

4

themarblecollection.org

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 semiannual Mentoring for Publication Workshop, a 6-week one-to-one workshop for 100 published teen artists and writers.

• $10,000: Underwrites 20 workshops in under-resourced schools, community organizations, and public libraries to educate teens about the publication process.

• $7,500: Supports training sessions for our college student interns for one year.

• $5,000: Sponsors 2 semester-long internship positions for college students.

• $2,500: Supports the production of the 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 Brimmer and May School Chestnut Hill, MA / brimmerandmay.org

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

Fieldstone Foundation Boston, MA

RSM Boston Foundation Boston, MA / rsmbostonfoundation.com

John Hancock Financial Services Boston, MA / johnhancock.com

The Llewellyn Foundation Cambridge, MA / llewellynfoundation.org

Loonin Family Fund La Jolla, CA

The RMR Group Newton, MA / rmrgroup.com

MullenLowe U.S. Boston, MA / us.mullenlowe.com

Walmart Foundation Boston, MA / giving.walmart.com

Montrose School Medfield, MA / montroseschool.org

University of Massachusetts Boston, MA / umb.edu

TMC is supported in part by the Massachusetts Cultural Council’s Cultural Investmest Portfolio Project program as well as its Local Cultural Council program.

TMC Winter 2017

5

TMC: CONTENTS 9

Spooked (Art) Alex Stanichuk / Chelmsford High School

10 Undocumented (Poetry) Vivian Soong / Milton Academy

11 Personality Through Purgatory (Art) Shauna Ozana / Chelmsford High School

12 The Time Space Conundrum (Fiction) Kira McKinley

28 Untitled (Art) Dalia Banevicius / Berkshire School

29 Hollow (Art) Samantha Vingers / Brimmer and May School

30 My Mother is Strong (Poetry) Vinicios Souto / Natick High School

31 My Grandma (Art) Layla Robinson / Marshall Simonds Middle School

Groton-Dunstable Regional High School

16 Door To Another World (Art) Zia Angell / Brimmer and May School

17 Stairway to Nowhere (Art) Enna Spivak / Brimmer and May School

18 Anatomy of Color (Poetry) Quanye Hoskins / Tech Boston Academy

19 Woman Sitting (Art) Shoshana Boardman / Commonwealth School

20 Because I am a girl (Nonfiction) Mathilde Betant-Rasmussen Groton-Dunstable Regional High School

22 Blue in Fall (Art) Medha Purushotham / Chelmsford High School

23 Within The Midst of Winter (Art) Josef Jusczak / Lowell High School

24 Momma’s Words (Poetry) Lilias Kim / Groton School

26 How to Lose a Friend (Fiction) Natalie Good / Cambridge School of Weston

6

themarblecollection.org

32 Stars (Fiction) Michael Gake / Wilmington High School

34 Raindrops on Roses (Art) Olivia Perry / Marshall Simonds Middle School

35 Brad the Artist (Art) Julia Papasodoro / Marshall Simonds Middle School

36 Babcia (Poetry) Cara Burley / Gloucester High School

37 Dreamland (Art) Nate Pream / Lowell High School

38 Four Steps; Four Thousand Miles (Nonfiction) Giulia Silver / Lexington High School

41 Through the Tunnel of Trees (Art) Amihra Eliosof / Blue Hills Regional Technical School

42 Frost (Art) Mariana Floria / Chelmsford High School

43 Cnderella (Art) Meaghan Gurska / Burlington High School

TMC: Winter 2017 44 After Months & Years (Poetry) Letitia Chan / Milton Academy

45 Thomas (Art) Yasmine Sara Silmi / Brimmer and May School

46 Ancient City, 2013 (Nonfiction) Lily Crandall-Oral / Lexington High School

49 Lost in the Crowd (Art) Sarah Owens / Marshall Simonds Middle School

63 Weeping Willow (Art) Julia Do / Abington High School

64 A Seed Unnurtured (Fiction) Danielle Colburn Ayer Shirley Regional High School

72 The Day My Sister Left for Pride (Poetry) Alexandra Paul / Milton Academy

73 Four Heroines in Beijing Opera (Art) Mengyao (Catalina) Yang

50 Rose Colors (Art) Sydney Craig / Shawsheen Valley Technical High School

51 Cool Down (Art) Jacob Quiles / Brimmer and May School

52 Hourglass (Poetry) Karuna Abe / Lexington High School

53 Mr (Art) Tharith Sovann / Lowell High School

Amherst Regional High School

74 Sacrilegious (Art) Austin Camiel / Brimmer and May School

74 Fourth of July (Art) Neil Pandit / Marshall Simonds Middle School

75 City Boy (Art) Vivian Vo / Revere High School

75 Chalkboard (Art) Aaron Rippin / Marshall Simonds Middle School

54 A Tale in Ten Pieces (Fiction) Isabel Kendall / Groton School

76 As The Dead Feelings Fall (Poetry) Nick Pinto / Abington High School

60 Spiritual Self Portrait (Art) Matt Tyman / Burlington High School

61 Lowell’s Unsung (Art) Vinicius Freitas / Lowell High School

62 The Glass Balloon (Poetry) Fraser Toomey / Abington High School

77 Cotton Candy (Art) Cam Cote / Lowell High School

78 From The Roots (Art) Hailey Wood / Marshall Simonds Middle School

79 Office Reflection (Art) Sophia Lupo / Burlington High School

TMC Winter 2017

7

A R T

SUBMIT TEEN ART & WRITING TO TMC MAGAZINE

The Marble Collection (TMC) publishes the Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts, the only statewide print and online magazine of the arts featuring artwork, creative writing, and spoken-work poetry videos by students in grades 8 to 12. We also offer our teens free one-to-one online or in-person Mentoring for Publication Workshops.

Submit your work for a chance at publication at no charge at: www.themarblecollection.org/submit

Participating with TMC is no-cost and hassle-free. It simply requires you to share TMC’s opportunities with your students. Sign-up to participate at absolutely no cost at: www.themarblecollection.org/about/participate 8

themarblecollection.org

A R T Chelmsford High School

A l e x

/ Class of 2018

S t a n i c h u k

Spooked

d r a w i n g

TMC Winter 2017

9

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

Vivian Soong

Undocumented The night screams silence, but fear controls--eyes bloodshot, adrenaline quivering through veins.

Brain divided: one hemisphere scared to stay, forever roaming from field to field, harvesting other people’s food yet never finding enough to quiet the words of her stomach, the other afraid of the walk near the unknown Coyote who assures her that he knows the path, explaining how he has crossed the heat countless times. She runs, her life drips like sweat droplets beading from uncle’s face to his dirt shoes when the day boiled.

The wind of the desert morphs the dust into flashing red and blue, unveiling a face bordering exhaustion.

Fear can only take her so far. Looking down, her dress, dirtied by the journey, illuminates from the lights. Thoughts dissolve into one:

home.

Home is escondidas.

Home is father’s jokes.

Home is a place to cry.

Home is mother’s embrace.

She runs.

10

themarblecollection.org

A R T Chelmsford High School / Class of 2018

S h a u n a

O z a n a

Personality Through Purgatory

c o l l a g e

p a i n t i n g

TMC Winter 2017

11

F I C T I O N Groton-Dunstable Regional High School / Class of 2018

K i r a

M c K i n l e y

The Time Space Conundrum The year was 2145, and humanity was in the golden age of technology. Teleportation, instant communication, miraculous healing, and holograms indistinguishable from life were all common place. New life-changing discoveries were made every day, and the world seemed like a utopia.

Rather than revel in this perfection like most did, I had always been more inclined to watch the past. I saw the signs of a society at its peak around me, and though others celebrated the success that they thought would last forever, I, as a historian, knew that every golden age comes to an end - in many cases abruptly.

Of course, there were things that even our technology couldn’t figure out.

Time travel was one of those. Groups had been working on it for decades, and although moving from place to place - teleporting - had been possible as early as 2120, moving from time to time had eluded us. Researchers had succeeded in speeding, slowing, and even stopping time, but space-time is highly resistant to rewinding. No one had been able to figure it out, and it had been given up as impossible.

Then one day, James Dencarj - inventor, genius, and all around know-it-all decided to focus his prodigious mind on the problem. To most people, it was a joke.

We’d given up on time travel years ago, and what was it useful for anyway? Great minds were focused on bigger problems, and time travel had fallen to the sidelines.

For years, Dencarj was a laughing stock among scientists, until suddenly his work payed off. He and his team succeeded in sending a golf ball a few seconds back in time, making headlines and changing the world’s perception of time travel. All at once it was again a big field, but all the new research teams were years behind Dencarj’s Chronophaser, and no one else ever managed to develop another device. The Dencarj group refused to reveal their strategy to these newcomers. Instead, they slowly improved their technology, sending larger and larger objects farther and farther back in time. They discovered the space-time coordinates of famous historical periods, and soon they were sending researchers back to observe the past in person.

Like most historians, I was terribly excited. It wasn’t cheap - new technology never is - but we lined up by the thousands anyway, hoping for a chance to visit the times we had devoted our lives to studying. Only a few of us were allowed to go through, as the device was small and could only send one person at a time. We each received a number, which were picked randomly to determine who would go. The day that my number was called was one of the happiest of my life, and I handed the money over gladly. I was sent to Medieval Europe, my area of expertise, as the 16th of 30 allowed to go to that location.

Time travel is no simple thing, even if someone else is dealing with the science. I had to go through a series of intense instructional courses before I was allowed anywhere near the Chronophaser. It was all very serious, and I entered the introduction class not really knowing what to expect.

“Arthur Crandal?” my instructor asked as I came in the door.

12

themarblecollection.org

F I C T I O N “Yes..”

“Sit down.”

I sat.

She jumped right into the warnings and precautions. “You are going to be traveling to the past. That means you have to be very careful. Even a hint that you’re from the future could cause a paradox. You must act entirely as if you are from that time and place.” She leaned forward across the table, looking at me seriously. “Do you understand what I mean by paradox? The future that we’re standing in could disappear.

The course of events could be dramatically changed, and the fabric of space-time itself could unravel. Even after years of research, we’re not sure.” She held out a small device.

“This is the Origin Overlap Probability Sensor - OOPS for short. It senses the likelihood of paradox. You know the danger of paradox by its temperature - hotter means more danger, cooler less. You’ll have it on you at all times while in the past, and it sends us signals through the Chronophaser. If we judge the danger of paradox to be too high, we pull you out and make it so you never went in.” She looked me straight in the eye.

“This is important. Do not go too far from the Chronophaser. The OOPS cannot communicate with us if the signal has to travel over too much distance, and if we cannot detect the paradoxes you’re creating we cannot prevent them. The risk of paradox increases tenfold, and a bad paradox - the world ending kind - becomes incredibly more likely, especially for amateur travelers.” She looked at me suspiciously, like she expected me to end the world just for the fun of it. “The device is calibrated for the medieval town you’ll be going to. Do NOT leave that town.”

“I won’t.” I replied, as she gave me one more appraising look to determine my sincerity.

“Good.”

