The Marble Collection
Winter 2011
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themarblecollection.org
The Marble Collection
Winter 2011
tmc
Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts inspiration • creativity • community
TMC: ABOUT US W H AT I S T H E M A R B L E C O L L E C T I O N ? The Marble Collection, Inc. is an educational nonprofit organization that biannually publishes a print and digital magazine of the arts comprised of Massachusetts secondar y students’ literature, art, music, and video works. *** M I S S I O N S TAT E M E N T To improve academic performance and achievement among Massachusetts secondar y students, including those with limited access to educational resources, by implementing a biannual print and digital publication of the arts, which includes student works of literature, art, music, and video; To enhance the educational and social development of all Massachusetts secondar y students by creating an online venue that promotes an exchange within the humanities sector, while encouraging the practice of safe social networking skills; To familiarize students with the editorial process within the realm of professional publishing; To expose students to postsecondar y academia options through beneficial advertisements; To distribute classroom bundles of 25 magazines biannually to all Massachusetts secondar y schools, allowing students to review the work of their peers at the state level.
TMC: STAFF EDITOR-IN-CHIEF LITERATURE EDITOR ART JUROR
PHOTOGRAPHY JUROR LAYOUT & DESIGN WEBMASTER ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT 2
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Deanna Elliot Danielle Putier To d d O r c h u l e k Sheila Johnson Danielle Putier To d d O r c h u l e k Alex Ranieri Deanna Elliot Raj Ajrawat Tia Lombard
TMC: PARTICIPANTS SPECIAL THANKS Acton-Boxborough Regional, Advanced Math & Science Academy, Agawam, Andover, Archbishop Williams, Attleboro, Auburn, Austin Preparatory, Ayer, B M C Durfee, Bartlett, Belmont Hill, Berkshire Arts and Technology Charter, Berkshire School, Beverly, Bishop Feehan, Bishop Stang, Blackstone-Millville, Boston University Academy, BridgewaterRaynham Regional, Brimmer & May, Bristol County Agricultural, Bromley Brook, Burlington, Burncoat, Cambridge Rindge and Latin, Cape Cod Regional Voc Tech, Carver, Central Catholic, Chatham, Chelsea, Chicopee, Chicopee Academy, Chicopee Comprehensive, Clark School, Cohasset, Concord Carlisle, DoverSherborn Regional, Dracut, Easthamton, Everett, Falmouth, Fitchburg, Framingham, Frontier Regional, Gardner, Global Learning Charter, Gloucester, Granby, Greater Lowell Tech, Greater New Bedford Regional Voc Tech, Groton-Dunstable Regional, Groton School, Hartsbrook Waldorf, Harwich, Haverhill Alternative, Holliston, Holyoke Catholic, Hopkins Academy, Housatonic Academy, Ipswich, Joseph Case, Lee, Leicester, Lexington, Lexington Christian Academy,
Lincoln Alternative, Lincoln-Sudbury Regional, Longmeadow, Lowell, Lowell Catholic, Lynn Voc Tech Institute, Malden, Malden Catholic, Mansfield, Marblehead, Marshfield, Maynard, McCann Tech, Medway, Melrose, Milford, Millis, Milton Academy, Minnechaug Regional, Minuteman Career Tech, Mt. Greylock Regional, Nauset Regional, Needham, Newton Country Day, Nipmuc Regional, North Attleboro, North Reading, Northampton, Northbridge, Norwood, Oakmont Regional, Old Rochester Regional, Palmer, Peabody Veterans Memorial, Pentucket Regional, Pioneer Valley Christian, Pioneer Valley Performing Arts, Putnam Voc Tech, Randolph, Reading Memorial, Salem, Seekonk, Sharon, Smith Academy, Somerville, South Hadley, South Shore Charter, Southbridge, Springfield High School of Commerce, St. Mary High, St. Peter Marian, Stoneleigh Burnham, Sturgis Charter, Sutton, Taconic, Tantasqua Regional, Taunton, The Clark School, The Governor’s Academy, The Waring School, Trinity Day Academy, Walnut Hill, Waltham, Ware, Wareham Cooperative, West Springfield, Westfield, Williston Northampton
TMC: SUBMIT NEXT ISSUE / SPRING 2011 SPRING-ISSUE SUBMISSION PERIOD 12.01.10- 02.28.11 To submit please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/submit TMC Winter 2011
