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

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Massachusetts high school Magazine of the arts Winter 2010

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A B O U T

U S

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 a nonprofit organization that publishes a print and digital magazine of the arts for Massachusetts secondar y students.

The Marble Collection: The Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts is released biannually in the winter & the spring and is currently available digitally & in print.

As a nonprofit organization we rely on grants, donations, subscription & advertising sales to support the production of the magazine. We anticipate that future issues will yield greater participation & support.

*** M I S S I O N S TAT E M E N T To i m p r o v e a c a d e m i c p e r f o r m a n c e & a c h i e v e m e n t among Massachusetts secondary 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 e n h a n c e t h e e d u c a t i o n a l & s o c i a l d e v e l o p m e n t of all Massachusetts secondary students by creating an online venue that promotes an exchange within the humanities sector while encouraging the practice of safe social networking skills; To f a m i l i a r i z e s t u d e n t s w i t h t h e e d i t o r i a l p r o c e s s within the realm of professional publishing; To e x p o s e s t u d e n t s t o p o s t s e c o n d a r y a c a d e m i a options through beneficial advertisements; To d i s t r i b u t e c l a s s r o o m b u n d l e s o f 2 5 m a g a z i n e s biannually to all Massachusetts secondary schools, allowing students to review the work of their peers at the state level.

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S T A F F EDITOR-IN-CHIEF LITERATURE EDITOR ART EDITOR LAYOUT & DESIGN ADVERTISING EXECUTIVE WEBMASTER ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT VOLUNTEER

Deanna Elliot Alex Dembrowsky Brendan O’Brien Jackie Santelices Chris D’Errico Deanna Elliot Lindsay Butler Lauren Fox Raj Ajrawat Tia Lombard Patsy Rose Emily Roseman

S U B M I T NEXT ISSUE / SPRING 2010 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.

SPRING-ISSUE READING PERIOD 12.01.09- 02.29.10 To submit please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/submit

S U B S C R I B E CLASSROOM BUNDLE ONE-YEAR SINGLE COPY

$150.00 $13.00 $6.50

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 Winter 2010

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P A R T I C I P A T I N G Acton-Boxborough Regional Advanced Math & Science Academy

S C H O O L S

Leicester / Lexington Christian Academy / Lincoln Alternative Day

Agawam / Andover / Archbishop

School / Lowell Catholic / Lowell

Williams / Attleboro / Auburn

Lynn Voc Tech Institute / Malden

Austin Preparatory / Ayer

Catholic / Malden / Mansfield

B M C Durfee / Bartlett

Marblehead / Marshfield / Maynard

Belmont Hill School / Berkshire

Medway / Melrose / Milford / Millis

Arts and Technology Charter

Milton Academy / Minnechaug

Beverly / Bishop Feehan / Bishop

Regional / Nauset Regional

Stang / Brimmer & May / Bristol

Needham / Nipmuc Regional

County Agricultural / Burlington

North Attleboro / Northbridge

Burncoat / Cambridge Rindge and

Norwood / Oakmont Regional

Latin / Cape Cod Regional Voc Tech / Central Catholic / Chatham

Old Rochester Regional / Peabody Veterans Memorial / Pioneer Valley

Chicopee Academy / Chicopee

Christian / Punam Voc Tech

Comprehensive / Chicopee / Clark

Randolph / Salem / Seekonk

Creative Learn / Cohasset

Sharon / Somerville / South

Concord-Carlisle / Dover-Sherborn Regional / Dracut / Everett Falmouth / Fitchburg Framingham / Frontier Regional

Hadley / South Shore Charter Public / Southbridge / Springfield High School of Commerce / St. Mary / St. Peter Marian / Stoneleigh

Gardner / Granby / Greater Lowell

Burnham / Sturgis Charter Public

Tech / Groton-Dunstable Regional

Sutton / Taconic / Tantasqua

Harwich / Haverhill Alternative Holliston / Holyoke Catholic Hopkins Academy / Housatonic Academy / Joseph Case / Lee

Taunton / The Governor’s Academy Trinity Day Academy / Ware Wareham Cooperative / Westford Academy / Williston Northampton

SPECIAL THANKS 4

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S P O N S O R S The Marble Collection, Inc. is supported in part by grants from the below local cultural councils, local agencies which are s u p p o r t e d b y t h e 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

P A T R O N S S c o t t L o m b a r d / Justine Ring / P a t s y R o s e

*** 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 Winter 2010

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C O N T E N T S 8

Mellow Melancholy Danielle Carney (Art)

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A Fall of Rain Nina Batt (Fiction)

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As I Look From Below Emily Fagan (Art)

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Shadow Sacha Pfeufer (Art)

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Untitled Molly McCormack (Art)

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Manifest Destiny Alexander Ross (Poetry)

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Child Feet Ilana Sandberg (Art)

Path of Shells Jenn Carroll (Art)

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Brush Hill Road Samantha McColl (Art)

Education=Peace Collaborative (Art)

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Documentary Charlotte Malone (Poetry)

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The War Sonnet Joshua Koch (Poetry)

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Entropy Anna Lert (Art)

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Koi Keri Gardner (Art)

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To War Olaitan Oladipo (Poetry)

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Felted Tree in Poppy Field Nicole Huang (Art)

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Slide Alexandra Thomsen (Art)

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An Ordinary Bird Ryan Baxter-King (Fiction)

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Fleur de Mi Bielinksy Brea (Art)

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The Face Patrick Pierre-Victor (Art)

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Ware Junior Senior High School / Grade 11

Old Rochester Regional High School / Grade 11

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Abington High School / Grade 9

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Cambridge Rindge and Latin School / Grade 11

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Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 10 Taconic High School / Grade 12

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Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

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Dover-Sherborn High School / Grade 9-12

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Milton Academy / Grade 11

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Lee Middle-High School / Grade 11

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Dover-Sherborn High School / Grade 11

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

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Dover-Sherborn High School / Grade 12

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Cambridge Rindge and Latin School / Grade 10

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Belmont Hill School / Grade 10

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Brimmer and May School / Grade 12 Brimmer and May School / Grade 12

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Max Halle Edwards-McQuilton (Art)

Brimmer and May School / Grade 10

Man on the Moon Stephen Mulloy (Art) Brimmer and May School / Grade 11

Insomnia, Again Julia Kelley (Poetry)

Sharon High School / Grade 12

rain drop Aidan Fensterman (Art)

Brimmer and May School / Grade 12

A better son/daughter Emily Brillon (Fiction)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

Cambridge Rindge and Latin School / Grade 10 Brimmer and May School / Grade 12

We Got Your Back John Dwelly (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

Jorge Samuel Shleifer (Poetry)

Milton Academy / Grade 11

The Initiation Olaitan Oladipo (Poetry)

Milton Academy / Grade 12

In My Element Aaron Testa (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

Birdhouse Meghan Perkins (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

Holes Erin McDaniel (Poetry)

Milton Academy / Grade 12

The Hunt Madeline Rice (Poetry) Ayer Middle-High School / Grade 12

Ballad of Storms Jacob Hajjar (Music)

Dracut Senior High School / Grade 12

Forest Path Sweety Panchal (Art)

Harwich High School / Grade 11

In My Element Amanda Daigle (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

Music and Mountains Emily Brillon (Fiction)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

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W I N T E R ‘1 0 42 43 44 45 45 46 46 47 47 48 49 50 51 52 55 56 56 57 57

Last Family Supper Erin McDaniel (Poetry)

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Solitude Maddie Goldman (Art)

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Fallen Leaves Amanda Tilden (Fiction)

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Fall Leaves Cullen Cicero (Art)

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Milton Academy / Grade 12

Dover-Sherborn High School / Grade 11

Old Rochester Regional High School / Grade 11 Somerville High School / Grade 11

Three Piece Still Life Nik Huntoon (Art)

Dover-Sherborn High School / Grade 12

De Fence Bielinksy Brea (Art)

Brimmer and May School / Grade 12

Pond Kerrie Bourque (Art)

Brimmer and May School / Grade 12

Chicago Bean Patrick Pierre-Victor (Art)

Brimmer and May School / Grade 12

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On the Top Stephen Mulloy (Art)

Brimmer and May School / Grade 11

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Ascending the Maple Robert MacKay (Poetry)

Milton Academy / Grade 11

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Untitled Jessi Donahue (Art)

Somerville High School / Grade 12

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Untitled Chantal Plamondon (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

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Self Portrait Emelie Tenander (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

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Tracks Dana Dourdeville (Fiction)

Old Rochester Regional High School / Grade 11

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Dramatic Light Alesia Gleason (Art)