Over the next months they taught me to talk and act like the peasantry of the area and made me memorize a detailed backstory. I was to act as a farmer, traveling to this town, Arsinoch, to sell part of my crop. I would be sent through with a cart containing just the right amount of produce to not attract notice, neither richer nor poorer than average. I was instructed in the skills my persona would be expected to have and in the minor events of the time period - the day to day news that never made it to history books. The Dencarj staff took paradox prevention incredibly seriously. The clothes that I was given were specially designed to show just the right amount of wear, my “accent” was crafted to match that of the locals. I couldn’t help thinking, though, that it was a bit too perfect. Something inevitably goes wrong with complex plans like this one, and some small detail will always be overlooked. I didn’t say anything. This method had worked so far, and it would work for me.

Finally, I was judged ready to travel. I was confident in my ability to maintain the disguise. My part had been ingrained into me so much that I had trouble, at times, separating myself from the peasant I had learned to be.

Members of Dencarj’s staff dressed me up in my outfit, strapped the OOPS to my upper arm under the sleeve, and escorted me through the corridors of the lab to the room with the device. I must admit, I was rather disappointed. After hearing so much about the Chronophaser, I expected it to look incredible, like something from an old science fiction movie, but there was just an open sided box-like device in the middle of the room. I was instructed to stand in the middle of the box, and a technician fiddled TMC Winter 2017

13

F I C T I O N with the dials around its edges. Just as I was beginning to think about how anticlimactic this was, the room around me disappeared. I found myself standing outside a town of one and two story wood buildings, to the side of a dirt road. Mid-morning sunlight rested upon rolling hills of farmland with trees interspersed. A grin broke across my face. I’d known that this was going to happen, but a part of me hadn’t believed it until now. I was actually here, in medieval Europe! My excitement increased as I took in my surroundings - and their implications - fully. I ducked down amid a cloud of dust as a horse drawn cart rumbled along the road next to me, its peasant driver slouched in the seat as he guided his horses toward Arsinoch. I would have looked pretty strange to anyone who came across me, sitting in the ditch to the side of the road and smiling crazily, but I didn’t care. I was here!

I felt a burning pain in my arm as the OOPS identified the oddness of my behavior. I forcibly reigned back my excitement, dropping my mind into the medieval peasant persona that I had built up during my training. I waited for the wagon to pass, then stood up and scrambled out of the ditch, dusting myself off and looking around for my supplies. I soon gave up on my half-hearted attempts to clean; my outfit was realistic, which meant there was mud and worse ground into every fiber. A few moments of searching revealed a hand cart full of vegetables tucked among the trees near me, so I carefully grabbed its splintered wooden handles and started dragging it down the road. The OOPS cooled until it was the same temperature as my body. Apparently, I was doing the right thing.

As I entered the outskirts of the town, I surreptitiously glanced at the buildings around me. My historian self analyzed their architecture - wood buildings, mostly, and utilitarian, as would be expected here on the fringes. There would probably be fancier brick or stone farther in, if this was as big a town as it appeared. It stank, the results of the loud, smelly, or otherwise unsavory businesses located here combining with the odor of human waste and unwashed bodies. This wasn’t a surprise to me. The primitiveness of medieval times didn’t disturb me, as I’d already known they would be like this - noisy, smelly, diseased. The past would never stand up to the standards of the future, but, to me, it was every bit as incredible.

I continued down the road and soon reached the center of town, a square of open dirt space with stands along the edges selling everything from cloth to swords. I saw a few people dressed like me also selling produce. Darn, my peasant-self thought. I let the training I’d been given take over, unpacking the cart onto the scratchy, oily blanket I’d found there and glaring at my competitors. I was beginning to settle into my persona, and that feeling increased the longer I sat selling my wares. Peasant-me talked and bargained with customers, while future-me observed the swirls of people and business, learning more about medieval times in a few hours than a lifetime of textbooks had ever managed to convey.

Sales were beginning to slow as the day progressed, and I reluctantly began to pack up as the sun dropped lower in the sky. The role I’d been given only allowed for one-day trips - no matter how much I wanted to see what an inn was like - so I would be heading back to my own time for the night. I began to walk toward the edge of town, thinking about the things I had seen. Everything was so incredible! I’d imagined this a million times over the last few months of training, but the sights, smells, and sounds were so much more vivid than I ever could have pictured.

14

themarblecollection.org

F I C T I O N I watched carefully for the spot where I had arrived, as there were no markings that might draw attention to it. When I reached it, I looked unobtrusively in both directions to ensure there was no one watching before I pulled my cart into the woods and crouched down. The OOPS began to heat up, and suddenly I was back in the room with the Chronophaser. My instructor stood there, looking down at me. She smiled.

“Congratulations,” she said, “How was the past?” The smiles that I had held in all day broke free in a laugh as I released my peasant persona and allowed myself to fully experience the wonder of what had just happened.

“Amazing,” I told her breathlessly, “that was the most incredible thing I’ve seen in my entire life.”

“What would you say to going back?” She asked, “It’s less expensive to send people we’ve already trained.”

I was agreeing before she finished her sentence.

I returned the next day, and the day after that. I still had to pay, of course, but as she’d said, it was a lot less expensive. After the first few days my initial amazement wore off, and I began to notice the details. I was entranced by everything, and became only more so as I continued travelling. The subtleties of the way that people talked to those of different classes, the products purchased and bartered for in the market square, the cadence of children’s laughter as they ran past in the mud - it all stood out to me more and more with each passing day. Even the more disgusting elements - the ratty texture of the meat sold by vendors, the treatment of the diseased or crippled, the abundance of orphans - only served to draw me in. I loved it all, no matter how strange. This was the world I had spent my life hopelessly imagining, right in front of my eyes. Yes, it wasn’t flawless, but how could anything be? It was what it was, and that was incredible enough for me.

It couldn’t last forever. After a week or two, I got too used to it. One day, returning wrapped in thoughts of everything I’d seen, I passed by the spot where I had arrived without realizing it. I was far too comfortable with my ability to find my return point, and my vigilance of the first few days had relaxed. About ten yards past my missed turn, I walked straight into a wall.

I stumbled back, surprised. There was nothing there, just the countryside stretching away in the fading light. I reached my hand forward, and my fingers brushed the undeniable texture of a concrete wall. I recognized it instantly. Hologram. But how?

Why? I was here, in the past! I’d seen it, felt it! The OOPS on my arm was burning my skin, but I ignored it, tracing my hand along this impossible wall. The OOPS got hotter, dangerously hot. I rolled up my sleeve and ripped it off, then smashed it with a nearby rock. I was shocked, my mind numb. I must be imagining this. It couldn’t be true. No, no, no, no, no!

The wall continued, my hand running smoothly along its invisible surface until suddenly it fell through into empty space. I could trace the edge. A doorway. I stepped through the hologram into an empty concrete hallway, the town disappearing behind a curtain of light. I slid down the horribly modern wall, unable to deny the falseness of it any longer. I had never been there at all. I’d been played, teleported into a realistic set and duped into believing the lies. I buried my face in my hands as tears began to roll down my cheeks.

Perfect. I knew it was too perfect.

TMC Winter 2017

15

A R T Brimmer and May School / Class of 2016

Z i a

A n g e l l

Door To Another World

p h o t o g r a p h y

16

themarblecollection.org

A R T Brimmer and May School / Class of 2017

E n n a

S p i v a k

Stairway to Nowher e

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Winter 2017

17

P O E T R Y Tech Boston Academy / Class of 2017

Quanye Hoskins

Anatomy of Color My secret, is yet to be discovered.

Glare, take a glance, and you fall in love, or fall in anger, or somewhere in between, and feel playful, or feel afraid.

You sob when in pain.

You laugh when in bliss, which keeps you away, from the deep abyss.

I only speak, when light ignites true.

I breathe this air, the same as you.

Purple red or yellow, brown black or white, You’re all the same, when you turn off the light.

18

themarblecollection.org

A R T Commonwealth School / Class of 2017

S h o s h a n a

B o a r d m a n

Woman Sitting

d r a w i n g

TMC Winter 2017

19

N O N F I C T I O N Groton-Dunstable Regional High School / Class of 2016

Mathilde Betant-Rasmussen

Because I am a girl As I was carrying out some errands in the city, I succumbed to temptation and entered a department store. I walked around the aisles of shoes, cosmetics, clothes, and realized that all were staring at me, begging to be wanted. The unrealistic model on the wall, the desperate attendant who had repeatedly tried to spray me with her perfume sample, and the red price tags of $20, were all screaming at me to reinvent myself. Why? Because I’m a girl.

Because I’m a girl, I will deliberately provoke society by wearing short skirts and showing off skin. Also, my bra straps will be showing because I enjoy reminding the boys of how sexual I am. I will be beautiful and cover up my imperfections with makeup to please the male population, because, after all, I’m a girl. I’m a prude when I’m shy and insecure about my body image, and choose to hide behind too many layers of clothes. I’m a slut when my skirts do not reach the middle of my thighs, when I show my collarbones on purpose, or when my too-tight underwear shows through my jeans.

Because I’m a girl, I will cook dinners and wash the dishes when my mother is unable to do so. Incidentally, I will also take care of my younger siblings and be the responsible and mature sister. Because I’m a girl, my aunts and uncles will always ask me if I have a boyfriend, and insist on telling me that my looks are improving.

Because I’m a girl, it does not matter if I’m getting good grades. Because I’m a girl, I can always do better. Because I’m a girl, I’m too ambitious when I strive to be at the top of the class, and too bossy when I try taking charge of a group. I will not study science, since my intellect doesn’t qualify for such an important subject, which is better left to the boys.

Because I’m a girl, I want to become a mother and a housewife, and have my future husband provide for the family while I stay home. Because I’m a girl, I will always listen to the boys first, in silence, and only talk to say socially appropriate things.

I don’t have an opinion on politics, economy or international affairs. If I go my own way and dare to challenge the path that has been set for me, I’m irresponsible and rebellious. When I make mistakes, they forgive me for my foolishness because I am their “little girl” who “knew no better”.

Because I’m a girl, I don’t talk about my body or my sexuality (heterosexuality is, of course, my only option). I only talk of material things, looks, hobbies and boys. Whenever I laugh or blush it’s because of a boy. When I’m nervous or sad it’s because of “boy trouble”. However, when I’m mad and angry it’s because of my period.

Because I’m a girl, my period is a private matter that I should not discuss in front of others, in fear of making them uncomfortable, or worse, disgusted. Because I’m a girl, I lure boys into liking me, and if I become pregnant it’s my own fault.

20

themarblecollection.org

N O N F I C T I O N Because I’m a girl, I will be less paid, less respected and less worthy than the males of my age. Because I’m a girl, I will accept and welcome catcalls and sexual offers on the street, at a party or at my workplace, because, after all, they are simply compliments. Because I’m a girl, I deserve to be the default setting, the lesser option, the inconvenience. At my first job interview I will be asked if I plan on having children. My relationship status is every man’s business. Because I’m a girl, I will use this relationship status to fend off other males for taking what does not belong to them.

Because I am a girl, I belong to my boyfriend. I will be faithful, and forgive any of my partner’s “mistakes”, because he is a boy, and I am a girl.

Because I ‘m a girl, I get patronized. People tell me I am a “good girl”, “smart girl”, “silly girl”, and they mean it only as encouragement. Because I’m a girl, I played with Barbie Dolls, and now I am one. Because I’m a girl, I cannot measure myself to the boys, because we are different. Naturally, they are stronger - I am weak and have come to accept it. Because I’m a girl, I ask stupid questions and get logical answers: Why? Because I’m a girl.

