The Marble Collection: Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts (Winter 2013)

WINTER 2013

THE MARBLE COLLECTION

Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts

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The Marble Collection

Winter 2013

Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts inspiration • creativity • community

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TMC: CONTENTS 8

Dying Inside (Fiction) Kylie Scott / Burlington High School

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Drowning and Starved (Art) Michelle Poirier / Peabody Veterans Memorial High School

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Yaz No. 1 (Art) Jake Ursino / Burlington High School

23 Gossip (Art) Angela Venini / Burlington High School

24 This Woman Speaks Out (Poetry) Elizabeth Treichel / Old Rochester Regional High School

25 Orb (Art) Mathew Mariano / Brimmer and May School

10 November Rain, Tehran, 1979 (Poetry) 26 Zebra (Art) Osaremen Okolo / Milton Academy

12 Light Box (Art) Ryan Coughlin / Brimmer and May School

12 Out Of This World (Art) Sara Liborio / Abington High School

13 Shades of Purple (Art) Megan Kudzma / Peabody Veterans Memorial High School

13 Bird (Art) Benjamin Baptiste / Taunton High School

14 Barton Hollow (Fiction) Amanda Grace Shu / Melrose High School

18 Toy Car (Poetry) Billy Restivo / Burlington High School

19 Home in the City (Art) Isabel Tze Chen Chun / Milton Academy

20 Value Self Portrait (Art) Tanner Gauvin / Oakmont Regional High School

21 Mesmerized in Liquid Light (Art) Greg Barry / Oakmont Regional High School

22 Knitting (Poetry) Siyu Lu / Milton Academy

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Tanner Gauvin / Oakmont Regional High School

27 Christiano (Art) Maxwell Freitas / Somerville High School

28 The Oak (Fiction) Samantha Crozier / Groton School

32 Disenchanted Daydream (Art) Hayley Barry / Oakmont Regional High School

33 Glimpse of Paradise (Art) Samantha Waldrop / Peabody Veterans Memorial High School

34 From Darkness (Art) Meghan Garven / Oakmont Regional High School

34 Ice Heart (Art) Mackey Howe / Newton North High School

35 Skewed Laces (Art) Ryan Coughlin / Brimmer and May School

35 Building Blocks (Art) Rachel Klingenstein / Brimmer and May School

36 Brucie (Poetry) Kaitlyn Beausoleil / Dracut Senior High School

37 Self Portrait (Art) Robert Davison / Burlington High School

TMC: WINTER 2013 38 Child (Poetry)

54 Remember When (Poetry) Ebony Martin / Oakmont Regional High School

Osaremen Okolo / Milton Academy

39 Reminisce (Art)

55 Veins (Art) Robby Fay / Ipswich High School

Isabel Tze Chen Chun / Milton Academy

39 Red Perry (Art)

55 Apple-orange (Art) Laura Frustaci / Marshall Simonds Middle School

Hannah Riffe / Chelmsford High School

40 Light Wave (Art)

56 Two Italian Artichokes (Art) Hayley Barry / Oakmont Regional High School

Liam Maasri / Brimmer and May School

40 Bug’s View (Art)

57 Exaggerated Color Self Portrait (Art) Kat McDonald / Oakmont Regional High School

Allison Daly / Peabody Veterans Memorial High School

58 Till Death Do We Part (Poetry) Molli Wallace / Oakmont Regional High School

41 Grandmother (Art) Mackey Howe / Newton North High School

60 How I Learned English (Poetry) Siyu Lu / Milton Academy

41 Untitled (Art) Rebecca Reynolds / Peabody Veterans Memorial High School

62 Butterfly (Art) Renae Reints / Old Rochester Regional High School

42 To Catch a Dragonfly (Fiction) Sharon Ettinger / Lexington High School

63 Self Portrait - In Wait (Art) Christopher Coe / Burlington High School

48 jump (Poetry) Rebecca Vasquez / North Quincy High School

64 Residency (Poetry) Rachael Allen / Milton Academy

49 Chris Martin, of Coldplay (Art) Christopher Coe / Burlington High School

50 Memories (Art) Emmeline Zhu / Chelmsford High School

51 Transcendance of Muse (Art) Pablo Aguilar / Burlington High School

52 Un Pez en el Mar (Poetry) Laura White / Reading Memorial High School

65 Boston (Art) Carolen Ibrahim / Chelmsford High School

66 The Summer of Abbey-May (Fiction) Brooke Durkan / Oakmont Regional High School

70 She Walks in Sunset (Art) Irina Grigoryeva / Burlington High School 71

Frozen in Time (Art) Colby Yee / Lexington High School

TMC Winter 2013

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F I C T I O N Burlington High School / Grade 11

K y l i e

S c o t t

Dying Inside

Queen of the moonlight.

Princess of air.

The six-year-old version of me would love it, soaring through the night with you, a fantasy, the stuff of legends.

Peter.

But now I am older and you are still just a boy. A boy who doesn’t understand grown-up things and who scorns the real world: my real world and your nightmare.

We float in the velvety blue of the sky, surrounded by stars and sea. You, caressed by the wind, resting on its back and defying all logic, make endearing little comments that are meant to persuade me.

“Young forever,” you whisper in my ear, soft as the starlight that glows around us.

I wave my arms and try to catch up.

Who wants to be bothered by horrid things that only adults care for—things like taxes and divorce? Growing old and losing the chance to do whatever one wants, accepting fate and death as friends. No. Definitely not for me.

We laugh and chase each other through the night, spinning and dancing; forgetful of all things, I’m ready to bask in your world forever. You, gliding, flying through the air with minimal effort—a boy forever. And I follow, getting farther and farther behind; I’ve never done this before.

Stop and go. Short bursts.

I forget till I am ready to pass up all opportunities and follow my whims.

Then there are times when I halt and think of what children cannot do. If I continue after you I will never drive.

They don’t have dances or makeup where you are from, do they? I couldn’t get married or fall in love, could I?

You’re just a boy of eleven.

And I must grow up.

Your face twists from elation to hatred and anger. You zoom away and never look back.

You are disappointed with my choice and prone to tantrums, because you choose eternal youth. Now I am stuck here, above the ocean and alone and done for.

The wind refuses to carry me. The sky no longer tries to help me and turns into a storm of grey clouds that roll in as fast as the tears down my face. I am sinking into the water beneath me. Disappearing, the stars glare down at me wondering how my choice is worth more than you, and bidding me goodbye because in the grown-up world no one believes in you. Waves crash at my ankles and soon cover my mouth, my nose and my eyes. I can’t stop it. And I sink into the foamy deep, pulled by an invisible anchor that has latched itself around my waist. Shouting, Peter! Peter!

But all I get are lungs full of water.

Because when I grow up, no one will save me like you tried to.

The world will be a place filled with contempt and malice.

Here’s my first taste of reality.

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A R T Peabody Veterans Memorial High School / Grade 11

Mi ch el l e

Drowning and Starved

Po i r i er

d r a w i n g

Yaz No. 1

J a k e

U r s i n o

Burlington High School / Grade 12

TMC Winter 2013

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P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Grade 12

O s a r e m e n

O k o l o

November Rain, Tehran, 1979 Around 6:30 a.m. on the cataclysmic day, the ringleaders gathered 300 selected students, thereafter known as Student Followers of the Imam’s Line, and briefed them on the battle plan. To break the chains locking the embassy’s gates, a female student was given a pair of metal cutters that she could hide beneath her chador. Ibrahim Asgharzadeh said the plan was to hold the embassy for three days…But the students were carried away by public opinion when thousands thronged to what was denounced as the “Nest of Spies.” –Scott Macleod, TIME Magazine When I sat next to Ibrahim, he pulled my hair.

We flipped through textbooks, pointing to the way red, yellow leaves stuck to “galoshes” of little American girls and boys.

He still laughs at their culture.

Today, the skies are clear, Ibrahim’s voice overcast.

I steal a moment in the mirror, feeling a small hand tug at a stray strand, before azan, call to prayer, brings daybreak.

I look to the sweeping black of my wardrobe and feel criminal.

6:30, ante meridian— 6:30, Qur’ān: “So taste the punishment because you used to disbelieve!”

I wonder, do they translate the rally cry?

Outside the gate, restless bodies push me to the front and I contemplate 10

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P O E T R Y indecent contact.

Ibrahim descends from the stool when he sees my blue eyes.

He pulls sharpened silver out of his jean pocket and offers it in silence.

He climbs up again, boosting himself over barbed wire.

I hide the metal cutters under my suffocating chador, walk slowly to the embassy chains, and feel an inkling of betrayal under my skin: my buried stacks of cassettes, soft Levi’s— “Made in America.”

Swallowing the last chink, they blow past.

I blend into the wall, foreign on either side.

For the first and last time, I thank Allah for the anonymity of my attire, as I board the emptied bus and practice under my breath: “I do not condone the Muslim Student Followers of the Imam’s Line, and wish to seek asylum.”

