The Marble Collection: Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts (Spring 2010)

Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts

The Marble Collection Spring 2010

The Marble Collection

Spring 2010

tmc

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. is an educational nonprofit organization that biannually publishes a print and digital magazine of the arts comprised of Massachusetts secondar y students’ literature, art, music, and video works. *** M I S S I O N S TAT E M E N T To improve academic performance & achievement among Massachusetts secondar y students, including those with limited access to educational resources, by implementing a biannual print & digital publication of the arts, which includes student works of literature, art, music, & video; To enhance the educational & social development of all Massachusetts secondar y students by creating an online venue that promotes an exchange within the humanities sector while encouraging the practice of safe social networking skills; To familiarize students with the editorial process within the realm of professional publishing; To expose students to postsecondar y academia options through beneficial advertisements; To distribute classroom bundles of 25 magazines biannually to all Massachusetts secondar y schools, allowing students to review the work of their peers at the state level.

TMC: STAFF EDITOR-IN-CHIEF LITERATURE EDITOR ART EDITOR LAYOUT & DESIGN ADVERTISING EXECUTIVE WEBMASTER ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT VOLUNTEER 2

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Deanna Elliot Alex Dembrowsky Edson Bueno Abby Hutt Donna Neal Chris D’Errico Deanna Elliot Lindsay Butler Raj Ajrawat Tia Lombard Patsy Rose

TMC: PARTICIPANTS Acton-Boxborough Regional Advanced Math & Science Academy Agawam / Andover / Archbishop Williams / Attleboro / Auburn / Austin Preparatory / Ayer / B M C Durfee Bartlett / Belmont Hill School Berkshire School / Berkshire Arts and Technology Charter / Beverly / Bishop Feehan / Bishop Stang / BlackstoneMillville Regional / BridgewaterRaynham Regional / Brimmer & May Bristol County Agricultural / Bromley Brook School / Burlington Burncoat / Cambridge Rindge and Latin / Cape Cod Regional Voc Tech Central Catholic / Chatham / Chicopee Academy / Chicopee Comprehensive Chicopee / Clark School / Cohasset Concord-Carlisle / Dover-Sherborn Regional / Dracut / Everett / Falmouth Fitchburg / Framingham / Frontier Regional / Gardner / Gloucester Granby / Greater Lowell Tech Groton-Dunstable Regional / Groton School / Harwich / Haverhill Alternative / Holliston / Holyoke Catholic / Hopkins Academy Housatonic Academy / Joseph Case Lee / Leicester / Lexington Christian

Lincoln Alternative Day School Lincoln-Sudbury Regional Longmeadow / Lowell Catholic / Lowell Lynn Voc Tech Institute / Malden Catholic / Malden / Mansfield Marblehead / Marshfield / Maynard McCann Tech / Medway / Melrose Milford / Millis / Milton Academy Minnechaug Regional / Nauset Regional / Needham / Newton Country Day School of the Sacred Heart Nipmuc Regional / North Attleboro Northbridge / Norwood / Oakmont Regional / Old Rochester Regional Palmer / Peabody Veterans Memorial Pioneer Valley Christian / Pioneer Valley Performing Arts / Putnam Voc Tech / Randolph / Reading Memorial Salem / Seekonk / Sharon / Somerville South Hadley / South Shore Charter Public / Southbridge / Springfield High School of Commerce / St. Mary / St. Peter Marian / Stoneleigh-Burnham Sturgis Charter Public / Sutton Taconic / Tantasqua / Taunton / The Governor’s Academy / Trinity Day Academy / Ware / Wareham Cooperative / Westford Academy Williston Northampton

SPECIAL THANKS

TMC: SUBMIT NEXT ISSUE / WINTER 2011 We invite all secondar y students to submit their literature, art, music, & video works for a chance at publication in the upcoming issue of The Marble Collection: Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts.

WINTER-ISSUE READING PERIOD 09.01.10- 11.30.10 To submit please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/submit TMC Spring 2010

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TMC: SUBSCRIBE CLASSROOM BUNDLE (25 copies per issue)

ONE-YEAR SINGLE COPY

$150.00 $20.00 $10.25

To purchase additional copies please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/subscribe Or by mailing a check payable to The Marble Collection, Inc. to:

The Marble Collection: Subscriptions 202 Main Street Lakeville, MA 02347

TMC: ADVERTISE The Marble Collection is a one of a kind recruitment tool that maintains a distinct presence in and outside the classroom, with a diverse print and digital circulation. TMC audience consists of 295,937 Massachusetts secondary students and extends to their families and many teaching professionals. Over 80% of Massachusetts high school students proceed to postsecondary education following graduation. Each issue captures the attention of thousands of these eager learners.

We i n v i t e y o u t o j o i n u s i n o u r c o m m i t m e n t t o c o m m u n i t y enrichment through the literary and creative arts by advertising on our pages. Reach your target audience and showcase the unique programs your educational institution has to offer in The Marble Collection: Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts!

NEXT ISSUE / WINTER 2011 Closing Date for Reservations: Copy Date: Pu b l i c a t i o n D a t e :

December 1, 2010 December 8, 2010 Fe b r u a r y 1 , 2 0 1 1 ( a p p r o x i m a t e )

Reservations and inquires should be sent to: Deanna Elliot themarblecollection@gmail.com 508.692.8912 To learn more and review The Marble Collection: Media Kit please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/advertise

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TMC: SPONSORS C o r i n t h i a n I n s u r a n c e A g e n c y, I n c . / C h a r l e s R i v e r I n s u r a n c e *** The Marble Collection, Inc. is supported in part by grants from the below local cultural councils, local agencies which are supported by the M a s s a c h u s e t t s C u l t u r a l C o u n c i l , a s t a t e a g e n c y.

Acton Boxboro / Andover Ashburnham / Attleboro / Auburn Ayer / Belmont / Brockton / Burlington Cambridge / Deerfield / Dracut Eastham / Fall River / Falmouth Groton / Hadley / Harwich Lawrence / Lee / Leicester

Lexington / Lynn / Malden Mansfield / Marblehead / Mattapoisett Maynard / Medway / Milford / Milton Natick / Needham / Reading Seekonk / Southbridge / Springfield Sturbridge / Sutton / Topsfield Tynsboro / Ware / Westford

*** SPONSOR-A-SCHOOL The Marble Collection, Inc. depends on Massachusetts businesses & philanthropic organizations to support our mission to improve the humanities sector for Massachusetts secondary students. Please sponsor your local high school(s) by covering the printing & distribution costs associated with o u r b i a n n u a l , g r a t i s m a g a z i n e o f t h e a r t s . Yo u r c h a r i t a b l e contribution is 100% tax deductible.

To become a sponsor please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/sponsor

TMC: PATRONS Joann Carney / Mar yBeth D’Errico / Patsy Rose *** D O N AT E As a start-up organization, The Marble Collection, Inc. 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

TMC Spring 2010

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TMC: CONTENTS 8

Flying Henry Hayes (Art)

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8

Feather Eric Walther (Art)

27

9

A Wonderous Adventure Kim Deninger (Art)

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The Ghost of Clemence Hall Emily Scholz (Fiction)

Cambridge Rindge and Latin School / Grade 11 Harwich High School / Grade 11 Brimmer and May School / Grade 12

Old Rochester Regional High School / Grade 11 11 12

A Doomed Lover Wioletta Bednarska (Art)

Chicopee High School / Grade 10

Santa Monica at 4:00 Marilyn Petrowski (Poetry)

Milton Academy / Grade 12 13 14 15 16 18 19 20 21 22 22 23 23 24 25

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Face Kaitlyn Duplessie (Art)

Bromley Brook School / Grade 11

Art II Self Portrait Kaarin Phelps (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

the vines Kerrie Bourque (Art)

Brimmer and May School / Grade 12

Drought Bryna Cofrin-Shaw (Fiction)

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Kristen Self Portrait Kristen Mokrezecki (Art)

31

Until You’ve Been In My Shoes John Dwelly (Art)

32 33 34 35

36 36 37 38

Old Rochester Regional High School / Grade 10

MakeArt Kerry McDermott (Art)

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Vibrant Life Meghan Perkins (Art)

39

Exposure at Sunset Alexander Nally (Art)

39

Eye of the Tiger Gabrielle Jacques (Art)

40

Platte River, Nebraska Sarah Fishman (Poetry)

40

Immortalized Siena Mamayek (Art)

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Burlington High School / Grade 12

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

Chicopee Comprehensive High School / Grade 10 Brimmer and May School / Grade 12 Milton Academy / Grade 10

Melrose High School / Grade 12

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Value Self Portrait Hayley Barry (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 9

Fireflies Kirsti Isokungas (Poetry)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

Brunsley Morgan Mitchell (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

When Thought Takes Flight Corinne Perreault (Art)

Taunton High School / Grade 11

Marblehead High School / Grade 12

Sensationalism Anne Smith (Poetry)

Hopkins School / Grade 11

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

Chicopee Comprehensive High School / Grade 10

Inquiry Victoria Mancuso (Art)

Arsonist Patrick Pierre-Victor (Art)

Brimmer and May School / Grade 12

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Stoneleigh-Burnham School / Grade 12