Because I’m a girl, I’m a feminazi when I think about ridding myself of my label. Because I’m a girl, I am nothing more than my body. Because I’m a girl, my physique overshadows my intelligence. Because I’m a girl, I will never be mature enough to be independent. Because I’m a girl, I will always rely on others, on men.

Because I’m a girl, I am not your equal.

TMC Winter 2017

21

A R T Chelmsford High School / Class of 2019

M e d h a

P u r u s h o t h a m

B l u e i n Fa l l

d r a w i n g

22

themarblecollection.org

A R T Lowell High School / Class of 2016

J o s e f

J u s c z a k

Within The Midst of Winter

d i g i t a l

a r t

/

p h o t o s h o p

TMC Winter 2017

23

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

Lilias Kim

M o m m a ’s Wo r d s Did anyone ever tell you that as of right now you could have wings?

Do you recall when you were little momma said that your voice could ring That whenever you sang or spoke or danced that the world could always hear, But what she really meant was child, have no fear.

See fear can be a four lettered word or it can lead you to your death.

You can choose to ignore it, or it may take your final breath; When you sit in a room all alone or the dining hall in that back corner— Fear is right beside you, reminding you that you’re just always a loner.

No matter how hard you try, that Sisyphean task is so far ahead, That hill you have climb; fear just tells you to go back down again But, did anyone ever tell you that fear never existed That once our God almighty sent his son, fear was evicted At night sitting alone, when the four white walls start to close in Your heart starts to panic—blank and breathless, don’t know where you’ve been In your head laughter rings replaying again and again Remembering that time fear won those games, 10 times out of 10 But did anyone ever tell you that you’re not really stupid Just because that kid laughed in your face doesn’t mean that you’re always excluded Because being stupid and excluded are completely separate things One is a lie, the other is what you do to yourself but speak up I’m listening Even though you hear hey how are you, and you say good I’m okay In your head you’re crying, pleading that the future is all dismay Sometimes I imagine going away, without a single thought, resting under the sun As an escape from this so-called life called hell, a place others seem to have outdone It seems like too often I look around and I lose myself in this hazy, delusional fog that persons doing this and that persons doing that—watch out—don’t breathe in: turned into smog by the time you try look back and find ground zero, you just keep gasping for air so get out of there, you know you can’t swim, there’s no safe haven—especially not down there 24

themarblecollection.org

P O E T R Y So stop looking over that window, that bridge, and just stop storing fears into your cache.

Breathe, live a little in your own skin, fear has got no place to stay Even to this day I don’t know where my Father will take me but honestly I’m not worried at all Because my momma once told me that I can succeed in whatever in the long haul So just make a wish like your momma told you and maybe it’ll come true Just keep looking up even when you fall down, I promise you’ll know what to do Because did anyone ever tell you that fear is a four lettered word, don’t let it sit there and accrue; Just remember that in someone’s eyes you’re perfect, don’t change a thing, remember to just do you

TMC Winter 2017

25

F I C T I O N Cambridge School of Weston / Class of 2019

N a t a l i e

G o o d

How to Lose a Friend So, you want to get rid of a friend. You’ve known each other since they moved in down the street in second grade, and, if you’re going to be honest with yourself, it was always a friendship out of convenience. You’ve been growing apart for a while now, and you think it’s time to break apart. So what are your options? You can’t murder them, and you definitely don’t want to confront them. After all, communication is difficult. You would have to hunt them down and say, “Hey, can I talk to you?”, and then you’ll have to find someplace private, and then you’ll have to pick exactly the right wording for your confrontation. You would have to do your best not to upset them and to openly communicate your feelings, and that takes vulnerability.

No, the following is the easiest solution.

If you’re looking for a role model to follow, look no further than the toddler.

Your fingers should be in a constant state of stickiness, and your face should always have a blot of something or other. Speak with a nasal voice and act like you don’t have fine motor skills. If they pass you a spoonful of ice cream, splot it onto the table with a thud of your hand. If they ask to go to the bathroom, ask “Why?” Continue asking.

Require more and more in-depth answers. You can never be satisfied. No answer is good enough for you. Your curiosity can never be quenched.

You yourself should be endlessly confusing and irritating. Decorate your house with Halloween decorations year round but insist your favorite holiday is Arbor Day. Invest in miniature bagpipes and play them constantly. Make sure to only play one song - I highly suggest “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” Before long, the screeching sound will start to affect their cognitive functions. They won’t be able to focus on their math test with the ear piercing medley burrowed in their brain. In addition, give them wild excuses when you can’t spend time with them. For example: “I’m sorry, but my toenails just went through a rough breakup, and they really need my support right now.”

When you can spend time with them, invite your friend to your house. For refreshments, cook Bagel Bites. Lay them upside down on the baking tray so that the layer of cheese becomes stuck to the pan. They will have to scrape off their Bagel Bite with toothpicks. You will have removed all other scraping materials. Insist on watching Elmo’s Adventures in Grouchland. Settle for nothing else. Before they arrive, scratch the disc with your teeth. This means that when you watch the movie, it will pause in various places. Your friend will be confused. Hyperventilate as the screen fills with technicolor stripes. Tell them that this was not part of your plan. This was not part of your plan at all. They will ask what they can do to help. You will suggest removing the disc and smearing toothpaste on the affected areas. They will do this reluctantly, looking up at you every few dabs with raised eyebrows. You should look pleased.

26

themarblecollection.org

F I C T I O N After this, choose a number between thirty and ninety. Wherever you go, demand that the room’s temperature be exactly that number. When they change the temperature (and they will change it), squint at them. Demand to investigate the temperature changing machine. They will say they do not understand. This is your goal. It is better - safer - to hide yourself behind confusing demands.

Next, laminate small pictures of their face. Place them in your wallet, socks, pockets, and underneath your hat. When walking with them, trip and conveniently spill your photos.

“Oh! Uh, I’m just, uh. Holding. Them,” You’ll say as you scamper to collect them.

If you follow my advice, your friend should be climbing out the window in an attempt to escape. Congratulations! You are completely detached! Now you have to make sure not to attract any new friends.

Slowly slink away from human contact. Unsubscribe from all email lists and, exactly a week later, delete your email entirely. Send letters to your relatives. They won’t be seeing you for a very long time. You will wander forty days in the desert to find a cave. Your new home. If there are no deserts near you, go to your nearest Ikea and nest underneath a bed. You can live off of frozen meatballs and chocolate.

Now you may be thinking, “I only wanted to break away from one friend.”

But you see, dear reader, even getting rid of one friend is a lot of work. Understanding differences and communicating needs takes precious time. Everyone has flaws and opinions, and people’s paths often diverge. No matter what, you will almost always face confrontation. Besides, telling people how you feel is just another way of opening yourself up for potential damage. It is far, far easier to stick with the one person who will never hurt you: You.

TMC Winter 2017

27

A R T Berkshire School / Class of 2016

D a l i a

B a n e v i c i u s

Untitled

d i g i t a l 28

themarblecollection.org

a r t

A R T Brimmer and May School / Class of 2017

S a m a n t h a

V i n g e r s

Hollow

d r a w i n g TMC Winter 2017

29

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

Vinicios Souto

My Mother is Strong My mother is strong.

She’s a farmer, working the Brazilian countryside.

Helping her father, her family, my father, and my family.

She helped me, my cousins, always kind always caring.

She was a student, learning all she could for our sake.

My mother is strong.

She is a maid, working for a rich woman in Cambridge.

On her knees and her feet as she cleans the home.

To come back to a man she called her husband, and kids she called her children.

Her degree not valid in a nation that didn’t accept minorities yet.

She has traded her beach sandals for a pair of winter boots.

My mother is strong.

She is a broker, working for the rich again but now on a higher playing field.

Middle class and a wine glass.

But in this life something was always wrong, and when my father was gone it was all her.

She works and works, not asking for much but loving kids to come home to.

But sadly she comes back to none.

My mother is strong.

Now I don’t know, because she comes home stressed and repressed.

She is a student once more, getting a new degree to validate her education.

Her English is subpar but she is determined to grow.

But there is only so much a heart can hold.

She is no longer the farmer from Brazil, but an American workhorse.

30

themarblecollection.org

A R T Marshall Simonds Middle School / Class of 2020

L a y l a

R o b i n s o n

My Grandma

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Winter 2017

31

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

M i c h a e l

G a k e

Stars

I’ve spent hours mindlessly counting the stars, finishing off the dying hours of summer nights by tallying up the lights so far out of my reach. Always by my side was my best friend, her head gently bobbing on my shoulder with each soft breath and her warmth radiating into me. She could never last the whole night, and I’d be left alone to my thoughts in the empty stretch of the marshes we’d discovered while exploring the uninhabited regions of Maine. On most nights, the moon would be our backdrop as we laid out in the back of my truck, the only sound for miles the low murmur of the aging engine, adding a soundtrack to the serenity and simplicity of the night. I came to love every moment spent under the stars.

When she was awake, Vanessa was always smiling, her smile bright and welcoming. Her brown eyes always had a certain glow to them, bright like the stars high above us that I loved so much. Everything about her was warm. No matter what the circumstances, she could make me laugh and I can’t remember a time I wasn’t happy to see her. We’d stay up all night talking about everything and anything, always playfully making fun of each other and reminiscing about our young lives. In those moments together, all worries disappeared.

She squeezed my hand. I was back in reality, my dream dissipating from the marshes and trees surrounding me back to the white walls and cots. The gentle scent of pine returned to the smell of antibiotics, sanitizer, and fear. I was back in the hospital at the edge of a bed, staring into the same vibrant brown eyes and smiling back at the sparkling smile that I knew so well. Vanessa still had the same glow about her.

She never let the cancer take away her smile, despite it stealing her hair, strength, and ability to leave the hospital bed. I’d promised to visit her every chance I got and for the last three months, I had watched as the sickness worsened. I was watching my best friend’s body slowly wither to the illness and had to sit beside her, helpless against the disease as more and more treatments were added into her schedule and more and more chords were supplying her with new medicines.

“Is something wrong?” There was sincere concern in her voice and I realized a tear was slowly falling from my cheek. My mind was racing in a million different directions.

“I should be the one worrying about you,” I said with a half laugh. “Stop it.”

“Mike, trust me I’m fine. But I’ve been thinking a lot.” She paused to catch her breath. Her lip was quivering. “Remember all those nights under the stars? I miss that, a lot.”

32

themarblecollection.org

F I C T I O N

“Of course. You’d always fall asleep on me.” We both laughed and she jokingly pushed me off the bed. I turned back towards her and could see her eyelids fighting off exhaustion. She was getting tired earlier and earlier now. Grabbing my coat, I moved for the door. “Get some rest, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Don’t be late again,” she whispered. I smiled, looking back into her eyes for the last time. They still shined like the stars. I’ll never forget them.

That night, I dreamt of those summer nights. I imagined myself up with the stars, free from the realities of this world. I was one of those bright lights hidden within the black of the night, shining down upon us. Time wasn’t a factor. There weren’t any expectations. There was no worries, no fear, no pain. And there were no goodbyes.