TMC Winter 2013

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A R T Brimmer and May School / Grade 11

Light Box

Rya n

C o u g h l i n

p h o t o g r a p h y

Out Of This World Abington High School / Grade 12

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Sara Liborio

A R T Peabody Veterans Memorial High School / Grade 11

Shades of Purple

Megan Kudzma

p h o t o g r a p h y

Bird

B en j a m i n

B a p ti s te

Taunton High School / Grade 12

TMC Winter 2013

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F I C T I O N Melrose High School / Grade 10

A m a n d a

G r a c e

S h u

Barton Hollow

Left, right, left, right. The forest around me’s too quiet for my liking. Dry fall leaves crunch under my boots and somewhere far off water churns against the rocks of some little stream, but other than that it’s dead silent. Left, right, left, right. I pick up the pace. My footfalls grow louder. I know I shouldn’t let ‘em—gotta tread carefully or else somebody’ll hear me—but I can’t live with this quiet, not now. Maybe once I could, maybe once I’d even liked it, but that girl’s gone now, whether I like it or not.

Left, right, left, right.

Folk like to talk ‘bout how you lose track of time when you’re out in the wood. But I know it’s much more than that. You lose track of everything. You don’t let yourself think ‘bout anything other than the ground in front of you. Eventually thoughts just fade away. All you know—all you’ve ever known—is the leaves and the logs and the bark. Can’t see anything human comin’ up there, which is probably why I’m surprised to look up and find a rifle pointed straight between my eyes.

The boy behind it says nothing, just grins. He’s not really a boy; he’s closer to manhood but still on the cusp of it, eighteen or nineteen at most. His shirt’s ripped and covered in dirt and his jeans are probably a couple sizes too small, but apparently work well enough for him. Tussled hair, dishwater blond, and unnatural tall height, he could be my cousin. Definitely one of us mountain folk, though. Just a jumble of skin and bones with the shadow of the mines imprinted on his eyes.

After some silent seconds, it’s clear he wants me to talk first. Plead for my life, burst out in tears, try to run away, maybe. But I don’t. Never would. Instead I say, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” He raises an eyebrow, just like we’re joking or something. Maybe we are.

I give’m a dark glare. I’ll glare him down till kingdom come if I’ve got to.

“Trust me, you don’t want to mess around with me. Get out of the way.”

He just comes in closer. “Aw, yeah. You’re a lot more than you look, aren’t ya?” We’re eye to eye now, only a gun ‘tween us, both trying not to blink. “I can see it in your face.” His smile stretches even wider as he rests his finger on the trigger.

“Better make peace with your Lord in heav’n, then.”

“Ain’t got one.” The words slip out of my mouth ‘fore I can think. Soon I find myself sighing with relief as the gunman lowers his aim.

“A sinner, then. I like sinners.” He still looks amused, but more calm this time. He glances down at my feet, no doubt noticing the kitchen knife handles poking out of my boots, then back up at my face. “Y’ever killed anyone?”

“What in the—” I stumble back. The boy takes the chance to pin me to a tree, sliding my knives out of their boots with ease. He holds the blade in front of my 14

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F I C T I O N face and chuckles. “Don’t worry—you don’t have to answer that one.”

“Who told you?” It comes out as a hiss, low and mean. I try to struggle against him, but his grip’s so tight it’ll bruise. “How the hell did you know? Who’re you working for, you goddamn—”

“Relax, sweetheart.” He begins slinging his gun with his free hand. “I’m a dead man walking, just like you. Waitin’ to be hanged. Been lookin’ for some company a while now—figured I’d run into a fellow murderer sooner or later.”

His grip loosens as he guides my fingers to the handle of the knife and steps back almost respectfully. “Calvin Montgomery Rankin, just Rankin to you.”

I grit my teeth. “Avery Johnson. Avery Sienna Johnson. And I’ll be on my way.” Shoving my knives back into place, I push past him and start on the trail again.

Bastard.

“Hopin’ you might say that!” he hollers after me. I don’t turn back. Not till he fires two gunshots into the air.

“What the hell did you do that for?” I can already hear the screaming in the distance, the battle cry of a whole town on my heels, ready to riot. The folk I was raised with, chasing me down to condemn me to death. I thought I’d just lost ‘em.

But now they’re back on the trail.

Rankin just keeps on grinning. “Better run now, sweetheart!” He darts back into the trees. I’ve got no choice but to follow. “Can’t no preacher-man save us now!”

We run, up over fallen trees and crumbling stone walls, down into crevasses and gorges. Left, right. Across rickety bridges of brooks and through the underbrush of autumn, always looking straight ahead. Left, right, left, right. The sound of the hunters grows louder and louder till I’m certain they’re only feet behind us.

“Where’re we going?” I call out to Rankin, who’s run ahead and started to ford the next stream. “What’re you trying to find?”

“Barton Hollow. Killer’s haven.” He’s too calm for a murderer on the run, too playful for a man with a gun, too comfortable for someone sprinting in bare feet.

“What?”

Before he can talk, the crowd bursts through the line of trees. I can see’m all, their faces burning with anger and hate ready to burst. All folks I know—John Paul and his girl Joy, Cadence and Kat from school, all the Greysummer boys, leading the way with their guns and knives and torches—all their looks, their eyes, cutting right into the soul I ain’t sure I’ve got. The town I’ve wronged, out for revenge. I run like the devil’s behind me. And maybe he is.

I’ve caught up with Rankin now, ‘cross the bridge and down into the valley.

He’s still grinning. Wonder if he ever stops. “What’s this, a witch hunt?” he says with a laugh.

“Not funny.” My teeth’re grinding against each other. Is he always so god damn annoying?

“What’d ya do to ‘em, hm?” Another mud-water stream to slog through.

“They look awful angry.”

“That ain’t none of your business, Rankin!” I glance back over my shoulder.

They’re following us into the valley.

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F I C T I O N

“Oh, isn’t it, sweetheart?”

Fast as I can, I grab the back of Rankin’s shirt and pull him ‘round to face me. “You listen here. You may be a killer for blood thirst, but I’m not. So don’t you dare treat me like we’re on the same level, got it?”

He chuckles. “Well, that’s gonna be a bit of a problem once we get to the Hollow.”

“Right now the only problem I see is the mob out there.” I let go of him and double my pace. Gotta get as much distance ‘tween us and them as possible. “How long till we get there?”

“‘S not too far. We’re real close.”

A man’s call—prob’ly a Greysummer—cuts through the air. “YOU’RE DEAD, JOHNSON!”

“Really? Sure don’t look it,” Rankin mutters. For some reason, I laugh, and the sound of the crowd dies away a little.

Another patch of trees, some more rocky slopes and streams, and finally we come to the side of the mountain, where an opening—too well-cut to be natural— leads into a cavern. “Here,” Rankin says and, slinging his gun onto his back, slides in with a smirk.

What’s the problem? Funny, that being the thought to cross my mind, instead of the more traditional Thank the Lord in Heaven. Guess that says more ‘bout me than most know. At least, that is, the new me. “‘M comin’ down,” I call, and I’m about to lower myself in when all of a sudden, I freeze. “Rankin, what the hell is this?”

“Here it comes,” he just says.

Before I can ask him what he means, somethin’ inside me shifts and ice’s running in my blood. My eyes go wide. Evie, auburn hair flowing down her back, a light smile, a sort of glow. Her and Link sitting out by the window, you lookin’ through, kitchen knife in grip—

“The barrier,” Rankin mutters. Voice sounds a mile away. “‘S not lettin’ you through. Not ‘till you’ve paid for—”

“Paid for what?” My own voice’s distant in my head, drowned by the cries and shouts comin’ out of the memories, grindin’ themselves into my bones. Link Greysummer, cut cheeks and bright blue eyes and hair glitterin’ like the devil’s own gold.

You know he looks better smeared in red—

“Penance.” The son of a bitch’s still smiling like there’s no tomorrow. “Gotta face what you’ve done, sweetheart. It ain’t enough to just be a criminal, even a murderer, not to get into the Hollow. You gotta admit it.”

“Admit what?” I try to stay calm. Doesn’t work, not for long.

“Admit you like it. That, underneath all those little excuses piled up in your head, your soul’s pitch black. Just like me. Just like anybody.” He leans back and closes his eyes, almost like he’s praying.

“Avery, please, Avery, no, no, please! This isn’t you, this isn’t—oh, God, please, just listen to me!”—

“That—that’s not true.” And it isn’t. I had one moment of weakness, maybe 16

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F I C T I O N two, but I didn’t like it, not a smidge.

“Quit lyin’ to yourself, sweetheart.”

“It isn’t!” He’s wrong, so wrong. I’m not that kind of person—if I liked killing my sister and her man, why can’t I forget their faces? How come I hear their voices coming in the night? Why can’t I sleep for fear of dreaming I’m doing it all over again?

Crowd’s getting closer. They’re in a frenzy now. “WE’LL BRING YOU TO JUSTICE! OUR CHILDREN WILL BE AVENGED!”