Harwich High School / Grade 12

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Untitled Carly Sheehan (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

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Peace and Quiet Noelle Landry (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

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Cherry Susanne Cho (Art)

Somerville High School / Grade 12

Untitled Madi Ciampi (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 10

A Painful Case Naseeha Jamil (Art)

Dracut Senior High School / Grade 12

The Use of Dialogue to Tell a Story in Girl Virginia Lyon (Nonfiction) Advanced Math and Science Academy / Grade 11 Self Portrait Amber Phillips (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 10

Homeric Similes Collaborative (Poetry)

Everett High School / Grade 9

The Rock Wall Jason Kraus (Nonfiction)

Sharon High School / Grade 12

Untitled Keri Gardner (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

Self Portrait Brys Scotland (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 10

Untitled Emily Shaffer (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

Carnival Camaraderie Rachel O’Brien (Fiction)

Archbishop Williams High School / Grade 12

Self Portrait Nikki Skinner (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 10

Our Broken Hearts Margaret Harding (Poetry)

Lee Middle-High School / Grade 10

The Pigeon Man Isaiah Lyons-Galante (Art) Cambridge Rindge and Latin School / Grade 12

Footbridge Katie Fortier (Art)

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

Umbrella Anna Melillo (Poetry)

Ayer Middle-High School / Grade 12

Two men prepared for the argument to come Leah Smith (Poetry) Ayer Middle-High School / Grade 12

Somerville High School / Grade 11

House in Tibet Jigmey Sangye (Art)

Turning Black Julia Hines (Nonfiction)

Everett High School / Grade 12

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To Lydia Marie Sarah Case (Poetry)

Convent of the Sacred Heart / Grade 11 OUT OF STATE / HONORABLE MENTION

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A R T Ware Junior Senior High School / Grade 11

D a n i e l l e

C a r n e y

Mellow Melancholy

p a i n t i n g 8

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

N i n a

B a t t

A Fa l l o f R a i n

The asphalt shingle scratched her outer thigh as she lost her balance on the incline. She winced slightly with the alien contact of her flannel shirt cuff against the ruddy burn. Tired, she sat, leaning slightly to the right to rest her temple against the chimney. The breeze had been less severe on the ground and she drew her knees to her chest in an effort to keep warm. The sun had long set and the unwavering beam of tawny pearl from the lighthouse flashed from behind her as it made its rotations, sweeping over the radius of the property and out beyond the waves. She breathed in and closed her eyes; her meditation deep and gentle and constant and quiet.

“He’s on the phone.”

She opened her eyes as gradually and deliberately as she had previously closed them.

“He wants to talk to you.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Leave me be.”

“He really wants to talk—“

“I said leave me be.”

“Will you talk to him eventually?”

“I don’t know.”

The intruder paused, “I’ll tell him. Goodnight.”

She closed her eyes again and allowed the bricks to support her full weight, then realized the absence of the retreating footsteps.

“Goodnight. I’ll be down shortly.”

She watched the shadow gradually disappear below the last eave of the roof into the house. She tilted her head back, once again lost in her silent reverie. She grasped her forearms tighter around her knees, until her fingernails bore raw gashes where freckled porcelain once lay. She tilted her head back and arched her spine, extending every muscle and offering her heart to whatever grand force lay beyond that empty vast space between two stars. She had no need for it anymore. She sat back straight once again and ever so soundlessly stood, keeping a balance she had never possessed before. The rain started softly, as a drop fell upon her forehead, then her chest, then more rapidly on either shoulder. She parted her lips as a tiny capsule made berth on her pale mouth.

She touched her lips with two trembling fingers.

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A R T

The rain began to come faster, harder, the drops in rapid succession, one after another. She whimpered as she felt her skin sliding away from her, escaping from the hollow valley of her collar bone to her shoulder, to her willowy arms, to her wrists, over old scars, old memories, washing away a past that ripped her out of her skin, out of reality, out of cognizance, out of place. And, as the imperfection dripped from her outstretched fingertips, she felt heavy, dirty, and disappointed, the opposite of how she had expected it to feel‌to fall.

Abington High School / Grade 9

E m i l y

F a g a n

A s I L o o k Fr o m B e l o w

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A R T Cambridge Rindge and Latin School / Grade 11

S a c h a

P f e u f e r

Shadow

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

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 10

Untitled

M o l l y

M c C o r m a c k

d r a w i n g 12

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

A l e x a n d e r

R o s s

Manifest Destiny We came to the New World Guns-a-blazing We came to the New World Steel-a-shining We came to the New World Sabers drawn To spread the Word of God We came to the New World Riding the waves To show the Savage Jesus saves Temperatures rising Waters warming We came to the New World Swords-a-storming To spread the Word of God Fighting now for our last breath Knocking on the Door of Death Roiling stomachs, blinding pain Wind and sun and driving rain With nothing on our salted tongues Except the Word of God Civilization, here at last Human forms amidst the grass Dwelling naked in the Garden More than hearts inclined to harden Caramel skin and cinnamon lips Defy the Word of God Innocent as newlyweds We put a bullet in their heads Nothing stolen, merely sold TMC Winter 2010

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P O E T R Y Each one worth his weight in gold No expenses can be spared To spread the Word of God Set up camp out in the woods Toil away like servants should And watch the glow of the their flick’ring fires As they satiate their desires And spread the Scourge of God No one questions where you’ve been They all know that it’s a sin To spill God’s Gift upon the ground So steal away without a sound And spread the Seed of God They cannot read our maps and books They cannot read our anxious looks Too ignorant to understand So we help Jesus take their hand And send them Home to God Of course we flinch, our stomachs lurch At what it takes to build a church For none can bar our lustful tour And lesser idols fall before The mighty Wrath of God So we’ll all burn the savage lands With holy fire and burning brands And then for home we all will sail Triumphant though we know we failed To spread the Word of God We came to the New World Oars-a-stroking We came to the New World Swords-a-sharpened To bring back gold To those who know 14

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A R T To speak the Word of God A passenger aboard our ships Through our midst the sickness rips All dignity is from us stripped By fever from those nether lips And by the Wrath of God We held the New World in our stare We grabbed the New World by her hair We went to the New World to see what was there And now we go Home to God

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

J e n n

C a r r o l l

Pa t h o f S h e l l s

p h o t o g r a p h y / s i l v e r

p r i n t

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A R T Dover-Sherborn High School / Grade 9-12

Education=Peace

M r s .

T h i b e a u l t ’ s s t u d e n t s

f e l t 16

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r u g

P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Grade 11

Documentar y

C h a r l o t t e

M a l o n e

They like to show you horror movies in school, to scare you till you learn.

Once they showed us a short movie, of snipped hair, rooms of shoes— children shoes, mommy shoes, all frayed and homeless, clustered like refugees in their storeroom.

There were wasted bodies, with skin stretched taut like drums, rigid, piled, and tangled: their eyes empty and their mouths open, like rips across their smooth faces; their cheek bones towering above their sunken eyes.

We saw a looming, shadowy crematorium, watching over its territory as it was fed, loyally, on a diet of the weak and useless, who gradually became heavy, murky smoke, heaved in great black billows into the heavens.

Those below, their eyes haunted, choked on the remains of the feeble as the smell of burnt hair and decay lingered in the air— all this we saw and felt through the flecks of dirt that skated in front of the grey images.

We saw guards with polished guns, the steel so fierce we could smell it.

We watched the prisoners, crippled under the weight of the high walls, laced with barbed wire that glistened mutely through the humming film.

We saw the empty eyes of strangers.

We witnessed what so few lived to remember. And yet— there was no blood.

The floors were marked only by the weight of weary footsteps; the walls were clean like snow; the stolen clothes stained only by dirt.

That night I dreamt of fire, metal, and severed limbs that refused to bleed.

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A R T Lee Middle -High School / Grade 11

T h e Wa r S o n n e t

J o s h u a

K o c h

I stand, alone, on the battlefield, Knowing well for what so many died Was a patch of dead grass, four miles wide.

And for what did the brave enemy yield?

For what cause were so many fates sealed?

A young man I knew sat down and he cried For a good friend of his had breathed his last sigh, From bleeding wounds that cannot be healed.

I see broken bodies, twisted and dead.

I see men on barbed wire, draped like thieves.

I see the trenches through which so many had fled.

I see men on the ground, scattered like leaves.

Too many men, this land now a tomb, Too many men, a war fought, for whom?

Dover-Sherborn High School / Grade 11

Entropy

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A n n a

L e r t

A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

Koi

K e r i

G a r d n e r

p a i n t i n g

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P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Grade 12

To Wa r

O l a i t a n

As Mama pulled out the blue and white china that had made teal and tan just as we had grown, the dust from Papa’s four-wheel settled.

