SPRING 2015
THE
MARBLE COLLECTION Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts
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Challenge Your Thinking
J. Keith Motley, PhD CHANCELLOR
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The Marble Collection
Spring 2015
Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts inspiration • creativity • community
TMC: ABOUT US W H AT I S T H E M A R B L E C O L L E C T I O N ? The Marble Collection, Inc. [TMC], a 501 (C)(3) nonprofit organization, publishes The Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts—the only statewide print and online magazine of the arts featuring jury-selected art, writing and spoken word poetry & storytelling videos by Massachusetts students in grades 8 to 12. TMC also offers Student Mentoring Workshops in which teen writers and artists are partnered with college student mentors who help them refine their voices and guide their work to publication. 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. TMC partners with 8 Massachusetts nonprofits—ArtWorks, Big Brothers Big Sisters of Massachusetts Bay, Books of Hope, Boston Children’s Theatre, Grub Street, Inc., Press Pass TV, RAW Art Works, and Sociedad Latina—that share its commitment to expand arts access to underserved teens. In 2013, TMC was awarded the prestigious Arts|Learning “Distinguished Community Arts Collaborative - Multi-Disciplinary Award” for developing a model arts education collaborative between school and community cultural resources. To become a partner, at no cost, please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/participate
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(25 copies per edition)
ONE-YEAR SINGLE COPY
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TMC: STAFF EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR INTERNSHIP MANAGER LITERATURE EDITOR
ART JUROR GRANT WRITER COMMUNITY RELATIONS MANAGER ACCOUNTING MANAGER STUDENT ADVISORY BOARD CHAIR EVENT PLANNER COMMUNICATIONS EXECUTIVE WEBMASTER
Deanna Elliot Melanie McCarthy Luis Alvarado Bridget Gilleran Brooke Theodore Anna Xie Elton Kane Melanie McCarthy Kat McDonald Bridget Gilleran Ya s m i n B a i l e y Lindsey Greene Anwar Shah D m i t r i y To k a r e v Agostinha Depina Frozan Azeemi Te o r i S h a w B i n g q i n g Yu Jacob Aguiar Andrew Rakauskas
TMC: LEADERSHIP BOARD OF DIRECTORS
ADVISORY COMMITTEE
STUDENT ADVISORY BOARD
Deanna Elliot Susan Hammond Annie Kee Kathryn Lee Meryl Loonin Donna Neal Chelsea Revelle Thomas Bentley Susan Denison Melanie McCarthy Nakia Navarro Allan Reeder Jack Curtis Jamie Ross Jazna Stannard Rachael Allen Elizabeth Case Emily Cox Jazmin Lantigua J a y n e Vo g e l z a n g E t h a n Wo o Mitchell Zhang
TMC Spring 2015
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TMC: ADVERTISE Boasting a diverse print and digital circulation, TMC is a one-of-a-kind recruitment tool with a distinct presence inside and outside the classroom. Reach your target audience and showcase the unique programs your educational institution has to offer with TMC! NEXT EDITION / WINTER 2016 Closing Date for Reservations: Copy Date: Pu b l i c a t i o n D a t e :
No v e m b e r 1 9 , 2 0 1 5 No v e m b e r 2 4 , 2 0 1 5 December 15, 2015 (approximate)
To learn more please review TMC Media Kit at: www.themarblecollection.org/advertise
TMC: DONATE TMC needs your support to offer our quality programs free of charge. Your donations ensure we can publish and mentor 100 teen artists and writers each school year. With a gift of $275 or more, we’ll list your name on the Patrons page of the magazine. All donations are 100% tax-deductible and include a complimentary subscription to the Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts. GIVING LEVELS • $1,000: Supports 10 teen artists in TMC’s e-Gallery, an online exhibit to showcase and sell teen artwork. • $500: Supports TMC’s annual teen art exhibition and magazine release gala, Spring into Art. • $275: Supplies an under-resourced school with a Classroom Bundle Subscription (25 copies) to the semiannual Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts. • $100: Supports the development of the online, semiannual Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts. • $50: Supplies 2 under-resourced schools with a TMC Starter Kit, equipped with a tutorial slideshow and educational materials. To donate online please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/donate Please make checks payable to: The Marble Collection, Inc. University of Massachusetts, Boston Campus Center, Office 3410 100 Morrissey Boulevard Boston, MA 02125
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TMC: SPONSOR TMC’s programs and events provide businesses and individuals with standard or customized sponsorship opportunities that boast significant marketing benefits. All sponsorships are 100% tax-deductible and ensure that TMC can continue to offer its publishing and mentoring programs at no cost to more underserved teens across the state. SPONSORSHIP LEVELS • $25,000: Underwrites TMC’s semiannual Student Mentoring 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 that educate teens on the professional 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 and distribution of the semiannual Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts to 100 under-resourced school libraries. To become a sponsor please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/sponsor
TMC: SUPPORTERS University of Massachusetts
GDT Northeast
Fisher Family Fund
Brimmer and May School
Walnut Hill School for the Arts
Boston, MA
Waltham, MA
Boston, MA
Chestnut Hill, MA
Natick, MA
umb.edu
gdt.com
tdf.com
brimmerandmay.org
walnuthill.org
TMC is also supported in part by grants from the below local cultural councils, local agencies which are supported by the Massachusetts Cultural Council, a state agency. Abington, Amherst, Arlington, Attleboro, Auburn, Ayer, Brookline, Burlington, Dennis, Easton, Fall River, Granby, Harwich, Hopkinton, Ipswich, Lawrence, Leicester, Malden, Needham, North Attleboro, Northern Berkshire, Peabody, Pittsfield, Plymouth, Quincy, Reading, Somerset, Sturbridge, Sudbury, Sutton, Taunton, Tewksbury, Wayland, Webster, Westfield *** T M C PAT R O N S Richard & Liz Allen, Priscilla & Ramon Chura, Michael Conkey, Patrick Dillon, Chris D’Errico, Kevin Fachetti, Susan Hammond, Mathew & Barbara Loonin, Neil Fisher & Meryl Loonin, Scott Lombard, Maria Manrique, Chelsea Revelle, Jen & Mike Vogelzang THANK YOU. TMC Spring 2015
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TMC: CONTENTS 8
Rosie 2.0 (Art)
31 Smoke (Art)
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Extension (Art)
32 First there was an Ocean (Poetry)
Emily Joyce / Hopkinton High School Graziella Pilkington / Brimmer and May School
10 A Brief History (Fiction)
Katrina Lee / Commonwealth School
13 Self Portrait (Art)
Lily Crandall-Oral / Lexington High School
14 Dear Shame (Poetry)
Paola Mendez / Greater Boston Academy RAW Artworks
16 Spook (Art)
Graziella Pilkington / Brimmer and May School
17 Americana (Art)
Hannah Cai / Newton South High School
18 Deserted in Thoughts (Fiction)
Sophie Gendreau / Abington High School
20 Lion (Art)
Emily Buchanan / Oakmont Regional High School
21 Confrontation (Art)
Maxwell Charteris / Hopkinton High School
Ben Birnbach / Marblehead High School
34 Rain among the stones. (Art) Joel Hagan / Burlington High School
35 Wonderland (Art)
Madison Hoyt / Burlington High School
36 Knowing Ali (Nonfiction)
Emmarose Safran / Sharon High School
40 This is how human beings can change: (Poetry) Daniel Peters / Pingree School 41 Flowers by the River (Art) David Kotler / Maimonides School
42 Autumn Bicycle (Art)
Grace Colbert / Lynnfield High School
43 Wolf (Art)
Shailyn Farmer / Chelmsford High School
44 I Asked (Poetry)
Melissa Gamez / Ayer-Shirley Regional High School
22 First Lesson (Poetry)
45 A Curious Serenity (Art)
24 Divorce (Poetry)
46 New Pen (Poetry)
25 A Wren Amidst Ravens (Art)
48 Freckles (Art)
26 Something Real (Poetry)
48 Tradition (Art)
27 Greece Sunset (Art)
49 The Bike (Art)
28 ZiZi (Art)
49 Winter Wonderland (Art)
29 Rose (Art)
50 Note to Seventh-Grade Self (Fiction)
30 Dreamscape (Poetry)
55 How to Ride a Bike (Art)
Chloe Kim / Milton Academy Ryan Crooks / Sharon High School Adam Baker / Newton South High School Prashasti Upadhyay / Pingree School Kosta Stamides / Burlington High School Leah Haskell / Lenox High School Leah Haskell / Lenox High School Aran Szostack / Boston University Academy
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Anisa Sherzai / Auburn High School
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Megan Johnson / Auburn High School
Ella Capen / Groton School
Renee DelNegro / Lynnfield High School
Sarah Owens / Marshall Simonds Middle School
Ryan Frasier / Lynnfield High School
Marissa Walker / Burlington High School
Kayara Hardnett-Barnes / Amherst Regional High School
Yang Hyun Cho / Groton School
TMC: SPRING 2015 56 Stark Beauty (Art)
76 The End of August (Poetry)
56 Chasing Cars (Art)
78 Afraid of Clowns? (Art)
57 The Curious Kitty (Art)
78 Behind the Scenes (Art)
Alexandra Ross / Lynnfield High School Melanie Fulcher / Burlington High School Briana Lo Russo / Burlington High School
57 Reflection of Life (Art)
Marc Budd / Lynnfield High School
58 She. (Poetry)
Effi Holston / Newton South High School
59 Peeking Out (Art)
Annalisa Flynn / Newton South High School
60 Over the Years (Poetry)
Caitlin Murphy / Abington High School
62 Utopia (Art)
Annika Han / Lynnfield High School
63 Self Portrait (Art)
Maxwell Charteris / Hopkinton High School
64 Struck by Grief (Poetry)
Dunia Dunner / North Quincy High School
66 Engraved (Poetry)
Daniel Peters / Pingree School
67 Morning Stroll (Art)
Alison Hefler / Burlington High School
68 Lion (Art)
Lindsey Sutela / Oakmont Regional High School
69 Futuristic City (Art)
Michelle Li / Brimmer and May School
70 That’s So (Poetry)
Emma Conway / Natick High School
72 Luffas Gone Wild (Art)
Melanie Sunnerberg / Burlington High School
74 Void of Brightness (Poetry)
Quanye Hoskins / TechBoston Academy UMass Boston Urban Scholars Program
75 Shadows on the Wall (Art)
Michael Garb / Newton South High School
Rebecca Tham / North Quincy High School
Michael Garb / Newton South High School
Sarah Owens / Marshall Simonds Middle School
79 Afternoon in Lowell (Art)
Neil Pandit / Marshall Simonds Middle School
79 Trapped By Tradition (Art) Sophie Baker / Groton School
80 The Last Light (Poetry) Sophie Baker / Groton School
82 Zucchini (Fiction)
Hadley Callaway / Groton School
84 The Reflection (Art)
Erin Kerr / Marshall Simonds Middle School
84 Landscaping (Art)
Ginger Boodakian / Burlington High School