I ram myself into the barrier, forcing myself to step through, but it’s like I’m falling onto stone. Hangin’ in the air, pressed against a wall no one can see. “Dammit!

Get me through!” Pools of blood spread ‘cross the porch. Would’ve been neater with a gun, but there was never any other weapon for you, was there? Had to be the blade—

“Come on!” says Rankin, somethin’ like anger in ‘is voice for the first time I’ve heard. “Gotta have faith in something—your faith in goodness went and broke soon as you picked up that knife. Have faith in the Hollow.”

The mob just keeps moving closer.

You don’t scream. You don’t make a sound. It’s horrific, all of it, but you’ve gotta push it away. You have to run—

What’d happen if I let them kill me?

Running for miles—

Would I just... fade away, forget about everything ‘cept the trees an’ the forest ground?

A dead girl walking—

After all that’s happened, do I even deserve to live? Maybe this is how it’s s’pposed to be. Maybe... maybe whatever God’s out there wants me to die here.

Keep on walking—

Do I care?

Haunting Barton Hollow—

“People’ll kill you,” Rankin says. I kick ‘gainst the barrier again—nothing.

“Break your body, hang you by the neck. Is your soul really that much for your life?”

The girl with no soul...

Two shots fire into the air, a response to Rankin’s call. The crowd surges forward, ready to roast me o’er an open flame.

I stares straight back into their eyes and some deep darkness shoots through the surface of my thoughts. No, you will not kill me. I’m not gonna let you. Only I get to decide whether I live or die. And I. WILL. LIVE.

And with that, I fall through.

Rankin lets out a laugh, running a hand through my hair. “Welcome to Barton.”

I think I hate him now much more than I did before.

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

Toy Car

Billy Restivo

The rubber tires disguised in faded paint Stood digging into indents of a track.

And as the motor hummed so dull and faint, This children’s toy would trudge along the cracks Over such a poorly crafted circuit; I didn’t know this and I didn’t care.

Fingers gripped the base and hands secured it As eyes pursued each move in empty stares.

And all the while, this beaten down machine Drove about: no faults, yet no direction.

Until the engine gave—a bleak, foreseen Fate, its path was paved with such perfection.

So now I ask, is such perfection wise, To drive along until my engine dies?

DANCE IN THE CITY

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July 2013 Open to young male and female students, rising high school juniors or seniors. www.barnard.edu/precollege or contact: 18 pcp@barnard.edu themarblecollection.org or 212.854.8866

Drawing instruction and skills development for teen artists

Colored pencil by Caroline Cao age 14

ActonArt Drawing School www.actonart.com 978-266-1600

A R T Milton Academy / Grade 11

I s a b e l

T z e

C h e n

C h u n

Home in the City

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

T a n n e r

G a u v i n

Value Self Portrait

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School

G r e g

/ Grade 9

B a r r y

Mesmerized in Liquid Light

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P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Grade 10

Knitting

Siyu Lu

When I was five, Grandma called me to watch her knitting my sweater, threads crossing over threads into delicate crochet like the shade pattern on your lantern. Those starless nights, we hid in the cave under bed, pulling out secrets from the dark. You told me about him.

It always hurts when you stab the fingertip, an accidental ache in the heart, no blood dripping. Grandma has forgotten the pain.

Calluses protect her, but you, my friend, thirteen was too old for fairy tales, too young for piercing truth. You could not breathe under his lips. I never understood how Grandma managed to draw fine yarns through the tiny hole on her needle point.

She had bad eyesight. She couldn’t read newspaper titles. She knitted by feeling, gently, as he traced the skin on your back.

Tears wetted your eyes. We stared at the sky for answer. You tried not to mess up the array of knots. Grandma had a designer’s gallery in mind. Her favorite was the Utsukushi wrap with silky lace. All threads dance into the maze where no exit can be found. You did not know what to do. I soaked your tears with tissue paper. Faint pink dissolves up the edge of darkness.

I felt a little chilly.

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A R T Burlington High School / Grade 12

A n g e l a

V e n i n i

Gossip

m i x e d

m e d i a

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

E l i z a b e t h

T r e i c h e l

This Woman Speaks Out I know what it is to face discrimination: To have a stranger look into my eyes and see no future.

I know what it is to be called a name: To hear those foul words escape their lips.

But I now represent a faction stronger.

We won’t be pushed aside much longer.

You ignore us, but we will linger, we will prevail Until you can deny our existence no longer.

Do not frown at me. You do not know What it feels like to wake each morning at five o’clock To care for the child of a man you never knew And to shed a tear as she cries, “Mumma!” when you must leave her at day care To then be mocked all day in the halls of high school.

I know what it is to be a victim: Abused and hurt, left with a joyous burden.

I know what it is to have faith: To refuse defeat, to defy the norm, to take the path less traveled.

I demand no pomp and reverence.

I demand the same respect you give to others, Because I am not anything less than human.

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A R T Brimmer and May School / Grade 10

M a t h e w

M a r i a n o

Orb

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11

T a n n e r

G a u v i n

Zebra

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A R T Somerville High School / Grade 10

M a x w e l l

F r e i t a s

Christiano

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C S 5 . 5

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F I C T I O N Groton School / Grade 10

S a m a n t h a

C r o z i e r

The Oak

If I asked you, right now, to think of your favorite place in the world, what would you say? Perhaps you might say your bedroom, remarking on the view from your window and how, if you squint your eyes, it is possible to see the ocean. Perhaps you might say your childhood home or a favored spot from your travels. Or perhaps, like me, you would say your favorite spot is in Northridge Park, up in the shade of a great oak tree.

I am there now, dangling my feet from one of the lower branches. From here, the white bell tower of the local church is invisible behind the other trees on the far side of the park. For some reason, I’ve never liked those trees. They are pine and horribly common. Once, I climbed to the very top of my tree (or at least until the very last stable branch) and I could see the whole town, from the creek where we catch trout in the summer to the abandoned factory where they used to make the bottles for things like shampoos and lotions. I named the highest branch the “mons branch,” because my third grade teacher told me that the highest point in our solar system is Olympus Mons, which is on Mars. She told me this three years ago, when I was nine. I am twelve now and I spend far too much time up in that branch, just thinking.

I name the branches because I believe that names make things come alive.

My own name, Grace, was chosen for me by my mother. She has always told me that she didn’t pick it until after I was born. I can picture her, clothes adorned with the medium from her latest project, sitting in front of an easel as she, in a moment of inspiration, declared to my father that she would name their weepy, red-haired child after her latest painting.

If I were a painter like my mother I don’t think I would paint my oak in greens and browns; instead, I would prefer to use golds and greys. I would paint the leaves gold, because I think they are like stars—numerous points of beauty. The trunk and branches would be grey because grey is my favorite color. I think it represents balance. The beauty of the color lies not in the shade itself, but rather in the origins of the shade. Grey is made up of a brilliant combination of black and white.

You would think that the purity of white would obscure the black, or the nothingness of black would consume white, but they don’t do either of these things. Instead, they exist simultaneously, creating a beauty that only comes from the coexistence of conflicting elements. I would paint the branches grey because they, like the color grey, are beauty and balance combined.

As I begin to hear voices approaching closer and closer, I hurry up the tree, climbing out of sight and into the foliage to my favorite branch, the wishbone branch. I call it this because it is shaped like a wishbone and sometimes, when there is no one in the park, I sit on this branch and whisper into the leaves. I tell the tree my desires and wonder how many times I will climb up here and sit in this very place, 28

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F I C T I O N before I might finally get what I long for. The tree listens, and sometimes, when the wind blows, I like to think that it answers. The first day I climbed up my oak was the first day I made a wish. I wished for a friend, not realizing that I had just stumbled upon one. As I learned the language of leaves, the tree became my closest companion.

The trunk of the oak where the wishbone branch connects to it is carved with lines marking the weeks I have spent here, continuing to believe that it would grant my wishes. So far, there are over two hundred carved lines—one for every Sunday I’ve spent in the shade of my oak.

From the wishbone branch I can see the whole park. I can see the families picnicking in the shade of other, harder to climb trees. I can see the old play set, weathered by rain and rust, and I can see the stretch of grass, made green and lovely by the onset of summer. I can also see two people, who are the source of the voices, coming closer and closer as their game of Frisbee drives them towards my tree.

In order to remain out of their sight, I climb higher. By now, I can navigate my oak with ease. The act of climbing has lost its sense of danger; it’s now a routine.

So, because I’m not paying much attention and I’m so used to my empty tree, I almost fall off the branch with surprise when I see him.

There is a boy in my tree. He sits on one of the higher branches and stares at me with wide eyes, looking surprised but not shaken. I stabilize myself on a branch and ask him, “Who are you?”

“I’m Oliver,” he says.