The mosquitoes still crept through the netting at the backdoor and the clock struck three struck three, incomplete from that time when Jimmy hammered his fist against the wall and the glass shot to the hardwood.

That night, a dinner served so imperfect was enough to quiet wild minds, humble firm lips, and Mama was first to say she missed him.

I hadn’t cried in front of the others.

Papa hadn’t cried at all.

And each Sunday thereafter we’d march, Mama and Papa side by side and I behind with my head bowed just low enough to see the rocks scuttle beneath my mary-janes.

And we’d kneel before the pulpit and close our eyes and pray and pray.

Somehow I knew he’d die out there.

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O l a d i p o

A R T Dover-Sherborn High School / Grade 12

N i c o l e

H u a n g

Fe l t e d Tr e e i n P o p p y F i e l d

f e l t

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A R T Cambridge Rindge and Latin School / Grade 10

A l e x a n d r a

T h o m s e n

Slide

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F I C T I O N Belmont Hill School / Grade 10

R y a n

B a x t e r - K i n g

An Ordinar y Bird

An ordinary white bird soared high above the blue choppy ocean. Upon the ocean, four ships armed with cannons fought each other, each on a side of its own. Unperturbed by the trouble below, the bird wheeled and turned, circling higher. Suddenly the bird opened its wings and in a flash of color it vanished. In its place, transformed by some strange phenomena, was a man with wings. They were white and he held them folded tightly against his back. As he began to fall, he did not unfurl them. Gracefully, he tipped forward and his white robe, tied to his waist by a length of rope, flapped in the wind around his feet. His white pants were barely visible underneath the waving cloth and his bare feet were tilted back in the perfect dive. His hair was jet black and long; as he fell it danced around a hard face and unflinching eyes that were focused on the ships.

On the ships, men killed each other with musket and cannon and were oblivious to his presence, even as he fell closer and closer. The man in the crow’s nest of an outlying ship was the first to spot him, but the sailor was confused.

He peered at the bird-man through a spyglass, took it away from his eye, shook his head, and looked back, but by then the bird-man was upon him. With surprising ease, the transformed bird snapped off the flagpole from the crow’s nest as he fell by. As he traveled down the sails he tilted the long, relatively thick piece of wood so the flag slid off and then, as he approached the deck, he unfurled his great white wings and soared up.

The sailor in the crow’s nest was the first to go. With a calculated motion, the bird-man swung the wooden stave at the sailor as he flew by. Ribs cracked, and the sailor howled as he tumbled from the nest and fell towards the deck below.

Mere moments after he began to fall, his cries ended, and he was transformed into a plain, white bird, which began to soar higher and higher. Without seeming to notice the man and his transformation, the bird-man soared on. His next target was the sailor in the crow’s nest of another ship. That sailor too fell with the sound of breaking bones and, in the same way, he vanished to be replaced by a bird. There had been four sailors in crows’ nests; in a matter of moments, there were none. But in the sky, four white specks were spiraling towards the heavens. From there, the bird-man turned his attention to those on the decks.

With a daring dive, he swooped between two ships and broke three sailors’ necks in quick succession with methodical swings of the staff. Their comrades watched first in horror, then recovered, setting their muskets to their shoulders TMC Winter 2010

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F I C T I O N and taking aim at this new menace. Few noticed how their friends’ bodies vanished as they became white birds, some even before they hit the decks. But that initial fear had been enough for the bird-man to escape. Once he had reached the end of the ship, he turned and headed over another ship, not crossing it lengthwise, rather starboard to port.

But the men on that ship were already being terrorized by another bird-man. The creature could have been a twin to the first hybrid; he wore a long white robe, tied with rope, and plain white pants underneath, just barely slipping down around the heels of his bare feet as he flew. His hair was identical to the first of his kind, it was jet black and whipped wildly around his face, but that face was different than that of the first winged terror; it was the face of the sailor from the first crow’s nest. His face was no longer concerned, as it had been when he had watched the battle below him; now it was tightly focused as he hunted down the sailors on the deck of his own ship. And every time one of them died, they transformed into ordinary white birds and flew towards the sky.

However, to their credit, the sailors were finally fighting back. One managed to hit the sailor-hybrid with a musket ball in the shoulder, another managed to slash a wing with a cutlass, but even their newfound courage did not avail them. The wounds only seemed to make the creature angry and it gave him new speed and strength. Soon, the sailors were running, not fighting.

The cannons were abandoned. The muskets were dropped. The swords were forgotten. The fox was among the hens.

As the first bird-man crossed the side of the ship, he turned upwards and flew next to the ship’s sails. His face was turned upwards and though the sun beat down on his face, he was not blinded by it and could easily see what was taking place above him. As the white birds reached a certain point in the sky, the place where the first creature had transformed himself, they turned from white birds into hybrids, each with the face of a different sailor. Then they began to fall, wings tucked against their backs, gracefully turning from a straight up position in the air to falling head first towards the four ships. There was already a steady stream of white birds into the sky and thus a steady stream of reinforcements tumbling towards the earth.

As the first bird-man reached the crow’s nest above the sails, another bird man flew up from the other side. A bright object flew from his hand, turning end over end, and with skill and grace the first bird-man caught it, handle first. It was a knife. Then, in the same movement, he arched over the bird’s nest and fell down the sail’s other side. With astounding precision, he cut the multitude of ropes that he passed in his descent. Above him another bird-man, with equally skilled maneuvering, was slashing all knots and ropes holding the 24

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F I C T I O N sail to the top of the mast. When they were done, the sail tumbled to an empty deck. As it fell, the last man on the ship emerged from the hold and was covered in canvas. Then, from above, one of the spars fell. It did not fall randomly; its fall was a result of two bird-men and two more captured knives. It landed, a perfect hit, on top of the man from the hold, crushing his body. A moment passed, a moment of stillness. Then, the canvas began to ripple and not from the wind. The first bird-man spread his wings to slow his descent, having already cut the last rope, and lit on the dock. It was the first time one of them had actually set foot on a ship. The rest remained in the air, wheeling about as often as necessary to stay in the same area. With the same quick strokes he had used before, the bird-man cut the canvas apart, allowing a small white bird to escape and make its ways to the heavens. Then he jumped into the air.

It was not long until no human stirred either on the decks of any of the ships, or in the holds. None were hiding. All were gone. With a hoarse cry from one of the bird-men—it was impossible to say which one because the rest took it up so quickly—they all left their positions in the sky and descended on piles of cannonballs stacked neatly upon the decks. Sometimes canvas had to be cut open to gain access. Each creature lifted two cannonballs, one in each hand, and flew off to hover again over the ships. Then, with another cry from the first bird-man, all of the cannonballs dropped. The result was disastrous; the decks were peppered with holes, sometimes going all the way down through the ship through the hull. Usually only three or four balls penetrated all the way, but it was enough. As the bird-men took flight for the higher sky, the ships began to sink.

Then they headed towards one place: the point, high in the sky, where they had all transformed. The first hybrid came last. Once they were all there, they spread their wings out to the side, and yet they did not fall. A huge globe of golden light surrounded the whole flock and every hybrid vanished, leaving in their places only the little, white, ordinary birds. These birds flew away from each other, scattering in all directions, leaving behind no trace of their deed, except four rapidly sinking ships.

On the horizon another ship appeared and one bird was headed straight for it. The ship did not turn back and although the man in the crow’s nest noticed the strange, rapidly expanding ring of birds, he did not think it important enough to mention to his superior. After all, a bird is only a bird.

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A R T Brimmer and May School / Grade 12

Fl e u r d e M i

B i e l i n k s y

B r e a

p h o t o g r a p h y

T h e Fa c e Brimmer and May School / Grade 12

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P a t r i c k

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

A R T Brimmer and May School / Grade 10

Max

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

Man on the Moon

S t e p h e n

M u l l o y

Brimmer and May School / Grade 11

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A R T Sharon High School / Grade 12

Insomnia, Again

J u l i a

K e l l e y

Luminescent, green figures spell out 12:03.

Silence wanders the hall outside.

Half-dreams cloud a spent mind, form misty images that mean nothing or maybe something too hard to understand.

Blankets pulled tighter, pillows readjusted; the moon’s solemn smile is reflected on the far wall.

Only six more hours until the day begins again.