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ONE-YEAR SINGLE COPY
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To purchase additional copies please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/subscribe Or mail a check payable to The Marble Collection, Inc. to:
The Marble Collection: Subscriptions 202 Main Street Lakeville, MA 02347
TMC: ADVERTISE The Marble Collection is a one of a kind recruitment tool that maintains a distinct presence in and outside the classroom, with a diverse print and digital circulation. Over 80% of Massachusetts high school students proceed to postsecondary education following graduation. Each issue captures the attention of thousands of these eager learners. We i n v i t e y o u t o j o i n u s i n o u r c o m m i t m e n t t o c o m m u n i t y enrichment through the literary and creative arts by advertising on our pages. Reach your target audience and showcase the unique programs your educational institution has to offer in The Marble Collection: Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts! NEXT ISSUE / SPRING 2011 Closing Date for Reservations: Copy Date: Pu b l i c a t i o n D a t e :
March 2, 2011 March 9, 2011 May 1, 2011 (approximate)
Reservations and inquires should be sent to: themarblecollection@gmail.com To learn more please review The Marble Collection: Media Kit by visiting: www.themarblecollection.org/advertise
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TMC: SPONSORS The Marble Collection, Inc. is supported in part by grants from the below local cultural councils, local agencies which are supported by the M a s s a c h u s e t t s C u l t u r a l C o u n c i l , a s t a t e a g e n c y. Abington / Burlington / Dracut / Eastham Groton / Harwich / Lakeville / Malden Medway / Northbridge / Sharon We s t f o r d / W i l b r a h a m *** SPONSOR-A-SCHOOL The Marble Collection, Inc. depends on Massachusetts businesses to support our mission to improve the humanities s e c t o r f o r s e c o n d a r y s t u d e n t s . We i n v i t e y o u t o j o i n u s i n o u r commitment to community enrichment through the literary & c r e a t i v e a r t s b y s p o n s o r i n g y o u r l o c a l h i g h s c h o o l ( s ) . Yo u r g e n e r o s i t y will support publication production and ensure the continuance of t h i s v a l u a b l e p r o g r a m . Yo u r s p o n s o r s h i p w i l l n o t o n l y h e l p t h e Massachusetts high school community at large, but may also increase interest in your business through m a s s e x p o s u r e i n t h e m a g a z i n e . Yo u r c h a r i t a b l e contribution is 100% tax deductible. To become a sponsor please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/sponsor
TMC: PATRONS MaryBeth D’Errico Patsy Rose Nancy Starr *** 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 f u l f i l l e d t h r o u g h y o u r g e n e r o s i t y.
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TMC: CONTENTS 8
Exaggerated Color Self Portrait (Art) Jess Maeder / Cambridge Rindge and Latin School
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Stood Up (Art) Emily Dewey / Oakmont Regional High School
10 Futile and Forgotten (Poetry) Kiara Zani / North Reading High School
10 Shadow of a Heart (Art) Alexander Nally / Chicopee Comprehensive High School
11 Scratchboard (Art) Mace Mulleady / Dover-Sherborn High School
11 Color Blind (Music) Soubhik Barari / Acton-Boxborough Regional High School
12 Buoy (Fiction) Haeyeon Cho / Milton Academy
14 On the Tracks (Art) Laura Cempellin / Dover-Sherborn High School
15 Writing Poetry on Moving Day (Poetry) Chinenye Ikoro / Milton Academy
15 Scale (Art) Alex Tourigny / Oakmont Regional High School
16 MistĂŠireach linn (Art) Emily Fagan / Abington High School
16 Into The Sun (Music) Soubhik Barari / Acton-Boxborough Regional High School
17 Lucy M. (Art) Crystal Holland / Leicester High School
18 Untitled [Sunday] (Poetry) Ben Burns / Old Rochester Regional High School
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18 Vegas Sunset Strip (Art) Chantal Plamondon / Oakmont Regional High School