For a second, I am struck by a feeling of something like horror. I feel as if he is trespassing on something that is so personal, so mine, that I can’t stand the thought of him in my tree. I want to shout, to tell him to get down, but I don’t. Instead I ask roughly, “Why are you up here?” After the words are out of my mouth, I wince. They sound rude, unkind.

I expect him to be curt back to me, but he isn’t. “Just thinking, I guess. I like looking at the park from here,” he says.

The boy, Oliver, is now poised above me, sitting on a branch about two feet above the one I am standing on. From here, we are face to face. He has a pale, pleasant countenance and looks to be about my age, with mussed dark hair and a scatter of freckles across his cheeks. They are so light I wouldn’t have noticed them if the sun were not shining directly on his face. Although he is thin for a boy, he is not gangly nor is he particularly tall. I am pleased to note that his eyes are grey.

I decide, on the basis that he is using the tree to think, that I don’t mind that he is in my oak. So I say, “Oh,” but it comes out so quietly that I don’t think he hears. He looks like he has forgotten all about me, looking out into the gap between the leaves. I repeat again, “Oh,” and I say, loudly this time, “sometimes I do that too.

I’m Grace, by the way.”

He gives me a dimpled smile that comes just as quickly as it vanishes. I settle myself into the branch below him so that we are both looking out at the park.

Despite my earlier decision to let him stay, there is still a part of me that wants to stand up again and tell him to get down. In my mind I make up excuses, reasons why he should leave. I contemplate warning him that it’s dangerous to be up here or just telling him politely that I prefer to be alone.

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F I C T I O N

I am just about to do the latter when I look up to see what he’s doing. His eyes are fixed on somewhere far in the distance, a look of abstract intensity that I recognize. It is the expression that my mother gets when she’s deep at work on one of her paintings. I remember watching her when I was younger and being fascinated by how her countenance would change from a pleasant, motherly expression to an expression that I would come to define as her “artist look.” It is a look of fierce concentration that can only mean the creation of something, whether it is the painting of a masterpiece or the making of another sort of art—the art of words and thoughts and meaningful ideas. Just like how I would never interrupt my mother when she’s painting, I don’t interrupt Oliver when he’s thinking.

I leave him alone and settle into my own thoughts. I think of leaves and light and the difference between a moment and a second. I think of words and the lips and breath that bring them to life. I think of the people in the park and wonder what they are thinking. But, most of all, I think of Oliver and wonder if I have the same “artist look” when I’m thinking. I feel like I should say something to him, but he beats me to it.

“Do you come here often?” he asks.

“As much as I can,” I say.

“I used to come here,” he says softly, “years ago. But I haven’t been here for a while. I like it because you can see the whole town from the top of the tree.”

I don’t continue the conversation and he doesn’t expect me to. Instead, we fall into a comfortable silence. We stay there until the filaments of light that shine through the leaves turn from yellow to orange. When it comes time to leave, neither one of us say a word. We climb down the tree still wrapped in the blanket of quiet that we had pulled tight around ourselves in the branches of the great oak. It is only when we reach the ground that we shed its warmth of silence.

“I’ve forgotten how nice it is up there,” he says. “If you come here often, we may be seeing each other a lot from now on.”

And we do.

There are days when he is not there at all, but more common are the days when he is there before me, sitting on the same branch that he was perched on the day I first met him. When we are in the tree, neither of us speak. Sometimes, I bring a novel to read in the light of the midday sun shining through the branches, but Oliver never does. He just sits there, visiting the realms in his head that I don’t have access to. Once in a while, we’ll catch each other’s eye and he’ll give me one of his quick smiles. I hope I return them correctly.

We go on like this until the twenty-seventh of May. The twenty-seventh of May is the day of the big storm. It is on this day that I don’t go outside at all. Instead, I sit in my room, watching as the drops of water chase each other down the window near my bed and I listen to the steady, pounding rhythm of the hard rain.

Next to the window is the painting of my mom’s entitled “Grace.” In the picture, though it is abstract, I’ve always seen the scattering of raindrops. The raindrops are different colors, sprinkled across a background of grey. I tell myself that rain is good, because why else would my mother have painted it? But, as I look closer, I wonder if they are actually teardrops.

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F I C T I O N

The next day, on the twenty-eighth of May, we are allowed to go outside again. The worst of the storm is over. It is still drizzling, but I am determined to go to the park anyway. I unhook the battered maroon raincoat from the coatrack and set off outside.

As I get closer and closer to the park, I can’t ignore the part of myself that tells me that something is wrong. So I run. I run for nearly a mile in rain boots, ignoring the cold showers that whip against me as I press on. Finally, I arrive at the park.

When I get there I am struck—not by the presence of anything extraordinary—but rather by the feel of absence that hangs over the park, as bleak and ominous as the storm clouds above. I breathe in the mist that hangs low over everything, letting the vapor fill my lungs and seep into my pores.

For the first time, the park is not a symphony. The elements of sight and sound no longer work together to create something of beauty. There is no melody of songbirds, no chorus of laughter, no harps playing in time to the rustling of leaves.

Instead, the storm created an interlude of hard rain and pounding bass that has destroyed the harmony of the piece. The elegance that was once present in every note, every measure, has dissolved into dissonance. There are no cues to repeat the melody because it cannot be repeated. The element that pulled the orchestra into place is gone.

My oak has fallen.

I walk slowly over to the skeleton of the tree that once stood tall and great.

It lies on its side in a way that makes me want to look away. It feels wrong, somehow, to see the tree like this. The branches that hit the ground first have snapped, leaving the rest of the carcass looking mangled and damaged. The leaves are no longer stars; they are wet and soggy and in a few days they will turn brown. The wind, as if adding insult to injury, still rustles the dying leaves.

As I stand surveying the broken pieces of something that was once so much a part of me, I am overcome by a feeling of loss. The feeling is so strong that I seem to breathe it in. It enters my lungs and my skin just as easily as the vapor that covers the park in a grey fog. It spreads throughout my body so that I can feel it in the tips of my fingers and the soles of my feet. I am consumed by it.

For years, the tree had been mine. The days of my life were marked by careful incisions in the bark and the desires that I would not reveal to anyone hung in the branches, written in a secret language of leaves and twigs and the whispering of wind through greenery. I loved it, not because it had done anything to earn my love, but because of what it was. My oak had been a steady, burning light amidst a sea of flickering candles.

As the rain fills my eyes I blink them hard so that I will not have to look away from the tree. But, through the film of water, I see something. Just a little way away from my feet is a branch. It is one that must have snapped off from the rest of the tree. I walk towards it.

It is too large to pick up, but I don’t need to lift it to see what it is. I see the ‘v’ where one branch becomes two branches and I see that both those branches are exactly the same length, perfect copies of one another.

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A R T

My wishbone branch.

I crouch down to touch it. The branch feels rough against my skin, the way it did when it was in the tree. I close my eyes and make one final request. It is a request that mirrors the very first wish that I made three years ago, on the day I first discovered my oak.

I wish for the one thing I have always wanted and the thing that I have just lost.

“I wish…for a friend.”

I hear footsteps behind me, but I ignore them. Instead, I focus on how the rain continues to fall—each drop icy and glittering, like tiny pieces of stars dancing downward from above. Pale light begins to peek through the dark clouds and illuminate the sky, bathing everything in a grey glow. The air smells like leaves and a cold mist hangs in the air. There is the brilliant white of the sky, the heartbreaking brown of an old tree that will soon turn to dust, and when I finally turn around, there are the grey eyes of a boy who has answered my wish.

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Disenchanted Daydream H a y l e y Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

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B a r r y

A R T Peabody Veterans Memorial High School / Grade 10

S a m a n t h a

Glimpse of Paradise

W a l d r o p

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

From Darkness

Meghan Garven

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Ice Heart Newton North High School / Grade 11

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M a c k e y

H o w e

A R T Brimmer and May School / Grade 11

Skewed Laces

Rya n

C o u g h l i n

p h o t o g r a p h y

Building Blocks

Rachel Klingenstein Brimmer and May School / Grade 11

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P O E T R Y Dracut Senior High School / Grade 12

K a i t l y n

B e a u s o l e i l

Brucie In the small town of Saint Lucie There lived a young lad I called Brucie His clothes, never neat No shoes on his feet But he had a small dog he named Moosie His sister was someone to know Always performed in the shows They were known countywide It filled her with pride To perform with a pretty red bow Her name, I recall, was Jane Lane She was known far and wide for her cane She strolled down the streets Tapping it to a beat One only heard when it rained They were two peas in a pod And their resemblance to each other, quite odd For Brucie was five Jane wasn’t alive To the world, Jane Lane was a fraud In the hospice of Saint Cruz There lives an old man I call Bruce Jane was confined Her memory, quite kind To keep company when his mind was loose

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A R T Burlington High School

Ro b e r t

/ Grade 12

D av i s o n

Self Portrait

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P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Grade 12

Child

Osaremen Okolo

You were a newborn father, jumping over bed sheets to my siren’s call.

We danced at your lead, my feet in your hands, my head on your heart.