Sunset Over Springfield Alexander Nally (Art)

Commensalism or Individualism George Murphy (Nonfiction) Dracut Senior High School / Grade 12

Alone Stephen Mulloy (Art)

Brimmer and May School / Grade 11

Van Gogh’s Visionary Ryan Dunn (Art)

Melrose High School / Grade 12

Balloons Carolyn Decker (Poetry)

Frontier Regional High School / Grade 12

Floral Enlargement Alyssa Valle (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

Midnight Shower Corinne Perreault (Art)

Taunton High School / Grade 11

The Tower Reid Shea (Art)

Cambridge Rindge and Latin School / Grade 9

Web Crawler Kelsey Donohue (Art)

Old Rochester Regional High School / Grade 11

Beach Halle Edwards-McQuilton (Art)

Brimmer and May School / Grade 10

Cranberries Steven Cutillo (Art)

Harwich High School / Grade 12

Marbles Becky Short (Poetry)

Minnechaug High School / Grade 11

Wave Ariel Colby (Art)

Harwich High School / Grade 11

Self Portrait Christina Labowicz (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

TMC: SPRING 2010 42 43 44 44 45 45 46 47 49 50

Scars and Stories Jane Peters (Fiction)

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Art I Self Portrait Ryan Curtis (Art)

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Ocean Monarch Alexander Nally (Art)

65

Untitled Rachel Allen (Art)

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Pecking Order Sara Pearce-Probst (Art)

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Let Sleeping Dogs Lie Kelsey Donohue (Art)

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Life Kerry McDermott (Art)

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Lights. Camera. Action. Matthew Guresh (Poetry)

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Joslin Sunset Carly Sheehan (Art)

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Reign Upon the Rainforest Hannah O’Day (Fiction)

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Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12 Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

Chicopee Comprehensive High School / Grade 10 Taunton High School / Grade 10 Milton Academy / Grade 9

Old Rochester Regional High School / Grade 11 Burlington High School / Grade 12

Bishop Stang High School / Grade 12

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

Old Rochester Regional High School / Grade 11 51 52 53 54

Under the Night Sara Pearce-Probst (Art)

Milton Academy / Grade 9

Burlington High School / Grade 11

58

Life Is Better With Art In It Chelsea Rustenburg (Art)

The Doomed Battle of Order and Chaos for Mankind as Shown in Heart of Darkness Virginia Lyon (Nonfiction)

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74 75 76 77

Faces Andrew Swansburg (Art)

Groton School / Grade 11

All the Zoos in Germany Nicholas Hadley (Poetry)

Northbridge High School / Grade 12 59

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Jump! Ninja Kick Benjamin Cao (Art)

Burlington High School / Grade 12

Advanced Math and Science Academy / Grade 11

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Summertime Tali Singer (Art)

Burlington High School / Grade 12 55

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Sea Turtle Taylor Wall (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

Tiger Amber Phillips (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

79 80 80 81

In the Garden Maegan Porpora (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

Tales of Africa Dana Dourdeville (Fiction)

Old Rochester Regional High School / Grade 11

Serval Cat Andrea Freniere (Art)

Bartlett Junior Senior High School / Grade 10

Self Joy Sarah Fishman (Poetry)

Milton Academy / Grade 10

New York Andrew Swansburg (Art)

Groton School / Grade 11

Art II Self Portrait Sarah Steves (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

Friend Emily Hewlings (Art)

Stoneleigh-Burnham School / Grade 10

Torn Natalie J. Casey (Art)

Burlington High School / Grade 12

Glare Ramsey Musk (Art)

Harwich High School / Grade 12

Shepherd James Alycyn Clarice Breland (Fiction)

Old Rochester Regional High School / Grade 10

A March Reflection Sasha Nochimow (Art) Old Rochester Regional High School / Grade 11

Sea Glass David McWilliams (Poetry)

Harwich High School / Grade 12

Summer’s Tears Zoe MacDonald (Art)

Archbishop Williams High School / Grade 10

Reach Meghan Perkins (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

Oranges Sabina Milbank (Art)

Groton School / Grade 12

Innocence Brenda Snyder (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

Chopsticks Amanda Tilden (Fiction)

Old Rochester Regional High School / Grade 11

Floral Enlargement Jade Chauvin (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 10

An Atonal End Andrea Sylvia (Music)

Sturgis Charter Public School / Grade 12

Enigma Jacob Hajjar (Music)

Dracut Senior High School / Grade 12

Student Anthology Mr. Makepeace’s Students (Video)

Attleboro High School / Grade 9-12

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A R T Cambridge Rindge and Latin School / Grade 11

Fl y i n g

H e n r y

H a y e s

p h o t o g r a p h y

Fe a t h e r Harwich High School / Grade 11

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E r i c

W a l t h e r

A R T Brimmer and May School / Grade 12

A Wonderous Adventure

p h o t o g r a p h y / a d o b e

K i m

D e n i n g e r

p h o t o s h o p

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F I C T I O N Old Rochester Regional High School / Grade 11

E m i l y

S c h o l z

The Ghost of Clemence Hall

An uninhibited crash, like the untempered heel of a giant, bounded along the corridors of Clemence Hall. The weathered Victorian homestead had not been occupied for almost three decades. Its owners had left for some unknown reason; their claim had been the father’s career, but there was no need for surf boards in Kansas, and that was all that he sold. The screen door slapped against its frame again, and its proper percussion continued the lethargic beat. An echo replied. Mouse holes riddled the faded white walls, which had been washed in and out by winds and rains, and unbridled delight.

Winding through the decrepit stairwell was a streak of a child, a sprite-like creature who fluttered in cacophony. She knew nothing but her name, as it had been tossed between the singing-wells of treelike individuals twelve hundred times before.

She had not given ear to it again for three days now, and she still would not for another two, unless muttering it to herself or to the walls of Clemence Hall. She did that now, “Claire.” It curled behind her teeth as the cool hardwood floors tickled the undersides of her toes. Her arms released from her sides to trail and she pummeled her heels into the floor.

“You are not mine,” she giggled to the creaking wooden shutters, the glassware, and the tabletops.

“And you are not mine,” the wind replied, billowing through the faded yellow canopies that jutted from the manor sides. Door to door, she reveled in those words; she trampled and danced, breathing to the open windows. Her skirt lifted lightly to crease above her ankles, and her throat emitted sounds like the smallest of animals and the gentlest of birds.

“But I am theirs.” She slowed, gripping the handle of the balcony door. The age and rust spread between her fingers. The door was unclasped and pulled apart, and the swelling wind hit her face in greeting.

“Poor Claire,” it moaned. “Poor Claire.”

The girl padded to the whitewashed fencing. It was burdened by ivy, twisting to the skies. She reached her hands to grasp the leaves, warping and weaving the vines into rows across her knuckles. She dragged herself up to the top, and the old fence pillars swayed and bent beneath her.

The wind groaned, “Poor Claire.”

Her toes curled and tightened to the rim as she steadily rose, balancing along the top of the balcony fencing. The canopies slapped against the shell of Clemence Hall. The girl spread her arms to steady herself, and the shutters winked in their reaction. She rocked back on her heel, and it ground into the splitting wood.

“They’ll never catch me now.” Her toes released. As she spiraled down, the wind whispered its answer,

“But I will.”

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A R T Chicopee High School / Grade 10

W i o l e t t a

A Doomed Lover

B e d n a r s k a

p h o t o g r a p h y

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P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Grade 12

M a r i l y n

P e t r o w s k i

Santa Monica at 4:00 Skin scarred with sun and seashells.

Wrinkles work their way to the surface at the tender age of twenty-four.

She smoothes out SPF, that’s really only oil and water, across her bronzed collarbone and down her sides. In a light pink two-piece, she arches her back and extends her limbs, like a dancer on point. Sand sticks to greased up skin as she settles back into the pool of liquid that’s formed on her ash gray towel, from sweat and Long Island Ice Teas.

Blonde waves pushed up in a bun off her tiny shoulders, held with bobby pins, she is a living doll baking under the sun.

But when her lips move in a choreographed motion, through sentences she’s said before, she will begin to loose your interest.

In her own good time, she will tarnish the idea of your dream girl. She will never have read The Torrents of Spring. She won’t know why Jack Kerouac is so great.

She won’t really appreciate music.

She will return to being just limbs and lips. And her new-toy-sparkle that glints in your eye and holds you steady and staring will slowly recede back into the dark green ocean with white capped waves.

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A R T Bromley Brook School / Grade 11

K a i t l y n

D u p l e s s i e

Fa c e

p a i n t i n g TMC Spring 2010

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

K a a r i n

P h e l p s

Art II Self Portrait

p a i n t i n g 14

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A R T Brimmer and May School / Grade 12

K e r r i e

B o u r q u e

the vines

p h o t o g r a p h y TMC Spring 2010

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A R T Brimmer and May School / Grade 11

Alone

S t e p h e n

M u l l o y

p h o t o g r a p h y 16

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F I C T I O N Stoneleigh-Burnham School / Grade 12

B r y n a

C o f r i n - S h a w

Drought

In times like these, he’s glad he works inside. There was a time when he envied those other men: farmers, not the ones that sprayed pesticides and caused traffic with their tractors, but the migrant workers and men that fit his archaic notions of what it meant to hold the earth. He sees the brown knots that used to be grass on front lawns and highway medians and is embarrassed for a moment by how little he knows about the land around him. There is a drought; this is common knowledge. It is broadcasted on the news and in the paper. He knows that because he lives in an odd numbered house, he can only use his garden hose Saturdays and Tuesdays between 6 A.M. and 10 A.M. He also knows that his yard will go unwatered regardless.