Brimmer and May School / Grade 12

rain drop

A i d a n

F e n s t e r m a n

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

E m i l y

B r i l l o n

A better son/daughter

Leashes are just unacceptable: socially, mentally, physically, unacceptable—or at least they should be. There is nothing more awkward than seeing a child on a leash in public. People nowadays usually follow these unspoken statutes—as we are living in this free country—only applying this regular, everyday leash law to regular, everyday dogs. Don’t get me wrong, at least 83% of the time dogs-on-leashes are completely necessary in public situations and locations, but have we ever thought about the dog in this case? Not really. Have we ever stopped and chatted in regards to how far said dogs should be wandering?

Probably not. To limit the awkwardness of strangers and the humiliation of an unruly mutt, we mentally conclude that a leash for a dog is needed. Curiosity kills the cat and most certainly owns the dog. The laws of nature intersect the laws of leashes. But I suppose if it jumps and barks on others, pees at the least desirable moment in the least desirable location, then whipping out the rope and collar is, in fact, socially acceptable and necessary—for the owner, at least.

But some people obviously do not get the leash law memo.

Ken and I were sitting on the top of Wachusett Mountain, beneath the trees that exhaled a relaxing breath of fresh air, overlooking the man-made pond filled with tadpoles and uncatchable fish. When a tadpole would courageously rise to the surface, children scurried about the rock wall frantically calling for the net or the green plastic box that the fish are kept in. Adults practiced worried restraint as their sons and daughters ran around with their newfound trophy—because god forbid, their running screaming child falls into the twofoot, man-made pond. Their shrill bouts of shrieking would fill the air and their parents would tell them to quiet down, unintentionally maiming their child’s pride. Then the “put it back” or “time to go” speech would commence, and reluctantly the child would release their shiny new friend into the two-foot depths of the unknown. This process was not unorthodox; it was endearing and predictable, where the kid finds happiness and has to put it back where they found it because their mother told them so. The leash would be tugged and the families would be on their way. You will find neither jumping nor barking curiosity here atop the summit of Wachusett Mountain, just ephemeral happiness.

And then, there was the black lab: the bounding, woofing ball of black in all its glory. Running around frantically, all in one swift motion the dog proceeded to tumble into the two-foot puddle, knock over two water bottles, run into four screaming children, jump over me and Kenny, and keep up the TMC Winter 2010

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F I C T I O N consistent self-pleasuring yelping. This dog was energetic, joyful, spirited and the epitome of mess—until I saw the owner. Poking behind wonderdog was a woman in her late 40’s, maybe early 50’s. Now this was the epitome of mess. Fanny pack and all, this supertourist was ready to snap some promising photos, check out the views with her handy on–the-go binoculars— despite the long line of onlookers behind her—conquer the sun with her $10 sunglasses, and throw down a few postcards for the family back home.

Of the two, I’d much rather waste my time keeping up with wonderdog than fannypack.

Normally I would be correct about this awesome tourist observation/ conclusion, but I failed to notice the little child behind dragged behind her.

Held by the arm, the almost 7 year-old was struggling not to fall behind, or on his or her face. At one point, the child failed to do both, and the old woman proceeded onward toward the two-foot deep waterhole, all while keeping a firm grip and never breaking the silence between them. Dressed in similar attire, bright color shorts and with a fannypack all their own, an innocent onlooker was unable to tell the gender of this poor little blondie. Their curly hair fell above their shoulders, and their light up sneakers dragged along the grass. One would not be able to tell the sex of this depressing sight, but what one could read was that the child was blatantly not as amused with the water as her older companion.

But watching the dog—how majestic. A naturally free bundle of elation in a habitat all its own. Gallivanting freely, conversing with other families, chasing the fish with the other kids and barking mad with excitement was how the dog spent its 15 minutes of glory. A major disturbance to the peace. And so the little boy sat on the rock wall with juice box in hand, the other occupied by his grandmother’s. She was holding onto the collar with a tight fist, and had no intention of letting go.

I got a call from my mom a few minutes later asking the panicky questions, spewing out words, stumbling on phrases. Panic, spew, stumble, repeat.

This was the 4th day in a row I have failed to mention where I was going and what I was doing, an obvious offense to the maternal world. But this was the first day I noticed the collar on me, and that soon I would be off on my own. So we stood up in the grass, turned around and headed for the car. I felt the wind on my cheek and turned to catch a glance of the reddened-gripped grandmother and the sad child, both of them eyeing the dog in the most distracted of stares.

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A R T Cambridge Rindge and Latin School / Grade 10

C h i l d Fe e t

I l a n a

S a n d b e r g

p h o t o g r a p h y

Brush Hill Road

S a m a n t h a

M c C o l l

Brimmer and May School / Grade 12

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

J o h n

D w e l l y

We G o t Yo u r B a c k

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P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Grade 11

S a m u e l

S h l e i f e r

Jo r g e

The laborers drain my concrete irrigation ponds and harvest groves.

They knock on the door in mid-April, overalls blackened with dried muck, stained by the splotches of tart fruit picked early. They smell of nature’s waste.

I don’t know names but for their sun-baked leader’s, black hair matted with dirt as he negotiates.

“Same two groves in back, same price?”

Then they start picking, raking, and singing songs from where they come from, with unkempt vowels left to rot on word-ends.

Every year, two weeks after April’s rains have gone, they leave El Norte, twenties crumpled in denim, to return to hell.

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P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Grade 12

The Initiation

O l a i t a n

O l a d i p o

We caught him east beyond the farmer’s market just before Mason’s bridge.

The boys hit him up tight against the wall and ran their hands down his sides, made sure they got everything.

He was alone so I tell the boys, “make it last.”

And we starts to toss the stones from the stream.

The whole time he don’t let out a sound.

Then we take turns kicking, just horseplay, like we punted our footballs at the sandlot.

But when the boys get too rough, I try holding them back, say, “not too heavy.”

Vinny’s got his Pop’s electric shaver so we buzz him and the boys scatter like marbles back where they came from.

And he lays there, cocooned against the brick, shaky with each inhale.

I give him one last punch and his jaw cracks against my fist.

I wasn’t expecting it.

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

A a r o n

T e s t a

In My Element

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

M e g h a n

P e r k i n s

Birdhouse

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P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Grade 12

E r i n

M c D a n i e l

Holes

We tried to collect the fifty state quarters, craving Georgia, Virginia, New York, hunting the spare change of strangers, tallying our cardboard-contained collection.

Sometimes, we’d sit and stare at our finds: in Pennsylvania’s state outline, I saw only her sprawling knotted veins; in Utah’s railroad nails, I saw needles sinking in skin like our feet in lake mud; in Montana’s bison skull, I saw her insides by x-ray, remembered Mom explaining sick bones.

Maybe those desperate searches made her forget flocks of hospital hands, barf-haunted mouth, pill box sorted into fourteen take times.

When I finally completed the display last year, I put it in her old room. There, fingering our final family picture, framed, I noticed sun charting sky, California light burning behind skin and bones.

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P O E T R Y Ayer Middle-High School / Grade 12

M a d e l i n e

R i c e

The Hunt Charging through the aging wood, Lungs on fire, tail erect, A fox kit stumbles through the trees.

Hounds turning leaves where he once stood.

Ever faster as he flees, Though his certain end is near, Like Duncan, slain by great Macbeth, His prayers to live are but deaf pleas.

His scent, his tracks, his heaving breath, The hounds will follow, gaining speed.

He knows he cannot run forever, But he won’t bow to whims of Death.

Though we know we will never Prevent ourselves from passing on, We’ll still keep running, seeking, hunting, Searching vainly for forever.

Dracut Senior High School / Grade 12

J a c o b

Ballad of Storms

H a j j a r

eee .

CLICK HERE TO LISTEN

Scored for woodwind quintet (flute, oboe, Bb clarinet 1+2, and bass clarinet). All instr uments are electronic.

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A R T Harwich High School / Grade 11

S w e e t y

P a n c h a l

Fo r e s t Pa t h

p a i n t i n g

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

A m a n d a

In My Element

d r a w i n g

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

E m i l y

B r i l l o n

Music and Mountains

This war is an orchestra: every aspect perfectly practiced, every skill mastered down to a science. It is neither ephemeral nor unprepared; it is predicted and practiced for. The conductor sits upon his high standing pedestal and barks his orders from the radio tower. He reads the black and white notes and sends out more troops to new ground. With a quick flick of the wrist and a wave from his white glove, the tempo may change and the ranks will fall back and retreat back to their bases. Or, with a quick swish of the magic wand, more will move in.