TMC Winter 2017

33

A R T Marshall Simonds Middle School / Class of 2018

O l i v i a

P e r r y

Raindrops on Roses

p h o t o g r a p h y

34

themarblecollection.org

A R T Marshall Simonds Middle School / Class of 2020

J u l i a

P a p a s o d o r o

Brad the Artist

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Winter 2017

35

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

C a r a

B u r l e y

Babcia hands of veins and soft paper skin shaking with too much knowledge ever since her grandfather taught her to fold them into each other to thank God for what she was never given and to strengthen them to hold the sun. they are worn from forgetting her pride. she grew up an hour from here but her first language was of crumpled letters she forgot she had asking her to “please return home to us.” I ask her to speak in Polish but all she knows how to say is ‘goodbye’. we talk about Poland and France until she remembers how to say ‘I love you’ and I repeat it back to her in the wrong language. we dance to old jazz music as she sings out of tune and we converse in different languages. a one sided conversation with myself in a language I can’t keep.

36

themarblecollection.org

A R T Lowell High School / Class of 2016

N a t e

P r e a m

Dreamland

d i g i t a l

p a i n t i n g

TMC Winter 2017

37

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

G i u l i a

S i l v e r

Four Steps; Four Thousand Miles Step 1: Tre Ovi Four thousand miles from my cozy Massachusetts suburbs, hot air wafts through the narrow gap between the doors leading to my Nonna’s terrace.

“How much pasta should I make?” The smooth Italian words roll off her tongue and melt into the thick air.

“Two eggs are enough, there are only four of us.” My mom’s words tumble through the empty apartment rooms into the kitchen. Nonna nods like she’s thinking about it and ambles over to the refrigerator, steadying herself on the back of a chair with a trembling hand. She carefully takes out three eggs, one at a time, placing each on the table next to the semolina flour used to make pasta.

“But Nonna, mamma only said to make two eggs.” I say, rolling the edge of my tank top up and down against my sticky skin. My Italian is slower and accented; quivering in my mouth uncertainly before it before it floats out into the room.

“Nico eats a lot, we want to make sure there’s enough.” I nod like this makes perfect sense, even though there are always heaps of leftover pasta. “Can you crack the eggs?” Nonna asks and I hop to my feet, eager to start my pasta training. I crack the “ovi” as they’re called in the local dialect, and crush their shells with a satisfying crunch as I drop them into the compost bin. Nonna whips them into a yellowy mess, dumps a fistful of flour onto the table, pauses, and shakes out a few more crumbs. I crane my neck as she creates a little well in the flour, pouring in the eggs and then combining the two ingredients with a fork.

“How much flour do you use for three eggs?” I ask, mentally taking note of each step. She looks up at me blankly, her eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

“Enough to make the dough soft, but not too sticky.”

Step 2: Lavorando la pasta In Italian, the expression for kneading dough is “lavorando la pasta”, which translates to “working the pasta” and it is exactly that - hard work. I watch Nonna beat the dough against the wooden board, her wrists rolling to and fro like a machine.

Suddenly, she looks over at me and pauses for a moment, like she has forgotten that I am there. When she beckons me to come over, I jump up and place my fingers on the dough, but it pushes back against my hands and resists my efforts to copy her movements.

“It’s really hard!” I say; at eighty-three years old she makes it look so easy.

“You know your father tried to learn too, and he thought it was just as hard.”

I nod to myself, feeling slightly better knowing that my muscular father had difficulty too.

38

themarblecollection.org

N O N F I C T I O N “Maybe I should finish.” Nonna gives me a slight smile and I gladly move aside, glaring at the dough. I watch her wrists go back to work, moving so fast that it’s hard to distinguish where her palms end and the dough begins.

“When I was just eight years old, my mother taught me how to make pasta for dinner. My parents were just farmers, they didn’t have any of these luxuries.” She raises her right hand above her head and waves it around as her eyes gaze behind me, lost in the past.

“My mom said, ‘Marì, we’re going to work now and you need to have the pasta ready for when we come home.’” She wipes beads of sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand and I gulp, thinking of the massive supermarket aisles at home full of any pasta your heart could possibly desire. I think of how Nonna had to stop going to school after third grade to take care of the household while her parents worked the whole day in the fields. My throat tightens as I realize that I take for granted how hard my parents have worked to ensure that I have an excellent education and comfortable lifestyle.

Nonna continues her story, telling me how her father made her a crate to kneel on because she was too small to reach the top of the kitchen table. Nonna’s hands have stopped moving and flutter above the dough tentatively, as if they have remembered that they have a job to perform.

“It’s going to take me a long time!” I say softly, massaging my aching wrists.

Nonna tilts her head to the side and looks at me with her kind hazel eyes that rest between the folds of her weathered skin.

“You just have to make it many times and poco a poco, you’ll see that it will get better.” I nod uncertainly and drop my eyes back to the dough beating against the wooden board. It whispers the secrets of a past life too long ago to remember, yet too painful to forget.

Step 3: La Sfoglia It is undisputed that the hardest part of pasta making is the process of rolling out the dough, called la sfoglia. It must never break or form bubbles and must be nearly paper thin. Nonna’s movements are swift and precise; automatic, like she’s done them a million times which for all I know, she has. Her right hand sweeps across the wooden board as she sprinkles flour onto it and then dusts the rolling pin. She then takes the dough from where it has been resting underneath an overturned bowl and begins to make a gentle valley in it. As the dough expands into a chubby circle, she makes longer strides, pressing it out in all directions. A dance has begun between the dough and the rolling pin forming a steady beat as Nonna takes the dough and wraps half around the barrel, rolls it out a couple times, lets it fall back into place and then whoomp! She flips the whole sfoglia over and starts anew on the other side.

“Can I try?” I ask tentatively, afraid that I will mess up the beautiful pasta.

“Si, si!” She replies laying down the rolling pin, and then plops into a chair, the years having eaten away at her stamina. I try to recall Nonna’s technique and wrap a piece of the dough around the rolling pin and push it out, but after a minute or so, it is evident that I’m a beginner. My sfoglia is horrible; a thin bubble on the inside with thick edges. My cheeks heat up as Nonna comes over to inspect my work and I feel the need to justify my horror.

TMC Winter 2017

39

N O N F I C T I O N “I don’t know what I did! How did it turn out this way?”

“You pressed down too hard in the middle,” she explains without hesitation.

“You need to distribute even weight on the dough.”

“Oh,” I shuffle out of the way, dropping my eyes to the ground, my hands immediately moving to the hem of my tank top.

“Don’t worry,” she says taking over. “It’ll get better as you practice.” She fixes my mistakes easily, evening out the dough as I stand across the table, feeling miles away even though we’re only a couple feet apart. I wish I could see her more than once a year for a couple of weeks—I wish I could come to her house on Sundays for family lunch like is customary in the Italian culture and tell her all about my week. I wish she could be more than a person I tell stories about, more than a person that my mom makes me talk to once a week on the phone. What she doesn’t know is that I would give anything to be here everyday in the miserable heat, with no computers or access to social media, just to make pasta with her and hear her tell me about the past.

Step 4: Quadrucci The name of the pasta we make today is Quadrucci, or “little squares”, and it is the thickest of all egg pastas. Nonna shows me how to roll up the dough and score long stripes into it with a special pasta knife. Then, resting it on the elevated wooden board, I cut small squares and scatter them across the table in little mountains and valleys. They are rough and imprecise, each one unique. The pasta is special, not something you would likely see in any other region of Italy. It comes from sowed dirt, planted vegetables, tired hands and hungry mouths. When I ask Nonna what she would eat with the pasta as a kid, she gives me a look that I will never be able to understand. She tells me that there wasn’t much in her house when she was young and that it was a blessing to even have meat. The typical farmer’s soup called Zuppa di Ceci; something that she would eat often as a child has the pasta in it, and it’s what we make today. It’s simple; made with watered down tomato sauce, chickpeas, and Quadrucci.

I adore it.

At dinner I eat a huge bowl, and then another one after that, watching as my Nonna’s eyes light up with joy. For her the soup is a reminder of a simpler time, when she didn’t have any luxuries and had to work hard every single day. For me the soup is a sweet memory of Italy and my mother’s family and the hot, humid, afternoons when all you want to do is eat gelato and read a good book. I don’t get to be in Italy often and it makes me wonder what would had happened if I had grown up her and been able to be close to Nonna and my aunt who fortunately I have an easier time connecting to with phones and social media.

But right now all I have are my aching wrists, one failed sfoglia and a whole lot of determination. Although many don’t recognize it, making pasta is slowly becoming a lost art, as those who know how to make it don’t pass it onto their children, like in the case of my mother and her sister. For Nonna, pasta is an ancient art that she has practiced and perfected over the years, yet one she has failed to pass on to her daughters. For me, pasta is a new and exciting adventure, one I plan to practice over and over until I perfect it; something that I hope will bridge the space between Nonna and me, even across the Atlantic ocean.

40

themarblecollection.org

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

A m i h r a

E l i o s o f

Thr ough the Tunnel of Tr ees

p a i n t i n g

TMC Winter 2017

41

A R T Chelmsford High School / Class of 2016

M a r i a n a

F l o r i a

Fr o s t

d r a w i n g

42

themarblecollection.org

A R T Burlington High School / Class of 2019

M e a g h a n

G u r s k a

Cnder ella

d i g i t a l

TMC Winter 2017

a r t

43

P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Class of 2017

Letitia Chan

A f t e r M o n t h s & Ye a r s Nose bleed an ocean, when I stand at a sink far away from home. When I think I am forgetting the language of my own to make space for another. I think my father has never looked the way he does so removed from me. The clot in my nose broken. It rides loose, the knowledge you always had, the thought you were always so sure of that it was not so much a thought as the cord through which your mother fed you.

My father swimming out to sea as the tsunami rose to climb, climbed to rise. My bones growing faster than the rest of me.

After the cord was cut I did not know my mother any more.

You, a polyp, limbless and without heft. I have been awake less and less. How my mother put her faith in the god that so revealed itself. I go by only so many names, and I love none of them. My father taking me to many museums and we, looking, knowing nothing of art. Sometimes I eat myself, for dinner, in my own temple at my table.

My father, a man in a museum. My mother and a bowl of grapes for me.

I cannot drink without dripping. I live surprised when I awaken, my arm more foreign than my father’s. See yourself, having risen now, having reached the first of many zeniths to come. A flat ocean that I never see any more, but know so well. You standing there willing something to come from it. Dare me to speak a life out of its glazed window. It’s unbearable when anything can come out of a body. You faceless, and it has a nose, a lip fuller than headlight.

I draw your faces around my table. I have a face for nothing I can say with my voice.

44

themarblecollection.org

A R T Brimmer and May School / Class of 2016

Y a s m i n e

S a r a

S i l m i

Thomas

c o l l a g e

p a i n t i n g

TMC Winter 2017

45

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

Lily Crandall-Oral

A n c i e n t C i t y, 2 0 1 3 A sea of beige apartment buildings punctuated by the minarets of a thousand mosques, poking up beyond their domes: İstanbul was like nothing I had ever seen before. My eyes squinted against the fiery setting sun as the entire city stretched out below me in all directions. As the plane circled before landing, I saw the Sea of Marmara merge with the sparkling ribbon of the Bosporus Strait. Spanning two continents, the Bosporus flows through İstanbul, separating Europe from Asia.