He woke up feeling sick this morning and took the day off from work. The pain in his stomach is gone now, but it’s not worth the drive to the office. The cubicle, the trips to the Xerox machine, even the courteous—but somehow cold—coworkers are not so terrible. On his computer screen is a picture of Niagara Falls and the water fountain is a step away; it is easy to forget the drought. He thinks that today is a good day to go to the lake. It is a few miles from his house, but he hasn’t been in years.

He has felt something hovering around his mind all week: maybe an appointment he forgot to write on the calendar or a bill overdue, and yet he knows it is nothing so mundane. It sticks to him like a fallen hair on his arm—invisible and bothersome— and he thinks that going to the lake might help him remember.

When he gets there, he is surprised by the noise: so much screaming, so many high-pitched squawks, and water being thrown and slapped. A young woman pushes sunscreen across her son’s cheeks, and he remembers that his son’s eighteenth birthday was three days ago. The revelation is disappointing somehow. He had been hoping for the lake to tell him, for its rocky sand and green expanse to reach inside him and whisper all of the things he had forgotten.

He calculates that it has been sixteen years and eight months since his wife left, and their nineteenth wedding anniversary passed months ago. He takes a fold up chair down to the water and sets it down far from the screaming children and pinwheel umbrellas. The entire town has flocked to the water; there is no school, no sprinklers, just dry heat that burns the pavement and sucks the green out of grass. The drought started weeks ago, but it is only now bad enough for him to notice. When they talk about it on the news, a picture of a faucet comes up on the television, and beside it a photo of a cornfield where dry, white stalks huddle together and peel away at each other’s brittle bodies.

He had been laid off for two months before his wife or son ever knew. For the first few days he had liked the solitude. His wife taught kindergarten and was gone all day, and he thought that in time a job would be found and all the bills paid. In the daytime, when he should have been finding work, he took his car down roads he had TMC Spring 2010

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F I C T I O N never heard of and watched television shows he hadn’t seen in years. He could have cleaned or repaired the roof or looked for a job, but he didn’t. He started drinking in the afternoon and then in the morning, until one day she came home early with their sick son draped over her arms. She saw him stuck to the couch, like a soldier asleep in a trench, and pulled her son closer to her chest.

The lake is muddy and drying up from the drought, but children and noise fill it nonetheless. The shoreline has collapsed on itself from lack of water, stretching the beach further into the hollow lake. What’s left behind is muddy sand and matted reeds that grow dry without the water to blanket them. Far off at the other end of the beach, four boys sit in a wooden boat. It is dark brown and cracking, and the bottom is wedged deep into the mud. The boat must have been sunken for years, he thinks, and it is only in these few dry months that anyone has known it was there.

In the sixteen years since she has been gone, he has turned into someone he thinks his wife might have liked. He leaves for work early and comes home to cook his own dinner. Dishes are never left in the sink and phone calls are always returned. Despite how long she has been gone, he feels he knows her better now. He understands how good she was at being a mother; at the time he had not known it was something one could be good or bad at. On the night she left she had told him where she would be taking their son and that he would not be seeing her again, and she knew him well enough to know that he would not come looking.

He turns his eyes away from the lake and the little boat and up to the white, blue sky. He likes to hold his eyes right at the point where the top of the tree canopies meets the air and make his eyes go unfocused, so that the point disappears, and everything becomes tree and sky at once. Before their son was born, she used to tell him all of the things she feared: the mountains, when they turned red in October and pulled her eyes off the road and onto their peaks, making her drive into curbs and forget where she was going; the clouds, when they didn’t cover the sky and left gaping holes in the minutes after dusk where green and red and purple could sneak through.

She was terrified of these things, she said. She was terrified of how they distracted her, how much she wanted to touch the red mountains and breathe in the green sky, and how little time she had to be alive and to see all that was around her. He had fallen in love with her irrationality. At that age he never wanted to touch the tops of mountains or breathe the green sky, but he liked to think he could protect her from this, as if his very presence kept her together. When their son came, she told him she wasn’t afraid anymore. The boy was more important than the mountains or the sky, and for once there was something more vital in her life than her own mortality.

For the two years that he knew his son, he kept waiting to be a father. He didn’t like how the boy called their cat Dada and only stopped crying when handed to his mother. He loved his son because he knew he should, but didn’t know how to be a father who loved his son the way his wife did, which was more than she loved the mountains or the green sky or her own life.

He should leave the beach soon and return home, but the sun has made his limbs slow and lethargic, and he can’t imagine getting into his hot car. Slowly he walks to the line in the sand where the water used to be, and then further on to where the 18

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A R T water starts. He is wearing long shorts and a watch that he knows is not waterproof, but he keeps walking into the water. The mud on the bottom forms suction around his feet, but it doesn’t slow him down. When he is waist deep he sees his reflection in the water, stretched out and dancing in the ripples. He saw a boy once in a supermarket years ago who looked about his son’s age, and though he had no idea what his son would have looked like, he saw the boy’s green eyes and told himself for years afterward that he had seen his own child.

He takes a breath and lets his knees unlock so that his whole body falls into the water. The cold lake and algae cling to him and he reaches through the water, opening his hands and searching for someone else’s. As he sinks he sees his son’s face again and in it the green sky, the house he finally knows how to clean, and its white walls, and its emptiness that hangs like algae on his wrists. He forgets, for a time, how dry the last few weeks have been, and all he feels is the water, which he has missed more than he ever thought he could.

Chicopee Comprehensive High School / Grade 10

Sunset Over Springfield

p h o t o g r a p h y

/

a d o b e

A l ex a n d er

N a l l y

i l l u s t r a t o r TMC Spring 2010

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A R T Marblehead High School / Grade 12

Inquir y

V i c t o r i a

M a n c u s o

d r a w i n g

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/ c h a r c o a l

P O E T R Y Old Rochester Regional High School / Grade 10

A n n e

S m i t h

Sensationalism Houses were made of wood, once.

They were strong and protective: Kept out strangers and held intruders at bay.

Where wood once stood, Glass is now held in place By long strips of metal: cold and unyielding.

No sides, no skin, just innards.

Vultures circle high above.

Glass windows welcome unblinking eyes That just stare and stare and stare.

Words penned in years past Were something called the truth, Captured and put on display.

But these days, one just needs to stare Through foggy glass, And they see it all.

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A R T Burlington High School / Grade 12

M a ke A r t

K e r r y

M c D e r m o t t

p h o t o g r a p h y

Vibrant Life Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

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M e g h a n

P e r k i n s

A R T Chicopee Comprehensive High School / Grade 10

Exposure at Sunset

Alexander Nally

p h o t o g r a p h y

Eye of the Tiger

G a b r i e l l e

J a c q u e s

Brimmer and May School / Grade 12

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P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Grade 10

S a r a h

F i s h m a n

Platte River, Nebraska

After the first few attacks, Little Wound, the Sioux chief, heard of a Pawnee plan to attack. He therefore commanded his tribe to enter Pawnee ground and attack first.

The Pawnee start slow, sensing the hum, feeling the earth as their own vibrations.

Berries adorning skirts, cracked toes, hands clasped, they spin.

We wait, cloaked in brush, mud dried on our Sioux skin.

They try to pretend peace, marking our buffalos with violent names.

But we can hear their brewing plan: We must retrieve land for our children.

Faster they go, circling, raruuku1, sakuru2, sing, sun: Their whistles circle the air.

Heels knock, criss-crossed, as a flock they rise and praise the day.

Three, two, Yambi3, Nonpa4, we count to the beat of their drum.

Heart beats race wildly, yet we are still.

The final note hovers: wanzi5, one.

As a herd, we press heels to earth and enter.

1 2 3 4 5

Pawnee word for sing Pawnee word for sun Sioux word for three Sioux word for two Sioux words for one

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A R T Melrose High School / Grade 12

S i e n a

M a m a y e k

Immortalized

c l a y

s c u l p t u r e TMC Spring 2010

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A R T Melrose High School / Grade 12

R y a n

D u n n

Va n G o g h ’s V i s i o n a r y

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N O N F I C T I O N Dracut Senior High School / Grade 12

G e o r g e

M u r p h y

Commensalism or Individualism

Ever since the beginning of mortal reasoning, humankind has grappled with the concept of existence. Many theories have been presented throughout the eons of intellect; some became glorified religions while others slowly withered away, but all seemed to try to answer two questions: why am I here, and what is my relation to everyone else? One outstanding explanation of existence rose after the Second World War in Europe and has been appropriately named existentialism. Like all major world creeds this ideology had a number of prominent evangelists and among them was Albert Camus, who wrote The Stranger. This important scripture conveyed the very essence of existentialism through the narrative of the depressing protagonist, Monsieur Meursault. By examining this gospel of existentialism according to Camus, we can find the existentialist answer to one question that has plagued humanity since thoughts first crossed our minds: what is the relationship of the individual to the community?