85 Hidden in the Trees (Art)
Michael Garb / Newton South High School
85 Peel and Slice (Art)
Erin Kerr / Marshall Simonds Middle School
86 Light is Darkness (Poetry) Sophie Baker / Groton School
88 The Yes, The No, and The Okay Sign (Fiction) Candilla Park / Groton School 91 Under The Sea (Art)
Kaylin Ciesluk / Oakmont Regional High School
91 Dream Still-life (Art)
Ellen Blazer / Brimmer and May School
92 Rose (Art)
Leah Haskell / Lenox High School
93 Rose Dew Drop (Art)
Leah Haskell / Lenox High School
94 Not a Crush (Fiction)
Alycia Nichols / North Attleboro High School
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A R T Hopkinton High School / Class of 2015
E m i l y
J o y c e
Rosie 2.0
w a t e r c o l o r
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A R T Brimmer and May School
G r a z i e l l a
/ Class of 2015
P i l k i n g t o n
Extension
d r a w i n g
TMC Spring 2015
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F I C T I O N Commonwealth School / Class of 2015
K a t r i n a
L e e
A Brief Histor y If we had stayed in Bangladesh my husband would never have bought you, with your lace, your cheetah spots, and your cheap Chinese silk. In Bangladesh, underwear isn’t meant to seduce. My husband would not have made it out of the store without whispers; and the news that Avi Majumdar bought hooker underwear would leap from house to house until it reached the mosque. And then, during Friday prayers, the imam would have prepared the creation story for his sermon. He would have explained how God shaped man, then woman, then apple. How woman brought shame into this world when she let apple’s seed slide into her belly. How our ancestors wore clothing sewn from fig leaves—God’s gift to save us from shame, not bring it upon the family. And with that, the whole community would have known about the underwear scandal, and my husband would not have been invited to tea anymore. But we are not in Bangladesh. We are here, seas away from home, because my husband told me that the money was in America, though everyone here tells us the money is back home. You too were a foreigner: made in China but destined for America long before you were spun from silkworm mothers. You were cut from cheetah print, branded with lace by hands that hurried you along. To them you were only a two percent commission. Primped like a harlot, you found your way into the hands of a child, who knew you were sexy but did not know what sexy meant. She did not look at you when she folded you into a box labeled for America. They sent you on a truck, a plane, another truck. Your box opened and you were in America. This was the dream, so you breathed in the shiny sidewalks, shiny windows, shiny people. You were put on a mannequin in the window display and you did not know why you turned heads. You did not know why the swarms of preteen boys would always giggle and point. They were the ones with bleached hair. You forgave them because their mothers never taught them better. A month later and you were in the bottom of a box on the clearance shelf. You were forgotten. You existed quietly and learned the warmth of cotton, the gloss of satin. You must have heard horror stories of the washing machine, a torture device to break clothes in like horses. I hope you knew they were just stories, that none of those clothes had ever seen a washing machine. The return policy in American stores is very strict. They never take back washed clothes, and they call you a cheater if you try. You felt the warm dry fingers of my husband fish you from the box. The cheapskate probably spent an hour comparing prices before buying you. He typed notes into the new smartphone I had finally let him have, even though I knew it would ruin his eyes and thumbs. 10
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F I C T I O N That crazy goat would never learn. “No, Priya, the paint looks fine as it is.” “No, Priya, all the modern woman wear them.” “No, Priya, it will help me multitask and make money to take care of you.” He probably paid for you in cash. He probably handed crisp bills to one of those smiling girls who never look into your eyes or ask about your family. She wrapped you in paper that crinkled, and her own nose crinkled as she sniffed the spices on my husband’s clothes. She could not appreciate the smell of my cooking, though my recipes are older than her house. My husband carried you away, and no one cared about the bright pink shopping bag he held in his hand. You bounced in the passenger seat of the silver Volvo and felt the breeze from the open windows. You wondered whether you were headed straight for the washing machine, whether your first destination would be your last. You were surprised when the skinny fingers of a secretary, or an undersecretary, or maybe a waitress, undid your wrappings. She probably ripped the paper in her hurry, not pulling off the cellophane tape or carefully folding the tissue paper to save for another day. You glided up her skinny legs… then down again. My husband stuffed you in his trouser pocket because he was in a rush; or he wanted a token to keep; or he wanted to keep her smell close; or maybe he did not care enough to be careful. Either way, you ended up in his pocket, keeping his wedding ring company. My husband had insisted on that ring, though it had caused many whispers among both our families. “So Western,” they had said, as I slid the ring on his finger. “Does he think he is a Christian?” Now that ring was in his pocket. You felt its cold metal flush against you. You waited. The ring was remembered and restored to position. You were forgotten. When my husband tossed the trousers into the hamper, you went along with them. There you waited in the gentle stench of sweat. You floated on the sea of shirts and sharees, buoyed by the trouser pocket who taught you how to hold your breath. My husband’s cotton oxfords warned you of starch, the dryer, the iron. My silks thought you were one of them and told you about the delicate cycle. They did not know that I was only careful with good silk. You had nightmares about soap. Your world shook as I carried the hamper downstairs to the basement. You may have smelled the mold that I have been meaning to call someone about, but in Bangladesh there is always mold because there are always floods. You heard the creak of metal; the crash of water as I turned the machine on; the muffled shake of detergent powder; the soft pop of bubbles bursting and growing and bursting again; the rustle of cotton and polyester, and the splashes that followed. You felt my fingers find you in the trouser pocket. You felt me tremble. I had trembled when my abbu shook hands with a strange spectacled man in our drawing room and when I married that stranger two weeks later. I had trembled when the plane shuddered into the sky, and my home and family fell behind. I had trembled in the spice aisle of the supermarket, which had no methi pata or panch phoron, when I realized I no longer knew how to cook, not with these spices. I trembled now, but only for a moment. TMC Spring 2015
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F I C T I O N And here you are in my hand like the rag doll I had when I was a little girl, though I will not forget you in the mud. I cannot show you to my husband, for his forehead would crinkle and his moustache would tremble, and he’d take off his spectacles and rub them with a microfiber cloth. And my parents would hear and the imam would hear, and no one would visit my family for tea. So I cannot rip open your seams and unravel your threads. I cannot leave you to rot with the banana peels in the trash can. I will stuff you back in the trouser pocket, and then into the washing machine. You will be dried with his trousers. My husband will find you and not know I saw you, and I will bear him no shame. Yes, you must face the washing machine and learn to swim.
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A R T Lexington High School
L i l y
/ Class of 2018
C r a n d a l l - O r a l
Self Portrait
p a i n t i n g
TMC Spring 2015
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P O E T R Y RAW Artworks / Greater Boston Academy / Class of 2015
P a o l a
M e n d e z
Dear Shame dear Shame, you were the monster that my mother carried on her back the first day that she stepped foot onto genocidal soil; the looming demon that split high school crowds like the red sea whenever she rolled her r’s, tongue weighed down by the anchor of her pronunciation. you were the white paint that washed itself over her tanned skin. she wore the insecurity of her accent as tight as her winter jacket. she still tells me she never learned how to correctly pronounce words with i’s in them but maybe she was too busy memorizing words like assimilation, colonization, cultural deterioration, learning that the melting pot she was living in had spoonfuls of oppression and silence mixed in, and had trouble making itself “feel comfortable” with new ingredients. dear Shame, you were there the day that my mother sat me down and told me that when people ask where i’m from, they don’t want to know about my beautiful island sprinkled with palm trees, pulsing with the rhythm of jibaro bomba y plena. they don’t want to know that my heart echoes the politics and poetry of pablo neruda and that parts of myself still whistle through the andes mountains. no, i should just smile with stars and stripes bleeding from my eyes and say that i am nothing but american. Shame, you were the pride i once felt for my pale skin, a perfect disguise lacking melanin to keep my heritage hidden. you were the upside down smiles my father was slapped in the face with 14
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P O E T R Y when he said his name was pedro, the voices from my teachers telling me I wasn’t allowed to speak spanish in class. they will pound erasure into your chest until you forget the accent over the e in your last name they will call your sisters, brothers, and cousins “ghetto” until it becomes the next fashion statement. Shame, you stuck me in a limbo of identity because I didn’t wanna get looked at wrong, but there aren’t scissors strong enough to sever heritage or stones hard enough to beat down my ethnicity. the weight of a man who only fears not being able to understand will try to keep you quiet. he’s alienated you for years but pretends that you speaking your own language is the greatest american injustice. rather, let the r’s roll off your tongue like waterfalls. deja que tu voz le de susto, dile a el que no te controla que tu sangre es mas poderoso que todo, dile que los genes de tu cuerpo susurren solo maravillas. do not let yourself be silenced.