The soldier’s instruments, alongside their cousin drums, will reign down their arpeggios upon the villages of trees and people. Bells and flutes sprinkle in their two-sense as tiny hand guns and pistols ring, whistle, and spit upon the enemy with high pitched notes in perfect accuracy. Clarinets will slither into the grasses and chase fast into the open field with their hollow knives and slice through any that are courageous enough to listen. And the horns section, in all its brass glory, will drop their grenades and bombs that hold the fortes and melodies that fill in the blanks on the lines of the treble clef. Cymbals will clash and shatter; pianos will strike in chords; and violins will hum their ghostly tune for the grand finale.

It is a wonderfully coordinated masterpiece: timing, strategy, tactic, delivery. All must be carried out as planned to become victor. If all goes well, the congregation will stand up on their feet and applaud with satisfaction. Fancy gowns and ties will clap their brochure-bearing hands, and the composer will take his first, second, third bow. And the musicians, after all their hard work, will also stand up and take their bows. Or, if the battle is lost, the audience will leave in silence. The soldiers will leave with their instruments of war and take down their banners and flags. The general will fly back home and gently remove his white gloves until next battle. No one will clap. He will reap the outcome of what he has just done. He will sit with his demons while the music will still be playing in his head. Most of his soldiers will not return home. This war is an orchestra and you are the audience. They’re playing for you.

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P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Grade 12

E r i n

M c D a n i e l

L a s t Fa m i l y S u p p e r

Like an inchworm glazing a sliding glass window, the girl tip-toes outside her parents’ door, hearing clips of their conversation: lover, summer, God. When the Oldsmobile starts out front, she cries.

Five years later, an ashen photograph falls from her burned-out Bible, a forgotten Christmas card: on the house porch, she grabs her father’s chest, forever trapped in pre-piggyback bliss, while her mother, adjusting a hairpin, anchors her free hand to her husband’s.

Winging to the girl’s first homemade feeder, a hummingbird loiters in mid-air, and they all seem stable as an old chapel.

Later that evening, cleaning her feeder, the girl falls, breaking her left arm. For six weeks, she wears a white cast signed by both parents.

Soon after the bone heals, something else breaks, and her father pulls away.

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A R T Dover-Sherborn High School / Grade 11

M a d d i e

G o l d m a n

Solitude

f e l t

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

Fa l l e n L e a v e s

A m a n d a

T i l d e n

A chilly breeze filters through my hair, absently blowing the strands lucky enough to escape the mud-caked mass. I can feel the bitter cold on my skin, slipping through my pores, flowing right through me as though I am a ghost—a mere shadow of the increasingly dormant oaks surrounding me. The ground is wet and cold, covered by the fallen leaves now sticking to my feet, brilliant reds and yellows now a morose brown. The wind keeps blowing, getting stronger as the minutes pass.

Twigs snap in the distance, obnoxiously loud in the eerie silence. I know I must move, keep running, but my legs are far too heavy, my mind fatigued. My chest heaves with aching lungs, panicked pink sacks stinging with early winter wind. I have gone numb, yet I’m not sure the weather is to blame.

A strange warmth nags at my hairline; I don’t need to touch it to know it is blood.

It is the blood that jars my memories, replaying the past few hours in seconds. The urge to run tangles my stomach in knots, yet still I find myself incapable. Instead, I sob. I do not recognize the grotesque sounds that escape me, nor do I recognize the smeared, tattered dress upon me. I do not recognize the bleeding, blistered feet I see as I collapse to the ground. I do not recognize the man in my memory, so bestial and heartless. I tell myself to quiet down, remind myself I must run, but it is no use. My cries can not be hushed. I imagine myself lying down on the bed of dead leaves beneath me, melting with them, joining them in their corroding morgue; something once so alive and stunning now dead and decaying. If only life were so easy. I know that I could never be so lucky, that if it ends here it shall be at his hands. I see his face, creased with anger, streaked with sweat, dirt, tears, and blood—my blood. It reminds me of the danger that surrounds me, and yet again I am urged to run. Pushing myself up from the solid earth, I propel myself forward, flying through the sleeping trees still rustling with the wind. I no longer feel my heavy legs, aching feet, lungs, and heart. I do not hear the branches break, nor do I hear the low whistle nearby. It is not until I slam into the chiseled body of a young man do I realize I have run straight into my end.

“There you are.”

He grips my arms tight and I can feel the skin immediately begin to bruise. Yet the breeze now whispers to me, telling me this is not the end. And with the fallen leaves crunching under my feet, I begin to fight back.

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A R T Somerville High School / Grade 11

Fa l l L e a v e s

C u l l e n

C i c e r o

Dover-Sherborn High School / Grade 12

Three Piece Still Life

p a i n t i n g

N i k

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H u n t o o n

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A R T Brimmer and May School / Grade 12

D e Fe n c e

B i e l i n k s y

B r e a

p h o t o g r a p h y

pond Brimmer and May School / Grade 12

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K e r r i e

B o u r q u e

A R T Brimmer and May School / Grade 12

Chicago Bean

P a t r i c k

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

p h o t o g r a p h y

O n t h e To p

S t e p h e n

M u l l o y

Brimmer and May School / Grade 11

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P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Grade 11

R o b e r t

M a c K a y

Ascending the Maple

Remember, our last time on that tree, how turning leaves drifted away like hours and each second suddenly stopped as the ax began to take its toll before crashing through the other side,

then sifting through the Sugar Maple branches and racing to the utmost one where you could taste the sky and see the sheep graze by the spring river,

then entangled knees bending limbs, blond curls hanging like loosened rope, and our ears following the stream over granite and water hidden roots,

then the Deere’s moan slicing through the hillside, the old church bell ringing, cars pounding gravel gray, cracked squirrel branches dangling, suspended over shadowed grass, and our heads draining blood from whitening hands,

then how we were left breathless on those branches, palms clenched on flaking bark, eyes tied to each other—waiting, waiting for that first feeling of victory, assuming it was our last.

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A R T Somerville High School / Grade 12

J e s s i

D o n a h u e

Untitled

p h o t o g r a p h y

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

Untitled

C h a n t a l

P l a m o n d o n

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

E m e l i e

T e n a n d e r

Self Portrait

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

D a n a

D o u r d e v i l l e

Tr a c k s

Nobody in Bakersville ever understood why my grandfather fished at the Kettle Hole. If you headed east on the train tracks, you would find Pickerel Lake, aptly named for its ample supply of the tasty panfish. Head west, however, and you would find the Kettle Hole, a tiny receptacle for the chemicals that leeched down from the Carlisle Battery Plant before people cared about that sort of thing. If a single fish survived in the kettle hole, my grandmother would not have welcomed it at the dinner table. Nevertheless, my grandfather would grab his pole, a ham sandwich in waxed paper, and a bottle of gin, hop in the 1949 Ford pickup, and rumble down the tracks ten miles to go fishing.

People say that July 10, 1977 was no different. With his suspension far-gone from constantly driving over the railroad ties, he had made half the bone-rattling trip when he entered Oak Hill Tunnel. Partially intoxicated, bouncing down the tracks with the radio blaring, he never heard the train coming east from Hampton. The truck crumpled up like a tin can and flew out of the tunnel backwards—so they say.

Ever since I heard the stories and saw the yellowed newspaper clippings, I had my doubts. My grandfather and his friend Phil Jackson had practically founded Bakersville, a quiet little Illinois town where the largest events were the trains passing through. My grandfather, they say, used to get up and go to the window to watch the trains before anyone else felt the vibrations through the floorboards. He knew that on a good day, the West-East train hit the tunnel at 4:57 and the town at 5:02, and on a bad day 4:59 and 5:04. He and Phil worked as engineers on the trains before the war and spent a stint as train managers when they came back from Europe. I knew from an early age that my grandfather would not make the mistake of driving into the tunnel with a train coming down from the other end.

My interest in the mystery became renewed last year when I befriended Nick Jackson. Nick’s grandfather was Phil Jackson, the dynamic counterpart to my own. The two were best of friends until 1975, when they had a falling out. My grandfather and several other townspeople watched as a fuming Phil Jackson hopped in his one-seat plane, took off into the sunset, and was never heard from again. It was then that my grandfather began fishing at the Kettle Hole and he was never quite the same.

With one week of school left until summer, I finally decided to speak my mind to Nick.

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F I C T I O N

“Nick?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you ever wondered about what happened to your grandfather?”

He set down his sandwich and slowly finished chewing.

“Yeah, I guess I have.”

“Were you planning on doin’ anything about it?”

“Guess not.”

“Guess again. I’m not going to spend my life wondering if I inherited a gene that could make me drunk enough, dumb enough, or incompetent enough to drive head-on into a train. We’re goin’ down the tracks.”

At first I thought he was going to say something, to make some pathetic excuse. In any case, he must have realized that digging up mysteries of the past was more exciting than anything else Bakersville had to offer. A determined glint came into his eyes.

