Spring 2009
Massachusetts High School Literary Magazine www.themarblecollection.org
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Massachusetts high school literary magazine Spring 2009
TMC
What’s next?
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What is The Marble Collection? The Marble Collection is the first literary magazine to cater solely to Massachusetts high school students. The magazine boasts the finest student literary works in fiction, non-fiction (creative & academic), & poetry. TMC implements a literary venue that encourages students to perform as both authors & audience; one that enables students to review the works of their peers at the state level. Released biannually in the winter & the spring, the magazine is accessible online & in print. Our online magazine has the capacity to feature presentation videos, 3D product, & animated graphics. TMC satisfies the rising need for an online exchange within the humanities sector as our society increasingly depends on web-based media. TMC is a start-up nonprofit organization. We rely solely on grants, donations, & advertising sales to support the production of the magazine. We anticipate that future issues will yield greater participation & support.
Our Next Issue: Winter 2009-2010
We invite & encourage all Massachusetts secondary students to contribute to our next issue. From now on TMC will also be accepting art, video, and music submissions! Winter-issue Reading Period September 1, 2009 – November 30, 2009 To submit please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/submit 1
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TMC
Staff
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Editor-in-Chief Deanna Elliot
Associate Editors Elizabeth Hamel Sophia Lai
Photographer & Art Editor Jay D’Errico
Layout & Design Chris D’Errico Jay D’Errico Deanna Elliot
Advertising Executives Kerry Gallagher Erin O’Connor
Webmaster
Andrew Maury
Volunteer
Alex Dembrowsky
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Thanks
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Patrons
Thank you. MaryBeth D’Errico Kenneth Elliot Kyle Ridgeway Patsy Rose
Donations As a start-up publication, TMC needs the support of the Massachusetts High School Community at large. Our shared mission to improve the humanities sector for secondary students will be fulfilled through your generosity. To donate please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/donate Or by mailing a check payable to The Marble Collection, Inc. to the following address: The Marble Collection Donations 202 Main Street Lakeville, MA 02347
Subscription Single Copy: $6.50 One Year Subscription: $13.00 To purchase additional copies please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/subscribe 3
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Special Thanks
to this issue’s contributing high schools and teacher liasons: Advanced Math & Science Academy Agawam High School Attleboro High School Bishop Feehan High School
Literature Department Colleen Moren Adeline Bee & Kevin Gorman Jeffrey Day
Bishop Stang High School
Joanne Fortier
Burlington High School
Patrick Larkin
Chicopee Comprehensive High School
Judith Chelte
Chicopee High School
Rebecca Pietrzykowski
Cohasset High School
John Wands
Dracut Senior High School
Robert Moulton
Everett High School
Linda O’Brien
Fitchburg High School
Ellen Gammel
Harwich High School
Anne Leete
Lowell High School
Suzanne Keefe
Melrose High School
Angela Singer
Milton Academy North Attleboro High School Northbridge High School Oakmont Regional High School Old Rochester Regional Randolph High School
James Connolly Jack Johnson Paula Mathieu Mark Nevard Teresa Dall Christine Beagan & Cheryl Wrin
Sharon High School
Janet Picheny
Taconic High School
Patrice Lattrell
Tantasqua High School
Aaron Berthiaume Spring 2009
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Contents
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How to Mimic the Universe // Poetry 7
By: Kristen Sparagna • Milton Academy • Grade 12
Utopia // Poetry 8
By: Tenzin Yangdon • Everett High School • Grade 11
Revenant // Fiction 9
By: Kristen Sparagna • Milton Academy • Grade 12
A Robot’s Obituary // Poetry 17
By: Emily Roseman • Old Rochester Regional • Grade 10
STOP // Poetry 18
By: Alex Beard • Old Rochester Regional • Grade 9
Numb // Fiction 19
By: Sarah Walsh • Old Rochester Regional • Grade 11
Pediatric Oncology Ward, Portland, Maine – November 7, 2007 //Poetry 22 By: Angela Baglione • Milton Academy • Grade 12
cry a resounding sound // Poetry 23
By: Xiaoyu Wang • Old Rochester Regional • Grade 10
A Photographic Memory // Poetry 25
By: Angela Baglione • Milton Academy • Grade 12
How ants carry on war // Poetry 26
By: Helen Merzdov • AMSA Charter School • Grade 10
January 2oth // Poetry 27
By: Molly Barrus • Old Rochester Regional • Grade 10
Waiting. // Poetry 28
By: Martha Barry • Bishop Stang High School • Grade 11
A Previous Engagement // Fiction 29
By: Catalina Llanas-Colon • Old Rochester Regional • Grade 11
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Sukkot Pantoum // Poetry 31
By: Esther Michel • AMSA Charter School • Grade 10
Dances with Your Father // Poetry 33
By: Catalina Llanas-Colon • Old Rochester Regional • Grade 11
The Perfect Christmas Gift // Fiction 35
By: Sarah Kassabian • Old Rochester Regional • Grade 11
Ode to Winter // Poetry 39
By: Emily Mudd • AMSA Charter School • Grade 10
GObama // Nonfiction 41
By: Peter Eramo • Dracut Senior High School • Grade 12
The Wait // Fiction 43
By: Rosana Hamadeh • Melrose High School • Grade 11
What Is Free Verse? // Poetry 45
By: Ana Belyakova • AMSA Charter School • Grade 10
A Portrait of the Dubliner as a Paralyzed Man 47 By: Leah Goddard • Dracut Senior High School • Grade 12
Homeric Similies // Poetry 49
By: Sukhmani Singh, Kristina Phelan, Vinicius Aguiar, Tina Bui, Kylan Nowell Everett High School • Grade 9
Rise from the Ashes // Nonfiction 51
By: Kaylie Crawford • Dracut Senior High School • Grade 11
Graduation // Poetry 57
By: Justine Marsella • Dracut Senior High School • Grade 11
California Sunset // Poetry 58
By: Mike Kesslak • Dracut Senior High School • Grade 11
TMC ON THE WEB themarblecollection.org Spring 2009
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How to Mimic the Universe
By: Kristen Sparagna • Milton Academy • Grade 12
“Entropy: the degradation of the matter and energy in the universe to an ultimate state of inert uniformity; chaos; disorder; randomness.” -Merriam-Webster
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Sinking deep into a tattered mattress, I try not to blink; restrain exhaustion with bruised lids. Sad eyes sting with effort. The pillow prickles, sticky beneath my neck. Their bedroom light no longer breaks under my door. Surrender to sleep would be quicksand. I would be dragged towards the earlier, latest fight. The desperate tear in her voice clenches my throat. His tempo on the countertops; every hand-beat syllable, an imprint, cracks my concentration. Their screaming accusations. The threats of “never coming back.” Tomorrow: She’ll wear polka dots. He’ll kiss her cheek before work. I’ll natter about a spelling bee. For now, I’m too young too weak too little practiced to resist reality clutch my chest, grip sharp fragments together. I curl up in the darkness, overpowered by itching, limp blankets— release to entropy.
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Utopia
By: Tenzin Yangdon • Everett High School • Grade 11
Se la vita fosse un’Utopia, Il sole brillerebbe sempre, E l’oscurità non verrebbe mai. Gli uccelli canterebbero sempre delle canzoni calmanti E i pesci ballerebbero nell’acqua.
If life were a Utopia, The sun would always shine, And darkness would never come. The birds would always chirp soothing songs And the fish would dance in the water.
Se la vita fosse un’Utopia, Bambini dipingerebbero sempre la loro immaginazione E il mondo sarebbe riempito con il colore. La terra odorerebbe sempre di aria di mattina E l’erba crescerebbe sempre per il cielo.
If life were a Utopia, Children would always paint their imagination And the world would be filled with color. The earth would always smell of morning air And the grass would always reach for the sky.
Se la vita fosse un’Utopia, le Persone vivrebbero nell’armonia E la violenza non verrebbe mai. Il gusto di dolcezza spruzzerebbe la bocca E la vita sarebbe vista come eterna.