19 Train Track (Art) Susanne Cho / Somerville High School
20 Guilt (Poetry) Ryan McDonald / Oakmont Regional High School
21 Exaggerated Color Self Portrait (Art) Josh Craig / Oakmont Regional High School
22 Eye See Trees of Green (Art) Mikala Farley / Peabody Veterans Memorial High School
23 Pictures (Poetry) Madeline Levine / Hartsbrook High School
24 Spin Down (Poetry) Hannah Mades-Alabiso / Melrose High School
25 Bundled (Art) Robby Fay / Ipswich High School
25 Milkyway (Art) Sarah Conklin / Brimmer and May School
26 Looking Over the Edge (Art) Laura Cempellin / Dover-Sherborn High School
26 Crash and Me: Bond for Life (Art) Brys Scotland / Oakmont Regional High School
27 Egg (Art) Min Jin Lee / Brimmer and May School
28 Earthworms (Fiction) Chinenye Ikoro / Milton Academy
33 Self-Portrait (Art) Kaarin Phelps / Oakmont Regional High School
TMC: WINTER 2011 34 O’Connell Street (Poetry) Shell Feda / Lincoln-Sudbury Regional High School
34 A Thousand Miles Away (Music) The Hawkfield Band / Ipswich High School
35 Times Square (Art) Min Jin Lee / Brimmer and May School
36 Hold on Tight (Art) Rachel Allen / Taunton High School
37 Self-Portrait (Art) Sarah Steves / Oakmont Regional High School
38 Shallow Apathy (Art) Emily Dewey / Oakmont Regional High School
39 Late for class (Art) Samantha Carvalho / Somerville High School
39 Or So I Thought (Music) Kyle Billings / Oakmont Regional High School
40 A Cadence Militia (Nonfiction) Shannon McCarthy / Oakmont Regional High School
41 Definition (Art) Robby Fay / Ipswich High School
42 Message in a Bottle (Fiction) Lorissa Cournoyer / Oakmont Regional High School
44 Value Self Portrait (Art) Hayley Barry / Oakmont Regional High School
44 Bayberry Hill (Music) The Hawkfield Band / Ipswich High School
45 The Beauty of Ballet (Poetry) Lindsay Maher / Everett High School
45 Mount Pollen (Art) Alexander Nally / Chicopee Comprehensive High School
46 Red Coat (Art) Min Jin Lee / Brimmer and May School
47 Indian Corn (Art) Min Jin Lee / Brimmer and May School
48 Sunset at Mayflower (Poetry) Chelsea Flaherty / Bridgewater-Raynham Regional High School
49 Beaches (Poetry) Nathaniel Nystedt / Advanced Math and Science Academy
50 Yvonne (Poetry) Averill Healey / Milton Academy
50 New York City (Art) Emily Gobbi / Brimmer and May School
51 Portrait (Art) Min Jin Lee / Brimmer and May School
52 Epiphany (Nonfiction) Gabrielle Madden / Longmeadow High School
53 Hide and Seek (Art) Lindsey McGann / Tantasqua Regional High School
54 Meet Me In Paris? (Poetry) Amy Leclerc / Chicopee High School
54 Perpetual Night (Music) Mina Li / Lexington High School
55 Boardwalk (Art) Julia Pincus / Brimmer and May School
56 Wild Devotion (Art) Kaitlin Murphy / The Hartsbrook School
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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 10
J e s s
M a e d e r
Exaggerated Color Self Portrait
p a i n t i n g 8
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P O E T R Y Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 10
E m i l y
D e w e y
Stood Up He is trying to talk himself out of getting into the car Small talk and twenty questions aren’t his idea of a good time She is changing her outfit for the fifth time He doesn’t give the mirror a second glance Nonchalance is what he aims for She spins her curls while she waits on the front porch It’s just another movie date Unnecessary popcorn expenses It’s getting a little late now… He takes the wrong turn and foul words fly He accelerates to make up for lost time She swings her feet and swivels the rings on her fingers Rain starts spitting on his windshield He throws a punch towards an unseen face She holds her breath, convinced that every passing car is his The oncoming world goes blurry Headlights become orbs of light behind the streaks of water Tick, tick, tick… When did he lose control? He swerves into blackness She returns to her bedroom and crawls into bed Glass sparkles under the flashing red lights He closes his eyes Glistening trails form on her cheeks as new tears soak her eyelashes Goodnight.