“Okay.”

I prepared during the last week of school. When summer finally rolled around, it was not with the usual ecstatic joy, but with an undercurrent of purpose. Hearing Nick’s horn from outside my house, I grabbed my gear, walked out, and climbed into Nick’s Jeep.

“Hey, Nick.”

“Hey.”

“So…what are we going to do?”

“We’re going to the Kettle Hole. I have this funny feeling that we’ll find something worth finding there,” I replied.

“What if we don’t?”

“You have a better idea?”

As an answer, he put the Jeep into gear and bumped up onto the tracks.

For five miles, we drove in silence. Finally, Nick braked to a halt in front of the tunnel. He glanced over at me and I knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Are you sure…?”

“Yes, Nick, the next train doesn’t come through for hours.”

He exhaled, put the Jeep in gear, and began to edge into the tunnel as if proceeding slowly would make any difference. I was sure that no train was coming, but nevertheless, I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead as we emerged into the daylight on the other side. Nick glimpsed the gesture and smirked contentedly.

Eventually, we pulled off the tracks beside the Kettle Hole.

“Well, here we are,” said Nick. “Not much to see.”

“Up here there’s not much to see,” I replied. “But in there…” I said, TMC Winter 2010

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F I C T I O N pointing to the Kettle Hole.

I pulled two masks and underwater flashlights from my bag and handed one set to Nick.

“Let’s go!”

We dove in and swam to the center of the kettle pond. Nick needed no instructions. I took a deep breath, expanding my lungs to maximum capacity and dove below the surface. My flashlight pierced only a few feet of the murky water as I descended into the gloomy depths of the pool. The Kettle Hole didn’t look big from the tracks, but in the oppressive silence and near blackness, it seemed a bottomless void. Suddenly, my light illuminated a flash of something white. Running out of air, I returned to the surface and quickly kicked down to the same spot. Through the gloom, my light revealed an eerie sight. A bright white plane, perfectly persevered by the chemical mixture in the pond, rested on its landing gear on the smooth bottom, almost as if it was ready for takeoff. Resurfacing, I called over Nick. Together we dove down to the plane. I turned my flashlight on my friend and saw his face whiten in the gloom as he pointed to the cockpit. The figure inside was slumped forward on the dashboard so the “Jackson” was visible, embroidered on the back of his flying jacket.

Returning to the bank, we sat in silence until the train went by, neither one of us willing to disturb the peace that now surrounded this unlikely shrine to an ancestor.

Legends are not always true and sometimes it’s nice to keep them that way. In fact the truth that Nick and I discovered would simply be a morbid, but otherwise useless, alteration to town lore. If my grandfather thought that Phil Johnson’s watery grave was appropriate, then who am I to argue? He certainly knew Phil better than anyone else in the world. As for my own grandfather, guilt for the death of his friend undoubtedly gripped him. How he determined the final resting place of his dearest friend is still a mystery to me.

I am satisfied to simply know the truth that on a warm July evening, he drove that old Ford pickup into Oak Hill Tunnel, parked it, and waited.

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A R T Harwich High School / Grade 12

A l e s i a

G l e a s o n

Dramatic Light

p a i n t i n g

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

Untitled

C a r l y

d r a w i n g / c o l o r e d

Peace and Quiet Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

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S h e e h a n

p e n c i l

N o e l l e

L a n d r y

A R T Somerville High School / Grade 11

Cher r y

House in Tibet

S u s a n n e

J i g m e y

C h o

S a n g y e

Somerville High School / Grade 12

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N O N F I C T I O N Everett High School / Grade 12

J u l i a

Tu r n i n g B l a c k

H i n e s

Thursday, August 23, 2007. My journal entry for this day begins, “Twenty-two minutes ago, I finished my black belt exam.” At first, I expected the writing for this entry to look shaky and rushed. It’s only a short paragraph, after all, written in haste as I changed out of my uniform—my tattered brown belt resting beside me on my bed. But nothing about this entry is shaky. The script is dark, lines deliberate. Reading it aloud to myself, I can remember exactly how I felt: a little tired, a little sore, but for once, calm and at peace.

The entry continues, “Something came out of me during that test that I didn’t know I had. I never want to lose it.” Now I know what that something is: will.

I spent the weeks before the test preparing myself in body and mind, trying desperately to shut out the gnawing anxiety that threatened to rip me apart.

Eventually though, I found my resolve and when I did I realized that there was nothing holding me back. This determination and unshakable willpower has remained with me from that day on.

The countdown to the test began when I was handed my invitation.

“We’re running a black belt exam in August,” my sensei said to me. I was shocked, then exhilarated, then terrified. I knew that the test would be like nothing else. In fact, I’d been hearing horror stories about belt tests since I started karate. “They made me break four boards,” someone would say, or, “I thought I was going to pass out.” Was I ready for that sort of thing? Was I good enough? I asked myself those questions over and over again in the time leading up to the test. The only answer I could come up with was, well, my sensei thinks so. It was one of the only times I’ve questioned her judgment.

Preparation began shortly thereafter. For the test I would need to know countless stances, self-defense combinations, ten open-hand forms, two weapons forms, martial arts history, sparring, grappling—the list went on and on, it seemed. I reminded myself that none of these things were new. I’d been building up my martial arts knowledge for six years, filing everything away until it needed to be put to use. But with August twenty-second, the day of the first half of the exam, looming over me like a little rain cloud, I had a brand new sense of urgency. Every hour of training was vital, indispensable. It was like cramming for the biggest math test of my entire life.

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N O N F I C T I O N two weeks. That was two weeks of practice I had to miss; two weeks I had to wait to get back in the game. Anxiety built up in my chest until I thought I would burst from the pressure.

But maybe the injury was a blessing in disguise. Though my physical preparation needed to be put on hold, the break gave me an opportunity for some serious reflection. I asked myself what the test would mean, really. Although I don’t think I truly found the answer to this question until the night of the test, I could speculate. My instructors had always told me that a black belt signified a mastery of basic technique. In the earlier days of the art, when students practiced outside in the grass and the dirt, a belt would change color based on how dirty it became from use. The more the student worked and learned, the darker the belt would become. When a student had mastered the basics, it is said, the belt would be black. I had always loved when the instructors gave this lesson; it added so much meaning and depth to what was superficially just self-defense training and sport fighting. A black belt wasn’t just an achievement; it was not the light at the end of the tunnel, they said, but rather part of a circle, an infinite cycle of gaining wisdom and passing it on.

When I thought about this, I started to feel the weight of what I was about to do. After all my hard work, my belt was finally turning black. But I could also see its insignificance, that it was just another part of the circle of martial arts knowledge. I felt deeply connected to my instructors, my fellow students—and, most profoundly, I felt a new harmony between my body and mind. When I was finally back in class, toes taped, focus restored, I got a sense of this new accord. I felt every movement in a strange new way—its origin, somewhere in my chest, down at my core. Every kiai, a guttural yell, was an expulsion of pure energy. I started to feel powerful. It was the boost I needed.

Thursday, August 16, 2007. It is one week to the test, and my journal entry reads, “Nothing on Earth can stop me. NOTHING.” I am ready.

Finally, the day comes and I arrive at the dojo. The windows and door are covered with black paper. When all of the testing students are inside, the door is locked. There will be no interruptions, no distractions, save the twentyfour-hour period between one segment and the next. Everyone stretches together, talking quietly or not at all. Then, we bow in and begin. Like the flip of a switch, my focus is locked in on this moment in time. Nothing else exists.

For the next two hours, I am exploding with energy. My body and mind are unified more than they ever have been, even through the pain and exertion of the exam. The next night goes similarly; although, there is an even greater sense of urgency, if such a thing were possible. These hours are the last chance I have to show the instructors what I know. So I give everything.

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N O N F I C T I O N one another, while the instructors conference in their office. In front of me is my brown belt, folded up as it had been handed to me more than a year before, when it was stiff and new. Now it is flexible, tattered, and frayed at the edges.

It is a little worse for wear, but unique, and distinctly mine. The belt is not significantly darker than when I received it, as it would be if I had practiced the arts a few centuries ago, but it holds my blood, sweat, and tears—literally and figuratively. In my mind, it is black.

At this point, I feel like an empty cup. I have given every ounce of energy and power—channeled into precise strikes and blocks, or thrust out, raw and absolute, in furious, explosive kiais. “Was it enough?” I ask myself. The answer comes when the senseis return to the room, stiff, new belts in their arms.

After a few words of reflection, they give us the news. Everyone has passed. Relief flows over me like cool water. We are called up, one by one, the rest of the room applauding respectively as we each receive our black belts. I shake hands with each sensei, then return to my space, new belt grasped tightly in my hand.