If life were a Utopia, People would live in harmony And violence would never spread. The taste of sweetness would sprinkle the mouth And life would be seen as everlasting
Ma la vita non è un’Utopia. cio e viviamo.
But life is not a Utopia. It is what we see.
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Revenant By: Kristen Sparagna • Milton Academy • Grade 12
The back beach of Dowses’ Park is always empty—except, of course, for the plovers. Piping plovers are weak, little shoreline birds who, as a result of either evolutionary preference or existential angst, are quite disinclined to fly. Their speckled feathers match the sand so perfectly that sometimes their bodies simply rise up from the beach, like ghosts. Sometimes, I imagine that the plovers are formed by the shifting silt deep beneath the surface, far below and beyond Centerville. My mother grew up in this town, too. We have a picture of her in our stairwell, but it doesn’t match the stories. Her lips are stretched thin; their acute angles point outwards, towards the gilded frame, rather than up. A dark, thick braid—as densely and precisely woven as the dock 9
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lines down by the pier—trails down her left shoulder and out of the picture, tightly tethering her image to our home. I have her hair, Nana tells me, same beautiful chestnut color. But, for some reason, mine is always a nest of snarls. It never wants to behave properly. I cry when Nana brushes it before school. Nana just hums or tells me that I’m too old now, for crocodile tears. In her portrait, my mother’s hair is pulled so tight; I imagine that if she squinted back at me, her skin would split along the seam of her hair and pool at her feet like a silk gown. And she could just float away. I wonder where she’d go. I wonder if she cried when Nana brushed her hair, too. The plovers are terrified of hawks and anything that reminds them of hawks. Once,
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Nana bought me an old purple kite that we found in the dusty dime store on Maycomb Way. I never had a kite before. The smooth, synthetic material reflected in the sun, but as my fingers slipped over its wings and traced its edges, the light would scatter from my touch, like minnows in the water. I brought the kite with me to Dowses’ and Nana helped me launch it. I kicked sand up, giggling and running with my purple wings, and watched as the wind swept down to toss my kite into the blue sky. Nana showed me how to hold the wooden spindle, how to weave the string back and forth through the air. I controlled this purple cut-out of the sky. When the kite’s shadow passed over a plover nest, we heard a shocked, highpitched piirrrp. Nana grabbed my hand and we left after that. I only understood later, when I heard Nana talking to Daddy in the kitchen that night. “Poor things,” Nana said, “Hearts burst in their chests, they were so frightened.” “Did Phoebe see?” Daddy asked. Daddy always worries about my knowing when other people were scared. Daddy never tells me how close other people are to the shadows. The next day, I took that stupid kite out to the garage and cut it to pieces. My little brother, Ronnie, would have been born in January. I had heard some other mothers on Main Street;
they would watch me with big eyes and behind their hands, talk about the drowning of Meredith Beldam, and the ‘miscarrying’ of my baby brother. I asked Nana if he was the reason why my mother left us. That was the first time I ever saw Nana really mad. “She didn’t miscarry. The child was stillborn,” Nana said. Then, she took my face between her withered hands and leaned so close that I could smell the jasmine perfume that she likes to spray on her neck on Sundays. I could almost trace the cataracts in her milky-blue eyes. She held me where we were practically breathing the same air. “There’s a difference. Do you understand?” Nana asked. Nana was searching my face for something. I nodded because I didn’t want to disappoint her. But, I didn’t understand. Didn’t both mean the same thing? That my mother had lost my brother and so in return, we had to lose her. In the autumn, the plovers work up the motivation to fly. They rise in flocks and move together, as one entity, in serpentine formation. They escape to Brazil and spend the winter lounging on top of glossy banana leaves. However, in addition to being the unluckiest of all birds, piping plovers are also a South American delicacy. Hungry, brown fingers pluck the plovers from their summer nests. Then, the U.S. Spring 2009
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pays these Brazilians—still smacking their greasy lips—to send back the plovers’ tracking tags—still wrapped around thin, orange legs, cellophane on a toothpick. Fewer plovers return every spring. That’s why the park decided to set up a reservation for them on Dowses’ back beach. The plovers won’t be disturbed here. The locals know this place is haunted and the tourists think it’s a dump. I think this place is beautiful. Back Beach has an abandoned charm. The mangled wrack line of marsh grass, dying seaweed and gnarled driftwood curves to the break of the tide. The sand, always damp and coarse, grates between my toes and scratches at my throat before settling heavy in my lungs. I choke on the salty whistle of the wind, stumbling with near-recognition. This was where my mother walked out into the ocean and never came back. I had been thinking a lot about what life as a plover would mean: to be so afraid and fragile and vulnerable, and to still survive. I thought they were very heroic so, I told Emily Griffin, a seventhgrader who lives down the street, about the plovers. She thinks I’m weird, too, but she’s too cool to run away like the younger kids. Her mother works during the day and wants to be an actress, so Emily has always been a grown-up. “Well, if that isn’t proof 11
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“
This was where my mother walked out into the ocean and never came back.
that Mother Nature’s a sadistic witch,” Emily said. I didn’t get it, but I laughed anyways. Emily can get kind of persnickety if people don’t laugh at her jokes. She always needs a good audience. I wonder if Emily picked that up from her mother. Sometimes, I wonder if any mother realizes what she truly imparts to her children. When the police first told Daddy, he stood on the beach for the three whole days and wouldn’t say anything to anybody. He still doesn’t say much, I guess—especially not about my mother. Sometimes, he comes to back beach with me and just sits, looking at the ocean. It scares me because I’m not sure if he’s still hoping, still waiting for her to come back, or if he’s thinking about going in after her. I come to the beach often, sometimes with Nana, and we watch the plovers. Sometimes, I come by myself to visit my mother. I ask her about things—mostly about kites, or Ronnie, or Brazil, or where Nana keeps her hairbrushes. Sometimes, I hate her; those
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days, I ask her mean, pointless questions: why she couldn’t stay, why she couldn’t love me, why I wasn’t enough, and, most importantly, why she won’t come back in the spring. It was Thursday, Nana’s Bridge night, so we were having tuna fish sandwiches. Daddy’s and my plastic placemats feel very far apart without Nana between us. Thursdays are soundless. I was clearing the table when Daddy broke our silence. “We’re leaving,” he said, still staring at the space his plate had been. I made sure that the dishes didn’t shake and that each of steps was exactly two kitchen tiles long. I didn’t turn around even when I reached the sink. Inside, there were three forks, head
up, sitting in a half-filled coffee mug. Nana’s lipstick lined the rim. That had been there just this morning, right? Been in this house? In my life? I ignored Daddy. If I didn’t look back at him, I could still pretend that he hadn’t frightened me. I could pretend he wasn’t there. Like peek-aboo. We were good at that. But Daddy didn’t wait for me to answer. “Phoenix will be good for all of us,” he said. His voice cracked at the end. I spun back around. It sounded like he was pleading. Daddy was looking at me, really looking. I could see the tiniest flecks of gold in his brown eyes and wondered if he was memorizing my irises, too.
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“Where is it?” I asked. The world had always been here. Centerville was it. The newspaper mentioned other places, sure, but those towns weren’t really real. People didn’t actually live there. They were just like the monkeys shot into space. But I would be brave, if it meant that Daddy would keep seeing me. “Arizona”, he said. Landlocked, I thought. Daddy broke our gaze, and looked down at the floor. He looked grayer. The gold flecks must have just been from the ceiling lamp. Daddy stood, and moved out to the living room. I stayed in the kitchen for a long time. I thought heard sirens further down the road, but it may have been my imagination. That night, I dreamt of a tidal wave. I was alone on Dowses’ beach and watching the wall of water surge towards me. I was not afraid. I felt heavy and calm, like in the moment between wake and sleep. The air was sweet and humid, and clung to my skin. I felt nearly transparent in the moonlight. A plover landed on the jetty, and called out. I followed it. There was no reasoning, no hesitation between thought and action. Things just happened. The wave in the distance grew larger as I climbed onto the rocks. I didn’t feel the rough granite or need to focus on my uneven steps. I flowed
towards the water, the plover leading. Time skipped ahead, as it often does in dreams. The wave hit and the world had been drained of noise. I was wrapped inside the ocean, warm as bath water. And I was happy. Happy. Arms came around me, drew me close and down. I felt seaweed brush against my cheek. She was humming a lullaby I might have learned once. I pulled back slightly, still cupping her elbows; I needed to see her.