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P O E T R Y North Reading High School / Grade 12
F u t i l e a n d Fo r g o t t e n
K i a r a
Z a n i
The muted-steel sky looms close. A mother’s distress, cratered and battered; she lies in silence. A break in the barrage of bullets gives birth to a charged stillness. Then the wails of the wounded and war whoops recommence. In a twisted homage to a childhood game, her sons hide from each other, Each struggling to find his brother, Another victory, another life to claim. Never again will their names be called. Lost prayers, questions, and figures steal their place. Their hearts, which had beat for country, now stall; All for lands to own and lines to trace. A horn rips the quiet. The crack of gunfire shreds the still. And they begin again: losing face, losing name, driven to kill.
p h o t o g r a p h y / a d o b e
Shadow of a Hear t Chicopee Comprehensive High School / Grade 11
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p h o t o s h o p
A l e x a n d e r
C S 5
N a l l y
M U S I C Dover-Sherborn High School / Grade 12
Scratchboard
M a c e
M u l l e a d y
s c a t c h b o a r d m u s i c
eee CLICK TO LISTEN
Color Blind
S o u b h i k
B a r a r i
Acton-Boxborough Regional High School / Grade 11
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F I C T I O N Milton Academy / Grade 11
H a e y e o n
C h o
Buoy
Aaron was watching his father sleep when a bird swept in from the window. His father turned in his bed, but the sound of the sheets was muffled by the twitching of the black feathers, as the creature settled onto the water pipe. Aaron was observing the neck of the bird turn when Mark muttered, “You are a little late.” Aaron apologized. “Or early now, I guess. The sun woke me up,” Mark said. He motioned his son to prop up the bed. Aaron arched his body over the old man and turned the handle counterclockwise until the bed sat up at a right angle. “Was there an emergency?” “Sort of.” A woman had fallen into a lake. Mark smiled. “Well, you can tell me all about it while I take my bath.” Aaron closed the window and flicked on the television. He went to the bathroom and squatted by the tap, letting his hand cut through the column of hot water. Through the sound of the water Aaron thought he heard his father humming to the national anthem. “Look,” Mark said, pointing at the screen. Aaron returned to his father’s bed. “It’s the lake. That was years ago, wasn’t it? When we drove south for four hours for some dirty water because your mother got ideas in her head from a sailing magazine?” “The boat was fun.” “We shouldn’t have let you drive, you almost flipped us over. But you and your sister had a hard time getting off in the end, didn’t you?” Aaron answered yes. “And your mother—where was she?” “She was sitting next to you.” “No, she was by the bank. I remember she was standing on that grass, waving her arms like crazy. It was so windy she was scared.” He paused. “When did she say that she’d visit?” “Tomorrow,” Aaron answered. Mark turned back to the television. The weight seemed to be leaving his body as his face dissolved into a blank stare. Aaron looked up to check on the bird. The bat sat crumbled in the corner of the ceiling, flinching. “What are you looking at?” Mark asked. Mark never liked birds, detested their shrieks and red-eyed glares. Aaron decided to keep the bird to himself. He swiveled his father’s legs around, like a niece in a sundress, and carried the hairless body in both arms to the bathroom. Both men looked away as Aaron unbuttoned Mark’s pajamas and slid the garment down his father’s back. Leg by leg he pulled down the sweat-stained bottoms. Neither of them spoke. Holding his breath, Aaron stood still with Mark’s arms around his shoulders as Mark dipped his knees into the water. For a moment Aaron thought that they were dancing. “Look at me. I’m a peeled potato,” Mark chuckled, looking at his bare torso. 12