You perused the aisles, and I just had to pee.

A frill pink dress shuffled into the men’s stalls.

Next year, you hovered outside the other door, asking a lady’s kind eyes to look out for the little girl in the jean jacket.

Boys, hair, parties— Mom trades a laugh with me, and your eyes flash in jealous disinterest.

Woman, wo-man.

I blame them.

The waitress, her sidelong glances.

“No ma’am, I’m his daughter.”

I have breasts, and hips, and you won’t see them.

I blow out the candles, and you say, “You’ll never stop being my baby.”

The silent wish: don’t let me get too old.

I wonder if I’ll marry a man who will sing lullabies to our child. Our children.

I’ll tell him never to stop.

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A R T Milton Academy / Grade 11

Reminisce

I s abel

Tze

C h en

C h u n

H a n n a h

R i f f e

p a i n t i n g

Red Perr y

Chelmsford High School / Grade 10

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A R T Brimmer and May School / Grade 12

Light Wave

L i a m

M a a s r i

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Bug’s View Peabody Veterans Memorial High School / Grade 10

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Al l i s o n

D a l y

A R T Newton North High School

Grandmother

M a c k e y

/ Grade 11

H o w e

p h o t o g r a p h y

Untitled

Reb ecca

Reyn o l d s

Peabody Veterans Memorial High School / Grade 12

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F I C T I O N Lexington High School / Grade 11

S h a r o n

E t t i n g e r

To Catch a Dragonfly

It always amazes me how strange even the most familiar things can feel. I step through the front door, my legs thin and weak, and the plush carpet immediately tickles my feet. The sensation surprises me, for I’ve been walking through the halls of this house for as long as I can remember, yet today it feels like everything has changed slightly. The smell—it rings a bell in my head, but it lingers in my nose as if I have never before inhaled the sweet smell of my mother’s incense mixed with a haze of my father’s cookies, always waiting on the oven. And the sight, too—it takes my eyes a moment to adjust, to remember how the staircase twists upward in a distinct swirl. And also how the window directly across from me always lets a pinch too much sunlight shine through, which reflects off of our glass table top in a blinding shimmer.

I hear my mother close the door behind me, and she slips past me off to the left, her office, without saying a word.

Hesitantly, I ascend the stairs. My knees are still shaky and stiff. Realistically I should be getting help with any moderately strenuous movements, but something tells me not to seek help and instead I grip the railing as tightly as I can through my weak wrists.

My room is the third doorway down the hall—that is something I still remember without second thought. I pass the first doorway and don’t allow myself to look. Don’t look, don’t you dare look. She won’t be sitting there. Her computer isn’t playing music; her chair isn’t swaying back and forth. Don’t look into the emptiness of her neat room—how strange it must look actually clean. Don’t.

The door to my room is closed tightly, immediately making me feel like an outsider. The knob sticks a little before it gives, and then the door glides open and I finally step back into my world.

My world covered with dust.

A modest layer of dust covers every surface of my room. The air has a foreign musty smell to it. I cross my room, my feet padding across the dusted carpet. Dirt lines the edges of my vast window, and as I take in the long missed and nearly forgotten view of the beautiful lake that my house overlooks, I trace my finger across the windowsill. My finger comes away grey.

A cloud outside shifts and my room is flooded with scintillating rays of sunlight. The dust twinkles. In the center of my floor is an intricate, colorful shadow of a dragonfly. My heart warms not from the sunlight, but from this shadow. I turn back to my window, reaching up to touch a delicate stained glass dragonfly. I placed it there years ago on the perfect spot on my window so that my room would always be centered on this shadow.

I have always had an affinity for dragonflies. More often than anyone I’ve 42

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F I C T I O N ever met, I catch dragonflies landing on me left and right. Some people say I attract dragonflies, but I think dragonflies attract me. And others say my relationship with these winged creatures means nothing but good luck, but, especially now, I would like to think otherwise. They’re just there for me—there to remind me of all the meticulous beauty even a tiny creature like them can hold in the mess of the world.

A little gentle tap on my arm to remind me to capture the valuable seconds that slip by us so easily, or to say keep staying strong. It’s been a while since I’ve watched them settle on my arms, imagining the sensation of their tiny feet on my skin.

The front door opens and closes, and something sharp pierces my heart as I catch myself wondering whether or not it is my brother or sister who has just entered.

Definitely my brother. I should probably be happy to see him.

As I leave my room, I pass my smudged mirror and fully take in my appearance. My once strong and healthy legs are now skin around bone, my knees knobby. My body is completely enveloped in my dress—the only piece of clothing I fit into now—with hip bones protruding conspicuously from my sides. My arms have thinned out so much that my elbows appear to be poking out at embarrassingly awkward angles. My eyes linger on the reflected image of my patterned sundress, hesitant on finally taking in my face. But this time it is not that I fear the unhealthy transformation I have taken to—I can already feel the hollowness of my cheeks and the bags under my eyes—it is the fear of letting myself see that face which always, painstakingly, resembled my older sister. I wipe dry tears from my cheeks and look up.

The bags and the cheekbones—I have prepared myself enough for that. But now that I have thinned out, I look even more like the skinny, elegant girl that my sister was. She’d always been the prettier sister. It was like all of our features matched; yet hers were noticeably more delicate. Like the chestnut brown hair—both ours, but mine is frizzy and knotted while hers would shimmer down her back in silky waves.

My freckles messily scatter my face; hers almost inconspicuously covered her nose, complementing her sharp and stunning features. But the severity of my condition has made me take after her so startlingly well; my once fuller face now resembles her defined jaw and high cheekbones. What is left of me is just a reminder of her.

My sister and I never had any sort of an intimate relationship. While my jealousy of her utter perfection usually clouded any interaction we had, the distance between us was enforced by the gap in our ages. With her having twenty-seven years on my sixteen, we neither had anything relatable to discuss nor any somewhat frequent physical interactions. And as she developed into a graceful and talented dancer, I tried increasingly harder to stray from her footsteps, cumbered by the pressure of her uniqueness and perfection.

Much to my parents’ dismay, I refused to dance and progressively let school slip through my unintelligent fingers as the years passed. Instead I turned to sports. I picked up every sport I was able to—lacrosse, basketball, soccer—and let them take over my life. The opposite of athletes, my parents relentlessly attempted to pull me towards literature and the arts. Not only were these subjects of interest for my sister, but for my brother too. He is twenty. My relationship with him is marginally better TMC Winter 2013

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F I C T I O N than that with my sister, I suppose, and he has gained the other half of my parents’ favor by excelling in school and swiftly picking up music in their approving eyes. For a while, I was smothered by my parents’ efforts to bring me back to their comfort zone. They challenged me with comments like, “Don’t you see how well Charlie plays his guitar?” and, “Alexandra is an outstanding dancer, Lily,” or “Alexandra and Charlie are studying so hard.” Every single one of these comments would be followed by,“You should try it some time.”

I let their tries pass through me, and eventually they gave up. They reluctantly accepted my defiance, routinely and silently driving me from game to practice to game and grasping any chance they had to have my indifferent siblings drive me instead.

Which brought us to the car crash in the first place.

“Hey, Lily.”

I turn. My brother—tall and full yet with minimal muscle on him—is standing awkwardly at my doorway. His lightning blue eyes are wide and nervous as they hold my gaze. His hands hang at his sides with palms facing me.

“Hi, Charlie.” I choke on the sob in my throat.

We stand facing each other for a few more long seconds before my heart skips and my feet wake up and I’m suddenly crossing the room into his hesitant arms.

The hug feels unnatural. It crosses my mind that embraces like these are incredible rarities that would seem almost foreign, even if I hadn’t been absent for the past three months.

Three months.

Three months ago was the biggest tournament my basketball team had made it to. With it being two hours away, I had to wake up at an unimaginable hour in order to make it there on time. I awoke early that Saturday morning to pounding sheets of rain against every inch of our rooftop. My parents brushed me off in their early morning slumber, volunteering Alexandra to drive me who, with nothing but gold in her perfect heart, accepted.

I knew the moment we slipped into the car that driving would be a struggle.

The rain restricted identification of anything more than a few yards in front of our car, but Alexandra seemed to sense my eagerness to play. And she began to drive through the storm.

Even if we would have been able to hear each other over the splatter of rain to metal, not a word was spoken. The silence stretched between us, Alexandra’s knuckles turning white as she anxiously gripped the wheel. After the first forty-five minutes of tension passed, I found myself wondering why it was like this. Why I was so conceitedly making my sister fight through these dangerous roads, why she seemed like a subdued stranger instead of the loving sister that she was to my brother.

Why I was the one who separated us—the roadblock to the genuine affection that the rest of my family so gratefully shared. I let a single sob escape.

“You okay?” She stole a quick glance towards me.

One quick glance. That was all it took.

That was all it took for her to lose track of the sharp approaching turn in the 44

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F I C T I O N road. To not notice the truck hydroplaning toward us with such intense velocity that when I watched it finally break through the surrounding curtains of rain all I could muster out of my petrified body was to blink.