Clearing security, we claimed our baggage from the conveyor belt and looked around, nonplussed at our foreign surroundings. My mom and I planned to spend two and a half long months with my grandmother in İstanbul before backpacking through Europe. Beginning our voyage in a country tied to my background seemed the logical thing to do. Having spoken Turkish with my father growing up, I was fairly fluent, whereas my mom’s vocabulary was confined to words used in the kitchen. My first time off the North American continent, this would turn out to be the most terrifying––and memorable––city we visited.

My Babaanne, or father’s mother, met us, her face glowing with enthusiasm, and ushered us into the car. Since she can’t drive, a friend from her political party drove us from the European side of the Bosporus where the airport was located, to the Asian side where her apartment lay in the Kızıltoprak neighborhood. Our car was swallowed up in the vast complexity of the metropolis. Like an armor clad beetle, we crawled through dense traffic. The sun was disappearing below the jagged horizon as we crossed the Boğaziçi Köprüsü––Bosporus Bridge, where little colored lights had been strung along the suspension cables.

My memories of the next few days are a blur of jetlag and fresh bread delivered to the door by the ‘Apartment Man.’ Mornings, I squeezed in next to my mom on the tiny porch at a spindly table bending under a staggering Turkish Breakfast: ekmek––bread, beyaz peynir––white, salty, creamy, feta, zeytin––black olives, reçel––preserves, and the most important staple, domates ve salatalık––tomatoes and cucumbers sliced in circles and wedges with a dash of tuz–– salt. This was a sit-down meal, much different from the quick smoothie I blended at home on a school morning. From the sugary sweetness of Turkish nut butter, to the alkaline zing of freshly cured olives, each bite of foreign delicacy paired with each salty sip of ayran to remind me of the oceans separating me from my ordinary milieu.

My mom ventured out several times, to the nearby bakery and beyond to the sea, but I was afraid to leave the apartment. Somehow, I felt that by remaining in the apartment, I could trick my mind into believing I had never left the familiar comforts of suburban Lexington. I was scared of getting lost in the labyrinth of streets––that I wouldn’t be able to communicate with people. Most of all, I was afraid of not feeling at ease within another culture. But before the week was over, Mom forced me out to brave the city with her.

46

themarblecollection.org

N O N F I C T I O N We left the apartment together and headed left, then right, then left again, until we reached the thoroughfare: Mini Bus Yolu. On the corner was the first of many Migros markets we were to shop at, aside from the weekly open air pazar, or farmers’ market. Four lanes of traffic whizzed by. Cars honked and ran red lights while pedestrians wove precariously in and out of traffic. I jumped back as a motorcyclist zoomed up the sidewalk, seemingly oblivious to my shocked expression. Cats were everywhere. Most Turks dislike house pets, yet extend kindness to these bedraggled creatures by setting food and water outside. At first my heart ached whenever I saw one curled in an empty produce carton, but I came to realize these were not strays: in an odd way they were neighborhood cats, cared for (more or less) by the surrounding community. We crossed the road and hailed a minibus en route to the waterfront district of Kadıköy. Each mini bus I rode during those two and a half months was unique. Some drivers drove erratically, taking bends at high speed and packing the bus so full of passengers that the doors barely closed. That first day I gripped the sides of my seat, obviously a tourist. Like the dervishes I would later witness, İstanbul seemed to be reeling in a fantastically mesmerizing dance to which I hadn’t quite learned the steps, let alone the tempo.

From Kadıköy we caught a vapur––ferry across the Bosporus to Europe.

Though it was warm inside where women, many wearing headscarves around a heavy layer of makeup, sat together, we preferred the deck outside where the autumn morning sun glanced brilliantly against the water, and salty wind stung our faces. Middle aged businessmen leafed through newspapers and sipped black tea from demitasses, occasionally pausing to musingly stir up the settled sugar. After about ten minutes, midway across the straight, a man came around selling fresh squeezed portakal––orange juice and simits––stretched out seeded bagels. I sat stiff, nervous, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. I gazed into the distance as giant tankers crisscrossed alarmingly in front of our boat.

Passing under a bridge, we entered the Golden Horn, a slender channel of water off the Bosporus. It was from here that Ottoman Padişah Mehmed II strategically attacked Byzantine Constantinople in 1453, and was victorious. To our left was the district of Eminönü, where we visited the Blue Mosque, Topkapı Palace, Ayasofya, the Underground Cisterns, and Hammams.

To our right was Karaköy, where, below the medieval Galata Tower, the most famous street İstiklal Caddesi stretched 1.4 kilometers to Taksim Square. Stepping off the boat in Eminönü, we stood in awe of this ancient city. I inhaled deeply, my lungs filling with the scent of street food and heavy cigarette smoke; in one morning I had traversed a continent! İstanbul was a mix of ancient and modern. Glass skyscrapers challenged the minarets of mosques in height, while aqueducts, dating from the Roman rule of Constantinople, arched over double lanes of traffic. Beer cans and shards of glass were scattered across the Wall of Constantine, and five times a day from every mosque, müezzins called the faithful to prayer over loudspeakers.

TMC Winter 2017

47

N O N F I C T I O N After the second week, I began to feel more comfortable going out. The more places I visited and people I spoke to, the less I felt like a tourist, and the more I came to find that a part of me had always belonged there. Talented with maps, I relished finding in advance the best routes for our excursions. My planning became fanatical: schedules and destinations made me confident.

However, once, on our way back from the Süleymaniye Mosque, I forgot my map and we got lost. Night began to fall and we found ourselves threading through back streets, unable to find the main road by which we came. I panicked, my palms sweaty as I frantically, desperately, searched for something familiar. The alleys twisted crookedly back upon each other in the darkness causing all sense of direction to be lost. While it seemed like forever, barely half an hour elapsed before we found the busy sidewalks bordering a well-lit street. My fear abating, I thought, here I am again, wanting only to explore places I have already been, for fear of the unknown. I decided if I let my fears control me, I would never experience beyond the touristic surface of any city.

Letting go of my trepidations allowed me to interact more freely with İstanbul and its inhabitants. Eventually, I rode public transportation with ease, barely clasping the pole as the driver revved the engine. I marveled at the Grand Bazaar, ignoring the whistles of young men who called “Lady, I think I know you!” to impress us with their English and make a sale. I perfected the slight eyebrow raising, eye closing, and simultaneous cluck of the tongue to indicate I was not interested.

In those two months, I grew to overcome fears I never knew I had. By the time we boarded the bus to Budapest, my excitement to explore outweighed any apprehension. Obstacles were temporary, challenges that could be dealt with. When I came down with the chicken pox in Vienna our mettle was tested, but proved strong.

Maybe my confidence was shaken slightly when my mom mistook the tip of the Eiffel Tower for a cell tower, but we worked well as a team. So, when we reached London and she handed me a map saying, “Can you handle this?” I replied, “Mom, it’s in English!”

48

themarblecollection.org

A R T Marshall Simonds Middle School / Class of 2019

S a r a h

O w e n s

Lost in the Cr owd

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Winter 2017

49

A R T Shawsheen Valley Technical High School

/ Class of 2018

S y d n e y

C r a i g

Rose Colors

p h o t o g r a p h y

50

themarblecollection.org

A R T Brimmer and May School

J a c o b

/ Class of 2016

Q u i l e s

Cool Down

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Winter 2017

51

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

Karuna Abe

Hour glass I still feel it, through my bones, the slow shock.

All his days had gone away, all away Tick tick goes the old clock The remembered, ragged man, that walk.

Voice low, hands grasped “Time runs out always, either way, anyway” I still feel it, through my bones, the slow shock His words coaxed, a deep courage within; a will to trade all defeat for triumph. Omit the trained mind to learn toil and love, the fears grow quiet, secured by padlock A moment in time engraved for life, gave faith to me but no piece of mind; So speechless was I, and lost every word, all the words to explain and the words to repay Tick tick goes the old clock My youth, a cradle: tore me apart; barefeet abridged agony, flee o’er paved rock Web raised millennials, youth trained but not taught, know nothing of passion, where they got lost; but streets will keep filling with all these machines, our factory made brains; brimmed full with false needs, inspired by gluttony, excess, and great pay I still feel it, through my bones, the slow shock Time runs out always, either way, anyway; the days have passed; the words slow as I talk.

Wasted, survived, or seized is life, with each breath we chose to live or decay Tick tick goes the old clock He is remembered, the ragged man, with the talk To what dues he paid, in this life, I know not I still feel it, through my bones, the slow shock Tick tick goes the old clock

52

themarblecollection.org

A R T Lowell High School / Class of 2017

T h a r i t h

S o v a n n

Mr

d i g i t a l

p a i n t i n g

TMC Winter 2017

53

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

I s a b e l

K e n d a l l

A Ta l e i n Te n P i e c e s She gave birth for the second time in Hartford. Later, she and her husband would move to Greenwich with their new daughter, but then they lived in Hartford.

She would name the baby Jess, and I would grow up and fall in love four times. The fourth time would be with a boy named Chris who was born on the other side of the country a year and a half before. She hadn’t wanted a child (never mind two), but abortion wasn’t an option because divorce wasn’t an option, and, even if it was, abortion was never an option, not back then.

In the beginning she could barely look at the child. I wasn’t breast fed or coddled, and as soon as they could afford it, I was thrown into the arms of various nannies. According to my brother, my mother started drinking when I was three, my father when I was 12. And apparently, they used to be in love.

II I hated coffee. But here I was in the café because Samantha wanted something before the layout meeting. She was such a bitch. I had a college degree and she was still making me her errand girl. At least the line wasn’t too long. He was in line ahead of me, but the way the store was set up he was actually on my left.

“That moron over there ordered a strawberry Frappuccino. What is he? Six?” That was the first thing Chris said to me. I remember because it was what I was about to order (I then changed to a vanilla latte with an extra shot of syrup). I laughed anyways because he seemed to think it was funny and I admired his confidence. Chris chatted me up, saying something about how he whole-heartedly believed that coffee ought to be coffee flavored. I agreed. I didn’t want to tell him that coffee turned my stomach into knots and twists and that a single cup had my body feeling too acidic.

When they called my order, I forcefully took a sip of the Americano, lingering just to talk to him. Maybe it was his hair. Maybe it was his confidence despite the acne scars that riddled his forehead. Maybe it was the copy of Shooting An Elephant peaking out of his messenger bag. I muttered something about the latte being for my boss and turned to leave. Chris gave an effortless wave goodbye and I slipped out of the café, exchanging the cool interior for a flush of heavy, humid summer air.

I gave him a second thought as I entered my office. A third as I pressed the button on the elevator. A fourth as I handed Samantha her Americano and sipped my sticky sweet vanilla latte. The coffee was lukewarm and the meeting was over by the time I finished the cup. I thought that tomorrow I might return just to run into him again.

The next day I bought a cappuccino just to give him my phone number. He walked in as I finished the large cup in front of me and my stomach was in flutters.

But now I think it was him and not the coffee.

54

themarblecollection.org

F I C T I O N III My favorite animal isn’t really an animal at all. They’re called water bears and they’re microscopic. They are what are called extremophiles and they survive the hot and the cold and the oxygen less. To date they are the only living things to survive the void of outer space. That’s what I told him when he asked.

He said his favorite letter was W. I asked what kind of person has a favorite letter, he said it was the only letter in the alphabet to take up three whole syllables just for its self.