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F I C T I O N “I thought it was the disease, but I realized that there is no problem. It’s the age.” “There really is no problem,” Aaron answered quietly. “Really? Ha, look at your hairline. I thought it was the recession, but you’re aging too, just like me.” Aaron watched Mark’s narrow feet swell in the water. “I remember you as a baby. Right after you were born I was pretty sure you weren’t my child. Your mother and I both had this thick, black horsetail hair, and we thought you’d come out looking like Elvis.” He paused. “You know, that day your mother and I fought so much I wished her dead. But we never fought, never again. I loved her too much. Even when Cecilia came out with hair like yours, I said nothing.” He closed his eyes and rubbed the balls of his hands down his cheeks, sunken and bruised as his dented buttocks. “We should go back to the lake sometime.” “When the water’s not too cold.” “We can get that small boat again. Just you, me, your mother, and your sister. Soon it’ll be warm enough so you can teach your mother how to swim.” “Just you, me, and Cecilia.” “I can steer the boat this time. I would let you, but remember the last time we went there when your mother was on the bank waving her arms like crazy, and you couldn’t stop—” “You, me, and Cecilia is enough.” Aaron rested his head on the wall. “Aaron,” Mark smiled, “it’s not embarrassing that you’re bad at driving.” Aaron wrapped his hands around his face like a cornhusk. “Mom can’t be there.” “I mean, look at you. You’re going to be a doctor. That’s enough.” “I never drove that boat. You didn’t let me.” “Why don’t you meet some of Cecilia’s friends?” “You never let me drive. It was an accident, Dad. Mom didn’t know how to swim.” Silence hit the water. Mark slowly lifted his chin, letting his ears sink and his toes rise to slit the surface of the bath water. His fingers let go of the tub, and he swelled along the waves like a buoy. Aaron left the bathroom to lay down on the crinkled sheets. He found the bird hunched over on the water pipe. Aaron never liked birds either. On the day when the wind knocked the ribcage out of his father’s boat and his mother sank like an oilcloth, a field of blackbirds had scattered into the sky like his mother’s hair when her body was returned home. The creature’s eyes met Aaron’s, and the bird stretched, unfolding its limbs as if it had woken up from a dream. Aaron watched as the bird tiptoed along the concrete pipe and plopped onto the window sill. He looked at his watch. It was time, and like the spark of a television flicked on, Aaron sensed Mark’s eyelids opening. “Aaron, is that you?” asked Mark. Aaron answered yes. “What time is it?” He told his father the time. “You’re late. An emergency?” “Yes. An old man drowned,” Aaron said, as he watched the bird spring from its feet and fly out the window. TMC Winter 2011
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A R T Dover-Sherborn High School / Grade 12
L a u r a
C e m p e l l i n
On the Tracks
p h o t o g r a p h y 14
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A R T Milton Academy / Grade 12
Writing Poetry on Moving Day
Chinenye Ikoro
After the third line, I get my first nose bleed. Looking from the bathroom window, I see them pile onto the rumbling U-Haul boxes of magazines, one and a half signed Beatles records, battered winter coats. Two children, in clothes too small, peel skins of oranges and, to the weary sunlight, hold up the womb of the fruit so I can just barely see the seeds embedded within. And I begin to wonder, of all things, about their beta fish, when once, after not moving for three days, it rose from the bottom of the tank and swam, fins feathering like the curl of cursive s, flowing from blue to red.
p h o t o g r a p h y
Scale
A l e x
To u r i g n y
Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12
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A R T Abington High School / Grade 10
MistĂŠireach linn
E m i l y
F a g a n
p h o t o g r a p h y
m u s i c
eee .
CLICK TO LISTEN
Into The Sun Acton-Boxborough Regional High School / Grade 11
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S o u b h i k
B a r a r i
A R T Leicester High School / Grade 12
C r y s t a l
H o l l a n d
Lucy M.
d r a w i n g
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P O E T R Y Old Rochester Regional High School / Grade 12
Untitled [Sunday]
Ben Burns
I’d pretend to be a hero In that wagon Being dragged in ceremonial procession Through empty Sunday streets. Suddenly humbled by a cloud of smoke, Captain Black blend, mahogany tobacco pipe Made its way from the cloud to my father’s mouth. A smell so rich that it must be bad; Smoldering vegetation Warm wood and vanilla overtones Sealed by the incendiary nature Of combustion By my father Pulling the wagon; Under dwindling skies Late Sunday afternoons Smokey vanilla sunset sabbath Left me untitled.