Albert Camus does not openly state the answer to this complex, philosophical question, but allows his work to stand as an allegory leading us to deep revelations about the nature of the individual and the community. The relationship of the individual to the community may, at first glance, appear to be antagonistic in the later part of the story, but on a deeper level one can see how Camus pits society and the individual against each other throughout the novel. In the beginning, the protagonist Meursault is summoned to his mother’s funeral. Before attending he is put at odds with his employer when he asked for merely two days away to mourn. Meursault begins to explain, “But it isn’t my fault,” casting about recklessly to pin the blame on some arbitrary other. Finding none, he stops short and retracts his statement, grudgingly admitting that it marginally was his fault. Even with a family death, Meursault found difficulty in receiving personal leave, demonstrating how the employer really did not care about the personal and emotional needs of the individual. Although Meursault actually had four days off because of the weekend, it still does not pardon the fact that the individual must make excuses for the community at large. Another excellent example of how there is silent war between the individual and community is in the initial shock the reader experiences when reading the novel. The idea that it “doesn’t really matter” that nothing really matters is not something he or she hears every day. Ever quick to judge, the reader characterizes Meursault as a pessimist who, devoid of emotion, makes himself separate from society. From the reader’s initial reaction, which was the reaction Camus probably hoped for, there is a definite struggle between individual thought and community belief: the community being the pool of readers who expect a certain amount of human emotion.

The second part of the novel is littered with the individual pitted against the community. After his imprisonment, Meursault is questioned and his apathy essentially condemns him. His defending lawyer gives him odd looks as he interrogates him and finds that Meursault lacks any palatable emotion in response to the death of his TMC Spring 2010

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N O N F I C T I O N mother. Further, at the courtroom, Meursault notes how ridiculous the proceedings are, and that they would condemn a man for “not crying at his mother’s funeral.” A struggle between the individual and the community is definitely present throughout the work.

Another issue needs to be addressed given that humankind, according to Camus, is in this state of struggle between self and “the other.” What causes this perceived silent warfare? It actually rises from the deep connection between the individual and the community. The individual seeks to blame society for all the wrongs in the world, as Meursault frequently tried to blame others stating, “it wasn’t my fault.” On the same note, the community seeks to blame the individual for the wrongs in society. The community as a whole claims that the ills of society are caused by a few delinquents and that separating them from the community would solve the problem. Instantly there is a stalemate. The individual as part of the community sees the ills of society, but cannot express his or her individuality for fear of being condemned on absurd grounds.

The community demands a mold that the individual cannot fit, and therein lays the beginning of a cyclic, destructive pattern. When an individual cultivates individuality, the community casts out the individual rather than addressing the individuality as another addition to the community. In some way every person is outcast for not fitting some set societal norm, but every person participates in the inner workings of a society by condemning another unique individual.

Camus presents a third aspect about the individual and the community in The Stranger. Camus states that the individual actually depends on the community when outside of it: that somehow, mystically we are defined by what other people do or say. This is apparent in the last sentence where Meursault said he hoped that people greeted him with “screams of hate” at his execution. Meursault felt the need to be connected to the society he now surrendered his life to, so that somehow he would not have to face his death alone. Thus the individual, according to Camus, is inherently defined by the circumstances and the desires of society. Death to self, physically in Meursault’s case, but also applied emotionally, is the collective solution to united life within the community.

The interesting fact about Camus’ piece, when it comes to the relationship between the individual and the community, is that it is strikingly opposed to existentialist belief. For rhetorical effect Camus wrote this marvelous work in complete opposition to existential belief, highlighting the absurd reality of modern lifestyles. The first existential belief Camus delineates is the idea that people are completely responsible for their own actions. The character Meursault claims, “It wasn’t my fault,” but existentialism would state that his past choices led to that circumstance, thus it was completely his fault; he was responsible for all that happened. And this illuminates Camus’ second discourse on the community and the individual: that the community shapes the individual. On the contrary, a person’s perception of the world is affected solely by the individual’s choices. A core belief of existentialism is that every action a person takes affects the world around them, similar to the law of karma in most major schools of Buddhism. The final idea presented about the relationship between the individual and the community is that individuals are never alone, even when craving screams of hate. Existentialism clearly states that we are very alone, and Jean-Paul Sartre calls this 28

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A R T the “anguish” of realization. Through Meursault’s character, Camus effectively demonstrates how ridiculous the concept of reality outside of existentialism is, and artfully conveys that for existentialism to work practically, the idea of community must end.

We are all alone, and the sooner that is recognized the easier our lives would be.

The Stranger is an amazing piece of rhetorical literature and a veritable sutra of the existentialist movement. Even today, Albert Camus inspires generations of young readers to follow Ralph Waldo Emerson and “trust thyself ” for in actuality “every heart beats to that iron string.” Albert Camus through antithetical literature conveys how abysmal the current method of the individual communion with society is. The individual is waging war with society because of lack of responsibility: society is shaping people instead of people shaping the society. More and more people are becoming addicted to the sensation of mutualism: that somehow humans can be saved by some cooperative effort. The Stranger is effective in detailing the relationship of individual to the community from an existential standpoint: it is a silent war brought on by people’s negligence of their own personal responsibility and reality.

Brimmer and May School / Grade 12

Arsonist

P a t r i c k

P i e r r e - V i c t o r

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A R T Hopkins School / Grade 11

K r i s t e n

M o k r e z e c k i

Kristen Self Portrait

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

J o h n

D w e l l y

Until You’ve Been In My Shoes

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 9

H a y l e y

B a r r y

Va l u e S e l f P o r t r a i t

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P O E T R Y Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

K i r s t i

I s o k u n g a s

Fireflies

“There are many things that we would not throw away if we were not afraid that others might pick them up.” ~Lord Henry, from The Picture of Dorian Gray My bones house many secrets, which flit and trot like dying fireflies over my eyes in arcs that remind me of rainbows and band camp.

But comforting secrets, these dare not be.

They keep me awake, their light, that is, sputtering and flickering buzzzzzzzing dripping a taste like alkaline, tarnished copper, and freshly cut iron(y) behind my ears.

I could never squish them flat or keep them in a glass jar on my window sill.

I would forget.

And that just might be worse than losing sleep over insects.

These secrets, they stagger through oxygen (in, sip sip) and carbon dioxide (out, push push), like drunks after revenge in my room. They really do need air, much like a dusty rug stifled with memories and foot marks, but I can’t let them out— TMC Spring 2010

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P O E T R Y not if I care for my sanity, my friends, my life, the foot marks‌ The black in night would slip drizzle down the horizon, as though it was melting plastic (time‌ sloooowwwwwwssss), if untrained hands try to swat at these bugs. Be careful; my bones make up a brittle house of glass.

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

M o r g a n

Brunsley

M i t c h e l l

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A R T Taunton High School / Grade 11

C o r i n n e

P e r r e a u l t

W hen Thought Takes Flight

l i n o l e u m

b l o c k

p r i n t

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P O E T R Y Frontier Regional High School / Grade 12

Balloons

C a r o l y n

D e c k e r

My hands are filled with vapors, swelling like the bright red balloons tied at my wrists.

The rest of me is two dimensional and I swing easily as we rise upwards and higher, making small motions with lunar moth legs, propelling me and my empty lungs heliocentrically, in swirling circles, as balloons do when the air pressure inside them becomes too great and they pop the little red pieces sifting back down to earth.

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

Fl o r a l E n l a r g e m e n t

A l y s s a

V a l l e e

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A R T Taunton High School / Grade 11

Midnight Shower

C o r i n n e

P e r r e a u l t

p h o t o g r a p h y

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A R T Cambridge Rindge and Latin School / Grade 9

T h e To w e r

R e i d

S h e a

p h o t o g r a p h y

We b C r a w l e r Old Rochester Regional High School / Grade 11

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K e l s e y

D o n o h u e

A R T Brimmer and May School / Grade 10

Beach

H a l l e

E d w a r d s - M c Q u i l t o n

p h o t o g r a p h y

Cranber ries

S t e v e n

C u t i l l o

Harwich High School / Grade 12

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P O E T R Y Minnechaug High School / Grade 11

Marbles

B e c k y

S h o r t

A r i e l

C o l b y

Aloof in speech, and solitary in existence, in the grey area where inward thought fosters inward concern, I drop the jar of marbles and watch their glassy ribbons scatter across the floor of my mind, where I wait hanging and suspended, slowly falling through, into the thing they call experience, at the cost of something else.

Harwich High School / Grade 11

Wa v e

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

Self Portrait

C h r i s t i n a

L a b o w i c z

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F I C T I O N Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

Scars and Stories

J a n e

P e t e r s

My gun lies right here on this old wood table, next to a strong glass of whiskey and a full deck of cards, straight from the hands of Lucky. He won’t be so lucky today. It’s funny, them cards is what got me into this damn mess, and that gun’s what’s going to get me outta it. I reckon they think I cheated, which ain’t true, but I’ll show them my shooting’s just as good as my poker face. The whiskey’s getting to me now.