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That night, I dreamt of a tidal wave. I was alone on Dowses’ beach and watching the wall of water surge towards me. I was not afraid.
Her pupils were swollen, extending to the ridges of the sockets save for a faint circle of silver. I had seen these before at the fish market—eyeholes with more shadow than color. Scales crawled over her cheekbones, shimmering with each turn of the light. I was mesmerized, the slender slits on neck flitting up and down. In a detached part of my mind, I noted that I couldn’t breathe. I reached forward to hold a strand of her hair, but snapped my hand back at the first touch. It was slimy, green, unbraided. Mother looked at me then, and I think she wanted to cry. I couldn’t say for sure, though. It’s hard to tell when you’re drowning.
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“The wave hit and the world had been drained of noise. I was wrapped inside the ocean, warm as bath water. And I was happy. Happy. Arms came around me, drew me close and down.�
700 Beacon Street Boston, Massachusetts 02215-2598
Summer Pre-College Programs Summer: July 6–July 31, 2009 Exhibition: July 31, 2009 Over 50 courses in the visual arts in the areas of artistry, technology, and professions for college credit. Programs are designed for high school students at the college level in an art college and university setting. Particular attention is paid to portfolio development. Summer Young Artist Residency Program offers a comprehensive program of courses and activities. 6 college credits. Application deadline is May 15, 2009. Experience summer in Boston and college life. Visit www.aiboston.edu/precollege or call 617.585.6724 for more information.
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A Robot’s Obituary By: Emily Roseman • ORR • Grade 10
Sat at the assembly line. Worked since the beginning of time. Never stopped till the chime. Only worked for a dime. Never spoke a word, never decided to stand. Only believed in what he heard, always met our constant demand. A regular motion, no need for promotion, all the while, showing no emotion. What a marvelous robot! Such a tremendous, dutiful worker. So dexterous in movement, always mimicking for improvement. Which is why we were struck with pain when our robot made us no gain. The wires were broken, his work a token. Just one defect, and he was wrecked. We say this with our deepest sorrow, for now he lays in pieces, dead. We killed this man last night, watching in mourning as he bled. 17
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STOP By: Alex Beard • ORR • Grade 9
“Stop!” we cry as we split the sky the life we yearn for the one we burn is a fate we seal with the bloodstained steel with which we pried our own throats wide perhaps you see no sense in me I’m sure you sense through smoke so dense that while we sit life is forfeit for on what we depend we do nothing to mend Spring 2009
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“The wind picked . . . . up, and he felt the air nipping at his skin. He looked down to see a naked toe peering out of a hole in his left work boot.”
Numb
By: Sarah Walsh • ORR • Grade 11
It was cold. November was here. “Only ten more left!” The man counted the people ahead of him in line. Seven. Good. He had a place to sleep tonight. The wind picked up, and he felt the air nipping at his skin. He looked down to see a naked toe peering out of a hole in his left work boot. It was nothing new to him, but the stinging was bothering him more than usual today. Maybe it was the fact that winter was approaching. Maybe it was just that he had been standing in line for three hours. “Move it, buddy!” An angry woman was shoving him from behind. The man took a deep breath of cool air and stepped inside the shelter. A short-tempered woman and a muttering older man wearing a neon-orange wool hat followed him in. A volunteer shut the heavy door and locked it with a key. “Here you are, sir,” said a pink-cheeked young girl as she handed him a blanket and a bar of soap. “You can find a room down this hallway.” She jerked a fist and thumb over her right shoulder. “Dinner will be ready at five.” A sparkling smile emerged from her small cherry red lips. The man could nearly make out a faintly glowing halo around the girl’s head. “Hmmph,” he grunted as he grabbed the bundle. The smile stayed glued to the girl’s face. Walking to his room, the man thought about the girl. Why was he always so rude? He didn’t mean to be; he had just given up on manners along with so many other things. He tried to remember the same glowing smile that once lit up the face of his daughter. Where was she now? Where was her mother? Yet the man did not care to seek the answers to these questions. He had grown numb to the pain of heartbreak. Grown numb to disappointment. Numb to depression. Numb to the piercing stares of the fortunate girls on Fifth Avenue. Numb to the judgment of men unknown. To guilt, to regret, to joy, and to love. Grown numb to life. He found a room, tossed the blanket and soap on a stained cot and looked around. Cracked, white walls. A cold, aluminum chair. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip… A hole in the ceiling. His stomach 19
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grumbled, but he couldn’t hear it. He had grown numb to hunger as well. The sound of shuffling feet in the hall broke his daze. It must be five o’clock. The man trudged to the kitchen where the curious smell of dozens of soups filled the air. He stepped into yet another line to retrieve his food. The man with the neon hat was in front of him, talking to himself. The man ignored the muttering and looked around the room. It was medium-sized with the same cracked white walls as his room. Fairly empty, but with long bench-style tables in every square foot. The line was moving quickly. “Are you kidding me?!” The man looked to his left where he saw a teenaged girl behind the food counter shouting into a cell phone. She had beautiful, long blond hair and a freshly painted French manicure. Her blouse was spotless, and her pants didn’t hold a single crease. She wore the same apron as the other volunteers but wasn’t working. “WHAT?! …No! I specifically told In every them yellow roses! …Absolutely not! Do you honestly think I would ever agree shelter he sees it: to have carnations at my party? I never said that! …Well I’m sorry but that just the high school won’t do. Tell her to figure it out herself or don’t bother coming.” She slammed kids who try to the phone shut and snapped off a fake stack up their nail in the process. “Dammit!” she hissed to herself. community service The man shook his head. In every shelter he sees the same thing: high hours as a desperate school kids trying to stack up their community service hours as a desperate attempt to get into attempt to get into college. Humans college. Humans only do good when rewarded. He sighed and moved a step closer to the server. A watery concoction of soups was plopped only do good when into a bowl and handed to him. He rewarded. looked into the bowl to see chicken, noodles, some rice, some veggies, little bits of alphabet pasta, and some chunks of tomato all swimming in a luke-warm, diluted mixture. A woman carrying a basket approached him, set a slice of homemade banana bread on his tray, and said, “God bless you.” The man sat alone, slurping his soup and staring at the rain-streaked windows. Every now and then, he would hear a horn honking or an impatient driver swearing in the city streets. He watched a drug deal go down, and even witnessed the mugging of an elderly woman strolling down the sidewalk. Is this honestly the life men want? What is the point in living if this is the life we see everyday? After every droplet and crumb was consumed, he sighed again, got up, stretched, and slowly began his walk back to his room. He heard the patter of raindrops on the thin metal roof. He heard the soft tap and squeak of his boots hitting the linoleum floors of the
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hallways. A fluorescent ceiling light flickered off and then on again as it buzzed overhead. The man peered into each room as he walked by. He saw a mother washing her little boy in a dirty sink. He saw an old African-American woman kneeling beside a cot, praying. He saw a teenage Hispanic girl reading a storybook to her little sister. He overheard two men in a doorway sharing tales of beautiful women and brutal wars. What are the stories of these people? How long have they been living on the streets? Were they evicted? Released from prison? Orphans? Widows? What keeps them going day after day? The man asked himself the same. What keeps me going each day? Hope? Possibility? For one who has nothing, why live? He entered his room and washed the day’s dirt off his face. He looked at his reflection, dripping with cold tap water, dripping with defeat and despair. The timed fluorescents were all simultaneously extinguished. The man sat in the dark thinking, eyes wide open, what the next morning would bring. A job? A love? A home? No, he knew tomorrow would bring the same thing. Another line. Another shelter. Another numbness. He wrapped the blanket tightly around himself and lay down. It was cold. November was here.