TMC Spring 2015
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A R T Brimmer and May School
/ Class of 2015
G r a z i e l l a
P i l k i n g t o n
Spook
d r a w i n g
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A R T Newton South High School / Class of 2016
H a n n a h
C a i
Americana
d r a w i n g
TMC Spring 2015
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F I C T I O N Abington High School / Class of 2018
S o p h i e
G e n d r e a u
Deserted in Thoughts Step by step, nothing but blackness. It smells damp and musty, like an old, unfinished basement that floods in a rainstorm. You hear each breath and heartbeat coming from you. You’re scared, and feel cramped in a small space but don’t see anything. It feels as if you’re traveling in a tunnel that is your exact height and shoulder width. Your chest has that pressure in it like when you’re on an airplane, descending in altitude. However, every thirty seconds, a light flickers in the distance, like a lighter being ignited and quickly blown out, giving you just enough hope of escape to run as fast as possible. But after fifteen seconds, you give up. What’s the point really? Chasing after a glimpse of light, you know you’ll never make it, so there’s no point in trying. As many times as you want to curl up in a ball, you also want to sprint, beat the odds and the lights to come on again, fully not just a flicker, and pretend to laugh at a horrible and terrifying joke. And they do. The lights come on, but it is most definitely not the same place you were in before. You’re alone, in a white room, blinding white almost, and clothed in a plain black outfit. The room smells sterile like a doctor’s office, like hydrogen peroxide and cotton balls. The white room is a perfect square. The only way you can tell this is because of the artist-like sketch of corners and edges like the three-dimensional boxes you used to try to draw on paper as a kid. The lines in the corners even look like they were drawn in pencil and you can see smudge marks from fingers being accidently drawn across the perfect lines just made. This place drives you insane, at least in the tunnel there was hope, but here, there’s nothing. You sit in a corner, and fall into a deep sleep, in hopes of when you wake up, that there is some way out, out into a place, or back to your old life, rather than a place with no hope. You awake leaning against a tree. You are in the same plain outfit, but barefoot. You realize that the tree you are leaning against is immense like those in a rainforest, and damp, making your shirt stick to your back, and the ground you are sitting on is covered in moss. The moss is wet, as you get up your feet sink in, and you need to pull them back up with force, like suction cups off a window. The area you are in is hot and muggy, your breathing is thick and heavy, making you take long deep breathes. You realize you are in a rainforest, but even with this place’s beauty, you know how much it rains in rainforests, and are worried that you will not be able to find shelter on high ground in time. Your heart starts to beat harder, your thoughts are blurred, and your head begins to spin as panic and anxiety creep up into your mind. As many people do, you start to hyperventilate and cry. The trees don’t have any branches you can reach. As you try to calm yourself down, loneliness pangs you in the heart. You’re all alone, no strong person to calm you down, no family, no friends, no one to hug, not even a complete stranger 18
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F I C T I O N or animal. You try to blink away the tears, momentarily calming yourself down. You close your eyes for one moment. The whole time you have been in your mind. Your thoughts and feelings expressed to you during an odd state. But what you really want to know is, are you alive or was this just an insight showing you that life is nothing but what you believe. Is a soul or thought process all you are? You remember your life, but was it real? What even is real? Can it be defined? Is life really just a pile of thoughts animated into what seems a dream? Or at least a dream if that is what your mind calls it. Are there other worlds that are created by others’ thoughts? The answers can only be defined by you now. But here is another question. You have a choice. Do you want to go back to your life? Or do you want to go back to this thought process, where you can learn to control these worlds, but stay alone with no other people, just animals that you will learn to put into your thought worlds?
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A R T Oakmont Regional High School
/ Class of 2017
E m i l y
B u c h a n a n
Lion
d r a w i n g
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A R T Hopkinton High School / Class of 2015
M a x w e l l
C h a r t e r i s
Confrontation
s c r a t c h b o a r d
TMC Spring 2015
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P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Class of 2017
C h l o e
K i m
First Lesson You taught me how to draw stars. First, draw a triangle, and then draw another one, upside down on top, so there are six triangles in the corners. But I wanted to draw the prettier one, the one that starts with one line pointing anywhere, and after four lines, comes back home. I remember growing up next to you, hearing you speak liquid vowels and kind consonants, teaching me everyday, how to live. You taught me how to look at the clouds to tell the weather. How to feel the rain. We traveled the world together, tasting one culture at a time. I remember India as the country of red, pink, and orange. We rode an elephant up to the Amber Palace. I spent that day under the Jaipur sun, holding tightly onto the warm railings of the box cart. You spent that day holding onto me. When two moon crests nested on my chest, you told me that the best way to meet a boy was to meet his mother. You said one dinner with her would reveal everything he tries to hide. You said to kiss no more than lip deep: “It’s the only way to win.” After school, you loved to take me walking to St. Augustine Church, always reminding me that I shared its birthday. The day you died, I bought a can of spray paint and drew your Jewish star on its Christian brick wall because bricks will live longer than me, and I wanted that star to last. 22
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P O E T R Y You taught me everything except how to remember you. No matter what I do, I feel you fading, a butterfly landing on my wrist, leaving a smudge of wing chalk.
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P O E T R Y Sharon High School / Class of 2016
R y a n
C r o o k s
Divorce
I can’t do this anymore! Joy, happiness, and affection have left my bloodstream and my skewed pulse no longer beats to the drum of reality. If the people that fabricated and propelled me into this world can’t cohere, how can I? My feelings and emotions are astray, fleeing with my aching heart. Will they ever love each other again? What is love? Can I love if they cannot? They refuse to share a glance with one another, despite the binding vows of eternity. I have witnessed, I have been a bystander to the shredding of the bond that always held me together, elevated me over my shortcomings, and sustained my innocence through the forlorn time called childhood. Now that innocence is demolished like the shattered plates, the upturned furniture, and my mother’s splintered heart. My room, once a playground of that same fragility and sanity, has become a bomb shelter, a cave just dark enough to shield my eyes from the crumblings of a family. My bed, once a safe place to rest my young, weary eyes, has become a place to rest my old, battered eyes, dripping with rain. I avoid all contact. I do not intervene. I pour my love into the intricate web of friendship and uplifting sports. My friends have become my brothers, my irreplaceable comrades. On darker days, comfort is nestled in their shoulders. I exhaust the last bits of energy I have into my athletics. When I slide from base to base, the cheers of my teammates drown out the shattering plates. How, then, am I still so sad? Listen to me because no one else will. Observe how healthily, how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
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A R T Newton South High School
A d a m
/ Class of 2018
B a k e r
A Wr e n A m i d s t R a v e n s
d r a w i n g
/
p h o t o s h o p TMC Spring 2015
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P O E T R Y Pingree School / Class of 2016
P r a s h a s t i
U p a d h y a y
Something Real Tell me about the time when you were 5 and jumped off a swing set, invincible and naive, believing you could fly, but then you broke your arm. Tell me how at 3 in the morning you can’t stop thinking about your best friend that you haven’t talked to in months because sometimes that’s how life works. Tell me how sometimes you are hit by crippling anxiety and need to take pills to be what is seen as normal. Tell me that you listen to Never Shout Never when the world feels too big. Tell me your deepest fear is that you are nothing in this large universe and there is only oblivion. Tell me you watch Stuck in Love when you want to feel young—like you’re in a car with two best friends singing along to music that reminds you you’re alive. Tell me you look up at the sky and wish you could capture colors in words, etch stars in your skin, and when you look up at night you feel at home. Skip the small talk, tell me something real. 26
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A R T Burlington High School
K o s t a
/ Class of 2018
S t a m i d e s
Greece Sunset
p h o t o g r a p h y
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A R T Lenox High School
/ Class of 2015
L e a h
H a s k e l l
ZiZi
d r a w i n g
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A R T Lenox High School / Class of 2015
L e a h
H a s k e l l
Rose
d r a w i n g
TMC Spring 2015
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P O E T R Y Boston University Academy / Class of 2015
A r a n
S z o s t a c k
Dreamscape In walking by the dying embers of the last hour’s fire, I came across an echo that had carved itself, Deep and perishing, in sand, a formless, wayless murmuring of tomorrow’s paling grief, Yesterday’s visions, Untouched, That come to us in whispers of long-lost ancient tunes Played around the pyre of some old Athenian pauper, Echoing to the ceaseless turn of the world as the tunnel widens Forever to the fore and lights dance dying On the dying walls, dreams lost—not, not lost! —not ever lost, but slipping from our hands to dance Another ancient, aging age.
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A R T Auburn High School
A n i s a
/ Class of 2016
S h e r z a i
S m o ke
p a i n t i n g
TMC Spring 2015
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P O E T R Y Marblehead High School / Class of 2018
B e n
B i r n b a c h
First ther e was an Ocean Before anything else. There was an ocean. Nothing else in view. The ocean is all around. The water is calm. The breeze is gentle. The sun is warm. And the sky is blue. Suddenly. There is a speck on the horizon. Far far away. So far that one can’t tell what size. Color. Or shape. The speck grows larger and larger. Closer and closer. One small speck is now three separate specks. A shape starts to form. The shape of sailboats. The three boats drifted. Away. Each white hull. Gently lifted. Topping the waves. Now they gain speed. Charging forward confidently. Even though. They be just tiny specks. To the enormity of the ocean. They sail nearer and nearer. Finally the ocean acknowledges them. The sea is not calm any more. There are waves as tall as mountains. 32
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P O E T R Y The wind is strong. Howling like a coyote. The sun has disappeared. There is no more light. The sky is dark. Dark as night. The boats struggle until they can’t struggle any more. They sink. Never to be seen again. All of a sudden once again there is nothing else in view. The ocean is all around again. The water is calm once more. The breeze is gentle again. The sun is warm once more. And the sky is blue again. For first there was an ocean. Before anything else. There was an ocean. And there always will be. An ocean.