I can feel the liquor sloshing about my head, making my memory swim: the cards, the dice, Lucky with his gun peeking out of his pocket, the sun glinting off the shiny barrel.

I don’t know what I expected to happen when I won that sixth round of Hold ‘Em; I expect I expected to win, walk off with the loot, and live nice until the next game. I can’t say I expected Lucky to jump up, hurl his hand at me, and pull out the revolver. I can’t say I expected the gun to be pointed at me, for him to tell me I was a dead man for cheating, and that he wanted a good and fair shoot out in front of the best damn saloon in town. I didn’t expect my voice to agree with him—to be arrogant even. But here I am, and I’m damn glad I did. I’ve been a good shot since I could hold a pistol straight. My pa used to tell me I could shoot an acorn off a tree from forty yards away with one hand tied behind my back. Yes sir, Lucky’s in trouble today.

When his big old body hits the ground with a muffled thud and a big plume of dust floats up, the whole town’s gonna know Jeremiah Swash ain’t no cheater. Next time I sit down at that old card table, throw back a glass of whiskey, and play my hand, all them yeller bellies are gonna know I can play a mean game of cards, and that I’ll be going home with three months worth of booze and cigars. And they’ll know I won it fair and square too, right here in Randy Taylor’s saloon, The Red Tavern. This big old place has been my favorite since I learned how to throw back the burning liquid and play a mediocre game of Hold ‘Em, and now it’s liable to be an enemy’s deathbed.

I like the way they’ll be to me, the next time I walk in and smell defeat at each corner. The way Dale and Rob will smile and pat my back with admiration. The way Randy will shake his head and say, “God musta been on your side yesterday, like Lucky even stood an ice cube’s chance in hell.” The way old Jim’ll look at me with approval, like I’m just as good a fighter as he was back in the day. I can’t imagine Jim looking at me like that. Since I been a tot, Jim’s been the sight of my admiration, the way he shot that gun like a graceful, powerful dance—able to shoot a penny tossed up in the air.

The balmy summer wind is whistling outside, rattling the swinging saloon doors. They are beckoning me to them, calling out my name to come and play. It is a call I cannot ignore. The damage has been done; I’ve agreed and there’s no turning back for either of us now. When the warm blood seeps out of Lucky’s lifeless body there will be no turning back—not from the sheriff, not from the glory. I’m not about 42

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A R T to step out into that hot sun, under the eyes of God and all the curious spectators, for the fame. Only the protection of my pride matters here—only the scars and stories.

That’s all that ever matters out here.

Old Lucky’s calling out to me now. He says, “Jeremiah Swash, come show yer yeller belly tuh mah gun!” I can hear the whiskey in his speech, the way he mashes the words together. Makes for an unsteady hand, Lucky’s whiskey breath. I always handled my liquor better than half the folks in this town. With that, I swallow my glass with pride and head out those doors. God’s on my side today—I can feel that— even though I don’t need his help. I’ve got Joe up on the old clock tower, aiming his silent gun right at Lucky’s heart.

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

R y a n

Art I Self Portrait

C u r t i s

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A R T Chicopee Comprehensive High School / Grade 10

Ocean Monarch

A l e x a n d e r

N a l l y

p h o t o g r a p h y

Untitled Taunton High School / Grade 10

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A l l e n

A R T Milton Academy / Grade 9

Pecking Order

S a r a

Pe a r c e - P r o b s t

p h o t o g r a p h y

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

Kelsey Donohue

Old Rochester Regional High School

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A R T Burlington High School / Grade 12

K e r r y

M c D e r m o t t

Life

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P O E T R Y Bishop Stang High School / Grade 12

M a t t h e w

G u r e s h

Lights. Camera. Action.

Lights. On Film. Rolling.

Begin.

Lights. Camera. Action.

Enjoy the modernized wheel.

Take steps through the wiser hall.

Be a kid; Throw your portal’s cap.

Lights. Camera. Action.

Leave Nest.

Soar into the years Where four is the greatest number.

Lights. Camera. Action.

You found her.

Mirror, smashed and scattered.

Pick up the pieces, never the same.

Lights. Camera. Action.

She found you.

Cupid gnawing at your feet.

No need; you only fly.

Lights. Camera. Action.

Butterflies visible in your shoe’s reflection.

Together, Forever.

Billy Idol knows too well.

Lights. Camera. Action.

No day like this.

Phoenix Reincarnate.

Blue? Pink?

Lights. Camera. Action.

Spitting Image.

Second Stanza, Third Stanza.

Sit back and witness a new.

Lights. Camera. Action.

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P O E T R Y Hang up the cleats, Old sport to new.

Seventh inning stretch.

Lights. Camera. Action.

Lost in her black and white promotion.

Her eyes immortal ink Imprinted forever upon my heart.

Lights. Camera. Action.

Lonely trips filled with tears.

Friends etched in stone.

Sculptors dressed in white.

Lights. Camera. Action.

Sick. Old. Leaving.

Thinking.

I did good‌ ‌Right?

Lights. Camera. Action.

Reel. Out of film.

The lights Dim. Camera slows frame.

Action.

Stops.

Cut. Print. Move on.

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

Jo s l i n S u n s e t

C a r l y

S h e e h a n

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F I C T I O N Old Rochester Regional High School / Grade 11

H a n n a h

O ’ D a y

Reign Upon the R ainfor est

The crying leaves droop with perspiration; they are the only living things, it seems, that haven’t risen with the waking rainforest. A small dung beetle eagerly rolls its breakfast from the nearest waste land, while a parrot suns itself, flapping its wings to air out the night’s dampness. Almost instantly, everything comes alive. Though the rainforest is known for its nightlife, the daily processes that govern the sunlit hours are equally special. Splotches of morning dance along the hard-packed highway of leaves and animals thunder through vital routines; monkeys screech and fly through the trees, on the hunt for a fruity cocktail; flowers stretch their solar panels to the precious rays that escape through the netting above; snakes slither back into burrows, either to await an unsuspecting passer-by or else to sleep off the busy night that ended just minutes ago; frogs leap from leaf to leaf, darting at flies and sluggish prey.

This particular morning, however, a young gorilla finds himself away from his troop. He pauses amongst the commotion, blinks away the last remnants of sleep and munches on a bug that had been camping on his shoulder. He scans the forest floor for signs that the troop had passed by, but he sees no broken twigs and no recent nests.

Squatting, he examines the trees for rubbing marks or marks of any kind, but he finds none. Hungry, he picks up to scavenge for his favorite leaves that grow just near the top of the canopy. Latching onto a nearby tree, he climbs steadily, but expertly, even though he is just a year old. His black, furry hands grip the branches and he pushes himself up higher and higher, level-by-level.

Up here he’ll also have a better scouting view. They can’t be far. Just then, his left foot stumbles upon a protruding object. Looking down through his arms, past his leathery chest, he sees something foreign. Slowly, he climbs in reverse and inspects the intruder. It is a small gray box, very cold to the touch, with beads of water clinging to the smooth, glimmering sides. He sniffs it, and presses his face to the object. At first he recoils, for it squawked at him, just as the toucan squawks at its mate. Daringly, he gives it another try and hears the same noise. Curiosity ignited, he digs his fingernails into the narrow seams and attempts to pry it open. When he cannot, he gives a mighty whack on the eastward facing side. The metal dents after a few blows, and eventually, using his fingers as tiny crowbars, pries the front face off. Inside he finds the toucan-noise-maker, which is not a bird at all, but a small black box with the eye of a snake. Red and blinking, it frightens the gorilla. He avoids touching it, but explores the other contents. It is like a colorful rainforest inside. There are vines everywhere: red, white, blue, yellow, green, black, all different colors. There are also small patterned leaves scattered about, all different sizes. What especially catches his eye is the black lines and markings on the door of the box. The figures look extremely similar to something he had noticed the other day—these same markings were tattooed on the side of an animal he had never seen before. He had stayed away because 50

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A R T its nostrils heaved dark fog and its eyes lit up like a leopard’s yellow iris. The beast was the color of a leopard too, with black lines running down its sides instead of spots.

This animal had feasted on trees, devouring them in blinks of time. It had eaten more leaves in a minute than he would chomp his entire life through. He remembered his troop leader’s quick reaction to the predator, ushering them away from the beast, and—the troop leader, the troop! He quickly left the box and resumed searching for his fellow mates. Just as the gorilla’s tough soles thumped, returning to the ground below, the box beeped too softly even for his keen ears. About 6,000 miles across the Atlantic, a gray computer in a gray office, filled with gray people in gray clothes, who sipped gray mugs, beeped too. With that, a gray telephone was dialed, and another CAT unleashed.