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Pediatric Oncology Ward, Portland, Maine – November 7, 2007 By: Angela Baglione • Milton Academy • Grade 12 “All right, everyone, listen up. We’ve got a new one in today. Maddie Johnson, three years old. Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. Diagnosed two days ago. Lives on a farm over in Wiscasset. Dad’s the farmer. Mom’s a runner. Great family. I suggest a three-year plan. That’ll bring us to January 2010, If all goes accordingly. Induction Phase: 28 days. Consolidation Phase: 28 days. Interim Maintenance Phase: 50 days. Here we’ll switch to Vincristine, Dexamethasone, Mercaptopurine, And methotrexate. PEG-Asparaginase for chemo. Delayed Intensification Phase: 42 days. Maintenance Phase: 549 days. She’s cute and we have to do our best. Look at her there, Smiling like nothing’s wrong. She has no idea what she’s in for.”
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cry a resounding sound Xiaoyu Wang • ORR • Grade 10
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A baby cries a sound resounding in a ghost white room Soft rustling in the air: the sound of a broom A dead woman lies, pale gray under sheets The birth of a child that is not an easy feat Quiet screaming into the silence of air All live knowing life is not fair To pass through pearl white gates of heaven The cry sounds as the bell tolls seven The silent cold of night in eternal calm Hold life and death within your palm A single cut strays the line To define what is fine The flash of pain from dark eternity Like a shattered quiet serenity In the ghostly white room a tomb is made The bell tolls before it begins to fade A cry sounds resounding in a devil dark room A last scrap of life swept up by a broom
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A Photographic Memory I, watching the photographs cake the walls, stand in line with baseball teams and twin sisters waiting to see him. We used to stand in line together buying milk, he, in a swarm of girls who dreamt of knowing more than his name. Now, those girls watch their dreams slide away, following the bridge of his nose into the grave. By: Angela Baglione • Milton Academy • Grade 12
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How ants carry on war I see everyone Individually, And everyone has a problem with Codependency. I will take responsibility, If someone else has accountability. Happiness doesn’t grow on trees. Forgiveness is not my expertise. I cannot change. I can’t shake the world in a gentle way. So stay, Stay away. Mirror neurons make me contagious.
By: Helen Merzdov • AMSA Charter School • Grade 10 Spring 2009
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January 20th By: Molly Barrus • ORR • Grade 10
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Lost your race, what a disgrace Racist cries have no alibis Made your case, what a waste Earth is dying, children crying Ticking time, lost your rhyme No help from you, there are better things to do Find some oil, beauty to soil Tears falling as rain On the streets dying in pain Help the wealthy Others struggling to stay healthy To live, to give Yet you don’t care, nothing to share Leave us here filled with fear Good thing you lost, not at the nation’s cost The book is closing, stop imposing A new chapter has begun, your time is done A glimmer of hope shines through The storm has ended, clouds are broken.
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W Waiting.
By: Martha Barry • Bishop Stang • Grade 11
He was still talking, over-indignant shouting. I had to laugh; I have a penchant for laughing. His past failures and problems I began to know, too well. Through the icy atmosphere, I sat up straighter. I Was Still There Waiting, So was he. In spite of everything, I found possibilities and joys in this bitterly aging stranger. “Each morning reasserts my problems,” he sang. I didn’t believe him. The flickering light above us, The cold bench underneath, I had never felt so optimistic—hopeful. Each new day is a new life. Even in a winter like this, hibernation, might suspend some problems, but it doesn’t change them. I kicked up snow with my boot and watched its purities float away. I decided to walk home instead. Spring 2009
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A Previous Engagement
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By: Catalina Llanas-Colon • ORR • Grade 11
here I was, just standing there. What I wanted to do was forbidden. I would have given anything to take his hand, to bury my face between his neck and shoulder, to let my hands run down his back. Instead, I could feel the blood freezing in my veins, my muscles cramping, my joints locking stubbornly. He looked down at his feet then stared up at me through his eyelashes, his fists buried deep in the pockets of his jeans. His mouth formed a small ‘o’, an insignificant explanation. If I were an hourglass, he would have been the sand, slipping, sliding, skidding with no one to turn me on my side and trap him, no one to stop the time. He took another sip of champagne and turned to face the beach. Despite the alcohol in my blood, I felt cold. Goose-bumps had risen along his arms where he had rolled up his sleeves to the elbow. The noise behind us hummed happily and the lights were shades of honey and gold and cast our shadows onto the sand. I drained the rest of my glass and stepped from the patio onto the beach, leaving the glass, the lights and the noise on the patio railing. He hesitated, and then his shadow bent over and took off his shoes and followed me into the sand. We walked in silence until we reached a stretch of sand where 29
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all the beach houses were dark and the party was far behind us. “We should go back,” I said. He looked at his feet, looked up at me through his eyelashes, “We should go swimming.” “Right now?” “Right now.” We lost our shirts. We shed our jeans. In the dark, I could barely make out the shape of his shoulders and familiar chest, arms, stomach. I crossed my arms over my chest and hugged my shoulders. My stomach shrank towards my ribcage in the cold and my toes wiggled themselves into the sand, trying to anchor myself. My knees trembled. We stepped towards the surf. We were waist deep in the water when he apologized, catching my shoulder and placing the tip of his tongue on his right canine, like he does when he is thinking hard. His eyebrows hitch together and I wondered if she knew this face, his wondering face, his waitingfor-your-answer face, his trying-tomake-out-your-thoughts face. I wondered if she knew that he could write with both his left and right hand, that he wears his socks even after they have holes, that he still invites his mother to dinner, or that thing he does with his newspapers. I knelt in the sand, the water rising so that everything above my shoulders was exposed to the chilly air. He joined me, somehow his hands found mine, knitted our fingers together, squeezed hard like a prayer. I pleaded, “What do you want me to say? What do I do? Should I ask about the ring? Should I suggest a caterer?” I heard him inhale; I heard his voice waiver and catch, “I want you to stop me.” Spring 2009
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Poetry........................................................................
Sukkot Pantoum
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By: Esther Michel • AMSA • Grade 10
ukkot is the Jewish harvest holiday. As it gets colder and the leaves change colors my family and I build a sukkah on our deck— our small harvest hut. As it gets colder and the leaves change colors we invite guests to our home and sit in our small harvest hut and sip warm cinnamon apple cider. We invite guests to our home and sit in our own sukkah and sip warm cinnamon apple cider as we sing songs from the Jewish past. Our own sukkah— there is a roof of leaves above our heads as we sing songs from the Jewish past and we huddle together to stay warm. There is a roof of leaves above our heads secured with twine and we huddle together to say warm. We admire the seasonal decorations. Secured with twine: eucalyptus, potpourri, and a cornucopia. We admire the seasonal decorations; the autumn scents wash over us. Eucalyptus, potpourri, and a cornucopia, with our traditional Sukkot items. The autumn scents wash over us; we feel the success from our hard work.
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With our traditional Sukkot items, the lulav and the etrog, we feel the success from our hard work as we hold them together in our hands. The lulav and the etrog, symbolizing the unity of all Jews, as we hold them together in our hands we feel the connection too. Symbolizing the unity of all Jews we invite all our friends, and we feel the connection too as we all celebrate Sukkot together.
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Poetry........................................................................