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A R T Burlington High School
/ Class of 2018
J o e l
H a g a n
Rain among the stones.
p h o t o g r a p h y
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A R T Burlington High School
M a d i s o n
/ Class of 2017
H o y t
Wo n d e r l a n d
p h o t o g r a p h y
TMC Spring 2015
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N O N F I C T I O N Sharon High School / Class of 2017
E m m a r o s e
S a f r a n
Knowing Ali
In my first memory of her, I am 6, and crying. She’s my sister. I should have earlier memories of her, but I don’t. During my younger years I blanked those out, and replaced them with pink and sparkled recollections. I did that a lot, refusing to believe what I had done to her. There are some things that I can’t forget. “She. Can’t. Come!” I wailed at my mother, voice almost incomprehensible through the mucus filling my throat. Tears blurred my vision, and my eyes grew blood shot as I rubbed them. My beautiful mother looked ashamed, guilt crossing her face as she averted her chestnut eyes. Ali is your sister, she tried explaining to me, of course she should come to this party, it’s important that she interact socially. “It’s a family party, and she’s family.” “She’s not family.” I spat back. If I let her attend this party she might bite, hit, or punch our guests. I was not about to invite the inevitable: my autistic sister. It would start with a dizzying scream interrupting my parents’ perfectly-planned party play list; then, a tantrum, where she’d pull down her pants, scratch a guest, or take food off others’ plates. The guests would stand there, a low whisper vibrating through them. They’d tut their tongues as they watched the scene while my parents would try anything to calm her down. Our extended family, our audience, would want something to happen, hungry for the show. I’d always cared about my reputation and I wasn’t about to let her ruin it. Of course, Ali did come, and the events started unraveling like a series of origami: try as you might it’s impossible to recreate the creases once they’ve unfolded. The party could be boiled down to a screaming 10-year-old surrounded by pleading parents and disapproving guests. We didn’t have many family parties after that. A few weeks later I heard the good news. I was in the basement with white out, inscribing on the radiator, the names of boys I felt destined to marry. I remember the feeling of happy warmth, from the radiator pressed against my belly, as my brother told me Ali was going to a boarding school… forever. Our parents both worked and they couldn’t keep up with watching Ali as well. I stared until my eyes stung and dried up, forcing tears to overflow down my cheeks. My meltdown was loud enough that no one noticed I was choking on a smile. The smile that had begun to slip out of my mouth as Ali slipped out of my mind. Things were good, for a while. I led a charmed life, so much so that by the time I was eight I’d become a full-blown diva. My voice would ache after the hours 36
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N O N F I C T I O N spent singing at the Orpheum Theater. I was well regarded for my age, and earned
prominent roles. Thoughts of Ali were infrequent now that she only came home on the weekends. No longer was she the constant threat perpetually thumping into my brain, she’d evolved to a pleasant hum, still there, but not overwhelming. Until Ali came to the theater. I was rehearsing for Beauty and the Beast, not paying attention to the clock. On that day, our baby sitter, Erin, was picking me up early, she came with my older brother and Ali. They were supposed to wait in the car, but in the middle of an aria, I heard a familiar whoop echo around the audience. Then another. Belle stopped singing. Heads spun, straining to see the source of this noise. I didn’t know what to do. A melodic call kept interrupting the stunned silence that had quickly spread across the stage. I thought I could hide, just do nothing and maybe people would get back to work. “Em….Em…EMMA?!” called my brother from the balcony. All eyes were on me in the worst kind of way. They waited to see what my connection was to these people. “Oh. Yeah.” I mumbled, my cheeks burning and my palms sweating. “I gotta leave early. That’s my cousin.” Cousin had become my standard response. It worked well. While Ali and I looked alike, there were more differences than similarities. We both had long, brown hair that matched our eyes, but her skin was significantly fairer. She was taller, thinner, and moved more gracefully than I. I collected my things, shoving them into a Justice messenger bag and began to climb the stairs. I wanted to run up those endless steps, to move as fast as my rapidly beating heart, but my legs felt like jelly. When I finally reached the top, I knew I needed to escape. Ali, however, wouldn’t budge, and stood there on the balcony, hollering away. My only thought was the need to save what little dignity I had left. I slammed my hand into the soft part between her breasts and stomach. I shoved hard into her ribs forcing her out of the theater. Her resistance caused friction as her toes dragged on the burgundy rug. “EMMA,” yelled Erin, her face bright red and her eyes bleeding fury. “THIS IS YOUR SISTER, HOW COULD YOU TREAT HER LIKE THAT?!” I immediately started crying, embarrassing myself further. It was the kind of cry that caught me off guard; the kind of snot-filled, unstoppable, chest-heaving wail during which I had to hold on to something to calm myself down. I chose the balcony railing. The worst part of it was Ali never understood why I had attacked her. In the moment, our eyes met and sadness flicked through hers, but it quickly passed and soon after, her laugh filled the air. I couldn’t forget the incident. I have never felt so guilty. After that I started referring to Ali as my sister, not the cousin I had told everyone she was. Sometimes I’d even show my friends the prettiest pictures of her. I never said she was autistic, just that she was SUCH a great student and incredible person that she had been accepted into a prestigious boarding school. TMC Spring 2015
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N O N F I C T I O N By age 9 ½, I had decided that not only was Ali my sister, but she was also autistic. If you didn’t know what being autistic was, you were at a disadvantage because when it came to Ali I was still prone to lying. “She’s autistic,” I explained to my friend Thalia on the playground. We were swinging wildly off the monkey bars, but that wasn’t what was making me feel sick. It was the way she asked. “What’s THAT mean?” Like Ali was an alien, something from far, far away; which, I guess, is what I thought she was too. “It means…she can’t spell autistic.” I told her, getting excited as I spun a web of lies. “Can YOU spell ‘autistic’? I can! But you can’t, so you’re autistic too!” Thalia believed that, and after a phone call from her parents, I had to sit down and write an apology letter saying no, Thalia isn’t autistic and yes, she can have the good swing because I lied about it. The biggest lie I told was to myself: I had an ideal big sister in mind and Ali could never be it. I dreamed of my friend’s big sisters who were all stunning, sweet, and funny. I wanted my sister to drive me to the mall and talk to me about boys and tell me secrets and take me out for ice cream. But I never got the big sister that Ali’s title had promised. Instead, I was the big sister, but I couldn’t even give Ali what I had always wanted. Eventually, Ali and I had reached an understanding. I missed my sister. She was the only one whose opinion I didn’t worry about and around her I was free. Ali was beautiful, carefree, and fun, all the things I wanted to be. She always stared at me with those big, brown eyes, questioning, waiting for me to tell her what to do, to help her. Something clicked in me one day when her teachers told me that Ali was asking for me. She wanted her “Emma.” That night I cried, alone, so no one could see me break down. When my sister came home that weekend, she looked at me and smiled. As I got older, I adopted a new way of looking at Ali. Instead of thinking of all the things we couldn’t do together, I saw all the things we could. I realized I was never going to have the big sister that my friends did, however I could take on that role for Ali. While she could never take me out for a girls’ day of shopping and lunch, I was able to get Ali ready for her prom. I was able to get her to sit down and be relatively still for 30 minutes while I combed out her mess of brown hair and brushed on my favorite emerald eye shadow over her closed eyes. She smiled and giggled as the brush tickled her eyelids, and for the first time, seemed perfectly relaxed in the safe haven we created together. We started a weekend routine, a routine that became very important to Ali as she began to develop OCD. First, we went in the hot tub, and then we watched Big Bird: Sleepytime Songs and Stories. Next we went to Jordan’s Furniture Store, and finally, to Friendly’s for dinner. The more I got to know my sister, the guiltier I felt. How many years had I wasted worrying how others would see me instead of holding Ali’s hand when she crossed the street, dancing to crappy top 40’s in the kitchen, and helping her curl her hair for prom? I vowed to change. 38
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N O N F I C T I O N While I have apologized to Ali countless times, I know now there’s so much I can’t take back, so much I can’t change. It’s been seven years since the family party. I can’t say all I feel is adoration for my sister; every now and then I resent the way she screams in front of new friends, and runs away naked to the neighbors house. As embarrassed as she cannot help but constantly make me, she is my sister. I can only hope that she will forgive me as I have resolved to always forgive her. I still feel guilt at how I wasted almost a decade being afraid of how my sister’s disability would affect my life. Ali never thought twice about our relationship, that’s what makes her so special. She might not be able to take me shopping or talk to me about boys. But she’s always there to listen, to act as my confidant. Unlike so many other big sisters she never puts me down or pushes me away. Ali’s definitely different, she accepts me with an open heart. That’s why I love my big sister.
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P O E T R Y Pingree School
/ Class of 2015
D a n i e l
P e t e r s
This is how human beings can change: The salmon who spent his whole life fighting the unrelenting current allows himself to drift and finally realizes the soft beauty of shadows wavering on the river floor.
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A R T Maimonides School
D a v i d
/ Class of 2017
K o t l e r
Fl o w e r s b y t h e R i v e r
p a i n t i n g
TMC Spring 2015
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A R T Lynnfield High School / Class of 2015
G r a c e
C o l b e r t
Autumn Bic ycle
d r a w i n g
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A R T Chelmsford High School
S h a i l y n
/ Class of 2017
F a r m e r
Wo l f
d r a w i n g
TMC Spring 2015
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P O E T R Y Ayer-Shirley Regional High School
/ Class of 2016
M e l i s s a
G a m e z
I Asked
I asked I asked the young angel for a sign And looking down it said there was none I asked the sky why it was dark And it poured upon me I asked the ground why it crumbled beneath me And it trembled cracking loudly I asked the sun to shine And it burned my eyes I asked the stars to guide me And they disappeared from me I asked the gods where are they And they faded I asked myself do I remit their sins And the flashbacks start The lies the pain The taste of this acid rain I kept quiet And everything was perfect.