I stand and tie it around my waist, and wait as everyone does the same. Then we bow, ending the test. Before I can control myself, tears are rolling down my cheeks. I find my cousin first and hug her tight, then my two best friends. I even hug the senseis. It’s all smiles and tears. Relief and pride are raging inside of me as I look back on all my hard work. I feel invincible.

When I get home, I head straight for my room. I’m not nearly done crying yet, and I know I need to capture the remarkable emotions flaring up inside me. I write for only a few moments, letting the words flow. Then I stop and reread the paragraph, my eyes welling a bit. I did it, I think, almost disbelieving. But when I think of all that I had given to get to that point—every last drop of will—it seems natural that I should succeed. Smiling, I sign my name at the bottom of the entry, then close the journal and slide it back into my drawer.

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 10

M a d i

C i a m p i

Untitled

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A R T Dracut Senior High School / Grade 12

N a s e e h a

J a m i l

A Pa i n f u l C a s e

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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 Use of Dialogue to Tell a Story in Girl

Jamaica Kincaid’s short story, Girl, is a concise, though convoluted, piece that shows the reader precisely what it means to be a girl as well as what it means to hold on to one’s traditions. Though there are no direct character descriptions, no setting, no rising or falling action, or even sentence breaks, Girl gives one a very distinct idea of just how complex and how overwhelming growing up and learning how to conform to society’s ideals is. The dialogue, which makes up the piece’s entirety, can tell the reader much about both the characters and society. The words flow naturally, as if a conversation were directly transcribed, giving the reader the impression that they are being directly spoken to and lending a feel of authenticity to the piece.

Not only does the piece give the impression that the woman is speaking directly to the audience, but under certain circumstances, she perhaps is.

No name is given to the girl; at no point in her instructions does the speaker identify her pupil. The reader is forced to think of the listener as simply a girl, or perhaps all girls, and to infer that this lesson goes out to all females as they grow up and enter the realm of adulthood. Many things listed do not apply in this modern age; however, a great deal of the themes remain the same. Women are still telling their young ones not to be promiscuous, and to behave themselves in Sunday school. Girls still learn how to bully a man, how to take care of a family, clean a house, address one’s enemies, treat one’s friends, and how to love; such lessons are universal, and unlike washing white clothes on Monday, can hold true for any girl reading this story.

Just as certain themes will hold true for young women throughout the ages, so will the overall idea the reader gains from the piece. One walks away with their mind reeling, full of instructions, protocol, reprimands, and rules of society that must be adhered to. Kincaid’s lack of sentence breaks and offhand, fluent way of conveying the lesson makes the message more convoluted and confusing. Her writing properly conveys that though certain rules may change, the message of the piece will remain true: that growing up and finding oneself in a foreign world with foreign rules is a confusing and daunting thing.

As the reader is confused, so is the listener. From the two lines the girl is able to interject during the woman’s lesson, one can tell just how innocent and overwhelmed she truly is. She does not inquire as to how exactly things should be done, comment on an instruction given, or perhaps claim to already TMC Winter 2010

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N O N F I C T I O N know of the things the woman speaks. Instead, she childishly exclaims that indeed she does not sing benna, a type of calypso music, in Sunday school, focusing her young mind on the injustice of the accusation instead of the lesson. For her second line, the girl inquires of the woman, “but what if the baker won’t let me feel the bread?” For reasons unknown to the girl, her elder becomes slightly irate at the thought that after all of her teaching, the child will be someone a baker would not let near his bread. The girl can not even fathom yet that there are certain people one would not trust with their merchandise.

To her, the world is clean; perhaps she does not know about thieves or unladylike individuals who would not be permitted to touch a baker’s bread. Her innocent question holds such implications that, though obvious to the woman, she simply does not see or understand.

Just as the girl’s few lines illustrate her own naivety, they also say something about the make up of girls in general. Girl can be viewed as an allegory for how much of a young woman is made up of her own thoughts, her own ideas, her own voice, versus what percent of her is determined by society. This piece is so full of the protocol and social expectations for the girl that she hardly gets to say a word. Her ideas are stifled by the voice of society, and the responsibilities she will have to don as she becomes an adult.

Though she receives few lines, one of them is to protest that she does not sing benna in Sunday school. From this contextual clue, as from the mention of dasheen, doukona, and pepper pot—all of which are used in Caribbean cuisine—the reader may glean that both the woman and the girl either live in the Caribbean or are of Caribbean decent. The woman sends a very clear message of when the girl is meant to be a Christian, and when the girl is meant to remember and embrace her heritage. Lending the story a second dimension, Girl ceases to be simply about growing up and becoming a young woman, and instead also addresses the ways in which tradition and celebrating one’s heritage are passed on through generations. Though she must never sing benna in Sunday school and be a prim, ladylike Christian in public, the girl will learn how to cook Caribbean foods and celebrate her culture.

Girl carries a double meaning. It is about both growing up and entering the unknown territories of adulthood, and holding onto and preserving one’s heritage. All of these messages, reprimands, rules, and expectations are jammed into a conversation resembling a monologue between a girl and her elder. The swift delivery of information without the use of sentence breaks gives the reader the full impact of just how daunting and confusing growing up is. Not only does it convey the themes of the piece, but the dialogue gives the reader information about both characters and society as a whole. Girl contains many rules and lessons that will hold true for young women until the end of 64

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A R T time, just as the central theme of the overwhelming nature of growing up will always be relevant.

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 10

A m b e r

P h i l l i p s

Self Portrait

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P O E T R Y Everett High School / Grade 9

M r .

O ’ K e e f e ’ s

C l a s s

S t e p h e n i e

D e v i n o

Homeric Similes Just like the sun’s heat that warms everything its rays touch And provides comfort, Bringing drowsiness upon people, I wrapped my blanket tighter around me.

Just like a clown Who has bright, orange hair And wears colorful garments, Entertains young children, I also make others laugh.

N a n c y

T h a n g

Just like a mouse That earnestly searches the cheese And is found by the cat, Narrowly escapes the feline, I also evaded the dodgeball.

J o s h u a 66

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T r a n

P O E T R Y Just like an enduring, armored hero Who scans and vanquishes his enemies And hears each whistling arrow and sees each gleaming spear, Uses his senses to lead his men to victory, I also feel alert.

W i d d l e r

F a u s t i n

Just like a bird That is leaving its nest And soars up high, Exploring the seven skies, I also leave home in search of adventure.

J o s e p h

O w u o r

J a f f a r

S h i e k

Just like a cold, rainy day That brings misery and sorrow And lasts for many hours, Bringing cold droplets of water, I also feel misery and sorrow with each tear running down my cheeks.

Just like a swirling tornado That gusts 100 mph winds And terrorizes the dark city, Destroying everything in its path, I storm angrily away and head home.

J a n n i f e r

H o

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N O N F I C T I O N Sharon High School / Grade 12

J a s o n

K r a u s

T h e R o c k Wa l l

My hands were trembling as the sweat trickled down my face. I strained my eyes, through the throbbing pain, to see how much farther I had to go. It was my first time rock climbing, and I was determined to ring the bell at the top of the rock wall. When I set my mind to completing a task, I am determined to follow through. As I struggled for the next grip on the wall, I realized that dedication is essential to reaching my goals.

During my freshman season of high school wrestling, I did not win a single match in any competition. Other people in my situation, frustrated with their lack of success, would have quit. However, my 0-8 record only motivated me to work harder in the off-season. To prepare for the next season, I kept practicing, joined an instructional wrestling club, and participated in tournaments. My hard work earned me a winning record of 8-5 the next year at the junior varsity level, and a spot on the varsity squad for my junior and senior years.

With a sense of pride in my determination, I pulled myself up to the next set of grips on the wall. There was no way I would stop without achieving my goal. I looked up for the next set of grips, which lay slightly beyond a curve in the wall. My friend David shouted from the floor of the rock gym to warn me to watch my balance as I reached for it. I just laughed; balancing on a rock wall was nothing compared to the balancing of my hectic schedule in everyday life.