d r a w i n g
Vegas Sunset Strip Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12
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Chantal Plamondon
A R T Somerville High School / Grade 12
Tr a i n Tr a c k
S u s a n n e
C h o
d r a w i n g
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P O E T R Y Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12
Guilt
R y a n
M c D o n a l d
When blind youth and innocence vivified my life, I stalled time. I could walk around head up high, Without even knowing it. My brother and I would have battles in the forest, Where we would pick up Premature unopened pinecones And bombard each other. Until one time I hit him in the eye. He cried, But he was fine. That’s when I learned guilt. The kind that haunts tenaciously, Chokes throats, buckles knees, Ties time to your right leg with a rope, So you are just dragged along. Guilt. A weight. There are times, I just sit in my room, head in hands. Like when I forgot about my little sister, I was supposed to pick her up from dance class. She waited for two hours in the winter elements, Cheeks pink. Alone, her 7-year old toes froze. But I was busy being warm with my girlfriend. She got sick. She wouldn’t even talk to me. She cried, But she was fine. Nowadays all I feel is guilt, Singing its daunting melody. Oh, and I dance madly with the thought: Who the hell am I? I stumbled outside, Wearing my blue flannel and jeans, Walked into the forest, Picked up a pinecone and tossed it. Harmless. 20
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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 10
J o s h
C r a i g
Exag gerated Color Self Portrait
p a i n t i n g TMC Winter 2011
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A R T Peabody Veterans Memorial High School / Grade 10
M i k a l a
F a r l e y
Eye See Tr ees of Gr een
p h o t o g r a p h y / a d o b e 22
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p h o t o s h o p
P O E T R Y Hartsbrook High School / Grade 12
M a d e l i n e
L e v i n e
Pictures Have you ever felt yourself in motion? Tumble back and forth like a high tide ocean? When you’re standing still it’s hard to shake the notion That the marathon you’re running is more than internal commotion. And you’re in that room, strange and wide. High gilded ceiling and garage walls collide. Swaying bodies are a sea that someone cried, While clutching at the dark, just wanting to confide. Elbows press down on that vinyl mat, Shielding the perfect table you’ll never look at. Easier to lose what your heart hasn’t smiled at, Better to duck when it’s your turn at bat. And you’re young in that solitary vineyard race, Stomping through rows, no concern for grace. And they wonder what it is that you chase, Pushing forward, all uncertainty erased. And you’re old and pouring the milk—he says, “when.” Can’t trust yourself? Trust someone else then. Your mind wrung thin, from questioning again, Hoping to reach some tired state of Zen. Back in that wine-stained grass, staring at the moon, Seeing double; your feet spinning again, But you know that you’re running from trouble. It’s that one laugh rising in the middle of a struggle That keeps you squinting for the diamond in the rubble.
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P O E T R Y Melrose High School / Grade 11
H a n n a h
Spin Down
Wake me up at three a.m. Hair pinned down, In my sleepwear, Take me down, Drive me down, To the Spin Down, The lonely little industrial town, Where not one window is fixed, And they come out of the woodwork, Sullen folks like ourselves, No one looks at anyone, No smile, no frown, In a late night drive through the Spin Down. Not one person has a friend, We go spinning ‘round the bend, See a swimming pool, No water it contains, Just concrete remains, A place where kids used to dive down, In the heart of the Spin Down. Tenuous little weeds, Springing through the cracks, Now it’s four a.m. Only if I knew this place better then, Way back, there were families and friends, No smoky sky, No buildings of brown, An adverse connotation For a town Called Spin Down.
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M a d e s - A l a b i s o
A R T Ipswich High School / Grade 10
Bundled
R o b b y
F a y
p h o t o g r a p h y
Milkyway
S a r a h
C o n k l i n
Brimmer and May School / Grade 11
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A R T Dover-Sherborn High School / Grade 12
L a u r a
C e m p e l l i n
Looking Over the Edge
p h o t o g r a p h y
Crash and Me: Bond for Life Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12
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B r y s
d r a w i n g S c o t l a n d
A R T Brimmer and May School / Grade 12
Eg g
M i n
J i n
L e e
p a i n t i n g / a c r y l i c
o n
c a r d b o a r d
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F I C T I O N Milton Academy / Grade 12
C h i n e n y e
Earthworms
I k o r o
Two days after Tyler Stonem found out that he had testicular cancer, he shaved his head. It was the middle of spring break, so no one said anything about it or even cared enough to wonder why, until he took a swim in Glen Echo Lake and never came back out. It took the cops two days to dredge up his body from the bottom of the lake, and then they closed it off, posting up “NO TRESPASSING” signs and blocking the path with a metal gate. My mother insisted that Tyler did it because he didn’t want to sacrifice his masculinity or some other psychological crap like that. She didn’t shut up about Tyler’s death all spring. Even when she wasn’t talking about it, the words still lingered around the house, echoing back to me, like ghosts. Sometimes I wished that I couldn’t hear any of it, that I was deaf, like my younger sister Danica. The only information I knew about testicular cancer was from what I saw in Fight Club. In the movie, a support group of men sat in a circle and talked about how the cancer ruined their lives. Some of them lost their wives and children. Some of them had voices that were two octaves higher than the