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A R T Auburn High School
M e g a n
/ Class of 2016
J o h n s o n
A Curious Serenity
p a i n t i n g
TMC Spring 2015
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P O E T R Y Groton School / Class of 2017
E l l a
C a p e n
New Pen there’s something special about a new pen the way it glides across a clean canvas …like a piece of art the power you feel holding the shiny bright weight and it doesn’t even matter how neat or messy your handwriting is or how much the ink strays, leaving a fresh trail of black liquid pressed with the purpose of your palm, because you feel bold and empowered like you have a purpose 46
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P O E T R Y and the ink imprinted on the sides of your hands feels sacred as it trickles through the paths of your palm and the pen continues to float languidly across the blank page no more a blank page
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A R T Lynnfield High School
/ Class of 2016
Fr e c k l e s
R e n e e
D e l N e g r o
p h o t o g r a p h y
Tr a d i t i o n Marshall Simonds Middle School
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S a r a h / Class of 2019
O w e n s
A R T Lynnfield High School
T h e B i ke
R y a n
/ Class of 2018
F r a s i e r
p h o t o g r a p h y
Winter Wonderland
M a r i s s a Wa l k e r
Burlington High School
/ Class of 2017
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F I C T I O N Amherst Regional High School / Class of 2018
K a y a r a
H a r d n e t t - B a r n e s
Note to Seventh-Grade Self You’re nervous. Don’t be. They say that middle school will be a whole lot different than elementary school, and that’s true, but you’ll be fine. Wear shorts on the first day, and Converse. You don’t need to overdo your first day outfit—you’ll already be uncomfortable as it is. Don’t wear too much jewelry because that wouldn’t be cool. At 7:00, go outside to wait for the bus. Mom will want to take first day pictures of you. Let her. You’ll only have your first day of seventh grade once, and she will only get to take first day pictures of you while you’re twelve. So suck it up, and let her. Take in her giddiness with a smile. Let her wrap an arm around you while she squeezes the shutter button of her camera. It’ll take her about ten minutes to finally finish taking pictures, and you’ll be relieved. You’ll be buzzing with nerves and jitters, but you have to walk out to the bus stop anyway. Stop avoiding eye contact with your neighbor. Wave, or even say hi. Don’t be intimidated by the fact that he is older than you. You used to be best friends. Plug in your headphones and listen to the playlist you created for the first day of school. It’ll be perfect, just like you hoped it would be. Listen closely to the words of “Stormy End”—they have a secret meaning behind them: Hey little fighter, soon it will be brighter, We’re over the stormy end. Try your best not to sing along to music. Your neighbor will feel uncomfortable. Across the street, a boy will be walking back and forth and talking. You won’t be sure who he’s talking to because no one else is there. You’ll study the way he walks and talks, and wonder what grade he’s in. Don’t stare. It’s rude. The bus will pull up late, as it always will. Get on. Sit in the front, just like Mr. Wallace told you. Study the other people on the bus through the mirror above the bus driver. Do not turn around and stare at all of the upperclassman. They’ll be staring right back at you. The bus will stop at the high school first. This is your chance to look at everyone. Still, don’t stare too long. Count how many people say thank you to the bus driver, and how many times the bus driver tells them to have a good day. Two people say thank you, and the bus driver says have a good day to everyone. You think she seems nice. She is. When the bus stops at the Lakeview Middle School, get up slowly. Wait for everyone else to get off of the bus. Take your time gathering your things. Make sure you haven’t forgotten anything. When you do get up, tell the bus driver thank you. She’ll smile at you, and you’ll notice how pretty her smile is. Smile back, and step off the bus slowly as well. Don’t slip. 50
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F I C T I O N Once you’re on the concrete, walk fast. Catch up with everyone else on your bus, and walk quietly behind them. You’re shy, and that’s okay. You will warm up to them later. When you reach the school, kids you don’t know will be high-fiving and hugging. Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty of friends later on. You see a couple people you know from Fort River Elementary School with fabricated yet lively gazes. They’ll wave you over. Be social. Say hi, and ask them how their summer was. In return, they’ll ask you as well; say it was good. Don’t mention your trip to China. You don’t want to be a show off. As soon as you enter the middle school, teachers will guide you down towards the auditorium. They will look down at you with smiles that are way too wide. It will be creepy, but don’t say so. That wouldn’t be polite. Tell them your name. Try not to grimace when they pronounce it wrong. Correct them in a nice way. Be polite. Stay quiet as they maneuver you into a seat towards the back of the auditorium. The seat will be very squishy. Don’t bounce on it. That’s so sixth grade. The seats on either side of you are empty, but they won’t be for much longer. Take this moment of solitude to take a deep breath. Your semi-friends from elementary school will be sitting on the other side of the room, but don’t be discouraged. Life isn’t all about sticking to your friends. Be a leader, not a follower. More kids will come in, and you’ll notice how a teacher isn’t flanking most of them. They will clump together like play dough, filling the seats around you. Sometimes they’ll stare at you, pointing. Resist the urge to look at yourself in the reflection of your IPod mirror. You’ve done it too many times. The assistant principal will step out on the stage. He’ll speak way too loudly into his microphone, but stay focused on what he’s saying. You won’t, of course, and when everyone starts applauding, you’ll have no idea why. Your first class of the day will be chorus, so you stay in the auditorium as your classmates file out. There will be one group of girls that catches your eye particularly. They’ll swish their hair behind their backs in synchronized harmony and bat their long lashes rapidly. Boys will stare. You’ll wonder if they have secret meetings where they practice the flipping of their hair, but you won’t react as they saunter by you. Avoid comparing yourself to them. You don’t need to practice swishing your hair. Mr. Lockter, the chorus teacher, will waddle into the auditorium a few minutes later. Notice his glasses, his wide smile, and his tie, especially. It will have fish on it, and you’ll wonder how he pulls it off. His beaten up sneakers will screech against the floor when he calls for attention from the class. You’ll be sitting alone. You’ll recognize a few more people from Fort River sitting in their own cluster towards the side. Go over there. Make conversation. Learn not be alone when you don’t have to be. TMC Spring 2015
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F I C T I O N At lunch time, go to the second floor of the school to get your money from your locker. Make sure you use the map your Homeroom teachers gave you. Don’t try to be cool and neglect to use it. When you get there, put your backpack on the floor. Take your assignment notebook out of your backpack so you can see your combination. Spin the dial. To the right, to the left, and then back to the right. You’ll mess up. You’ll try again, and mess up again. You’ll be frustrated, and a girl from your homeroom will offer to help you. Don’t tell her your combination. She may seem nice, but you don’t know her. Not yet. Once you get your money, head down to the cafeteria. Stand in line for your food patiently, and make sure to say thank you to the lunch ladies for giving it to you. Don’t get a burger just because other people get them. You’ve never liked burgers anyway. Select a chicken patty, but make sure to take the top part of the bun off so that it won’t take long for you to put the ketchup on it. People will be waiting. Put an even amount of ketchup on your chicken patty. Do not drown it in sauce, no matter how hungry you are. Get vegetables, even though you’re not going to eat them. Get milk as well, even though you’re not going to drink it. It’s required. When you get to the end of the line, the lunch lady at the register will ask you for your pin. You won’t know what that is, but she will explain. In the end, she will settle for you telling her your last name. Tell her slowly, because it’s hard to keep up. Exaggerate the D in your last name, just to make sure she doesn’t confuse it with B. Carry your tray with both hands. Do not try to multitask and hold it with only one. It won’t work. Make sure you’re settled before you walk into the main section of the cafeteria. People will stare at you as you walk down the aisles. You will feel like a model walking down the runway. Only in this fashion show, people aren’t looking just at your clothes. They will be looking at your face, your legs, your arms, your food, and your backpack. Be glad that you didn’t stick with your old one from elementary school. Scan the room for friends you made in previous classes. You’ll find them quickly, but not before you spot someone else. It’s a girl, staring down at her tray. She’ll be all alone. Your eyes will whip back and forth between your friends and this girl. Your head will tell you to go with your friends. But your heart will ache for the girl who is all alone. She’s just like you. You’ll choose your friends. They’ll be engaged in a conversation about something you don’t understand, but you’ll nod your head. You’ll be polite. Before your next class starts, stop at your locker to pick up your binders for English. You’ll try your combination. Once, twice, three times. It won’t work. Someone will tap your shoulder. Turn around. A mousy girl will be behind you. The girl from lunch. Her voice will be just as mousy as her appearance. 52
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F I C T I O N -Are you having trouble with your locker? She’ll ask. You will nod. She will be nervous, and she’ll twirl her hair around her finger. -Sometimes the locks can be a bit finicky, she’ll continue. She will move past you and tug at the latch a lot harder than you have. It will click open. You will stay quiet. Your new friends are walking toward you. They will snicker amongst themselves, and you’ll feel uncomfortable. After a while, you’ll speak. -Thank you. Your friends will arrive then, and they’ll stare the girl down. They’ll look at her face, her legs, her arms, her shoes, and her backpack. They won’t be nice. - Cool sneakers! -I think I saw that top at Goodwill. So ugly! -Those jeans have more curves than you do! -I can’t even look in your direction. I’m afraid I’ll catch loser! When they’re finished with their insults, they’ll turn to you. They’ll raise their eyebrows at you. They’ll want to know why you’re talking to her. Your heart will beat incredibly fast. You’ll open your mouth to speak, but nothing will come out. You won’t think the girl’s shirt is ugly. You’ll like the shade of blue. It goes nicely with her skin tone. You like Goodwill. Sometimes you go there with your mom. You won’t like the sneakers, though. They’re just ok. You’ll look at the girl, and then you’ll sulk. Everyone in the hallway will be watching now. She will be crying, trying to make herself disappear in the fabric of her sweatshirt. Your friends will be sighing in disgust. And you, in your heart, will be dying. The girl will leave after that, and the echoes of each laugh will follow her down the hall. But still, she won’t look back. Your friends will start to talk about cute guys. You won’t know any of the guys they’re talking about, but you’ll smile and laugh like everything is okay. In your heart, you will be dying. You’ll stay. You’ll be polite. During English class, you won’t be able to focus. You will keep thinking about the girl. Two of your friends will be in this class, and they’ll motion you over. When you reach them, you’ll be stunned. It is the second week of school, and already, there is gossip. The girls will have started a list. Who’s Hot and Who’s Not for the boys, and Who’s Boss and Who’s a Lost Cause for the girls. Some of your nerves will go away when you spot your name under the Who’s Boss list. But it will still remain when they point to another name on the other list. It will be in all bold caps. TMC Spring 2015
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F I C T I O N Of course, they will be talking about the girl from lunch. Her name is Neveah, you’ll realize. They will criticize her name. You like her name. You think it’s beautiful. Your friends will think it’s stupid. There will be other girls on the list, but their names won’t be in bold. Just Neveah. They’ll show it to everyone in the classroom. You’ll send a mental S.O.S to your teacher in hopes he will stop this. He won’t. By the end of the period, the whole class will know. Neveah will be a Lost Cause. You and your friends will not be. More people will talk to you now. You know you shouldn’t ask, but you will anyway. -Why don’t you all like Neveah? They’ll stop talking. They’ll stare at you. They’ll be looking at your face, your legs, your arms, your shoes, and your name on the list. They will all answer distorted versions of the same thing. -She’s weird. -She’s ugly. -She’s fat. You’ll be mad now. You’ll want to scream about how much you like her jeans, and even her sneakers. You’ll want to tell them about how she helped you open your locker. You’ll want to tell them that although you’ve only talked to her for less than five minutes you felt friendlier with her than with them. You’ll have to bite your lip to stay silent. You’ll bite your lip so hard you’ll be afraid it’ll bleed. It won’t, though. And you won’t do anything either. You’ll be polite. At the end of the day, you’ll wait outside with your friends for the bus. You’ll be listening to your first day playlist again when Neveah walks by. Your friends will snicker and throw a piece of crumpled paper in her direction. It will hit her cheek. When she reads it, she’ll cry. You won’t know what it says, but still, you’ll be mad. You will notice the tears in Neveah’s eyes before your friends do. They’ll say mean things, and you’ll be even angrier. You’ll start to bite down on your lip to silence yourself, but it won’t work this time. You’ll have no more lip to bite. You’ll look at your friends’ faces. Their legs, their arms, their shoes, and their backpacks. You’ll wonder if they have secret meetings where they practice flipping their hair. You won’t be nice. You won’t be polite. Inspired by Julie Orringer
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A R T Groton School
Y a n g
H y u n
/ Class of 2016
C h o
H o w t o R i d e a B i ke
p a i n t i n g
TMC Spring 2015
55
A R T Lynnfield High School
/ Class of 2018
Stark Beauty
Alexandra Ross
p h o t o g r a p h y
Chasing Cars Burlington High School / Class of 2015
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Melanie Fulcher
A R T Burlington High School
The Curious Kitty
/ Class of 2018
B r i a n a L o Ru s s o
p h o t o g r a p h y
Reflection of Life
M a r c
Lynnfield High School
B u d d / Class of 2018
TMC Spring 2015
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P O E T R Y Newton South High School
/ Class of 2018
E f f i
H o l s t o n
She.