The last thing I remember before blackness was her eyes. Wide and panic stricken, with that deep blue color that we inherited so identically. What did her eyes hold—fear? Worry? Blame?—was the last thing that crossed my mind before my head collided with the window that plunged me into darkness for the next three months.

I was undeservedly fortunate. The only damage I received was from the motion of the collision. But the truck slammed into the driver’s side of the car and didn’t stop until the car was pushed straight into the other side of the intersection.

“You okay?”

The last words that Alexandra will ever chant in her melodic voice. Her blinding beauty, her outstanding talent, her mesmerizingly bright mind, her kind heart that beamed so bright—all sucked up into the black hole of the world that escapes everyone’s mind so smoothly. And the only thing to blame—the only reason for the universe to have clicked in this devastating way—is me.

Charlie gently releases me and I avoid meeting his eyes again. Instead, I focus on the vague stain on the carpet in the middle of the hallway. That single stain has been shouting at me for years, ever since one morning when I so clumsily spilled every last drop of my parents’ paint set.

“How are you?”

The question seems wildly out of place, although it warms me that he asks it. In any other family all would be graciously rejoicing. Kisses would be exchanged; hugs would be distributed so eagerly that arms and chests would be tired. And perhaps the siblings would sit down, words exploding over one another as they carried out their untold duty of catching the other back up to reality.

“I’m okay.”

His dark curls have fallen over his eyes, and I wonder if he’s gotten a haircut since I’ve been gone.

He nods. My heart twists as I realize he has nothing more to say. And neither do I. Did he miss me? Has our relationship ever been heartfelt enough to express such obviously simple sentiments?

My brother stiffly runs a hand through his thick jumble of curls. I step away to escape his concerned gaze, in attempt to escape the reality of my life which before now seemed so painfully ordinary that I always accepted it without reconsideration.

It scares me how weak every one of my joints is as I descend the stairs. With each step my ankles wobble, my knees threaten to buckle. I stumble past my mother’s office, and my father barely glances up from the kitchen table where his newspaper is sprawled open as my feet patter past him on the cool tile. The only escape I can think of is out there. By the lake—it always happens there.

The soles of my feet are comforted by the grass. When they hit the ground, I instinctively break into a flailing run. The sensation of finally stretching my stiff limbs and letting the wind wisp through my stringy hair momentarily has me rapt in TMC Winter 2013

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F I C T I O N a breakaway from the reality that is weighing down my decrepit body.

I make my way toward the lake, where my claimed oak tree rises boldly from the fresh, green grass. The sun shines off of the water and I shield my throbbing eyes until I reach the tree’s cooling and welcoming shade. Among the beautiful healthy greenery, visible is a single patch of dirt by the base of the tree trunk. The gnarled roots twist across the lawn, claiming as much land as they can, and my patch of dirt is right where it has always been—between two curved roots that loop around each other to form the perfect perch. Finally breathing in the fresh scent of the lake, I slide down onto the packed dirt and relax against smooth, thick bark.

Just close your eyes.

I recall once when Alexandra found me here. Situated just on the other side of the trunk and facing the opaque water, my position is always hidden from anyone’s gaze from my house. More often than once, I have drifted into a peaceful slumber here, and one time it ran far too late into the day. Dinner was steaming on the table and Alexandra, being the saint that she is, ventured out in search of me.

The sun was drooping in the darkening sky, and the luring smell of my parents’ cooking was beginning to waft along the lawn and into the fresh air about the lake. I can’t say how long Alexandra had been searching, and I hadn’t asked after, but when she did find me she didn’t hide her exasperation.

That night was no doubt the closest we’ve ever been to truly acting like sisters. For her exasperation soon turned to awe as she took in the beauty of our home, which I had been rather selfishly keeping to myself. Although, I admit, I was initially frustrated that someone else was intruding on my serenity, I ended up appreciating the rest of the evening. Alexandra stood above me for a minute while I blinked away my evening drowsiness, and as I began to get up she sat herself right down next to me with her eyes still trained on the water.

The water was more fascinating than I had expected when I finally mimicked her stare. Soft, silent ripples across the silvering surface gave the impression of graceful waves of liquid mercury, and the sinking sun cast a hue of oranges and purples across the sky that dripped into the flowing liquid before us.

“So this is where you hide out every day?” Alexandra asked.

First I nodded, and then answered out loud when I realized she wasn’t watching me.

“Good call. This is amazing.”

I had no response, but she wasn’t expecting one. We sat together in tranquility, for once not plagued by the awkwardness of our selected silence but instead treasuring each other’s presence. Before too long our mother’s agitated call signaled for us to break away from our entranced gazes and head inside to dinner, but the moment lasted long enough for me to be fully grateful that it happened at all. A few times after that night I noticed her standing out there, simply captivated by the heavenliness that now just the two of us shared. One night a few weeks later, I listened through my closed bedroom door as she and my mom got into a heated argument over Alexandra’s rapidly flourishing dancing career. Too much dance here, not enough school there. It ended with the slam of the back screen door, and as I scrambled to the win46

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F I C T I O N dow, I caught a final glimpse of her silky hair before she disappeared behind my—or rather our—tree.

And now she’s gone. All I had in my short lifetime with her was a quick moment like that to recognize what a wonderful person she truly was. To feel briefly connected to her, to actually enjoy her as my sister. And—

What’s that?

My eyes flicker open. It is a small enough sensation that it could be nothing, but my mind has been trained long enough to recognize the feeling. A slight tingle on my arm; that’s all it is.

I glance down, and sure enough it’s what I have been waiting for: an elegant dragonfly has landed on my forearm, its meticulously designed wings resting and its metallic blue and green body glinting in the light. I slowly move my arm to hold the little creature in front of my eyes, and it holds on as I move.

“Hey, little guy,” I murmur, and I find that I am completely choked in tears.

It flutters its wings in response, but stays on my skin.

That’s when I realize that Alexandra will always be with me, here in our makeshift escape. No matter how separated we appeared to be, our passion for this mesmerizing outlet connected us stronger than I would have realized before. My big sister. It’s the small things, I realize, that we share. She’s right here in the wind as it hisses through the leaves, in the colors of the sky that bleed into each other across the surface of the water.

I look back down at the dragonfly.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

And at that, it picks up its wings again and after a few quick flicks the dragonfly is gone across the glistening lake.

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P O E T R Y North Quincy High School / Grade 12

jump

R e b e c c a

V a s q u e z

I can see the misery in their eyes, watching me stumble closer to the sudden edge.

As if with each step was another jab against them and their hope of me strapping on a parachute to use as a guide, but I am not just another lost soul.

I refuse to be held down by lines created by others and false happiness that can fit inside the palm of a hand.

So I jump, and as their screams pierce with grim despair, I never glance back to catch a glimpse of what others will whisper.

I already know of how they’ll think I’ll fall, but I know I’ll float on because, without them even realizing it, this whole time I’ve been growing wings, and this is just me learning to fly.

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A R T Burlington High School / Grade 12

C h r i s t o p h e r

C o e

Chris Martin, of Coldplay

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A R T Chelmsford High School / Grade 12

E m m e l i n e

Z h u

Memories

m i x e d

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m e d i a

A R T Burlington High School / Grade 12

P a b l o

A g u i l a r

Transcendance of Muse

d r a w i n g

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P O E T R Y Reading Memorial High School / Grade 12

Un Pez en el Mar Como pez al agua, Somos inseparables.

Sin tú no puedo respirar Y sin tú yo muero.

Pero como agua al pez, Tú vivirás siempre mientras yo falleceré.

Sin yo, sigues respirando Con el ascenso y descenso De tus oleadas.

Soy solo un pez en el mar Entre millones de otros más coloridos Y tú tienes todos, Todos en una vez, Pero ningunos solos.

No te importa un pez—simple, aburrido Nadando círculos alrededor tus aguas frías Con todos los otros como este pez— Pero te quiero y quiero que Tú me encuentres entre las orillas del mar.

Aunque yo sé que es imposible Casarme con el mar, No puedo dejar de esperar, En los profundidades del azul, Que las oleadas juegan más cariñosamente comigo Y con más ternura me abrazan que Los otros peces en sus brazos.

Solamente quiero trazas de amor Que son solamente para mí.

English Translation: A Fish in the Sea Like a fish to the sea, We are inseparable.

Without you I can’t breathe And without you I die.

But as water to the fish, You will live forever while I will die.

Without me, you continue breathing 52

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L a u r a

W h i t e

P O E T R Y With the rise and fall Of your waves.

I’m only a fish in the sea Among millions of others more colorful And you have them all, All at once, But none alone.

You don’t care about one fish—simple, boring, Swimming circles around your frigid waters With all the others like this fish— But I love you And I want you to find me between the shores of the sea.

Although I know it’s impossible To marry the sea, I can’t stop hoping, In the depths of the blue, That the waves play more gently with me And hug me with more tenderness than The other fish in its arms.