Milton Academy / Grade 9

S a r a

P e a r c e - P r o b s t

Under the Night

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A R T Burlington High School / Grade 11

T a l i

Summertime

p h o t o g r a p h y

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S i n g e r

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A R T Burlington High School / Grade 12

B e n j a m i n

C a o

Ju m p ! N i n j a K i c k

p h o t o g r a p h y

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f a c e b o o k

p i c n i k

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A R T Burlington High School / Grade 12

C h e l s e a

R u s t e n b u r g

Life Is Better With Art In It

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N O N F I C T I O N Advanced Math and Science Academy / Grade 11

V i r g i n i a

L y o n

The Doomed Battle of Order and Chaos for Mankind as Shown in Heart of Darkness

Utilizing such literary devices as personification and characterization, Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness demonstrates the true chaotic nature of mankind. On his journey into the epicenter of chaos, Marlow discovers a land and people untouched by time and unsullied by modern day civilization. What he discovers is the pure essence of earth and of mankind. By observing the changes in his fellow Europeans, Marlow also bears witness to the corrupting and irresistible powers of chaos. Heart of Darkness makes the argument that when confronted with this primordial disorder, humans have no choice but to revert back to their passionate and unruly natural state.

Conrad’s Africa is a primordial monster unchained by civilization, a sharp contrast to the bright and ordered Europe. Mirroring the land, the natives are a people unhindered by the pomp and rules of the modern world; however, despite their seemingly polar characteristics, the only difference between England and Africa is time. England was once no more than the untamed and unchained beast that Africa is today. Through time, the Europeans set up laws and built up social protocol that trapped the chaos within the land and people. Regardless of how much time has passed and how many walls have been built to confine this evil, the situation is far from permanent. When surrounded once again by darkness and far removed from those laws that keep man civil, the walls surrounding the chaotic core of humans will crumble and relinquish them once again to their primordial state.

The Europeans exemplify the inevitable downfall of civilized man once they enter the heart of darkness. The most prominent change occurs in Kurtz, who becomes a creature of base desires and greed. As he lays dying in Marlow’s care, the sailor describes his charge as being in “impenetrable darkness… a man who is lying at the bottom of a precipice where the sun never shines.”(pg. 115) Kurtz shed every ounce of civilization and light and surrendered completely to the heart of darkness. Africa claims him, ripping away every ounce of the modern world he possessed. Towards his end, this ruined man seems to become aware of the very foundation of his own human nature. Marlow is present for Kurtz’s revelation in which he finally grasps the true dark nature of his own soul when he cries, “The horror! The horror!” (pg. 115)

Though not as stressed and complete, the small transformations of Kurtz’s fellow Europeans are also noteworthy. Two such individuals can be found at the opening of book two when Marlow overhears an exchange over what is to be done about the wayward Kurtz. The conclusion that is reached before Marlow reveals himself to the Europeans is “get him hanged! Why not? Anything-anything can be done in this country.” (pg. 71) Without a higher power to keep them in check or their government breathing down their necks, the explorers have taken it upon themselves to make sure people and problems that stand in their way are taken care of—rules be damned. Not TMC Spring 2010

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N O N F I C T I O N only are these men talking about killing off a competition that is making them look bad, they are voicing a truth about Africa. Anything at all can be done in Africa; it is a land of possibilities not constricted by civilization. Chaos holds no laws, and by ignoring laws these men are perpetuating humankinds’ fall into darkness.

Early political theorist and philosopher, Thomas Hobbes, approached similar conclusions when he wrote Leviathan, titled after the dangerous beast of mankind.

Hobbes’ treatise labels the natural state of humans to be in conflict and in a constant “endeavor to destroy, or subdue one another.” (Thomas Hobbes) Hobbes makes the argument that without a higher power to control them, mankind will forever remain a primitive and chaotic creature. “It is manifest, that during the time men live without a common Power… they are in a condition which is called War… as is of every man, against every man.” (Thomas Hobbes) Heart of Darkness demonstrates this through the European’s fall from grace as they move farther and farther away from their superiors and begin to feel the absence of a strong, guiding hand.

The actions of Marlow’s fellow Europeans create a persuasive argument against the position of racism as a theme in Heart of Darkness. Some critics claim that the chaotic nature of the natives is a stab at their humanity, while it is precisely the opposite.

Through his portrayal of the Africans and personification of Africa, Joseph Conrad is arguing that these individuals are the pure embodiment of man’s true nature. Acclaimed African author, Chinua Achebe, would find fault with this statement. It is his opinion that Heart of Darkness is a novel “in which the very humanity of black people is called in question.” (Achebe, pg. 259) The absurdity of this statement is made clear when one considers that the single factor that triggers the differences between the Europeans and the Africans is time. In a startling passage, Marlow directly exclaims over the raw humanity of these beings, saying

“but what thrilled you was just the thought of their humanity-like yours-…

if you were man enough you would admit to yourself that there was in you

just the faintest trace of a response to… that noise,…there being a meaning

in it which you-you so remote from the night of the first ages-could compre

hend.” (pg. 76) Marlow can’t help but identify with the African’s passionate uproar because it is the same cry that his own upbringing stifles. Restrained under layers of rules and customs, he possesses a screaming creature of chaos and destruction that is dancing along with the natives. The Europeans, in the nights of their existence, were the same as these Africans, just as Europe and the rest of the world was once home to the chaos that thrives patiently in Africa, biding its time until it can return the earth to its original state.

The earth and all of its inhabitants were born of chaos and as a result will forever carry a hint of the darkness they were called from. Heart of Darkness shows not only this, but also that, given the chance, human beings will revert back to their original state of anarchy, regardless of how far civilization has advanced. With Marlow’s discovery of Africa comes the reader’s introduction to a land and a people untouched by time and a catalyst for the transformation of civilized Europeans to their primordial state. The wild jungle and its people are the pure essence of earth and mankind, and by observing the changes in the explorers the reader can glean how thoroughly corrupting and irresistible the powers of chaos are.

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A R T Groton School / Grade 11

Fa c e s

A n d r e w

S w a n s b u r g

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P O E T R Y Northbridge High School / Grade 12

All the Zoos in Germany

N i c h o l a s

The unintended causalities of f a l l i n g bombs didn’t cry or scream or fall to their knees pleading to a god beyond the blackening skies.

They made inhuman sounds from their dwellings behind glass, wire, and concrete and had no conception of a deity, not needing it. Running more on instinct than their sapien keepers, they tried to run or hide instead.

Perhaps this was a blessing, saving them from the hours of trying to coalesce the events of the day into a peaceful melody, finding harmonious patterns in the smoke— anything to provide a semblance of reason in the world.

In DRESDEN a gibbon reached out to its trainer, only blood stumps left for arms, seeking safety in the arms of the human—unaware that humans were responsible for the bangs, booms, and fires around him—while nearly forty rhesus monkeys escaped to the trees, only prolonging their perishing to the next day from drinking the irradiated water.

The hippopotamuses drowned in their water basins, pinned down by wayward debris.

In FRANKFURT bombs smashed seal cages and busted the aquarium—fish left to gasp for water, finding only air.

The injured cats, bears, and others had to be put out of their misery with the sweet relief of a bullet.

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H a d l e y

A R T And in DUSSELDORF the smoke cleared to reveal nothing but a solitary wall guarding over two hundred bomb craters, a monolith sentinel for a new wasteland.

The scenes repeated themselves in MUNICH, HEIDELBURG, and WUPPERTAL. And in BERLIN stunned lions took to the streets, and large snakes slithered amongst crowds of people caught in the hellfire cataclysm.

The first explosion killed the only elephant in the city, an unintended casualty of f a l l i n g bombs.

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

S e a Tu r t l e

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W a l l

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

A m b e r

P h i l l i p s

Tiger

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

M a e g a n

P o r p o r a

In the Garden

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F I C T I O N Old Rochester Regional High School / Grade 11

D a n a

Ta l e s o f A f r i c a

D o u r d e v i l l e

I was shaken awake at 5:30 this morning. When I tried to roll out of bed, I remembered that I was already on the ground. The night’s sleep on the hard-packed earth had done me little good. I was more tired than I had been before; my muscles were stiff, and I shivered in the pre-dawn chill. The simple, cloth roof blocked out any starlight, so I felt my way along the chiseled rock wall until I reached the door.

Stumbling out into the village, I glimpsed a small throng of people gathered around two cooking fires. I could vaguely discern some gooey bubbling substance in the pot and was suddenly glad I had packed the Power Bars in my backpack.

Finding my way back to the area that the locals had designated for me to sleep in, I reached up and fumbled with the cloth covering. It finally fell away, and I was able to see my gear strewn about the floor. I turned and my heart skipped; a man was standing in the corner watching me. As I unfroze myself, he began jabbering in broken English, and I gathered that he was my guide. He was wearing surplus camouflage pants, a torn T-shirt, a baseball cap, and no shoes. He bounded out of the room before I understood a quarter of what he said.

I shuffled around my quarters for a while, eating a Power Bar and drinking plastic-flavored water while repacking my bags. Finally, I stepped out into the village for a second time. The sun was just breaking the horizon, and it cast a red glow over the light walls and ground. It was reminiscent, I mused, of the blood that had been shed in this part of the world over the last one and a half centuries. The village was walled by the same stones that had protected trade caravans bringing frankincense from Southern Africa to the Mediterranean for ages. The population of this village was only about 75. The main community event was the serving of the morning’s gruel, and yet, for Sudan, this was a typical town. I am not in Africa, however, to document humanitarian issues; I am in Africa to photograph the White-tailed Monkey. As in all jobs, I guess, there is a pecking order at National Geographic. Those at the top photograph roaring lions, howling wolves, and iconic cultural scenes. The new recruits live wherever they can hire a guide who is desperate enough to show them creatures as mundane as the White-tailed Monkey.