It was the best second date I had ever been on. He told me his favorite disease was Rotavirus. I said my favorite movie was Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid. He said that a few years ago, when he flew to Florida, the plane passed through a storm cloud and he saw the birth of a lightning bolt. As I got up to leave the next morning I turned back and he looked up at me and smirked through the light seeping in from the crack in his door.

Once, he wanted me to see the sunrise from his rooftop and instead of waking up early we stayed up late.

IV I’ve always loved sitting by windows. Not just any windows, but particularly the windows of planes, and possibly trains if there are no airports around. If you asked me to list my favorite hobbies, sitting by the window would come second only to writing. Even though I’ve ridden planes every year since I can remember, I still love seeing the city fade into farmland then the farmland into ocean.

Though this time there was no ocean to fade into, just corn fields followed by national parks. Chris was in the seat next to me, his breathing shallow and even and his head resting heavily on my shoulder. We were coming back from Thanksgiving with his family. It was the first I had celebrated since I was 18. His dad loved me, for nothing more then the fact that I grew up in a cushy house in Greenwich. His mom didn’t, for the same reason. His sister Sara was there with her husband and their two kids. When they asked if I wanted to hold David, who I think was one at the time, I squirmed and got out of it. I said that kids were great, just that they were great when they weren’t with me. Chris joked how I had once called children the antichrist and we all laughed at my apparent abhorrence of kids. Its not that I hate them, its just that I would have hated having them. I would have grown fangs and talons, and I wouldn’t have wanted them at all.

Now, by the time he fell asleep on the plane, I’m sure he had forgotten all about the way I pulled back and sickened when Sara offered to let me hold David.

Now, I’m sure he thought that I was joking, exaggerating my distaste for kids. I’m sure of this now. But back then I was fooled.

TMC Winter 2017

55

F I C T I O N V I went to the clinic alone. They asked if I was sure. I was. Little old Helen, who lived in the apartment above us and always complained about the noise when we had his college friends over, drove me home. I would have driven myself, but they said I shouldn’t be alone. I didn’t see why, I felt fine afterward. Or at least I thought I did.

I quietly thanked her when we got to the building and got out of the car. I was home before he got back from work so I lay in bed, pretending to sleep while the next morning came closer by the inch, feeling numb. Feeling the cold settle in my bones even though it was July. Feeling content with what I had done. Then feeling guilt’s dread hang over my breath for just a second as I fell asleep.

I got up the next morning and cooked pancakes for the two of us, smiled, and decided not to tell Chris. Never to tell. It would be my and Helen’s secret. In a week it was hard to fall asleep in less then three hours, and in a month it was hard to fall asleep at all. When the insomnia got really bad I took a week’s worth of sick days and spent them in the movie theater, sleeping. I didn’t want him to know I couldn’t do it at his place, laying there next to him. So I went to the AMC seven blocks away instead. Then I ran out of vacation days and started to take two melatonin with my dinner, because it worked and someone once told me it was non-habit forming.

A month later we moved in together and I started on a new brand of birth control pills.

VI Whenever I remember this moment, I remember it drenched in sunlight.

Even though the clouds blanketed the sky. Even though they covered the city hall building in a grey shade.

He asked because someone had died, someone who was young, our age, but someone whom I can’t remember. It shocked him into temporarily, but whole-heartedly, believing that life was too short. I said yes because I couldn’t say no.

“I do.”

“I do.”

We shared the glass of champagne because he had only brought two cups and he offered one to the women who notarized our certificate. He was so charming back then. Even she had started to fall in love.

The word husband felt too big between my teeth, but that day I said it 24 times anyways. Scientists conducted this experiment where they gave people glasses with tiny mirrors in them. When worn, the glasses made the world, and everything in it, turn upside down. They concluded that it took the brain three days to adjust to large changes. After 72 hours the word felt a little smaller.

The photo booth outside of the mall served as our wedding photographer; I later framed the strip of four and we mounted it above our bed. On the walk home, we talked about nothing in particular and everything at all.

56

themarblecollection.org

F I C T I O N *** As a kid I fed on the promises of love. Your parents love you unconditionally (maybe they don’t). You will grow up, marry, have a few kids then live happily ever after (maybe you won’t). Despite the divorce rate for first marriages being at 41 percent, you and your soulmate will last forever (maybe it won’t last). I was fooled.

We were fooled.

The promise of lust is a far better companion. And for a few years it was the only companion we had.

VII “Hey.” It was seven in the morning, I think it might have been a Sunday. I know it was spring because the way the light shone into our bedroom made the room seem almost big. We were still in that tiny basement apartment on Seneca Street. All the walls were a soft light grey and the wood that made up the floor was scratched and scarred, like a map of all the memories made before we moved in. We were sitting cross legged and we were drinking coffee and I was reading the paper and the sunlight was hitting the very tip top of his hair. “I think,” he said grabbing my hands in his, “that we should have kids.”

I didn’t know what to say because I had nothing to say. So I said nothing, at least for a little bit. Then, “I think now’s not the time. I mean, we don’t have the space and you’re starting your new job next week and we’re still young.” It would hold him over for the next year or so, keeping the topic at bay. I didn’t know how to tell him that I didn’t want them, that I had never wanted them, that I would never want them. *** Things were lovely then.

Things change.

VIII All that time lying left a sour taste in my mouth, like rotten fruit, but I thought it was better then the alternative. I didn’t want to have kids, but I also didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want him to leave. I didn’t want to be divorced. So I swallowed the taste on my tongue and lied. Until the taste came back and refused to leave.

During the worst of it, we had just decided not to have kids. More accurately, Chris asked and asked and asked and I finally told him. Not everything, but enough.

Before I did, I kept picturing the possible confrontation. It would start in disbelief, maybe he would try and convince me, maybe he would say it would pass. As he came to understand, it would build into an anger like a white fire, an anger that he couldn’t quite see. But not a vengeful or energetic anger. It would be a sad anger, and it would be funneled to me. We would fight and maybe, at a particularly bad moment, one of us would grab a plate from the drying rack by the sink and throw it to the ground.

He would ask what kind of person didn’t want kids, what kind of monster could lie to him like that, and I would stand there and say “me.”

TMC Winter 2017

57

F I C T I O N There were no broken plates, there was no screaming, there was no splitting up, no leaving. I said I liked our life, liked the way things were. That I did think about kids, but never enough to want them. That this wasn’t something I had decided on a whim. Eventually, he made a choice to stay, to come to terms.

That year was the ninth Thanksgiving I spent in California when his parents asked us about it, and he said that things weren’t working out. It was his time to lie.

When I slipped away to play catch with David, he told them that he thought It was me. He fabricated doctor’s visits and imaginary tests. It tumbled out of his mouth solid and heavy and when it hit his mother she looked broken.

Outside, I let Sara know that yes, we were trying, yes, it wasn’t working, and yes, we didn’t know what to do. I think we were convincing.

IX “To be honest, I never thought they’d last more then three months,” Brooke was holding her second glass of wine in the air, finishing up her impromptu toast.

“But I’m glad they did, to Chris and Jess!” she said as she raised the glass and shot us a smile. Our friends had dwindled over the years, the number nearly half what it was on that first house warming party we had at Seneca Street. Some had moved away, two had died, and others were too caught up in their kids to have any energy leftover.

Chris hadn’t wanted a party, but I had thrown something together anyways, trying to cheer him up even if just for a bit. I wanted to see him excited again. Years ago, when we met, his eyes shone like satin. Now there were days when they barely held any light at all. We stopped cooking together and going out. I started getting to work earlier and he started not getting out of bed. Chris would get up for work, but it was tricky getting him up on the weekends, if not impossible. It seemed like things were like this forever. And they were, until they weren’t, until he began to take 50 milligrams of Zoloft a day, just as prescribed. The next morning he would run four miles, leaving before I got up. “I have to get myself back into shape.” he would say, huffing, as he came back into our new house. I didn’t know it then, but within the week he would start reading again, tearing through The Atlantic like he was trying to make up for all those months of lost time. His eyes would ever gradually regain their flash, and his words would be nimble and charming.

One night we were lying on the sofa and I told him about the latte I lied about in the coffee shop. He laughed a bit. I did too.

X Walking back home that night we held hands. Mine were as cold as the snow on the sidewalk and so were his. Neither kept the other warm, but still, it was nice to feel his fingers wrapped up in mine. Chris hadn’t snuck a cigarette in over two weeks.

He thought I didn’t know, but every once in a while, back when things were bad, he would slip away and return with hints of smoke soaked into his body. He would have the smell on his shirt, the taste in his mouth, and the traces of stains on his fingers.

But now he was stopping.

58

themarblecollection.org

F I C T I O N The streets were empty, save for a taxi here or there taking some wasted twenty-year-olds home. I had taken him to a tapas restaurant for a late dinner. It was atop the tallest building I could find. I had wanted to have the best vantage point for watching the fireworks at midnight, and even though the food was tasteless, the view was incredible.

A car drove past and splashed my ankles with the remnants of last week’s snow, and suddenly I wished I had worn socks with my boots. Two blocks after we went by a church the bells rang three times, and I remembered how he told me that his favorite sound was of the eleven pm bells at the church down the street from where he grew up. I commented on how nice the city was this late. It hummed low in the background as we walked from one island of light to another. Someone once described the light to me as pools of pastel clementine, but I like to see them as islands of sun in a night of the moon. I counted four street lamps before I said anything. “Can you be happy?”

“With what?”

“Without kids.” He was kicking a small bit of ice as we walked down the sidewalk, launching it a few feet ahead, then catching up to it, then launching it ahead again. I was quiet for a bit. So was he.

“I don’t know.” He squeezed my hand in his and looked down at the bit of ice. When he turned his head up again, he shot me a smile.

So we walked the four miles back home holding hands.

TMC Winter 2017

59

A R T Burlington High School / Class of 2019

M a t t

T y m a n

Spiritual Self Portrait

d i g i t a l

60

themarblecollection.org

a r t

/

p h o t o s h o p

A R T Lowell High School / Class of 2016

V i n i c i u s

F r e i t a s

L o w e l l ’s U n s u n g

d i g i t a l

TMC Winter 2017

a r t

61

P O E T R Y Abington High School / Class of 2019

F r a s e r

T o o m e y

The Glass Balloon

Growing up, I never seemed capable of holding a balloon for too long. Be it 1 luftballon or 99, I was never able to stop the pores of my palms from flooding.

The strings would always slip through my grip and off the balloon would go. Some balloons were blue. Some were green. Some balloons were gargantuan, and others minuscule.

At a young age, I found a glass balloon. Coated in a shawl made from the skin of an iceberg, I admired it. I treasured the glass balloon and kept it from others.

It was soon after its discovery that I wrapped the balloon around my index finger instead of gripping it. I fell in love with my idea for I could keep the balloon at a distance but pull it close when I needed it. It could never slip and slide away.

Over the years, I stuck with the glass balloon. Other people began to take notice of the glimmering object made taut on my finger. I befriended those who sought my balloon. However, I kept the balloon away from them at all costs. I accumulated many balloons similar to my glass balloon in my childhood.

I saw many balloons come and go. Many of them flew away. The glass balloon however, stayed within eyesight through all of this. There was something oddly reassuring about the lustrous shimmer that the balloon let off. The shawl was a faded gray at this time. With the eyes of a crow, I spotted a faint hue of gold. Excitement ignited in my chest as I raced to this glow. There it was.