I only want traces of love That are only for me.

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

Remember When There she was, 1946, It was a Friday night.

She was wearing Red, a red dress; And, me, I was wearing a suit.

McDonald’s is the destination.

She had her hair curled With one pearled barrette; Beautiful, that’s all I could say When I saw her.

His eyes: a perfect combination Of blue and green.

McDonald’s was in the air, but love Was on your mind.

You got your happy meal; We shared it.

The burger and the fries, Your hand in mine, Your lips moving, “I love you.”

56 years later, love was on your mind; McDonald’s was in the air.

My red dress, My pearled barrette; Your suit, Your perfect eyes.

The door opened.

A boy held it for a girl.

A suit and a black dress.

McDonald’s in the air, love on their minds; Got a happy meal, Split the burger and fries.

You leaned in and said, “Remember when?”

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E b o n y

M a r t i n

A R T Ipswich High School / Grade 12

Veins

Ro b by

Fay

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

Apple-orange

L a u r a

Fr u s ta ci

Marshall Simonds Middle School / Grade 8

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12

H a y l e y

B a r r y

Two Italian Artichokes

p a i n t i n g

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/

a c r y l i c

o n

c a n v a s

A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 10

K a t

M c D o n a l d

Exaggerated Color Self Portrait

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

M o l l i

W a l l a c e

T i l l D e a t h D o We Pa r t Sati was a ritual in Indian culture in which a woman must burn herself alive if her husband dies before she does. She may do either that or marry her husband’s younger brother.

This was an ideal in the culture, and they believed that in doing so, it would help them be reincarnated into a higher cast. Also, if they did not commit Sati, they were ostracized from society and their families were disgraced. Indian woman and European woman both spoke about this, which is where I got the idea for this poem.

I don’t want to go into the pyre— But, I must.

My family will be disgraced, If I choose to stop this travesty.

Though we don’t like it, It is accepted for most— But not for all.

Should I disgrace my family?

What would become of me?

I married this man when I was twelve; Ten years later he fell ill And I was left here— With the choice.

I am left here with the question: Do I commit Sati?

I want to save her from the fire— But, I can’t.

I don’t understand why she does this; She is only hurting herself.

I wish I could save her, But it is not my choice.

Who tells her to do this?

Did she even love the man?

It is my duty to help her, Her and her uncivilized ways.

I tell her no, that she mustn’t,

But she doesn’t listen.

Her head is in the clouds, just hoping— Dreaming.

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P O E T R Y If I do what I must, I will do my family a favor.

If I do what I must, My name will not be screamed in vain.

What are you doing?

I shout through barbaric crowds.

They gather as she’s made her decision.

What are you doing?

How can you leave this world behind?

And slowly, Softly, I step into the fire.

And slowly,

Softly, She steps into the fire.

And slowly, Softly, She burns herself alive.

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P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Grade 10

S i y u

L u

How I Lear ned English Another Japanese cannonball bombarded on Li’s ship.

“For China!” He directed the bow straightforward and threw himself into the fire. He knew this time he would not be able to see the victory. Overwhelming heat struck him. He was sinking, trying to piece together escaping memories of mother, of China, of New England, of Margaret, Margaret….

I was taught the 26 alphabets when I was seven.

They were in weird bubbly shapes. I could not distinguish the sound of “m” and “n.” My pronunciation was corrected by a teacher with strong mandarin accent herself.

She called me Shirley just to rhyme a sloppy homophony with my Chinese name. And for the longest time, I avoided saying it—I could not roll my tongue to enunciate the “r.”

For Li, Margret was the first and only person to use the word “love” outside the context of patriotism.

She wrote him letters every month when he was in Harvard, studying about boats and waters. His Chinese advisor cautioned him that white girls were dangerous. He never doubted he loved his motherland even in harsh wars. He could not tell if he loved Margret with her sweetest voice.

My first trip to the States was for Phillips Academy Summer Session. I went to the dance, wearing a borrowed dress, so short that stores in China would never sell.

My roommate powdered my face with make-ups.

I stared into the mirror and a stranger glanced back with all her stunning charms. “You looked so pretty!” is the sole thing I heard besides the deafening music that night.

Li was a competent coxswain, a talent he had already shown when he was in Andover. He calculated current’s speed in calligraphy on his traditional rice paper. So Harvard crew team finally defeated Yale after thirty years of loss.

Li considered his long ponytail awkward, particularly during sports, but he could not cut it— an act of humiliation to his brilliant ancestry.

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P O E T R Y I am no different than an American girl. Laughing hysterically, gossiping naturally, calling everyone baby, sweetie, darling. I learned how to flirt with guys, how to party hard till morn, how to point at a girl’s face and yell “bitch.”

I find myself search for appropriate Chinese words when talking to Mom, and stumble over idiomatic phrases that I used to know by heart.

Do not trust western barbarians.

His mother’s last words still ringing in his ears as Li stepped onto this savage land named the United States.

The heavenly decree burdened the ten-year-old boy with the duty to study those barbarians’ tricks, for saving the fallen Qing Dynasty from the barbarians’ hands.

He did not even understand English.

He was too yellow for an American boy.

I am too white for a Chinese girl.

That’s why Target is on track to give

$1 BILLION FOR EDUCATION by the end of 2015.

Every kid deserves a brush with inspiration.

Learn about the difference this support is making for kids nationwide.

Target.com/Education

©2012 Target Brands, Inc. Target and the Bullseye Design are registered trademarks of Target Brands, Inc. 722966

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A R T Old Rochester Regional High School / Grade 11

R e n a e

R e i n t s

Butterfly

p h o t o g r a p h y

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A R T Burlington High School / Grade 12

C h r i s t o p h e r

C o e

Self Portrait - In Wait

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P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Grade 11

Residency

Rachael Allen

It’s just so hot. Most nights she sits, cross-legged, on the floor by the fan and eats, looking out the window to where the letters meet the fig tree.

Her walls are made of words, cutout love from friends, articles, medical lexis, lyrics that make her think of the first time she saw New York.

The city flooded her and she surged.

Now, some nights, she and the boy go to the Juliette for a crème brulee and take it to the park, feeling the basketball court grit into arms as they lie, watch suns dip into the glass of skyscrapers.

She thinks of her mattress raised with textbooks, of painting late at night—doors, walls, ceilings, of the photograph of her curved along the subway wall, hand meeting the boy’s, the fresh night settling upon them like the yellow fog that steams in the train’s brake lights.

She wishes the boy were from here, that he grew up in Brooklyn, and remembered something like buying Neapolitans from the Italian bakery at Christmastime.

He’s just talking about St. Louis now, and she’s barely listening, thinking of tomorrow when she’ll buy crooked flowers at Penn Station to place in a ribboned jam jar on the center of a table in some third floor apartment where windows barely brush fig leaves.

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A R T Chelmsford High School

Boston

C a r o l en

/ Grade 11

I b r a h i m

p h o t o g r a p h y

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

B r o o k e

D u r k a n

The Summer of Abbey-May

Great Aunt Abbey-May died in that rocking chair. She didn’t even slide out—her head drooped like she was sleeping, and her feet stopped pushing to rock it, but that was it. She was done.

We were driving home with the windows down. August in Virginia was burning hot (just like December, and February, and every other damned month), and we had to drive off the grocery store parking lot air. Mom and Dad were talking about something stupid—taxes, work, whatever—but I looked up from pulling Billie’s pigtails when Mom said, “Jesus, Cal, you don’t think Abbey-May is dead, do you?”

Dad glanced at her and flicked on the blinker to turn into our slow-approaching driveway. “You kidding?”

Mom stuck her head out the window. “Well, she’s not moving.”

“Sleeping?”

“She dropped her iPad on the porch.” Dad’s protests were silenced. Auntie held onto that tablet like it was a food stamp in the Depression, and she talked about them with the same reverence. Billie once held a spaghetti supper on it, and AbbeyMay got so mad she spanked Billie with President Obama’s Times issue. Billie was just a stupid two year old, though, so Mom and Dad were mad. Abbey-May said when she was a little girl she got licked by her papa’s belt five times on a good day and they don’t know how to raise no chilluns these days and went back to playing Angry Birds.

Later Mama told Billie not to be mad because Abbey-May is a crazy old lady who’s lost all her family and friends, and we’re all she has so we’ve got to be good to her.

We pulled into the driveway at a crawl. “Lacie, take Billie inside through the back door, please,” said Dad. He turned around to tousle my hair with calloused palms and unclip my seatbelt. “Momma and I are gonna be out here for a little while, so you kids play in the house.”

“I ain’t gotta carry groceries?” I asked, sitting up as Dad worked on Billie’s stupid little kid seatbelt chair strap.

“Nope,” he replied. “And don’t talk like that. Princesses don’t talk like frogs, remember?”