Dances with Your Father By: Catalina Llanas-Colon • ORR • Grade 11
In the morning, hands small enough to curl inside his palm Reaching upwards, calloused hands around plushy waist Swung high, swung round and round Overhead looking down Tiny-toothed smile, giggles bubbling up Crushed to his broad chest, he sways Head in his palm, his lips on velveteen skin This place is safer than a cradle Despite the distance between the swinging feet and spinning linoleum tile He will never falter, never lose his grip, never forget the steps, and never let you fall Never, never, never let you fall In the middle of the day, he stumbles through the kitchen door Reaching upwards, calloused hands stroke childish hair Stretch around and dirty fingernails barely meet against his back The smell is sharp, woodchips and something that burns down throats He is dusty; he is aching; he sways A face, small enough to fit between his palms presses into his once-taut stomach Barefoot on the top of his boots He edges away, pushing undeveloped arms back where they belong He can’t remember the steps He had faltered, had forgotten, was beginning to lose his grip Then you fell
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In the afternoon, their voices shatter against the linoleum tile He is shouting: eyes flashing, jaw stretching, voice ripping through sounds you’ve never heard before The smell, of burning down throats, has replaced the woodchips completely He is dusty; he is aching; he sways His hand on the kitchen table He is moving forward, she is falling back You take a step, reach out your arms and you are dancing A new dance No one, no one knows the steps Hands, unsteady, around his wrists His belt buckle against a developing abdomen A push and a wall and it is still not over A spin, three steps, socks snagging on carpet Your arms around his waist again, unsteady hands grabbing opposite wrists Head falls against his panting chest The shouting stops, his voice and hers His arms, outstretched, crumple; They press against shoulders with the potential to be his own He sways This is an old dance In the evening, arms reaching diagonally Chins on each others’ shoulders His calloused hand thuds against your back, presses between your shoulder blades He smells of cologne, you of woodchips Your shoulders are his own He sways Finding that you both still remember the steps
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The Perfect Christmas Gift By: Sarah Kassabian ORR • Grade 11
The first time I saw him, it was 18 degrees outside. At the time I was seven years old, and was in the car heading to my grandmother’s house for a sleep over. On the way there, I saw the
man. He stood near the street light on the corner in front of my doctor’s office in Wareham. He stood outside the radius of light cast down from the street lamp above him, perhaps so that he could blend in with the darkness. But my eyes were sharp at the time. I could see puffs of warm breath being exhaled from the man’s mouth rhythmically. The warm breath flew out of his 35
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mouth as white smoke and then fused with the crisp cold air. As my grandmother drove on by, I kept looking back through the rear window, mesmerized by the man’s breathing, his only sign of life. The next morning, my grandmother and I piled back into the car, and embarked on our annual Christmas shopping extravaganza. We went to every
store a young girl could possibly imagine. In my right hand I clutched my Barbie pocket notebook and a purple crayon to scribble down my Christmas wish list for Santa Claus. As soon as we entered the toy store, I caught sight of the best present ever. Right before my eyes was the most amazing hot-pink Barbie convertible. I immediately ran
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over to it, clutched it in my arms to make sure I wasn’t dreaming; it was absolutely perfect. It was equipped with shiny new rims, cheetah seats, furry dice on the rearview mirror, and a set of keys for Barbie. It glistened under the florescent lights of the store. I opened my notebook and jotted down in huge letters, “BARBIE CONVERTIBLE.” Throughout the day, I added a few more items to my wish list, but nothing measured up to the hot-pink car.
“
and the scarf failed to hide the scowl on this face. The look of exhaustion, pain, and suffering were plastered to his face, unable to be hidden. The deep wrinkles and worry lines on his forehead were impossible to overlook. I looked down at his feet to find them crammed into a beat up pair of brown, leather loafers. They had holes in them, which his toes squeezed out of. Three of his toes were exposed to the harsh winter air.
He wore a dirty, forest green trench coat, stuffed with newspaper pages. At the time I wondered why any one would cram newspaper into their coat. I now realize that the man used recycled newspaper for insulation. It had been an exhausting morning of shopping, and I was quite relieved when my grandmother said that we could go back home. As we approached the doctor’s office on the way back, I kept an eye out for the man. And, just as I suspected, he stood in the exact same position as the night before. In the sunlight, he was much easier to see, but much more terrifying. His beard was tangled and overgrown. His back was slightly hunched, perhaps from standing for such a long time. I wondered if he had slept through the night standing up. He wore a dirty, forest green trench coat, stuffed with newspaper pages. At the time I wondered why anyone would cram newspaper into their coat. I now realize that the man used recycled newspaper for insulation. He wore the hood on his coat and an old wool scarf, gnawed at by moths throughout the years. However, both the hood
The most terrifying thing of all, however, had nothing to do with his appearance. Next to him lay a pile of apple cores: brown, rotten, and decayed. The man had devoured every last bit of flesh on the apples, down to the cores. How long had they been there? How long had the man been there? Years later I realized where the apples where from. The man had collected apple cores that by passers discarded from their car windows, and ate whatever was left of them. Much to my surprise, my grandmother knew the man. She pulled over to the side of the road and unrolled the window. Burr. It’s freezing out there. The man took a step closer. “Well hello, Louise,” he said to my grandmother, “How are you doing today?” “Not too bad.” she responded. “I just got back from Christmas shopping with my granddaughter. Spring 2009
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He pressed his red nose against the back window so that he could see me. A smile flashed across his face. His eyes gleamed and I was amazed to see that the man was happy. “How was the store? Did you find the perfect gift?” he asked. I nodded excitedly, thinking about the Barbie convertible. The man then continued to converse with my grandmother. She gave him a dollar and some change. “Here,” she said, “go get yourself a nice, hot coffee. There’s a pay phone inside the Dunkin Donuts. Use the quarters and give me a call if you need a ride anywhere.” “Aaah—Louise,” he said, “you’re too good to me.”And at that we drove away. When we got back home, I asked my grandma a gazillion questions. “Where does he live? Why does he sleep outside? Doesn’t he have a family anywhere?” My grandma patiently answered all my
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questions and explained that he was homeless and couldn’t find a job. Then I asked, “Who’s going to get him a Christmas gift?” “Well, your grandfather and I always get him a gift, but we’re the only ones,” she sighed. It was truly sad to think that someone wouldn’t be able to pick out their own perfect Christmas gift. That night I lay awake in my bed. I tossed and turned, but all I could think about was the man. After much contemplation, I sat up, turned on the lights, and opened my notebook. I hesitantly touched my crayon to the paper, bit my lip, and crossed out my Christmas wish “BARBIE CONVERTIBLE”. In its place I wrote down a new pair of shoes for the man. I was certain it would be the perfect Christmas gift for him. I set the notebook down, turned out the light, and fell fast asleep.
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Spring 2009
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Poetry.......................................................................
Ode to Winter By: Emily Mudd • AMSA • Grade 10
Your frigidness hits my face My eyes sting, my nose is red Your bitter damp cold seeps into my body Fingers numb, toes frozen I squeeze myself tight to protect myself from you You bring long months of gloom and dread Darkness comes too soon You keep me locked inside, bundling for warmth I wish and pray, “Please just go away” But then you bring snow Your flakes drift downward, twirling and dancing You quickly blanket everything in sight Creating a tranquil wonderland Your crisp clean fluffy snow makes everything new Theres nothing as magical as everything in white I have no choice but to forgive you 39
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Nonfiction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
GObama!
By: Peter Eramo • Dracut Senior High School • Grade 12
In a rivalry as heated as the Red Sox versus the Yankees, Barack Obama stood victorious over John McCain in a hard fought presidential election.