I made my way through the maze of alleys and dwellings until I reached the edge of the village and looked out upon the eastern tip of the Sahara Desert. When I arrived last night, it had been dark and cool, but already I could feel the heat of the sun, and the distant dunes looked foreboding. Off to my left, my guide was already busy. He was tending to a Jeep that looked like it had been driven hard since the ‘80s.

I think it was supposed to be white, but years of exposure to sand had stripped most of its paint. In the dry desert air, the metal underneath was mostly free of rust, so the Jeep appeared silvery more than anything else. Despite its shine, however, it seemed clear to me that this vehicle was in no way ready to cross a dessert. Practically every 62

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F I C T I O N square inch of sheet metal was dented in some way, and all that was left of the windshield was a single sliver of glass on the driver’s side that was more of a safety-hazard than it was useful. My guide deflated the tires to prepare for crossing the soft sand, and I grimaced at the cracks that this action revealed in the old, stiff rubber. I may not be an expert on the Sahara, but I knew enough to realize that a blowout on one of the back wheels would mean being stranded in the middle of the desert, waiting for an unlikely rescue. On the other hand, a blowout of one of the front wheels would bury that corner and flip the Jeep, and both my guide and I would suffocate under the sand. While the guide lifted some jerry-jugs of extra gasoline into the back, I snuck a quick check of the oil, and found only a thick sludge clinging to the stick. The guide seemed to read my doubts, but defended his Jeep, repeatedly slapping the hood and jabbering in incoherent phrases. I finally agreed to get in, and after a couple of unsettling failures the engine caught. With a gear-grinding shift, my guide spun the Jeep out of the village and out onto the desert.

Even with the tires partially deflated, the guide had to keep the car moving fast enough so that it paned across the soft sand without sinking. The speedometer read about 65 kilometers per hour, and I estimate we were traveling about 40. This meant that the wheels were spinning freely, and the result was like the sound of someone sandblasting the chassis of the Jeep. The heat from the engine and the hot, dry wind rolled up the hood. Within half an hour, a thin coating of salt had formed on my upper body where sweat had evaporated. I fought dehydration with bottled water from my pack, but I soon realized that I would have to ration my supply. To make matters worse, the Jeep had been outfitted with snorkels for the intake and exhaust, allowing it to cross shallow rivers; I found this ironic, seeing as how we were in a desert. Some genius—I expect it was my guide—had routed the snorkel next to the passenger windshield post, so I spent the entire trip in a haze of acrid smoke.

After over four hours of driving, we were out of the desert and entering a land of dust rather than sand. Another hour, and we braked to a stop at the base of a rocky mountain.

The guide motioned vaguely and said,“trail.”

I saw no trail, but as we had survived our desert crossing, I decided to take his word for it. He turned off the Jeep, which seemed as thankful as a car ever was to stop, and walked quickly to the base of the mountain. I climbed much less enthusiastically out of the Jeep and stared up at the mountain; it looked pretty tall. I heaved my seventy-pound backpack of camera equipment out of the trunk and onto my already-stiff back. Then I stared up at the mountain again; it looked a lot taller. Slowly, I made my way over to where the guide was standing, and he immediately began the ascent.

My legs were burning after only a few minutes. I stopped to catch my breath and spat in the dust. Then, I looked down and realized that what I had spat out had been mostly dust. Glancing up, I saw my sinewy guide scampering happily up the rocks far ahead. Muttering an oath, I hitched up my pack and continued trudging.

Over an hour later, I stumbled onto a summit of sorts and collapsed in a heap. My guide, who had probably been there for at least fifteen minutes, stared down at me disapprovingly before pointing over at an adjacent peak.

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F I C T I O N

“Monkey,” he said.

I squinted, but after a day of desert sun, wind, and dust, could barely make out the mountain. I pulled out a pair of surveillance-grade 20x 60 binoculars and focused on the peak. Sure enough, half a dozen furry figures were clustered around each other, some looking back at me. I pulled out a camera with one of my telephoto lenses and began snapping pictures. They were too distant, however, to be National Geographic quality. I had come so far, I might as well do a decent job. After several minutes of banging my head against a language barrier, I succeeded in communicating to the guide that we needed to be closer.

He took off once again at a blistering clip, but this time it was only for a few minutes. When I caught up, I realized his plan. The two peaks were connected by a ridge that was, at one point, split by a small ravine about 25 feet deep. The walls of the ravine were smooth and near-vertical, but some pioneering folk had built a bridge across the ravine. This was not a sturdy steel-framed bridge. Rather, this was the rope and board contraption on which the action hero is trapped over a river full of ferocious alligators, while hordes of bad guys with swords close in from both sides.

Somehow, the bridge always collapses, countless bad guys fall to their deaths, and the action hero survives. My guide tried to prove that the bridge was safe by standing in the middle and jumping. He proved two things: the bridge was not safe, and he was not an action hero. He fell—slowly, it seemed—through the boards and broke both of his legs at the bottom of the ravine.

For a few seconds, I was too stunned to do anything. Cautiously, I inspected my end of the bridge. It looked like it was probably twice as old as I was, but the ropes looked sturdy enough, only the boards that provided footing were weak. I grabbed my knife from my backpack and severed the right-side rope handhold. Advancing along the left side to the point where my guide fell through, I once again cut the rightside rope. I now had a decent length of rope, which I tied to the left rope and let hang into the ravine. I think my guide honestly thought that I would leave him to die in the ravine. He stared relentlessly at me with a painless expression of simple pleading desperation, until the moment that he actually had the rope in his hands. When he finally received the rope, he hauled himself hand-over-hand to the top, and I dragged him over the left-hand rope back to safety. Only then did he begin to show signs of pain, while I did my best to make splints for his legs from pieces of wood from the bridge, our belts, and my shoelaces.

I was exhausted, dehydrated, and wholly pessimistic, but I realized that we had to get back to the Jeep before sunset. I ditched my backpack and hoisted the guide onto my shoulders, and began the trek back to the Jeep. As the sunset over the western horizon, I slung the guide in the back of the Jeep and climbed into the front.

I fell into a state of fitful sleep until the blood-red sun rose once again. Then, praying that the Jeep could manage one more journey to save its injured master, I reached forward and turned the key.

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A R T Bartlett Junior Senior High School / Grade 10

Ser val Cat

A n d r e a

f i r e d

F r e n i e r e

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P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Grade 10

S e l f Jo y

S a r a h

F i s h m a n

As the shoe maker rubs the leather, polishing his pride, he scrubs away till it glows as if caught by the sun.

Then places it, as if the leather were glass, on the display shelf. He closes the door’s bolt and eyes them, worn from his polishing, the same batch as last week.

So the child, no more than eight, fixes her tutu, brushes out the wrinkles, and struggles to strap the shoes.

She dances, a ballerina, around her room.

Door closed, each step perfected, she spins so she does not see her empty orchestra.

With an impish smile, she takes her teddy’s hand and bows.

Groton School / Grade 11

N e w Yo r k

A n d r e w

S w a n s b u r g

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

Art II Self Portrait

S a r a h

S t e v e s

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A R T Stoneleigh-Burnham School / Grade 10

Fr i e n d

E m i l y

H e w l i n g s

p h o t o g r a p h y

To r n Burlington High School / Grade 12

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N a t a l i e

J .

C a s e y

A R T Harwich High School / Grade 12

Glare

R a m s e y

M u s k

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F I C T I O N Old Rochester Regional High School / Grade 10

S h e p h e r d Ja m e s

Alycyn

Clarice

Breland

“James, load the cargo!” Salty yelled from farther down the dock. Salty was an old sea dog at heart. He seemed to be a bit out of his time, a bit crazy. But when he knew he was needed, or needed to be serious, there was no one more sharp or down to Earth than he. He was one you could trust and count on as a friend and a captain. Not one of his shipmates challenged his position as Captain, and when he gave orders they were followed without a word. No one knew Salty’s real name; no one had in fifty years. Some say it was something he disliked about himself; others say Salty was a title he had earned by a previous captain; others say he just forgot his name. He’s old, but not frail. His bones aren’t as strong as they once were in earlier days, but they still carry the same supplies out to the same ship he’s been sailing all his years—still sailing that ship, still fighting every battle he has to.

I did as I was told, loading barrels of salted fish and meats onto the deck of the Shepherd. She was a frigate, a warship made for speed and maneuvering around such a vast ocean world. A long, proud shape she was: square and full rigged, but faster than most of her kind. These ships were usually heavy-armed and used for patrolling and escort, but Salty picked her to travel the world because she was an amazing battleship with excellent steering, plus she was able to carry six months’ stores. The Shepherd was an unnamed ship for many years, until Salty began to refer to the ship as the “Shipmates’ Shepherd.” Eventually the term was shortened to just Shepherd and the name stuck. She was famous for her mighty resistance to the sea’s overpowering, brute salty strength. This ship alone has fought many pirates, been in contact with cannons that have ripped her board by board—from nose to sternum—and she’s been rebuilt again to sail the seas once more.