A beacon of light showed up in a time of eclipse. There was a halo attached to what I had found. A ventriloquists’ dummy was lying on the ground. Awaiting admiration. With an opportunistic head, I grabbed the dummy.

Without need of my glass balloon, I cut its string from my finger. It didn’t float away however. Instead it sunk to the ground in a miserable lump. It was as dejected as the laundry that fell out of the hamper on your way to the laundry room.

I still saw that others would have sought the glass balloon. So, I yanked away its angelic shawl and it turned to a midnight black. Cut straight from the cloth of night.

The balloon still looked up at me. I raised my leg and shattered the balloon. Making a speedy escape, I took the halo of the dummy and placed it upon my own head.

From what I hear, the glass balloon was able to put some of itself back together. But without its ivory shawl, the balloon turned to otherworldly realities to make up for what it lost.

62

themarblecollection.org

A R T Abington High School / Class of 2019

J u l i a

D o

Weeping Willow

d i g i t a l

p a i n t i n g TMC Winter 2017

63

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

D a n i e l l e

C o l b u r n

A Seed Unnurtured I suppose I should start my story where it began:­­the entry of one fiery, erratic tornado into my life. I thought I was day­dreaming when the acrid tang of cigarette smoke hit my nostrils on my day shift at the Fiber Loft. I was sorting through the newest shipment of laced yarn when I looked up to see a petite young woman in a blue coat take a drag on her cigarette across the aisle from me.

“Excuse me, miss,” I said sharply, more out of shock than beratement. “You really can’t smoke in here.” The woman’s doe-­like brown eyes, carelessly smudged with makeup, widened when she spotted me.

“Shit, you’re right,” she said in exasperation as she crouched down to put the cigarette out on top of her well­-worn boot, which was dappled with burn marks from earlier instances of tobacco transgressions. =A mother and daughter in the back of the store were watching us. Nervously, I moved closer to the eccentric cigarette­-smoking woman, trying to draw her away from the other customers.

“May I help you, miss?” The blue­-coated woman straightened and shot me a devilish smile. Her unruly hair was dyed red and parted harshly from the far side. “I’m looking for Annette Banks? She works here, right?”

“I am her,” I said with curiosity, bewildered as to why someone like her was trying to find me, a sixty-­three­-year-­old woman working in a yarn store. I didn’t exactly have frequent wild visitors at the Fiber Loft.

“You, Annette Banks,” she said, wagging a finger at me in false chastisement after studying me for a moment, “Are one very difficult woman to find.” She fumbled with the crushed cigarette for a few moments and resolved to stuff it in her coat pocket. “No social media? No website? And I can’t very well look you up in the phonebook. I don’t even know if they still make those old things anymore. Totally off­the ­grid, Annette.”

In retrospect, there was something rather endearing about the woman’s strange brand of frivolity, though I was rather taken aback by her sarcastic behavior at the time and would probably continue to experience difficulty in determining whether or not she was ever joking.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “What was it you needed me for?”

“My probation officer gave me your name and suggested I go to you for some community service? You do gardening with the town or something?” Her words were breezy and nonchalant. “I need 60 hours.”

It was true. I had been the secretary of the Swanden Community Garden Board ever since it was created in 1995. As far as community gardens go, ours was an impressive one, and I wasn’t surprised that the woman had been sent here for community service. I sized her up again.

64

themarblecollection.org

F I C T I O N “It’s still early spring, so we won’t be planting anything until the temperature breaks. But we have quite a few seeds that could use some labeling,” I mused. “I’ll have to see your community service paperwork first, Miss...?”

“I’m Frédérique Irvine,” she said, sticking out a hand to loosely shake mine.

“Before you ask, it’s Canadian,” she added as she dug out some community service forms to show me. “Born in Québec, and God knows how I ended up here.”

As I was checking over her paperwork, Frédérique surveyed the store with interest. “You sell art materials here?” she asked, eyeing a shelf of sketchbooks and graphite pencils. “I thought the Fiber Loft only sold knitting supplies and fabrics.”

“It used to be just yarn and fabric, but Swanden gets a lot of artists because it’s so close to the Cape,” I explained as I looked through her papers. “Lighthouses and beachscapes are very popular so now we sell just about everything from acrylics to kneadable erasers. We even started holding free art classes for the community about three years ago.” I thumbed through the last of the pages. “Are you interested in art yourself?”

“I used to take a lot of art classes in high school, but it’s an abandoned pursuit,” said Frédérique as she leaned her elbows on the counter and rested with her back against it.

“That’s life,” I replied. “Frédérique, if you’re all set to start today, my shift ends in a half hour. I’d be happy to take you to the garden shed and set you up with all the seeds.”

“Please, call me Fred. All my friends do,” said Frédérique distractedly. She was already drifting towards the art supplies section.

We took Frédérique’s white Pontiac Grand Am to the garden shed because I had walked to work that morning. Her car was very much what one should expect it to be: filthy on the outside and rather messy within with scattered pieces of trash on the floor and backseat, and the stale stench of cigarettes in the air. A Canadian flag air freshener hung from her rear view mirror, though I suspected it had long expired and was now more for show than for practical use.

The community garden was located at the far end of the town park. It stretched about fifty meters adjacent to the forest, and was lined with aisles of plywood garden beds for the plants. In the spring and summer, the garden was a lovely sight, but now it had adopted the dreary, dormant look of a resort shut down for the season.

The garden shed, albeit sturdily built, was clearly aged and its white paint was riddled with chips and scrapes. Unlocking it and digging out a bin full of seed packets was quick business, and soon we were on our way back to the car, with Frédérique making idle conversation as she carried the bin.

“So,” said Frédérique cheerily, “Are you married, Mrs. Banks?”

“Divorced,” I said simply.

“Any children?”

“One. But we’re not in touch.”

TMC Winter 2017

65

F I C T I O N “That’s really too bad, Mrs. Banks. I’m sorry to hear that.” Frédérique’s reply was genuine. The rest of the way back to the car was silent, and Frédérique dropped the bin in the backseat over a discordant stack of magazines.

Frédérique lived fairly close to me­­only a couple of streets away. Her apartment building was made of faded brick. Apart from its musty windows, which couldn’t be helped because of its age, the apartment wasn’t half bad, although the elevator turned out to be broken (“I had no idea,” said Frédérique as she lit a cigarette, “I’m a big cardio junkie, as you may have deduced”) and we took four flights of stairs.

“I’ve got a roommate,” Frédérique said as we arrived, breathless, at her door.

“He’s new in town. Usually out in the daytime, though. Don’t know what he gets up to. Don’t know much about him, actually, but trust me­­...” Here she made a vulgar gesture that I have no desire to convey.

Her apartment was messy in the most fascinating sense of the word, with small nests of clutter spread across the main expanse. I quickly explained to her the labeling process for the seed packets, which, in all honesty, was incredibly simple: she would only have to place a new label over the packet, describing what kind of seeds it contained, and then apply a color­coded sticker, depending on whether it was a bulb, legume, root, or leaf­-based vegetable.

“And how long should this take me?” asked Frédérique.

“Certainly not 60 hours, but it’ll get you started,” I replied. “Would you give me a ride back to the Fiber Loft? I have to show a new worker how to close the shop.”

Frédérique and I parted ways that evening with plans for me to check in on her in a few days. She struck me as deceptively intelligent and capable, despite her immature streaks and apparent lack of motivation, and I found myself wondering in the back of my mind what she had done to get on probation.

Unsurprisingly, Frédérique was clearly rationing her time with the seeds when I visited her next. She was able to afford this luxury, however, since there were still many weeks left before the townsfolk would even be able to plant them. It took a short amount of time to make sure that Frédérique was doing everything properly before we remarked it was close to dinnertime. To my surprise, Frédérique, in her nonchalant and half­joking manner, invited me to dinner. I was dubious, but not opposed enough to decline.

Frédérique offered a sheepish grin when we found only frozen pizza in her freezer and we ended up having to go grocery shopping in order to make dinner. She provided small stories about her life for casual conversation at the store, acting as though taking her elderly community service provider out shopping for dinner was something she did everyday. I imagine that we looked like a grandmother and granddaughter out on a grocery trip.

66

themarblecollection.org

F I C T I O N Frédérique was easy to warm up to, and under my instructions, we ended up cooking a grander meal than I’d made in a few years: a roast chicken, asparagus, fresh bread, and sweet potatoes. All of which were supplemented with a steady amount of wine - at least on Frédérique’s part. It was strange and jolting for me to spend so much time with a person like Frédérique, who spoke to me not as her elder in the slightest, but as a peer. She was quite candid about her past deeds and had a philosophy of telling a story for its honest and sensational appeal, no matter how unflattering to her it was. However, the majority of her crude rants are best left unrepeated.

Around 8:00 that night, when Frédérique and I were still swapping stories at the table, her laughter booming and mine somewhat surprised to be in existence, the door to the apartment opened and her roommate slipped in. He was a young man of average height, and likely around Frédérique’s age­­early 20’s­­if not younger.

“David,” called out Frédérique, waving over the roommate. “This is Annette Banks. She’s in charge of that garden stuff I gotta do.” David gave a polite smile and approached the table as he took off his rain­-soaked jacket.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m David.” His narrow, charcoal eyes had dark circles beneath them, but crinkled in a warm manner with his smile. “There’s a lot of fog outside tonight.” David spoke in such a calm and precise manner that, after having spent hours with the uncensored and brash Frédérique, I felt like someone had splashed cool water on my face in the middle of a crowded party. It was difficult to believe these two were roommates.

“Well, we gotta be careful driving you home, then, Annette,” Frédérique resolved. “David, why don’t you take a seat? There’s dinner on the stove. Probably still warm.” David gave another polite smile, though this one was obviously forced.

“I would love to, but I already ate. I had a late night last night, so if it’s okay, I’m going to go get some sleep.” He turned to me again. “It was nice to meet you.” I returned the gesture and with that, David made off to his bedroom and quietly closed the door.

“He’s strange, alright,” said Frédérique in a low voice. “Minds his own business and all. Think he’s just shy. But to be honest with you, I’d take an axe murderer for a roommate, if it meant getting my landlord off my back about rent payments. The guy’s a real bastard, Annette.”

“Does David work?” I smiled and Frédérique shrugged in response.

“I think he’s in college. Dunno what for. I suppose I should probably ask him.”

“It’s an easy way to get a shy person to open up,” I said. “Did you yourself ever go to college?”

“Yeah. For two years,” Frédérique said bitterly. “I majored in biology. It really wasn’t my thing, as I’m sure you can tell. But, you know­­my dad insisted that I choose a more viable major, and art doesn’t exactly cut it.” She let a pause settle in the air.

“Parents have some trouble distinguishing a trophy from a human being.”

TMC Winter 2017

67

F I C T I O N In retrospect, I would have been happy to major in just about anything, since my family had always been too poor to send me to college, but I assumed that now was not the best time to contradict Frédérique. Frédérique was the one to break the silence again.

“Annette, tell me more about your daughter. Why aren’t you two close anymore?” I averted my eyes from Frédérique with discomfort. I was less than a fan of this apparent sharing session.

“My daughter ran away from home when she was eighteen.” Frédérique’s eyes widened in shock.