O
we can achieve anything. Obama does an incredible job bama has the getting his message across privilege of being our to his audience by using the nation’s first black repetition of three simple president, and has already words: “Yes we can.” These influenced many individuals three words may be small, but worldwide. On his victory once combined, they form an day, the next President of the United States of America made unbelievably moving statement that rings across the nation. an acceptance speech in front Obama’s use of anaphora of a worldwide audience from Chicago. His acceptance speech can be compared to another famous speech that rang was so effective because of his across the nation in the 1963: use of rhetorical strategies, including anaphora, ethos, and the “I Have a Dream” speech by Martin Luther King Jr. pathos. He used the words “I have a Barack Obama’s goal is dream” to emphasize strongly to ensure all Americans and to his audience that his dream everyone else worldwide that is shared by many others. a change is coming. Obama Barack Obama follows in wants the citizens of the King’s footsteps and provides United States of America an effective rhetorical strategy to know that as one nation, that draws his audience 41
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closer to fully comprehend his speech’s purpose. There are many reasons to listen to Barack Obama’s speeches. Obama gives the public a layout of his intentions as president. He pledges to the audience that he will work together with government officials to improve our current conditions and will provide a change for our entire nation. Obama also shows ethos in his acknowledgements towards his opponents Senator John McCain of Arizona and Governor Sarah Palin of Alaska. Obama not only makes note of their hard fought battle, but he also mentions how he “look[s] forward to working with them to renew this nation’s promise in the months ahead.” This statement appeals to the Republican supporters who may have felt defeated and gives them a sense of comfort knowing Obama will work with them. Obama’s use of ethos is very effective in drawing the reader in because he gives everyone in the nation, white or black, Democrat or Republican, a reason to tune in. Barack Obama uses a prime example of pathos in his victory speech. Obama speaks of a 106-year-old woman, Ann Nixon Cooper, who stood in line with millions of others in hopes of making a change. Obama tells her story, pointing out two accomplishments she lived through: the right to vote for women and the right
to vote for African Americans. Her story is very powerful because she is living proof that change is possible in time. Cooper had lived through a period of time where cars and planes did not exist, and she now has lived to see the day where a fellow black American has become President of the United States of America. This story Obama shares appeals to African Americans, as well as other minorities who may have once doubted the possibility of change. Obama’s reference to a very emotional story emulates another brilliant rhetorical strategy that he used in order to prove his purpose to his audience. Technically, Barack Obama will not become president for another few months; however, his presence has already been made well-known worldwide. He is truly an inspiration to us all and has provided the American people with hope and faith that we will be able to improve our current state while he is in office. Obama promises “we as a people will get there”, in which “there” is a United States of America that uses more efficient energy resources, newly built schools, and repaired alliances. Barack Obama’s use of rhetorical strategies has provided the public, including myself, faith that a change will come. Obama reminds us we as one united nation can achieve anything as long as we remember the American creed: Yes we can. Spring 2009
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The Wait
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By: Rosana Hamadeh • Melrose High School • Grade 11
ith her knees pulled up to her chest the girl sits in North Station, the cold Boston air streaming onto the commuter rail platform every time the door opens. Clad in blue skinny jeans and a Motion City Soundtrack shirt, she is armed with her cell phone and iPod, seemingly useless weapons in the fight against waiting. Looking up and biting her lip in nervous anticipation, she watches the digital clock in the corner of the train time board. Aside from the orange glow of the letters, it seems as if it were broken; nothing changes in the assumed hours she had been waiting. She pulls out her phone, folding her legs under her in the deemed “pretzel” position, as she looks at the time. Double-checking it with her iPod, she sighs. No wonder the board looks the same, it has only been 30 seconds since the last time I looked. She fidgets and shifts her legs pulling them up on the wooden bench. She then pushes down on the next button to change the song. “Shiksa”, a song by Say Anything, comes on and she quickly changes it again. Shaking her head, she tries not to think about the person she is waiting for, yet it is inevitable. Her mind has been stuck on one person for the last few weeks, and it surely was not about to stop now. Raking her hand through her hair, she anxiously tries to find something she can talk about when the time comes. I should have worn a different shirt; she hates this band. Shifting, she hates that she didn’t think this over before she left the house. With her mind racing and heart pounding in her ears she makes a list of things in her head: She is going to hate me… Her friends are going to hate me… She is way too good for me… She is nice and funny...Why does she waste her time with me? This is all one big horrible joke… I really like her…I think I love her. Her mind is reeling with a thousand different things, a thousand ways things could go horribly wrong. She has 43
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never been this nervous before and it was starting to freak her out. Drumming her fingers on her knee and shaking her leg, she can feel her body tense up, every muscle seems to freeze. Her mind packs with images of her girlfriend, no other thought can emerge. Her girlfriend’s existence has always been something of a distraction. A massive amount of people start to fill the waiting area of North Station. A voice crackles over the loud speakers, scratchy and practically incoherent. “Next train from Lowell is now arriving.” Standing, and searching the faces of the passengers, a shattering thought appears in her mind: Maybe she didn’t show. Then the girl turns and sees the face she was looking for. Heart pounding, she wants to run, crush her in a hug and then kiss her, but she refrains choosing instead to look her up and down. The girl doesn’t want to embarrass herself in front of her girlfriend’s friends. She watches as hair gets pushed from the face of perfection, dark hair that falls across her eyes; not having been cut since the last time they saw each other a month ago. Time slows and she stops. Everything she thought up to say is gone. Staring at the ground not wanting to look back at the perfection, all the words in her head melt away. The only word she can manage… “Hey.”
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Poetry........................................................................
What Is Free Verse?
By: Ana Belyakova • AMSA • Grade 10
If free verse poems Sound like prose, Then what’s the point of poetry? We have to have a middle ground Between our speech and beauty. What is free verse? If there’s no rhyme, If there’s no basic beat, The words all string together, In ways they don’t usually meet. What is free verse? It’s not a poem. It’s not a simple phrase. It’s the product Of a poet going Through a rebellious phase. 45
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.
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Nonfiction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
A Portrait of the Dubliner as a By: Leah Goddard Paralyzed Man Dracut Senior High School • Grade 12 When first read, James Joyce’s Dubliners seems nothing more than a series of enigmas and dead ends that are impossible to weave through, filled with many minute details that culminate into frustrating insignificance. It is not until reflection that the details culminate in a moment of complete comprehension – moments that Joyce termed “epiphanies.” Contrary to the elite minds of the literary world, I do not believe that Joyce wrote Dubliners to comment on Irish society – such a statement simplifies a literary work that is much more complex. If a political statement degrading Ireland had been his purpose, then it would not be read today throughout the world. Rather, Ireland was simply his inspiration; it provided examples that he could use to expose the shortcomings of all humankind. As especially evident by the characterization, plots, and theme of Dubliners, Joyce sought to enlighten society by unearthing the universal flaws, which weaken it. Joyce presents the Dubliners as a suspicious and self-serving lot, unsure in their convictions and inadequate in their actions. All of his characters isolate themselves in some way; they attempt to remove themselves from a situation to make it more bearable, and instead displace their anxiety on trivial matters. They evolve into an empty shell, paralyzed in a living death because they cannot lead the life they want to. As a result, they either wallow in their unhappiness, fake contentedness, or live rambunctiously so that they cannot see their own state of stagnation. Joyce is a master of ambiguity; he prevents the reader from ever being entirely sure about any character. Joyce creates characters that possess less than noble qualities, but who nonetheless display traits shared by all mankind. Though the plots of the stories in Dubliners vary, they all affirm the same ideas. There is a recurrent quality of characters attempting to break with the mundane, but the result returns to the same routine tragedy of physical or psychological abuse. Joyce continuously weaves in irony and hypocrisy to the plot lines, mocking the ignorance and arrogance of his characters. Of the few stories that are told in firstperson, none of the narrators have a name, which suggests that it could be any person in Dublin and the reactions would be the same. The constant allusions to the uniformity of Dublin’s citizens develop each and every plot and support the universality of Joyce’s epiphanies. Though written as a collection of stories, Dubliners has one theme that penetrates each story, character, and circumstance. Many consider this theme to be paralysis, but paralysis is merely its result. Joyce achieved the theme subtly, leaving a piece of the element
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throughout the book until it constituted each and every being. Indeed, the way he established the theme reflects the theme itself – it begins as a subconscious, troublesome feeling that continually feeds off itself and grows perpetually; it is fear. Fear is present in every single one of Joyce’s stories: fear of change, of abandonment, of responsibility, of action. Fear fatally spread like poison inside the characters – causing paralysis and ultimately death. In “The Dead,” the final story in the collection, the main character Gabriel struggles to break through his fear to allow himself to feel passion, but in the end, he succumbs to his fear, quietly and calmly. He accepts it and finally attains peace. Peace: after years of living with fear, that is what the characters are seeking. They have given up their dreams of escape and hopes for happiness; now, all they humbly ask for is an end to fear. In Dubliners, Joyce wanted (in contrast to the fate of his characters) to achieve immortality. He wanted the truths he unfolded about human nature to transcend the ages. In order to achieve such perpetuity, he had to leave his work open to interpretation so that succeeding generations could always extract meaning. As a result, the aspects of human behavior that Joyce revealed reaches beyond the city of Dublin and all of Ireland – he exposed the deepest corners of the human mind that are shared by all humanity, and so Dubliners transcends ethnic barriers and limitations of time.