At the end of my junior year of high school, I was accepted into the National Honor Society. Although many people only associate this club with grades, its four main platforms are scholarship, leadership, service, and character. All four of these principles must be met in order for a student to gain acceptance into the NHS. In terms of scholarship, I have always been eager to take on any academic challenge, and I enjoy the thrill of success. Since my freshman year, I have taken as many honors and AP classes as I could realistically handle, increasing the rigor of my schedule each year. In terms of leadership, I had to teach and direct various camp activities as a camp counselor, manage other people’s concerns as a fantasy football commissioner, and demonstrate basic plays as an assistant basketball coach. I have also balanced my academic and leadership qualities with a devotion to community service. I have participated in various fundraisers—from selling lollipops and discount cards for charity to donating new games to children at a homeless shelter. My 68

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A R T favorite act of charity was when I entertained children at a homeless shelter in Boston with the Spanish club. When we arrived with a box of art supplies to help them construct Mother’s Day gifts, newfound hope shined across each of their faces in the form of a smile. The character part of my acceptance to the National Honor Society was based on teachers’ and coaches’ confidential recommendations, but if they could see me now, I am certain they would say I would not quit before reaching the top of the rock wall.

My hands were burning now. I tried to pull myself up the wall with my legs, but that only made the pain spread throughout my body. I looked up and stared in awe at the bell that hung just three grips above me. I decided that I would make it to the top. I pulled myself up with a burst of energy and rang the bell with all my might. The loud clanking was not just a sound of success, but rather an inspiration to keep following every goal that I set for myself.

With hard work, commitment, and some balancing I can achieve anything I want. In that moment, I was not just at the top of the rock wall, I was at the top of the world.

Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

Untitled

K e r i

G a r d n e r

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 10

B r y s

Self Portrait

S c o t l a n d

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

E m i l y

S h a f f e r

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F I C T I O N Archbishop Williams High School / Grade 12

R a c h e l

O ’ B r i e n

Car nival Camaraderie

Screams of excitement echo throughout the fair grounds. A balloon makes a slapping sound as it pops. A man yells out the price of cotton candy and says, “Get it here!” Music plays and the Ferris wheel spins high above the ground. Bells and whistles ring and buzz from somewhere within the funhouse.

The scent of salty popcorn and sugary fried dough hangs heavily in the air.

“Can we go now?” Adie asks impatiently.

“We just got here,” Lisa replies, a smile playing on her lips.

“Well I’ve had enough. I can’t even hear myself think,” Adie complains, grimacing as she does.

Lisa shakes her head and says, “I want to go on the Ferris wheel.”

“No,” Adie states defiantly, “I don’t like heights.”

“You’re no fun,” Lisa pouts and sticks out her tongue.

“And you don’t act your age,” Adie shrugs.

“And that, dearest Adie, is why we are best friends,” Lisa grins and sprints toward the Ferris wheel.

Adie follows at a distance, frowning as she walks. The sweet smell of caramel dipped apples permeates her nose and she sighs despondently. The ground is worn and beaten beneath her feet. She’d really rather stare at the millions of overlapping footprints in the hard brown earth than go on the idiotic Ferris wheel. Lisa’s been in line for a minute or two now. There’s already five or ten people behind her, waiting for their turn on that infernal contraption. Adie cuts in front of them, oblivious to their less than happy glares.

“Don’t look so down,” Lisa puts her hand on Adie’s shoulder, “It’ll be fun.”

Adie wriggles out of Lisa’s grasp and rolls her eyes, “Fun is not the word I was going to use.”

The wheel of doom screeches to a halt and Adie gulps nervously. It towers above the ground, unbelievably tall. The seat is bright red vinyl that sticks to the backs of Adie’s thighs, thanks to the night’s humidity. The lap bar, much too loose to do the job it was designed to do, clicks as it shuts and the whole wheel creaks into motion. The figures on the ground get smaller and smaller until they are merely blips of color on an otherwise uniformly brown landscape.

“It’s not so bad,” Lisa says softly.

“Not so bad,” Adie parrots, surprised to find that it really isn’t.

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 10

N i k k i

Self Portrait

S k i n n e r

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P O E T R Y Lee Middle-High School / Grade 10

M a r g a r e t

H a r d i n g

O u r B r o ke n H e a r t s We mortal folk can only love Another broken soul.

We can only love a broken soul With hearts no longer whole.

All hearts break—crack, splinter, shatter.

We hurt, we trample, we rip each other.

But sometimes your broken pieces Fit just right against another’s, And you would never fit together If you hadn’t broken then.

So we love the broken others; So we give our broken lovers Our fragile broken hearts.

It’s all that we can give each other; It’s the greatest gift to give another, Our fragile broken hearts.

And it’s the greater for the breaking Because we can’t afford more pain: Our deeply broken hearts— Our ever-changing ever-breaking ever-creating hearts.

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A R T Cambridge Rindge and Latin School / Grade 12

I s a i a h

L y o n s - G a l a n t e

The Pigeon Man

p h o t o g r a p h y

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

K a t i e

F o r t i e r

Fo o t b r i d g e

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P O E T R Y Ayer Middle-High School / Grade 12

A n n a

M e l i l l o

Umbrella Sorrow is November rain: Sometimes welcome, always cold.

Never falls with reckless thunder, Nor angry rips the sky asunder, Quietly its wings unfold.

It never sings, or shines, or smiles— Only patters, drenches, pours.

When the air gets dense with grief, And all of heaven breaks and cries, Dripping silent into clothes, Soaking cotton, skin, and eyes, Then you know it’s time to find A fire where the hearth is dry.

Faces of the smiling kind Are always a good place to start.

Shelter and a bit of warmth Is all you need to cure a heart. ***

The Putney School Summer Programs CREATIVE WRITING VISUAL ARTS THEATER MUSIC DANCE FARM ESOL Workshop Intensives For High School Students

“if you are looking to find your soul in your art, there is no more perfect place to be.”

Putney, Vermont 802-387-6297

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P O E T R Y Ayer Middle-High School / Grade 12

L e a h

S m i t h

Two men prepared for the argument to come You certainly could not ask for a better day to play tennis here at William Fitzgerald Stadium. You’re certainly right there, Carillo, today should be an interesting matchup; these two athletes both have great speed and agility. And let’s not underestimate their serves; a balance between placement and power will be key today‌ Emerald blades frame crisp white shorts Chalky lines lead to

opposing sides One racket limply caresses at the thigh One twirls and twirls an agitated twitch around and around

and here comes the serve Action crumples muscles

sets them free

From tensed anticipation.

How good it feels how natural How beautifully the ball flies back

and forth Accompanied by a symphony of breathing and the humming of the crowd and the whooshing of the rackets up and down

up

and

down with the impact on the strings

a dull and lifeless thud that sounds so out of tune.

The heads that follow as the ball with each return reply back and forth

and back again The world falls away

changes sides

And there is nothing but the ball and the thudding of the rackets Back and forth

and back again.

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P O E T R Y

OUT OF STATE / HONORABLE MENTION

Convent of the Sacred Heart / Grade 11

S a r a h

C a s e

To Lydia Marie There was something oracular, I think, about our passing in the musty hallway of a fraternity house turned summer camp wand the way you spun your head in slow motion when I smiled hello to you, as if there was a radar behind your lopsided glasses that found you the souls you were seeking.

It took me a moment to realize I had been invited to spend the evening with you when I let you slap your palm against mine in a pact against the evils of Mock Trial, and it was probably better that you never saw the faces I made at the Sufi tones your laptop droned like a violin dripping with molasses, drowning any possibility of normal conversation in which I understood one word only: Asperger’s.

I never told you about the hours I spent researching the syndrome that tried to twist your fate, the videos I watched in disgusted fascination, wondering whether it would be better to not have children— but you were adopted from the misty breast of the Chinese mountains where babies are knit in the womb of a God who creates many different kinds of perfection.

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P O E T R Y tablecloth skimming your ankles and the loafers shuffling along the paths you discovered, in reluctantly pulling away the mask I had crafted so carefully every time you reminded me that the only face you remember belongs to the woman you call Mother.

Your streams of thought organized from kingdom to phylum to genus to species to the center of the earth, if we had enough time, tore down every half-hearted charade until every man cried in awe that a creature so recently born could describe death so beautifully.

Do you remember the girl whose sweatshirt you finally recognized after staring through it for all those shared meals with black eyes burning to explain the murmurings of the universe that you alone understood— have you already forgotten the one you liberated each time you looked through her veil of carved alabaster into a soul aching to be traced by your newborn fingertips?

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SUMMER JULY WRITING 2010

Join other high school students from around the country for a two week program studying Fiction, Poetry, and Playwriting through workshops, master classes, and trips to local sites in and around Boston.

Walnut Hill is an independent, coeducational, boarding and day school for the arts, for grades 9–12, with a postgraduate year offered. In conjunction with intensive arts training the School offers a comprehensive and rigorous academic curriculum in all college-preparatory subjects to young people from all over the world.

www.walnuthillarts.org 508.650.5020 TMC Winter 2010 81

Burned (photography) Kim Deninger Brimmer & May School / Grade 12

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