on the sidewalk a heart pumps oxygen and legs pump spirit tearing at the soil aggravating with worn rubber soles and the force of a body in motion. birds lumber by lackluster battery-eyes leering their wings cling closely – frosted over by the cold they wait – stationary, for the lights and the sun grows heavier on the bruised skyline. bliss crows as she soars by burning up the cement with her legs. her filmy-eyed spectators gawk at her freedom. and each feels it pass them fleetingly before it tails her around a corner and fades from their view. her feet bite the earth, spitting gravel snarled mane trailing behind her. she streaks by the fowl in the road, their dull eyes twitching, engines faltering. watching the lights, watching the signs. the birds confine themselves to the road, letting the lights make up their minds for them. She has no lights just a world with roads and legs that run 58
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A R T Newton South High School
A n n a l i s a
/ Class of 2016
F l y n n
Peeking Out
d r a w i n g
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P O E T R Y Abington High School / Class of 2018
C a i t l i n
M u r p h y
O v e r t h e Ye a r s Five years of age: Pigtails and dresses, Happy as can be, Mom cleans up her messes. In school she plays With her best friends Hide and seek until The bell, recess’s end. Ten years later, Waking from the dream, Her life has turned around As she’s become a teen. Her father has died. Her mother is depressed. School causes anxiety. Her home life is stress. Friends have come And friends have gone. At least she and her sister Still get along. Two years later She’s a junior in school. Her sister’s a sophomore Who’s not considered “cool.” Her sister’s getting bullied. Her sister’s losing hope. How can she help her? She’s struggling to cope. One year later, Her sister’s suicide. Her mother is hopeless, No one left by her side. 60
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P O E T R Y Six months later, She meets a special man. He’s sweet and he’s charming, He takes her by the hand. Together they turned it around. She feels happy, she feels safe. Her happiness is true. You can see it on her face. Five years of age: Pigtails and dresses, Happy as can be, Mom cleans up her messes. Thirteen years later: Tassel, cap, and gown Her man, her mother, And her angels smiling down.
TMC Spring 2015
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A R T Lynnfield High School / Class of 2016
A n n i k a
H a n
Utopia
d r a w i n g
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s t y l u s
A R T Hopkinton High School / Class of 2015
M a x w e l l
C h a r t e r i s
Self Portrait
s c r a t c h b o a r d
TMC Spring 2015
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P O E T R Y North Quincy High School / Class of 2015
D u n i a
D u n n e r
Struck by Grief The silence infiltrates every crevice, nook, and cranny, as dense as the shadows harboring in the corners. It’s the silence which confirms it; it’s the silence which will never be filled. Realization hitsimpact causing tremors to course through the previously numb, sparking movement of your lifeless limbs. Cold sweat drips, mingling with the salt hot water excreting from your eyes. Propelled by the heat surging like flames from the now stifling room, you run: sidewalk- a blend of the fallen leaves, red, gold, trampled-beaten down-brown, a blend of slickened asphalt and spat out- pink bubble gum, tainted with gravel. The air flings itself at your glistening, red face, cold and bitter. Legs pounding , like gunshots on the pavement, his last words ring out somewhere behind you, somewhere you don’t want to go; 64
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P O E T R Y his last words ring out each one filled with life, yellows and oranges burst from every slanted ‘t’ and every not-dotted ‘I’. each letter only just shaded with pencil gray as though badly erased and then rewritten. “I’m sorry,” Trails your movement, A kite only you can see. You stop running. Stomach twisted, Face contorted, Lungs flat, Burst of energy faded, Momentum gone, Voices echoing, “I’m sorry.”
TMC Spring 2015
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P O E T R Y Pingree School
/ Class of 2015
D a n i e l
P e t e r s
Engraved
Carved into the peeling bark of a birch in the White Mountains‒ the initials “SC” and “VC”‒ two lovers trying to capture a passing moment, some sort of permanence in the bark of an aging tree Alas, humanity has put differences aside picked up the jagged industrial pocketknife and gouged its initials into our planet felling the etched White Mountain birch reducing ash trees to ashes The view from space remains green and blue except for mankind’s new watermark: a cross-continental “FU”
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A R T Burlington High School / Class of 2015
A l i s o n
H e f l e r
Mor ning Stroll
p h o t o g r a p h y
TMC Spring 2015
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A R T Oakmont Regional High School
/ Class of 2016
L i n d s e y
S u t e l a
Lion
d r a w i n g
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A R T Brimmer and May School
M i c h e l l e
/ Class of 2018
L i
Futuristic City
d r a w i n g
TMC Spring 2015
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P O E T R Y Natick High School / Class of 2017
E m m a
C o n w a y
T h a t ’s S o
That’s so…. Cool. That’s so great. That’s so amazing. That’s so Raven. That’s so pretty. That’s so basic. That’s so you. That’s so me. That’s so ugly. That’s So Gay. That’s so happy. That’s so loving. That’s so lighthearted. That’s so caring. That’s so free. That’s so brilliant. That’s so brightly colored. That’s so not offensive. Why is it That my preference Is your negative offense? Is it really so harmful? To be happy? To love someone And be loved in return? It must all be out of jealousy Since everyone is aware How picky and judgmental The straight man can be. 70
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P O E T R Y Imagine a parallel universe where That’s so straight Is the offensive phrase. It seems more fitting. That’s so straight. That’s so judgmental. That’s so one minded. That’s so one way. That’s so simple. That’s so mainstream. That’s so who you want to be And that’s fine by me Because I’m so gay. Straight men created the phrase, They can destroy it too. Anyone can even take The negative connotation And make it positive, Like the word is defined To be by Merriam Webster. Gay men take no offense, Because they see the pride. That’s so gay. Yes, that is so A cup of tea. And that’s so okay. But, that’s so gay, That’s so yesterday.
TMC Spring 2015
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A R T Burlington High School
/ Class of 2017
M e l a n i e
S u n n e r b e r g
Luffas Gone W ild
s c u l p t u r e
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ent artm dep art
ART DESIGN AND
Work Ready, Life Ready, World Ready
UML
www.uml.edu/dept/art 978.934.3494
MAKING ART WORK
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Join us this summer for an immersive three-week day program designed especially for students who are passionate about storytelling and image making. In the Summer Writing & Film Program at Walnut Hill, young writers and filmmakers ages 13–17 will enjoy workshops and intensives in fiction, filmmaking, playwriting, poetry, and screenwriting. In addition to these classes, there will be time for individual meetings with faculty, as well as opportunities to participate in collaborative projects and enjoy master classes with distinguished guest artists. Our Natick campus is situated in one of the most culturally rich areas in the country, and students will gain inspiration for their work through excursions to notable places in Boston, Cambridge, and the Berkshires. For more information and to apply, visit writingfilm2015.walnuthillarts.org or contact the Office of Admission at 508.650.5020 or admissions@walnuthillarts.org
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P O E T R Y UMass Boston Urban Scholars Program / TechBoston Academy / Class of 2017
Q u a n y e
H o s k i n s
Vo i d o f B r i g h t n e s s When the sun beams down, My dark reflection shows: My life long silhouette, My alter ego. When the sun beams down. Am I alone? No, he’s always there To cover below Or beside me. When he catches my eye, We walk upon each other’s feet And high five on walls. When the sun beams down, He is a blunt copycat With no face or hands Just a blob of inky blackness. When the sun beams down, He has a mind of his own. It intrigues me That we cannot separate. Yet, I don’t want us to.
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A R T Newton South High School
M i c h a e l
/ Class of 2017
G a r b
S h a d o w s o n t h e Wa l l
p h o t o g r a p h y
TMC Spring 2015
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P O E T R Y North Quincy High School / Class of 2015
R e b e c c a
T h a m
The End of August Among the drops of grey that quietly pitter-patter on the pavement, and the ticking of heavy metals latched onto important wrists, the two of us stand together as one. Underneath the gum-splattered streets, your arms cinch my waist as I smell your Old Spice and cigarettes; your sharp cologne flirts with the stranger’s smoke and I feel all of the colors of my soul seep into your blank canvas. But, it is for the last time. As I am a gentle green, and you, a scorching red. As our momentary embrace ends, I see that your eyes resemble the last line of Sonnet 147; you are forever as black as hell, and dark as night even in the illuminated train station in the afternoon light. 76
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P O E T R Y As I float– and you stumble– away, I realize we are no longer playing follow the leader. The summer is over– only a few pages of this freshly written book remain; I felt comforted when I witnessed the drying ink, before you smudged it in vain. And now you must take your train, I must board mine– and there we go, in opposite directions.