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HOMERIC SIMILIES Everett High School • Grade 9
Just like Curious George Who has to find out everything And sets off to an adventure, Gets into trouble, I also run into trouble, But I always manage to get out. Sukhmani Singh
Kristina Phelan
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Just like a feather That has been swept up by Astraeus’ winds And gently falls to Earth’s surface, Does not make a sound, I leap in the air, coming down without a sound.
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Just like the sun That shines with majesty every day And lights the way of many, Rises in the horizon every morning, I also wake up feeling exuberant. Vinicius Aguiar
Tina Bui
Just like a new-born baby Who is the joy of her family And gets whatever her young heart desires, laying in her crib, surrounded by family, I feel spoiled on Christmas.
Just like a bird That flies high in the sky And feels the wind in his wings, Spreads his wings and leaves his nest, I also feel free.
Kylan Nowell Spring 2009
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Nonfiction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
AYLIE Rise from the Ashes KCRAWF ORD I stood before my demise, appearing hot, foreign, and looming. The night before, it was a ghost, haunting my sleep. I could sense that my time was limited; each hour that passed brought me closer to my ultimate end. I had stood on the rooftop balcony of the hotel, staring at the silhouette of my executioner, Mount Vesuvius. Naples, Italy was a gorgeous piece of earth with houses sprouting like flowers from fertile land. I had skimmed across the crystalline Aegean Sea, leaving the land of the Gods to come here. “Here,” I mouthed, disbelieving what I was to do in mere moments. I stood at the base of the volcano, recalling the decimation of Pompeii. Vesuvius wouldn’t have to sneeze to kill me. My feet were sobbing in my Sketchers; my heart was laughing insanely at the thought of hiking up this behemoth of earth. Every thought of its previous beauty against the glamor of sunset, streaked with tomato reds and eggplant purples, evaporated with the notion that I was to hike three miles up to the crater. ‘What have I gotten myself into?’ I thought, 51
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Dracut Senior High School • Grade 11
looking over at the forty-four melting teenagers I was with. The air was searing hot, rivaling the temperature of the center of the earth. A small overhang provided a slab of shade making the day two degrees more bearable, but with forty-four teenagers cramped for the tiny shade, those two degrees of comfort sizzled away. We were American Student Ambassadors – a fancy title for teenagers meddling around in Europe – and our itinerary dictated how the day would go. According to our schedule, we were due to leave for Rome this afternoon. My life wouldn’t board that bus. I felt my life would be ascending a staircase in the afternoon. At least, I hoped it would be a staircase. With frantically waving hands, tongues lolling out in a canine-like fashion, and tributaries of sweat on our faces, the Ambassadors watched as an employee unlocked the gate to the pathway up the volcano- three miles up, three miles down. I groaned at my swollen physique. How could I possibly make it up the volcano? I could barely do anything else requiring physical activity. At that moment, I was comparable to taffy – thick, slow, and sticky. I was chock full of sugars and carbohydrates, with little to no useful aspects. I looked to some of the girls in the group: lean, athletic, attractive. I would scoff at
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myself, this engorged, undesirable thing, silently cursing my thighs and waist, wanting nothing more than to have the Playboy legs of those other girls. My thoughts were interrupted by the boisterous clamor of jogging feet and excited conversation. The gate had opened. Dust wafted towards me, the slab of shade breaking into sandstone sunlight. I sighed. I adjusted my checkered bandanna, shifted my rucksack higher onto my shoulder, and began trudging up the pathway in a cocoon of sunscreen. “It doesn’t look too bad. Least the path zigzags up versus a suicidal straight-up,” I thought aloud, pausing to check if my hiking team was with me. Jocelyn and Andrea came up the rear, all of us dreading the hike. “Yeah, right. Less talkin’, more walkin’ sister,” Jocelyn chuckled. The jovial sound of her laughter
lifted my spirits, as it had many times before on our trip. Andrea mumbled disbelief, continuing her streak of pessimism. We had banded together for the hike, at the moment far from leading, but not at the back either. A dry breeze came and snatched the water from our breath, swirling dirt and ash residue into our pores. Obsidian rocks and gravel crushed beneath our sneakers, embedding in the lining of our shoes. Dirt and ash found its way into the crevices of skin, withering and drying in the sun. We talked little, focusing on the ascent. Ahead of us, a handful of boys were racing to the crater. Students began to pass us, but I paid little attention. The path deceived me; it wasn’t nearly as merciful as it appeared to be. The slope increased, sharp turns around the viewpoints of the path filled with more volcanic rock than soft, Spring 2009
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Nonfiction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
clay dirt. We approached a group of giggling girls, leaning on the gnarled, wooden fence along one of the first elongated pathways. They stood there, ignorant of the enormous strain this hike caused. Not once did I look to the girls directly- I was afraid they would turn and deride me as some bloated stain on womankind. I looked back to Jocelyn, who was fairing just as well as I, and Andrea, a bit behind her, red hair dulled by the hellish sunlight. Shade cast on the pathway by the prominent Vesuvius, an intimidating executioner. It was poised proudly, Naples as helpless and worthless to Vesuvius as Mussolini on a meat hook. I grabbed my bottle of water, swigging back a good portion of it. I smacked my cracked lips. “Tastes like hot,” I muttered, capping it before looking out to the city once more. Jocelyn looked out, holding to the straps of her rucksack. “It’s beautiful,” I remarked. Jocelyn nodded, while Andrea passed us, saying she was going to continue with the girls up ahead. So much for support. The ‘team’ was as supportive as the Minneapolis Bridge. After a couple of minutes, we agreed to continue our ascent. By now, my blood was as hot as magma. It roiled angrily in my thighs and calves, burning and searing my bones to the marrow. The shade now encompassed the majority of the path, pressing closer to the mammoth crag. Jocelyn had passed me. I followed her trail. Tourists - and perhaps a local or two, I couldn’t be sure - arrived to hike. Rocks were numerous now, rolling beneath my sneakers. I felt as though I 53
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were trying to walk across the McDonald’s ball pit, albeit, of course, these balls could gash open your knee. I had to pause, getting short of breath. Jocelyn paused as well, supporting me. We were much higher now, but I still could not see the crater. Brush lined the side of the mountain as we clambered closer to its summit, while tall grasses and thick pines decorated its side, masking its villainous intentions with pleasant greenery. Yellow flowers grew plentiful among the tall grasses, swaying in the ever-present zephyr of the high mountain. The panorama before me dimmed the pain and gave cause to it. Naples was no longer a bustling city, boroughs and blocks separating people and ideas. It was a single entity, extending out to the coast, mountains and coastline definite as romantic brush strokes. It was an urban dwelling, nestled in harmony with nature. I could no longer hear nor see the vice of Man, his strife and folly. I could only see Man’s life and legacy. “Ready?” Jocelyn asked. I nodded, withdrawing from my reward to continue my trial. As we walked, the pain in my calves peaked with the sensation of jamming my leg into a furnace. I paused, panting, feeling the rucksack weigh my shoulders, and aware of every piece of flesh, fat, and fabric that hung on my form. I began thinking of ways to help the ordeal. I had recalled my boyfriend’s advice for correct breathing, but was wondering what he had taught me of leg muscles; after all, he was a member of the Cross-country and Track teams. Turning around to view Jocelyn, I began to walk carefully backwards.