I threw open Billie’s door, and she tried to grab my braid as I climbed over her. Falling to the ground, I felt the hot pavement through my flip flops. Billie was barefoot, and she would burn her feet if she tried to walk. She’d cry. With a sigh, I picked her up and threw her into a piggyback. Billie licked my ear happily and let loose a signature giggle.

“Billie, you seem sad,” I commented as we adventured to the back. I was practicing my sarcasm, which I had learned on the school bus from Joey last Monday.

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F I C T I O N goodbye as we reached the side of the house.

She tittered, “I happy!” Billie kicked her bare feet gleefully into my stomach.

“I was being sarcastic,” I elaborated, rounding the corner. We passed into the house’s shade. The overgrown grass tips, wet from the sprinkler, tickled the sides of my feet. I slid Billie off my back and she thumped onto the lawn with a squeak.

“You’ll learn it when you’re seven.” I turned around to smile knowingly; two-yearolds could be so stupid.

She scowled. “I do it too.” And she stood up and chirped, “Billie, you seem sad.”

Hers was a perfect impersonation, to my shame, so I pinched her cheek in retaliation as we entered home from the back porch.

Three episodes of Dora later, the front door opened. Dad’s boots clomped on the carpet. Billie ran to hug his knees. Mom brushed the two aside with plastic grocery bag arms, and threw the food onto our dining table. She pulled Abbey-May’s iPad from inside a squishy bread bag, and laid it gently beside the food. I sat on the floor by Billie’s toy pile and began to braid the stuffed unicorn’s tail. Dad clomped out of the hall and over to the TV set, which he clicked silent. Billie was still clinging to his leg.

“Girls, we have some very sad news,” he started. Brushing off Billie, he sat on the floor criss-cross-applesauce just like I did. Mom floated over and alighted stiffly.

Billie sat in Dad’s lap and I crawled over to pull her pigtails. “Great Aunt Abbey-May passed away this afternoon.”

“Sarcastic!” sang Billie, pulling a finger from her mouth and drooling at me.

I guided Billie’s warm, spitty finger to wipe on Dad’s jeans.

“No, sweetie,” said Mom, eyeing my hygienic countermeasures distastefully.

“We’re very serious. We’ll miss her very, very much. However, she’s much happier where she is now. She can rest and spend time with Great Uncle Edwin and Daddy’s Grandma Jessie.”

“Where is she?” asked Billie, sticking her freshly cleaned pinky into her gaping maw.

“She’s dead, stupid,” I said to Billie. “She’s in the dead people place. The house one, cause she’s only been dead a little bit and don’t have a grave. And the heaven if she was good.”

“Don’t talk to your sister like that,” reprimanded Dad. “Mean words hurt.

Apologize to Billie.” I glanced at Mom for support, but since her face displayed an identical mask of authority, I mumbled an apology and pulled Billie’s ponytail stealthily. She squeaked.

“What’s dead, Momma?” Billie asked.

Mom was silent for a few moments. “Being dead, or dying, is something that is very normal. It happens, usually, when you get very old and tired, and the body wants to rest. It goes to sleep and won’t wake up. This is called death. It happens to all people, and while it’s sad to see them leave, it’s ok because they’re gone somewhere nicer.” Dad nodded at her approvingly.

“Where they go?” Billie inquired through a mouthful of flesh.

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F I C T I O N

Dad replied this time. “It’s very confusing and hard to explain. There are lots of guesses by lots of people. Her body is going to get buried, but her spirit will go somewhere to rest.”

“When she coming home?”

I answered this time. “She’s not. She’s gonna go get buried.”

“What if she hungry?”

Mom laughed. “She won’t get hungry, sweetie.”

It became quiet, as if nobody had anything to say. I picked at the carpet fluff and flopped backwards to lay still. Abbey-May had only been living with us for two months. She refused to stay in her old home after Great Uncle Edwin died because she was lonely and had been cooking herself dinner since she was married to him at seventeen and after seventy years she got tired of it and wanted Mom to do it for her. Dad is the one that cooks here, anyway, because Mom just burns things, but my point is that I wasn’t all that sad. The house already felt strange without her crotchety groans about Billie and me.

Billie thumped half onto the carpet and half onto my stomach. “Aunt Abbey-May,” she sang, “where are you?” I poked Billie until she yelped and climbed off.

“You’ll see,” I told her.

One morning, Mom and Dad dressed us up in black. “Momma, where are we going?” asked Billie. She grabbed several cookies from the table as we headed out the door, and I saw a cookie slide into her sock for safekeeping.

“We’re going to go say goodbye to Great Aunt Abbey-May,” Mom replied.

In the backseat, Billie and I played Doodle Jump on the iPad, which Dad had insisted on bringing. We got out at the sweaty Sunday church and Mom had to pull us through a crowd of black to reach our VIP front row seats. I was showing Billie how to play Temple Run when Mom pulled us standing, and we walked toward a wooden box at the front of the hot room. She grabbed the tablet from my hands and closed my game. Her look silenced my whine.

Mom turned to face the crowd. They were all very old, and none were crying.

They watched quietly. “Thank you for coming today to honor a wonderful woman,” she began, and all the crinkly faces focused on her. Mom paused for a slow breath.

“Abbey-May never let anyone do anything for her. This never changed, not even in the short time she spent in our home. She just played on my old iPad and read eBooks. She was the best houseguest I’ve ever had.” There was a soft chorus of laughter from the crowd. “If nothing else, Abbey-May, take the damn tablet.” More people laughed this time, and Mom put the tablet in the open boxy shape she had warned me would have Abbey-May lying still and pretty. “She really...she was a wonderful person. She deserves every moment of her restful eternity. God Bless, Abbey-May.” There was a murmur of approval. “Please feel free to come up to send Abbey-May your parting blessings. Thank you for coming.”

Billie pulled on my hand. “Is Auntie in box?” she whispered.

“Yeah, pigtails. Don’t be so loud. This is sad.”

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F I C T I O N to claim my turn with Abbey-May. Mom hovered nervously by Billie and me, and I heard Dad’s deep voice murmuring over the scratchy chorus behind me. Standing on my tiptoes, I could see into the box. Auntie looked just like she did when she slept, but less angry. “Bye, Auntie!” I said. “I’ll be nicer to Mom and Dad, just like you said to!” I turned to my baby sister. “It’s your turn, Billie. You gotta say goodbye to Auntie.” Billie nodded.

Mom lifted the too-short Billie up to see Abbey-May. She looked like baby Simba from The Lion King. After a moment of quietly looking, Billie smiled and spoke. “Bye-bye!” Swiftly, she whipped a broken cookie from her black sock and dropped it in the box. “Auntie no get hungry ever now!”

Billie just giggled over Abbey-May, and after Mom hesitated for a moment, a strange smile crawled upon her lips and she brushed the crumbs from Abbey-May’s wrinkly cheeks. “That was quite thoughtful, Billie,” she said. “I’m sure your cookie will be appreciated.”

By this time, old people had caught up to us, and the combination of their funny smell and the hot, moist air in this unconditioned Virginia church made me grossed out. I tugged on Billie’s hand and Mom lowered Billie to the floor. “Mom, can we go outside and play please?” I asked. “We’re done saying goodbye and it’s icky in here and I want to play!”

With a skeptical eyebrow, we were allowed to play outside as long as Dad supervised, we stayed in the front yard, were quiet, and didn’t hit each other. We three, restless, made for the front door, and I grabbed silly Billie’s hand tightly. “Remember, Billie,” I said as we reached the doors, “it don’t matter if they’re dead or alive.” Dad, bemusedly listening to my impartation of seven-year old wisdom, pushed open the heavy oak doors. A blast of wind rushed into the church, and as Billie’s pigtails blew back I grabbed one to pull and proclaimed, “Everybody loves cookies.”

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A R T Burlington High School / Grade 10

I r i n a

G r i g o r y e v a

She Walks in Sunset

p a i n t i n g 70

themarblecollection.org

A R T Lexington High School / Grade 10

C o l b y

Ye e

Frozen in Time

p h o t o g r a p h y

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Developing the leaders of tomorrow.

One community at a time.

Helping teachers buy supplies for their classrooms.

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Our Foundation is working in local communities to create opportunities so people can live better.

To learn more visit walmartfoundation.org

BACHELOR OF FINE ARTS PROGRAMS • Ceramics • Creative Writing • Graphic Design • Illustration • Interdisciplinary Arts • Painting • Photography • Creative Writing Minor • Printmaking Minor POST BACCALAUREATE CERTIFICATION • Art Education

MASTER OF ARTS IN ART EDUCATION Summer studio programs in: • Ceramics • Illustration • Painting • Photography SUMMER PROGRAMS • PreCollege • Art Educator Summer Institute

866-241-4918 • nhia.edu TMC Winter 2013

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I L L U S T R AT I O N B Y J E S S I C A L E C L E R C

No. 8

GIRL ON FIRE photography / Photoshop CS5.5

ISSN 2156-7298

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themarblecollection.org

RACHAEL BERRY Somerville High School / Grade 11