TMC Spring 2015
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A R T Newton South High School
/ Class of 2017
Afraid of Clowns?
Michael Garb
p h o t o g r a p h y
Behind the Scenes Marshall Simonds Middle School
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/ Class of 2019
Sarah Owens
A R T Marshall Simonds Middle School
Afternoon in Lowell
/ Class of 2019
Neil Pandit
p h o t o g r a p h y
Trapped By Tradition
Sophie Baker
Groton School
/ Class of 2016
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P O E T R Y Groton School / Class of 2016
S o p h i e
B a k e r
The Last Light surrounded by echoes of a child’s dream for jubilation, broken tongues speak of the inconceivable vanity feasts on the hunger for perfection, but the reflection of a mirror is but an apparition as a nomad digs into the fleeting memory of love, a child’s corpse is buried by both failures and the remains of hope and lies, having devoured any recollection of love’s secret, penetrate the surface of the heart an animal swallows itself as it is forgotten, turning into time and becoming mythic stone
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P O E T R Y and the river ripples with relentless thrums as the earth lowers its head to the thrashing waters and the sun is flawless in flight with light like a knife penetrating into bone while the flame flies without word, accosting with tenderness, a winged ghost hovers over the soul, adrift with absolute grit as fire drops like death upon the riverbed the animal gives a loud cry from the weight of the descent, it never learned that this is the last light, that everything will soon be dim again no good brute walks without wings; a beloved belief of all, but surely now Christ has chosen whom to elevate and whom to let fall
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F I C T I O N Groton School / Class of 2017
H a d l e y
C a l l a w a y
Zucchini
An ocean tumbles around my mind, conjuring a tidal wave of relentless water. It smashes into the carefully constructed cliffs that confine my wavering sanity. Spray slinks up the surface of the rocks and tickles my knobby legs as I sit balanced on the edge of my consciousness. I lean forward, hands clutched to the rough stones on either side of me. Behind me lies the quiet safety of normality, but the currents stretch into the horizon of my head until they are all I can see. Crashing waves pulse through my ears. There is nothing to prevent me from falling off, from being swallowed up by the savage powers that wait below. The hypnotic sway of monotony is a constant clash, lulling me into a dreamlike state where all things are insignificant to the forces in my head. “Thomas? Would you help me wash the zucchini?” I fall away from my sea of thought and land in the warmly lit kitchen. A blonde woman with pale skin and shining green eyes watches me expectantly. Aurelia wears a faded apron over khakis and a chambray button down. Her nails are coated with a chipping pink polish, an indicator of a nervous chewing habit she tried to kick in high school. Her hair is yanked into a stern braid that has begun to unravel in the last hour. I am looking out the window at our sparkling garden, cared for every week by a troop of intimidating landscapers who call themselves “Over-Thyme.” The blades of grass stand rigid in strict military posture, ready to defend their territory against any rebellious weeds. Looming above the miniscule stalks are three dogwoods trees planted in a lopsided triangle formation in the middle of the yard. A determined tulip poplar sapling with golden autumn leaves strains for sunlight below the trio. The gardeners were horrified by the tree’s small size when we first hired them, but I refused to let them touch it, preferring to tend it myself as if it were a child. Five years ago, it was just a pale yellow flower that I rescued from the rotting tree in my parents’ yard. I planted it here and watched it germinate and sprout into a resilient seedling that survived a hurricane last spring. Aurelia repeats her question with exasperation. This time I absorb the meaning of the rigid syllables. She has just returned from the market with bags full of “superfoods” from her latest health frenzy. Light refracts off the bright reds and purples and yellows onto the beige ceiling. I stand up from the scratched table and walk to the sink where my wife stands. A mountain of oblong green vegetables languishes in the marble basin. Aurelia turns on the faucet. Water gushes and slams into the basin so hard I am surprised it doesn’t crack the surface. A distant waterfall fills my senses with a dull roar. All of a sudden I am eight years old again. James leans over the edge of the cliff to watch the foamy mess thirty feet below. His favorite t-shirt is muddied from our hike to the top. Patches of dirt obscure the New 82
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F I C T I O N York Yankees logo. When he throws a few rocks, the letters spelling “Jeter” shift across the top of his back. We listen to them echo against the stone. It takes at least five seconds before I can see their small white splashes in the churning pool. Some scatter across the large boulders that peak like mountains above the water. The thought of our warm, safe beds and sleeping parents at home twists my stomach. James shouts a cry of success, as if the rocks falling were somehow an achievement for him, as if he were the gravity forcing them down. Rebellion flickers in his fifteen-yearold eyes every time he shakes his shaggy brown hair. He is the star player on the middle school’s baseball team, a weak English student, and his girlfriend has a pool in her backyard. But when he decides to toss a few more rocks, his balance fails and he starts to fall forward with them. The cliff is a tree and James is the swiftly sinking leaf. It happens quickly, but I still see his blue eyes, bulging with terror for the last time. Although I try, I can’t reach out to him. I am frozen like when I cut my finger while trying to open a can of soup. Like when I watched The Silence of the Lambs at Mike’s house. Like when I dropped my new Gameboy on the sidewalk and it slid into a storm drain. Tears sting my eyes as I finally regain mobility and shout, “James!” Over the roar of the waterfall, I can barely hear his body slam onto one of the basin’s miniature mountains with a dull thud. The water stops and Aurelia starts to carry the vegetables to the cutting board behind us. Before she can set them down, a few crumbs have to be wiped away to make way for the newer, grander occupants. The zucchini are so clean they squeak when my wife wraps her thin fingers around them. She picks up a knife and it sends flickers of light across the room. Still dazed, I follow her motions like a robot. We slice through the yellowy flesh with little resistance. Thud. The synchronized slap of our knives surprises me. Thud. The lid slaps closed. Open casket services disgust my parents, but that doesn’t stop my mother from wanting a final goodbye. James looks the same as he did a week ago. The way his eyes are shut makes it seem like he is only asleep, but his baseball uniform is spotless, which James would have never endured. Mom leans over the coffin. I can barely see her melancholy features through the murky lighting of the synagogue. My father stands a few feet away under one of the stained glass windows, showered in the neon image of Eden. My mother tries to get him to join her, but Dad has the sense to know that James wouldn’t have wanted it. James never accepted my father, always talking about the wonderful things he imagined his own had done. I never met James’s dad, but I knew he left Mom when James was four and that every Christmas James received a pocketknife from him, even though we were Jewish. Thud. A chunk of vegetable falls onto the polished maple floor. Smashed yellow flesh slicks the surface. Aurelia takes a step toward the glistening floorboards. Her shoe moves forward, lowers, and drops onto the wood. The professional black pump slips just a little, but it is enough, enough that Aurelia’s whole leg jolts out of its practiced position. Thud. Her body sinks and collapses heavily on the floor. Thud. Her head slams back into that perfect maple. Thud. James hits the boulder. Thud. The coffin lid closes. Outside, the first leaves on my poplar quake in the wind and begin to fall.
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A R T Marshall Simonds Middle School
/ Class of 2019
The Reflection
E r i n
K e r r
p h o t o g r a p h y
Landscaping Burlington High School
84
/ Class of 2017
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Ginger Boodakian
A R T Newton South High School
Hidden in the Trees
/ Class of 2017
Michael Garb
p h o t o g r a p h y
Peel and Slice
E r i n
Marshall Simonds Middle School
K e r r
/ Class of 2019
TMC Spring 2015
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P O E T R Y Groton School
/ Class of 2016
S o p h i e
B a k e r
Light is Darkness Immortal youths frolic in innocence, Their feet embrace the luscious earth with joy: Bliss flows through their hair, Happiness encases their souls, They are protected by their purity, Free from all despair. I watch from my window; A mosaic of diminutive cracks From my memories, my pain, my past. New ones appear each day As I linger without innocence, Thwarting my vision of immortality, Obstructing my sight of ignorance. The sun’s euphoric flame, Ecstatic in its glory, Illuminates the children’s hearts And their pathways into the night, But they cannot see the ground On which their procession starts. Shadows lurk beside them, Indistinguishable as they are, Veiled by their transparency, And masked without identities. They follow the parade, Burning with fervid ardency. I can identify the nimble beams of light But the sun fails to shine into my soul, I have entered into the night, I have merged with the darkness. Engulfed by dank oblivion, Ramparts contain me in the bleakness. 86
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P O E T R Y I have no ability to escape these walls, Once you’ve been encompassed, They will possess your freedom eternally. I shall remain at this desolate outpost forevermore And look on as the children Flirt with their virtues, As they flirt with ambiguity. In my mind the sun has set, In murky twilight I can see, My perception of the world, permanently hindered, Makes me question if there ever was A time when I was immortal, A time when I was truly free. I look down at these festering wounds, From my attempts to break out of this obscurity. Still bloodstained, Still swollen, I kneel behind this fractured glass, No longer standing, For I have learned freedom is irrational Once engulfed by reality.