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The pain in my calves immediately alleviated. “Jocelyn, if you walk this way, you lessen the weight and pressure on the calf. It feels better,” I shared and Jocelyn did so. She laughed, “This feels so weird!” Brush lined the side of the mountain as we clambered closer to its summit, while tall grasses and thick pines decorated its side, masking its villainous intentions with pleasant greenery. Yellow flowers grew plentiful among the tall grasses, swaying in the ever-present zephyr of the high mountain. The panorama before me dimmed the pain and gave cause to it. “Well, it feels good, so I don’t frickin’ care if I look like a dyslexic hermit crab.” “A what?” Jocelyn laughed heartily at my incoherent jest. At one point, the incline grew steeper. Most of the Ambassadors had disappeared from view, likely at the summit already. My socks rubbed against my sweat-sodden feet, and I felt blisters forming. My shins had grown tired, forcing me to walk forward. Twice, rocks threw off my vulnerable balance, leaving me to stumble and straggle to get back up. Once, I had caught myself on the volcanic earth, not all of my hands making it to the upright
position. My palms were scratched and worn; I could barely recognize my hands as my own. There. I looked up. I smiled weakly. My heart pounded against my chest, lungs shriveled with ash and earth, and my feet swallowed the urge to cry. I bit my lip, trudging at a swift walk, Jocelyn having already found the souvenir shop. The group was awaiting the last of the Ambassadors, and to my surprise, I was not last. My body demanded I sit my butt down at that moment, and found the concrete bench to be more comfortable than any of Bernie and Phyl’s furniture. I groaned, stretching out my legs. The shade was cool and welcoming, the souvenirs exotic and cheap, but most of all, this shop marked the ridge of the crater. I had made it. And with so much pain, I had no doubt that I was alive. I was in a daze. Jocelyn congratulated me, along with two of my friends. We were all told to move to the crater as we were lectured on the history and function of the volcano. I was too mesmerized by the environment before me to retain any of the information. Great crater walls jabbed the sky, deathly shards of obsidian earth. Steam spouted from the top most wall, and my nostrils inhaled a subtle scent of sulfur. Leaning over the protective chain, I gazed into the cavern of Vesuvius. The crater itself was like a bowl, as though a giant hand had scooped out the earth like ice cream. Tall, wispy grasses moved to the pressure of leaking gas of the mountain, and a few young trees stretched their branches to drink in the sun. Spring 2009
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Nonfiction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
“You can tell it erupted not too long ago,” I observed to Jocelyn, “cause those trees down there aren’t that old, meaning that they haven’t had long to grow.” “Oh, yeah,” Jocelyn spoke, observing the same as her hazel eyes scanned the crater. “I can’t believe I made it.” “Neither can I,” Jocelyn returned. We agreed to venture across the large, wide crater, viewing the volcano from different angles. A smaller shop down the path marked the end of the traversable crater edge. From where I stood, looking down at Naples one last time from the summit, all seemed insignificant. Houses could not be distinguished, only an impressionist’s scene of the city. The land melted away into clouds and sea. Despite having dreaded that hike, I knew in that moment it 55
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was worth it. “I’ll be back, you stay right here,” Jocelyn giggled away as she went to find postage stamps, leaving me. Something caught my eye in that small, crater-edge shop. A tube of ash from the volcano. It was definitely affordable as well. I picked it up, fingering the tube fondly. No one at home would believe I actually did this, that I could do this. With that thought, I purchased the ash, slipping it into my rucksack. Soon, Jocelyn and I returned to the first shop. We awed at the volcano and snapped pictures whenever something fancied our eyes. Our itinerary dictated our descent from the summit, needing to meet for lunch before trekking off to Rome. I held back, looking to the crater once more before gazing at the panorama of Naples and the
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mountainside. The noontime sun beat down on my head, finally prevailing in peeling away my sunscreen. I sighed, swallowing another bit of heat-flavored water. The rapture of that experience planted something in me that day. Something I never had. Something stripped of me as a young girl. Like that young tree, it would grow and drink up the sun. When I stumbled and descended Mount Vesuvius, I had begun to change. I had been altered since my climb to that solitary crater. Vesuvius, a behemoth among geography, had gently nurtured something inside me. I could feel the tube of ash gently roll against my shoulder blades through the fabric of my rucksack. It fertilized the seed planted inside me. From the ashes, I rose. I rose with confidence.
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Poetry.......................................................................
GRADUATION By: Justine Marsella • Dracut Senior High School • Grade 11
The gown has been donned, the cap safely secured, the students line up, their last march begins. Today is the day that those four years will end; high school is over, college around the bend. Descending the steps, diploma in hand, they are finally free, new horizons in sight. Along with their friends, from present and past, the caps are tossed high, the end reached at last. 57
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Spring 2009
By: Mike Kesslak • Dracut Senior High School • Grade 11
SUNSET
Sitting there, Looking out, Watching the hill tops Outlined by shades of Orange, red, and yellow Meshed together with Streaks of purple. Watching a single bird Fly up from the shadows of the hills, Cutting through all the colors of the sky. So quiet. So peaceful. The bird soars back down, Disappearing behind the hills, With it, each color one by one. First the orange. Then the red with yellow. Last, the streaks of purple Slowly fade away, Leaving only a light hue. Waiting for the next day To begin The same beautiful way that it ended.
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The Great Books Summer Program is an experience like no other in American education. By asking welike help The Great Books Summer Program is anquestions experience no The Great Books Summerreflective Programreading is an experience likethinkno young to embrace and critical other inpeople American education. By asking questions we help other inrecognize Americantheir education. By thoughts, asking questions we helptheir ing, to own best and to develop young people to embrace reflective reading and critical thinkThe Great Books Summerget Program is ancontent, experience likethinkno young people toStudents embrace reflective reading and critical ideasto with care. to the key ing, recognize their own best thoughts, and tograpple developwith their other in American education. By asking questions we help ing, to recognize their own best thoughts, and to develop their the big ideas, and discuss get andtodebate with insightgrapple and joy.with ideas with care. Students the key content, young people toStudents embrace get reflective and critical ideas with care. to the reading key content, grapplethinkwith the big ideas, and discuss and debate with insight and joy. ing, to recognize best thoughts, develop the ideas, andtheir discuss and debate with and insight andschool joy.their For big the past seven years,own exceptional middle andtohigh ideas with care. Students get to the key content, grapple with students fromseven around theexceptional world havemiddle gathered readschool selections For the past years, andtohigh the big ideas, andworks discuss and debatemiddle with insight andschool joy. For the past seven years, of exceptional and college-level high from the greatest literature, experience students from around the world have gathered to read selections students from the world have gathered readother selections discussions andaround seminars, enjoy summer funtowith from the greatest works ofand literature, experience college-level For the past seven years, exceptional middle and high school from the greatest works of literature, experience college-level literary-minded students. This summer, we’ll fun readwith from Plato, discussions and seminars, and enjoy summer other students from around theand world have gathered readother selections discussions and seminars, enjoy summer funtowith Shakespeare, Dante, Jefferson, Homer, Lincoln, SUMMER PROGRAM literary-minded students. This summer, we’ll readTolstoy, from Plato, from the greatest worksothers. of literature, experience literary-minded students. This summer, we’ll readcollege-level from Plato, Dickinson, Orwell Shakespeare, Dante,and Jefferson, Homer, Lincoln, Tolstoy, SUMMER PROGRAM discussions and seminars, and enjoy summer fun with other Shakespeare, Dante, Jefferson, Homer, Lincoln, Tolstoy, SUMMER PROGRAM Dickinson, Orwell and others. literary-minded students. This summer, we’ll read from Plato, Dickinson, Orwell and others. In association with The Great Books Foundation Shakespeare, Dante, Jefferson, Homer, Lincoln, Tolstoy, SUMMER PROGRAM In association with The Great Books Foundation Dickinson, Orwell and others. In association with The Great Books Foundation
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