“Ran away? Why?” She took a sip of her wine. “I can’t imagine you were a bad mother.” I struggled to put my words together. I hoped Frédérique didn’t see the gaps in my narrative.

“Maybe the household was bad for her. I think it was my husband. He always had something negative to say about her...” I trailed off. “Anyways, I haven’t heard anything from her since. I know that she was alright at least five months after she left, since she resolved her missing person report, but I have no idea from there.” Frédérique was stunned.

“What was she like?” I hated this part. Talking about it. Thinking about it. It was something that I had avoided for over twenty­five years.

“Addie­­- that was her name­­. Addie was intelligent. Both street smart and book smart. She was stubborn, too. I just... never expected her to do something so extreme.

She could be anywhere. And no one looking after her for God knows how long...” I took a nervous sip of my wine. Frédérique downed her own glass.

“That’s heavy, Annette. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” I said.

We left it at that.

I was beginning to get the impression that Frédérique had a bit of a lack of friends, or maybe I reminded her of a maternal figure, because she invited me to dinner again the following Monday. Truthfully, the garden seeds should have only taken a few days of work at the very most to label, but Frédérique had made insignificant progress since the last time I visited, and had instead taken to sketching small pictures of plants on the labels. The major change that I noticed when I arrived was that David was out of his room and helping Frédérique make a chicken stir fry in the kitchen; perhaps she took my advice in speaking to him more personally.

At dinner, Frédérique and I assaulted David with questions. He was a psychology major, as it turned out, and had transferred to a college in the area recently.

His parents, he said, lived in Vermont. I noticed that David’s descriptions of things were crisp and clear­cut, as opposed to Frédérique’s jaunty, wild tales.

After the dishes were done, the three of us settled in the living room, where it appeared that the bin of seeds had become a permanent fixture.

68

themarblecollection.org

F I C T I O N “Fred, I’ve been meaning to ask,” I began as we sunk down on the sagging couch. I nodded towards a few seed packets on the coffee table, where Frédérique had sketched plants over the labels. “What kind of art did you used to do in high school?”

Frédérique looked slightly flustered, while David took on an expression of interest.

“Oh, you know. All the usual. Painting, drawing, ceramics.” She paused.

“Have you done figure drawing before?” I quizzed. Frédérique’s face lit up.

“That was one of my favorites, actually.”

“The Loft holds monthly life drawing classes, if you’re interested. The next one is on Wednesday. And David, you can certainly come as well,” I said. Frédérique mulled it over bashfully.

“That would be nice. But believe me, I’ll be rusty.”

Rusty was the last word I’d use to describe Frédérique’s renderings on Wednesday night. In a few swift strokes of graphite, she could perfectly capture the broad essence of the model before her and then flawlessly add increasingly intricate details.

A new light was brought into her eyes by this and her usual roaring laugh became something close to a tense giggle of excitement that night.

We ended up being the last ones in the Loft, since I was the worker supervising the event and Frédérique wanted to stay even later to continue making art. She and David purchased some acrylic paint and brushes from the store, a while after the model and the other artists left, and had started on their own pieces of art with it.

Frédérique began to paint a woman’s smiling face while David watched silently, his canvas only holding a few incomplete, forgotten goldfish.

At some point in time, I became aware that the two were speaking in low voices, but resolved not to intrude.

Frédérique drove me home about an hour later. She had dropped off David first because she wanted to stay with me for a while, but David was too tired to stay up. Now I imagine that Frédérique planned it that way. Frédérique was uncharacteristically quiet the entire ride, and would only offer curt responses to any attempts I made at conversation. A certain tension had settled in the air that made me anxious.

“Frédérique, is something wrong?” I asked nervously.

“Nothing,” she said a little too quickly. But after a few moments, she started again. “You know what I hate? People who shove the blame on anyone but themselves.” I sat silently, but Frédérique needed no input to continue. “It’s the most selfish, cowardly thing that a person can do, you know that?

“What’s bothering you, Frédérique?” I interrupted in bewilderment. Frédérique’s expression grew irritated.

“It’s really not my place to judge you, okay? You’re old, Annette.” My heart skipped a beat.

TMC Winter 2017

69

F I C T I O N “What?” Frédérique looked like she regretted saying anything. “Look... David was telling me about his mother, okay? She grew up here and ran away at eighteen because her dad treated her like shit­­. He hit her sometimes, Annette,­­and her mother pretended that they were the Brady Bunch and defended him.” My mouth was dry.

“When did she run away?”

“About twenty­five years ago.” I didn’t say anything, and Frédérique spoke bitterly.

“I doubt I have to tell you her name.” I started to speak again, but Frédérique cut me off. “Listen. Annette. I’m a sinner just as much as everyone else, but I know it and I own up to it. The way David described his mom’s parents­­it was horrible, Annette. How could you let your husband treat her like that? And just not do anything?

That’s the problem with you baby boomers­­. You don’t know how to accept yourself as a flawed being, because you somehow convince yourself that if you make mistakes, you’re the lowest scum of the earth, and that you have to be some sanctimonious, perfect asshole in order to be a passable human being. And then at that point, by some kind of ungodly logic, you figure that the best way to handle mistakes is to pretend they never happened, yeah?”

“David... Is...?” I could hardly organize my thoughts. I needed an aspirin.

“Yeah, David’s your grandson, Annette.” She paused and licked her lips, growing uncomfortable again after her rant. “He’s not here because he transferred schools. He’s here because his mother just died of a heart attack. His college gave him the rest of this semester off.”

Even if I could think of something to say, I wouldn’t have been able to say it.

My daughter was dead and I had outlived her by 20 years.

“I’m sorry, Annette, I really am. But the way David tells it, you couldn’t even bother to try and find her all this time. It was like you didn’t want to.” She scowled.

“I don’t mean to leave you feeling badly, but if you go spewing your excuses around David... That’s not right. And he’s not here just to sightsee. He’s trying to find some sort of capsule that his mom buried when she was little here. She mentioned it to him years ago. So this is really important to him.”

The rest of the ride was silent until we arrived at my house and Frédérique, perhaps feeling a bit badly, wished me goodnight.

The next day, I called out of work to stay home and watched the sky change throughout the day. All I daydreamed about was a little girl who spent her entire Sunday filling a metal Star Wars lunchbox with her favorite things, to then bury it in the ground and dig it up in the otherworldly, distant future. A time capsule... I remember Addie making one, but I couldn’t recall where she had buried it. I didn’t accompany her on her trip - likely because I thought I had better things to do.

Where was that time capsule? I felt like I was trying to catch a leaf in the gusty spring wind, but was never quite close enough to snatch it.

70

themarblecollection.org

F I C T I O N That evening, I walked to the community garden shed with a trowel on a hunch. Addie had always loved playing back here while I worked with other adults in the garden, caring more for plants than for my own daughter. If I wasn’t mistaken, this would be the perfect place for her to bury a time capsule.

I had just struck my trowel in the dirt when I saw someone approaching me through the evening fog, a shovel clutched in his hands. David. It only took one look to know that Frédérique had told him everything. The way he regarded me was hesitant and shy, like he didn’t quite know what to make of me. I never hoped so dearly in my life to be forgiven­­I felt dirty and cruel, like Judas on his knees before Christ.

David approached me without a word and simply began digging beside me.

We went on like this for half an hour behind the shed, stopping our holes and moving on when they were two feet deep, under an unspoken assumption that an eight­-year-­ old would not have gone deeper. Finally, David was digging beside a sizable rock a few feet away from the shed, and his shovel struck something metallic and hollowed. He offered me a smile.

That spring, the community garden bloomed more beautifully than ever.

TMC Winter 2017

71

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

A l e x a n d r a

P a u l

The Day My Sister Left for Pride She dyes her hair first. Ink spills down blonde curls, hesitating at the tips. I watch her in the mirror from the bathroom floor. She softly sings along to the radio, “Try another city, baby, another town.� Her bag is slumped beside me with the zipper jammed halfway, all I see is two pens, one silver cross on a broken chain, a black book, a wad of cash, and a photograph of a girl in a white dress. She finishes wringing her hair and washes her hands, the short straight scar across her palm stained steel blue. I watch the drops of water swell as they drink from the mouth of the faucet. When they cannot hold their weight, they fall. I listen to the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut, leaking faucet, and static: Maybe tomorrow, honey, someplace down the line.

72

themarblecollection.org

A R T Amherst Regional High School / Class of 2019

M e n g y a o

( C a t a l i n a )

Y a n g

Four Heroines in Beijing Opera

d r a w i n g

TMC Winter 2017

73

A R T Brimmer and May School

/ Class of 2017

Sacrilegious

A u s t i n

C a m i e l

p h o t o g r a p h y

Fourth of July Marshall Simonds Middle School / Class of 2018

74

themarblecollection.org

N e i l

P a n d i t

A R T Revere High School / Class of 2017

City Boy

V i v i a n

V o

p h o t o g r a p h y

Chalkboard

A a r o n

R i p p i n

Marshall Simonds Middle School / Class of 2020

TMC Winter 2017

75

P O E T R Y Abington High School / Class of 2019

Nick Pinto

As The Dead Feelings Fall my mind a labyrinth like forest that reeks of existential crisis with a faint hint of self-doubt.

My body tends to shake from the bitter cold of loneliness.

Joy starts to rise within me when thoughts of my love sneak their way into my head, but that blissful feeling fades almost instantly, like a child’s smile when they pass through their own ignorance and suddenly realize that the world they live in is not a fair place, remembrance that they don’t, and never will care linger inside me.

My once bright cheerful eyes now lie empty and dull. occasionally releasing water falls when my emotions become too much to contain.

A shattered shell of my former self, nothing but a discarded mess on the floor.

And I have full confidence that no one will ever feel the desire to clean up this mess.

76

themarblecollection.org

A R T Lowell High School / Class of 2017

C a m

C o t e

Cotton Candy

d i g i t a l

p a i n t i n g

TMC Winter 2017

77

A R T Marshall Simonds Middle School / Class of 2020

H a i l e y

W o o d

Fr o m T h e R o o t s

p h o t o g r a p h y

78

themarblecollection.org

A R T Burlington High School

S o p h i a

/ Class of 2020

L u p o

Of fice Reflection

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Winter 2017

79

had an amazing year...

We debuted our Pop-Up Gallery program, instituting temporary teen art exhibitions at the Massachusetts State House, the Landmark Center, and Boston City Hall, reaching nearly 12,500 community members.

We distributed a complimentary one-year magazine subscription to every town and high school library in the state, reaching nearly 35,000 teens, educators and community members.

We brought our free, classroom Teen Publication Workshop to under resourced Massachusetts’ communities, providing urban youth with the tools to share their voices in our award-winning publication.

We engaged 22 college students as interns and mentors, who guided our teen writers and artists through the publication process in our 6-week Mentoring for Publication Workshop.

Now, we need your help...

To raise $10,000 in 2017 to ensure that we can publish and mentor 100 Massachusetts teen writers and artists this academic year at no cost to them.

Make a gift today to inspire teens across Massachusetts to share their creative voices and visions.

DONATE ONLINE:

themarblecollection.org/donate

No. 16

Phantasma Fawn drawing

Madison Simon

Oakmont Regional High School / Class of 2017

81

www.themarblecollection.org

themarblecollection.org

ISSN 2156-7298