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F I C T I O N Groton School / Class of 2018
C a n d i l l a
P a r k
The Yes, The No, and The Okay Sign Good luck, your teacher won’t be able to say as she hands you a sheet of vocabulary. You’ll fill it out immediately, forgetting to write your name at the top as any second grader is prone to do. The instructions are to “Write synonyms for each of the words below.” While most of your fellow classmates will provide “wow” and “weird” for the word crazy, you’ll pencil down “ludicrous” and “bizarre” neatly handwritten like Times New Roman. For the word happy, you’ll write “halcyon” and add that sometimes, it refers to specific past periods of happiness. Your teacher will add “Truly precocious!!!” in cursive bleeding red near the bottom. You’ll give that gummy grin showing off your missing front teeth and finger the braids you did yourself with some tiptoeing and jumping in front of the bathroom mirror that morning. You decide to duct tape the worksheet above your bed at home later, overlapping with other successes. The idea will stop in its tracks when you wonder if there’ll be any tape left. No need to worry, I’ll be frequenting Staples by then. It began, more or less, with a picture dictionary. I had wrapped the bulky gift on your fifth Christmas, and as soon as you immaculately pulled apart the ribbons and paper with your cleanly cut nails, we laid on our stomachs next to each other to start reading. We giggled at the long words and the short words and the medium words, tried to appreciate the pictures too, and soon enough we bought more. Eventually, picture dictionaries became actual dictionaries, and then larger dictionaries. Your wooden bookshelves surrounding your desk threatened to break under the multiple dictionaries, with several in different languages (you would linger a few more minutes with French). In your free time, you would lean back snugly on your rolling chair, flip through some pages and pore over each word. You’d voice them out loud: first slow, then fast, sometimes lowly, some in a sickening falsetto tone, occasionally nasally, whatever you felt matched. In particular you pronounced “onomatopoeia” every single day. Words with multiple meanings were great as well; “set” having over a hundred definitions amused you to no end and you folded an especially large triangle at that page’s edge. You’ll become quite the writer as well. It may be due to your expansive vocabulary, but your teachers will note that you sound more like a middle aged man than a second grader writing stories. Usually you will take it as a compliment. You’ll have ten minutes before the school bus comes around the block and barely have pants on. “I hate school,” you’ll groan, which will be a lie since you will only be in fifth grade and look forward to every easy day but proclaim your hate anyways because you think it sounds cool. You will hand-comb your tangled hair, chant “cafune” a few times, and separate it into three equal sections; the muscle memory in your fingers will remember to braid tightly as they have done every day for years. Afterwards, you’ll rush down the stairway, jump over the last three steps, towards the 88
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F I C T I O N front door, and bump into me. “Mave!” I’ll read your lips and wait until they stop moving. “Can you get me a donut?” And as always, I’ll shrug and sign with my hands slightly: Can I? “You know what I mean!” And I’ll smile when you face your untied shoelaces before making you a sandwich, complete with the lettuce and tomatoes and radish you won’t eat and the ham you will. “The final word is mondegreen.” You will sit up, one leg on top of the other and feet relaxed, like someone who has performed onstage millions of times. You would, after all, be familiar with this word, three dictionaries’ definitions of it, and its origins. The judge table will call you up – “Speller 99, Miss Erica” – and you’ll try not to jump too enthusiastically in front of the microphone. “M-O-N-D-E-G-R-E-E-N. Mondegreen.” “I found a really nice word today, Mave. ‘Prozvonit,’ in Czech. It means to call someone and let it ring once before hanging up, so that they’ll call back and you won’t have to pay for the minutes. Isn’t that funny?” I will sign: Hilarious. You’ll say that you don’t appreciate my sarcasm, so I’ll shrug: Who said I was being sarcastic? Question 50: Based on the Latin root, “transport” is to carry: You will stare at the last question of the etymology tournament, then at the answer choices: behind, back, under, or across. Hopefully you will snort and promptly choose “across.” I’ll scrape the cream off the cracker as you pop the remaining Oreo crackers in your mouth. We’ll proceed like this throughout the entire pack. I won’t even have to sign; as soon as the crackers are there, both of us will become absorbed in the process of separating Oreo parts. I’ll have no idea what you would do without me to eat the cream. You will be selected as “Most Likely to Become Next Einstein” by your eighth grade class, along with some midget boy two heads shorter than you (granted, you’ll have grown quite tall). You’ll have to take a picture with him for the middle school yearbook. Uncomfortably, you both position yourself waist to waist and link sweaty arms as the cameraman takes his time finding his foot placement, distance, and other extremely important factors in order to snap a single picture. We’ll play poker in your room as the tradition goes. You’ll look at the worn out cards in your hand, cringing at a mere double pair, and crinkle your face up when you scrutinize my poker face. You will wonder if I consider even my eyelashes as I practice my poker face in the mirror (I don’t). You will surrender in the end to give away the stack of chips you bet so far. Your eyes will widen showing an unpleasant amount of white when you see that I only have a pair, and you’ll wonder how to stop falling for my bluff. I’ll sign “Victory” and pump a fist in the air. Unfortunately, the chips won’t be worth anything. TMC Spring 2015
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F I C T I O N You’ll return home from Washington D.C., where the High School National Spelling Bee is annually held. It will have gone great – phenomenally, in fact, as you become the national champion and discover deluges of articles written about you overnight – but strangely, all you’ll feel is drooping eyelids and a strong urge to nap. Maybe you expected to succeed. Either way, you’ll knock out the moment you touch your sheets, indifferent about where your new golden trophy rolls off to in those quiet hours. When the blanket slides off your outstretched leg and the cold shakes you awake, you’ll yawn to find your room tidied up, your myriad trophies and certificates dusted and arranged in rows on your desk, all through teary eyes. You know it’s me – I love cleaning up (and besides, our parents won’t be home often). You’ll get up and swing over to my room, which you won’t visit for some time after this day. My walls will always remain barren and empty, with only Polaroid pictures of birthdays and beach hangouts stuck along here and there. I will never excel in my classwork and will skip school often, but still look content in my photographs. You’ll shiver as you turn your head here and there until you spot the metallic glint from your Spelling Bee trophy, under my bed. Then you’ll walk downstairs without skipping the last three as you usually do; I’ll be set with a suitcase and a backpack slung over one shoulder, ready to go, before you interrupt: “Where are you going?” you nervously nibble on your fingernails. I’ll be too stiff to comment on it. I’ll find it difficult to sign: They found a new type of ear implant surgery that could actually work for me. You let the notion register. You will have always wished for me to hear again. I would be able to listen to the ups and downs of your voice, your high pitched giggles, and your beloved words. We wouldn’t have to use sign language anymore. You panic anyways. “Don’t! Don’t! I’ll resent it or loathe it or abhor it.” You’ll run your words away without thinking it through. “I said, I’ll hate you.” And when your lips are done, I’ll sign Okay. You’ll curiously watch a missed call icon from an unknown number on your Blackberry. You typically delete these kinds of things, but the call is suspiciously recent and you wonder why you hadn’t heard the ringtone go off. You’ll listen impatiently to ringing before I pick up. “Hi, Ricky. Do you remember Prozvonit?” You physically take a step back. Yes, you’ll have recalled the word clearly, but not the voice. “Hi, but who are you.” I’ll say my name and you’ll pull the speaker away from your ears disbelievingly and you’ll press the red phone button harder than necessary to hang up. What a cruel prank call, you’ll mutter under your breath. Then you’ll think, what if, just what if, save my number because what if. Call me back. I’ll wait.
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A R T Oakmont Regional High School
Under The Sea
/ Class of 2017
Kaylin Ciesluk
d r a w i n g
Dr eam Still-life
Ellen Blazer
Brimmer and May School
/ Class of 2018
TMC Spring 2015
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A R T Lenox High School
/ Class of 2015
L e a h
H a s k e l l
Rose
p a i n t i n g
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A R T Lenox High School
L e a h
/ Class of 2015
H a s k e l l
Rose Dew Drop
p a i n t i n g
TMC Spring 2015
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F I C T I O N North Attleboro High School
/ Class of 2016
A l y c i a
N i c h o l s
Not a Crush The first time I saw anonymous, I knew he would’ve been a beautiful girl. He had gorgeous features that were put together on an unusual and yet, somehow altogether too bland face that was easy to forget. His big, lavender eyes were expressive, his lips a shade of lightly flushed coral. He had a small face and a powdery dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose and cheeks which made him look weak and dumb for a boy. His pale skin was a clear, soft, white, like the petals of lilies, which contrasted exquisitely yet awkwardly with his midnight-so-black-almost-blue hair. He was, to put it simply, so attractive yet so unappealing. I think that most everybody was shocked in some way the first time they saw him. I guess that imbalanced, topsy-turvy, gross feeling that he gives you goes away for most people. It’s probably like building up immunity or pain tolerance to something. Maybe the reason I still look for him whenever I’m in a crowd is because I still cry when I go to get a shot at the doctor’s office. Not that I’d look for him because I think he’s special. It’s just...force of habit...I guess... He was disappointing to look at, honestly. And yet, by and by, due to the curse known as alphabetical seating charts, he sat next to me in practically every class we had together. He didn’t know who I was, obviously. I was a blur, like a mistake that couldn’t be erased. A mark rubbed profusely with every brand of eraser until no one knew what the mark even was anymore. I was a ghost in the halls, I was everywhere but I passed so fast that you couldn’t catch a glance. It was a comfort to know he’d never wonder what I was thinking about when I gazed thoughtfully in his general direction but it also frustrated me to no end. How dare he force his way into my mind and occupy my thoughts whenever he walked near? How dare he not even have any opinion of me? I didn’t have a crush on him, really. Not even a mere squish. I loathed him. He was not worthy of even a glance from me, let alone a single thought about what his goals were or how pretty his eyes were when one was sitting close enough and he was sufficiently distracted so you could really look and look and look. And yet, here I am. Writing a whole memoir or whatever this thing would be called all about that… that…that moron! Ugh. His personality was dreadful too. It was almost amazing how he could be such a snob but so laid back and clownish all at once. It made me wonder at times, how I ever thought of him as delicate. But then he’d turn around and oh, that face. So ugly, so cute, he was like a jolie laide but male. We were partnered up for a project. He hated talking to me. I hated talking to him too. Asking him about his interests and life goals and trying to understand his perspective totally ruined his image and put a damper on my day. He found me to be boring but not boring enough to complain about to anyone, for which I was thankful but sad. I hated talking to him. 94
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F I C T I O N We only had one really interesting and animated conversation, and it was more of an argument, which fit our negative thoughts regarding one another. He couldn’t see me even when I was right in front of him. Nothing was important to him, and he couldn’t understand how everything could be so important to me. I hated him. Really. Honestly. Seriously. Truly. And I wish he had at least hated me too. And I wish that… At the most… He would’ve maybe even… Liked mNo. … I hate him.
TMC Spring 2015
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No. 13
MIXED FEELING 1
Ya n g H y u n C h o
p ain ting
Groton School / Class of 2016
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ISSN 2156-7298
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