“Traveled the world more than twice she has,” the shipmates would always say as they poured a glass of the silkiest rum. The journey I was about to embark on would be on this very ship. My stomach flipped as I set foot onto the ship with the last of the stores. I could sense the many adventures—all the pacing done on this deck, the bloody battles, the treasure loaded in from wins against other pirates— through my feet. Salty studied me from the deck.

I peeked over the deck railing, gazing into undulant spangles of blue and turquoise pattern. Not deep from the surface, a family of butterfly fish glided alongside our ship. Around the islands we were headed, there was bound to be thousands of schools just like this one. I didn’t know the name of our destination island, but Salty had told me all about it. Of course, he had been there many times. Even though I had been traveling cross-country by foot for the past two years—and I’ve seen my share of sights—the sea and all its wonders were new to me.

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A R T

Around twilight, while everyone was enjoying a meal of freshly caught and salted Haddock, the coast of a large island appeared in the distance. Twinkling lights from a bustling city caught my eye from out the Captain’s window.

“Is that the island you’ve been talking about, Captain?” I pointed to the window. When he turned to look at the window, a piece of Haddock remained on his beard. “Uh- sir, you’ve got a little somethin’…” I put my hand to where a beard would eventually grow in on my face and pretended to stroke it. Salty wiped his chin and continued to stare out the window.

“Oh! No, yaaaaaar,” he grunted and took another bite of his food. “The island we be headin’ to will need another day of fine sailin’ boy. Don’t rush it! Enjoy the sea!” I didn’t reply, but continued to stare out the window, admiring the yellow lights I saw from farther in the distance.

Old Rochester Regional High School / Grade 11

A Ma r ch R ef l ec t ion

S a s h a

N o c h i m o w

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P O E T R Y Harwich High School / Grade 12

Sea Glass

D a v i d

M c W i l l i a m s

Let’s take a walk on the beach, hand in hand, And go searching for sea glass washed up on the sand.

Maybe some day we’ll find one that’s deep cobalt blue.

If we look hard together, we just might find two.

What romance is there in these old bits of glass?

Weathered and worn as waves tumble and pass, Frosted from years spent away in the sea, What a beautiful form for discarded debris.

Where did it come from? When was it made?

Was this glass once a goblet at an old masquerade?

Was it washed from the wreck of a ship gone astray?

Or did two lovers share it then toss it away?

After months of this searching, an assortment we glean, Mostly whites with some browns and a few bits of green, A couple of pieces of gleaming light blue, And a few bottlenecks of various hue.

What should be done with it when we grow old?

Such sentimental treasures ought not to be sold.

Perhaps we could toss them back into the sea To be found by new lovers, just like you and me.

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A R T Archbishop Williams High School / Grade 10

S u m m e r ’s Te a r s

Z o e

M a c D o n a l d

p h o t o g r a p h y

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

M e g h a n

P e r k i n s

Reach

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A R T Groton School / Grade 12

S a b i n a

M i l b a n k

Oranges

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

Innocence

B r e n d a

S n y d e r

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F I C T I O N Old Rochester Regional High School / Grade 11

A m a n d a

T i l d e n

Chopsticks

Kathleen slowly yanked at the sleeves of her sleek overcoat, removing her arms from the warm entrapment of fabric. She winced slightly as she pulled off her new high-heels, revealing painful red bumps on both her biggest and smallest toes.

Oh, the price you pay to be beautiful. She sighed as she tossed society’s method of torment into her shallow closet, telling herself she’d place them correctly tomorrow.

The cold wood served as a relief to her sores. Gently tip-toeing across the mahogany, Kathleen began to remove her pearls, before grabbing for the zipper gluing together the seam of her dress. It was then she heard a door creak down the hallway and her husband clear his throat.

Abandoning the zipper, Kathleen silently strode down the hallway, her hand caressing the banister that stood between her and the one story drop down to the hard tile floor of the entryway. Upon her arrival to the small parlor, it seemed as though Patrick had been engaging in the same activities Kathleen had just seconds ago; his suit jacket was nowhere to be seen, while his newly-shined dress shoes were tucked away neatly in the corner of the emerald walls. Stretching his arms high, he clasped his hands atop the crown of his head, staring out the transparent window, painted black with night. Kathleen clasped either side of the wooden doorframe, leaning her upper-body through the archway.

“Coming to bed?”

Patrick seemed startled, jumping slightly at the sound of her voice, yet leaving his hands resting on his golden brown locks, turning his head slightly to peek at her through the crook of his left arm.

“Eh, maybe in a little while. I thought I might stay up to read the paper.”

Releasing his hands, he gestured to the newspaper resting on the circular table between them.

“Oh . . . mind if I join you?” Not yet feeling the fatigue of a long day, Kathleen fully entered the small room, closing the heavy door behind her.

“I don’t see why not.” Patrick grabbed the newspaper, easing himself into the faded coral chair that had once belonged to his grandmother. Kathleen perched herself upon the nearby piano bench, crossing one leg over the other in the most ladylike of fashions. Brushing a wisp of hair from her brow, she stared curiously at her husband of nearly seven years. How long had it been since she had actually looked at him? His eyebrows were knit together in concentration, the deep blue of his irises quickly scanning the black and white pages full of untimely deaths and financial woes. Unlike the majority of others, he chewed on his top lip as opposed to his bottom. Despite such a serious expression, he still held the paper as though it were the most fragile of kitchen china. Leaning forward in his seat, he let out another cough, softer this time.

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“Anything interesting?” She asked, resting her chin in the heel of her palm and her elbow on her upper thigh. She tapped her pale rose stained cheek with her slender fingers.

“Not really,” he replied. Despite his expression of total fascination, his voice rang dully with boredom. Not expecting much more of a response, Kathleen turned at her waist, angling herself towards the piano behind her. My old friend. Her fingers rested on the marble white keys lovingly. Tingles ran up her spine as she pressed one, then another. It has been too long. Despite having a piano in the mansion since they moved in, Kathleen quite rarely visited the dark instrument occupying the parlor. It occurred to her now she wasn’t entirely sure why.

“I remember you teaching me that. What’s it called again? Chopsticks?”

Kathleen glanced over her shoulder, smiling with the memory. Suddenly, the two of them were fifteen again and newly acquainted. Their fathers had been business partners, and so Patrick’s family had come to Kathleen’s house for dinner. Their mothers had gone off to discuss numerous color swatches and expensive fabrics, while their fathers had escaped to smoke their expensive cigars and talk about money, leaving the two teenagers to their own devices. Patrick, of course, had waltzed into the house with an arrogant swagger and enough attitude for the entire graduating class of the local private school, immediately irritating the reserved, straight-laced Kathleen.

Feeling uncomfortable, and with nothing else to do, Kathleen promptly marched her way to the grand piano in the center of the parlor. As soon as she made contact with the bench, her fingers began flying across the keys, effortlessly performing a piece by Chopin.

Patrick, not one to stand around and listen, waited only moments before sliding onto the bench, unnecessarily close to her. “How about something I can play, huh?” he asked, slapping his palms on his thighs. Skeptical, Kathleen raised her perfectly sculpted left eyebrow, reaching her hand to his side of the scale.

“All you’re going to do is this,” pressing the keys slowly, she recited the note with each hum of the piano, repeating the string of sounds a handful of times before letting him take over.

Biting his upper lip, he placed his fingers on the correct keys. “Ok, I think I’ve got it.”

“Ready?” He began the tune, stumbling over the keys the first few times.

Soon enough, Kathleen began to play her own part.

“I must be a prodigy or something. I haven’t been playing for five minutes and look how good I am,” he laughed. Kathleen just shook her head, hiding a smirk.

“What song is this?” he asked.

“Chopsticks,” she answered.

Kathleen was startled back to the present by the warm weight pressed against her left side. “Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all. You do remember how it goes, correct?” She asked, teasingly.

“Of course.” Despite his words, Patrick was clearly rusty. They both flinched at the blaringly incorrect notes, giggling.

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A R T familiar yet so strange at the same time. No longer foolish adolescents, they had morphed into something foreign, like out-of-tune notes on a piano. An immense melancholy wave washed over her then, a feeling of resignation to the detached relationship they had developed. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, forcing her to return her attention to the keys before her.

“Well, I suppose there’s always time to relearn it, right? Or maybe just move on to another song.” Kathleen glanced back up at him at the sound of his voice, but he didn’t return her gaze. And yet, Kathleen thought she could see a similar emotion etched upon his face. She could feel him move closer, though there didn’t seem to be any space left between them. “Let’s start again, shall we?”

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 10

J a d e

Fl o r a l E n l a r g e m e n t

C h a u v i n

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M U S I C Sturgis Charter Public School / Grade 12

An Atonal End

A n d r e a

S y l v i a

eee .

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s y n t h e t i c

i n s t r u m e n t s

Dracut Senior High School / Grade 12

J a c o b

H a j j a r

Enigma

eee .

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scored for flute, Bb clarinet, alto saxophone, Bb trumpet, trombone, tuba, and bells 80

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V I D E O Attleboro High School / Grade 9-12

M r .

M a k e p e a c e ’ s

Student Antholog y

S t u d e n t s

C L I C K T O WA T C H

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Eter nal Sunlight (painting) R a m s e y

M u s k

Harwich High School / Grade 12