other men. They all cried. I could see why it would make someone want to jump into a lake. Most of us hadn’t known it existed, that lake, although the creeks that trickled through the neighborhood, swelling up during the spring months, surely meant a larger body of water was lurking nearby. A few weeks after Tyler died, I pulled out an old map of our town and traced my finger along the thin line of my street, then to the forest around it, until I came to the black stain that was Glen Echo Lake. On the map it looked like a thick, mangled bolt of lightning, or a scar, the kind you might see on the fleshy jaw of a grandmother. The first day back to school was the worst. Shaved heads buzzed through the halls—friends of Tyler paying homage—while the girls cried the makeup off of their reddened faces. Grief counselors collected in the main office. They held a memorial service for him at the end of the day, and students piled into the auditorium, clutching their friends and weeping. I sat in the back with Rachel, who’d been one of my closest friends since high school started when I drifted away from my middle school friends. During the service she’d point out people who were crying, people you wouldn’t expect to see—a hockey player sitting still with a tear line down his face, our AP Bio teacher covering her mouth and quickly slipping out the door—and after a while I couldn’t take it anymore, so I shoved my iPod ear buds deep into my ear canals, letting the Sex Pistols scream about anarchy in the UK. There were supposed to be thunderstorms that night. “When do you think it’ll all grow back?” Rachel said as we walked home. I didn’t bother to ask her what she was talking about. Sometimes it was better to let Rachel ramble than to intervene. “Their hair,” she said. “Most of them didn’t even know him.” I shrugged and kept on walking. In my peripheral vision, I saw her face, small and pixieish, with a sprinkling of freckles around her nose and cheeks. “My uncle had testicular cancer.” She bounced on her toes as she walked, her 28
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F I C T I O N heels hardly touching the ground. “After he found out he went out and caught this massive bird from the woods and kept in a cage in his living room.” She looked at me through her overgrown bangs. “It was so loud. The neighbors must’ve hated him.” “Then why did he keep it?” I said. She shook her head. “I guess after a while he just stopped hearing it.” Her words fell into silence. I looked up at the trees, high-stretched and curving above us, the gray light hardly filtering down through the leaves. In the winter, snow clung to the tree trunks and branches, creating a sparkling white tunnel, a world that seemed so far from everything. It hadn’t snowed in months. I noticed that we were walking past our street, but I didn’t say anything, somewhere in the back of my mind I knew where we were going. I walked along with her, kicking at the brown pine needles on the ground. We came to the metal gate, and I stopped. The leaves had grown, cloaking most of it, and patches of rust speckled the parts that were exposed to the rain. Foliage buried the “NO TRESPASSING” signs. Rachel walked forward and gripped the railing. “What are you doing?” I asked her. She shook it, the chains rattling loudly against each other. I looked around to see if anyone heard it. She dropped her backpack to the ground and then easily ducked under the gate, smiling at me from the other side. “Come on,” she said. I waited and looked back. “Come on,” she repeated before turning and walking around the bend. I stared after her, expecting her to turn around and come back. When she didn’t, I wriggled through the gate and ran to catch up to her. Before that year I never would have followed Rachel. I would have gone home, told her that it looked like it might rain. But I needed this, escape. At home I knew my mother would be waiting with her face buried in a magazine, or in one of her old high school yearbooks, and she’d invite me over to look: “You see that dress I’m wearing? I remember saving up for three weeks to buy it,” or “This was Bill. At the time I was sure I was going to marry him. Just sure.” She wanted me to go to dances and invite boys over. I wanted to sit at home and watch specials on the Discovery Channel. One night I watched a program about earthworms with Danica. She fell asleep halfway through, but I stayed up until three a.m. watching it, mesmerized by how they pulled themselves around, blind to their surroundings. Something about the way they lived their lives, carving through dirt and sensing the vibrations of predators, made me want to be one of them. Every day after that Rachel and I went straight to the lake after school, stripped down to our underwear and waded in the murky water. She told me stories of summer camp and random hookups while I floated on my back and pretended to listen, feeling the water ripple away from my fingertips. I swam under the water, watching the fish frantically dart away from my grasp. Coming to the lake was my favorite part of the day, a time where I could submerge myself under water, open my eyes, and not have to hear anything but the clink of bubbles striking the surface. Around seven, when the sunlight began to diminish, we pulled our clothes on over our wet bodies and walked home. I came in through the back door so my mother wouldn’t see me, and then crept into the bathroom to shower, letting the hot water shiver through my skin. In the clouded mirror I could see how my skin darkened over TMC Winter 2011
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F I C T I O N the weeks. I ran my hand over my stomach, feeling the ripple of muscle underneath. My mother began to notice that I was coming home later every day. I told her I went to the library after school to read. “You need to get your head out of those books, honey,” she said at dinner as she cut up Danica’s baked potato. On her own plate she had a salad made of baby carrots and limp lettuce—her version of the recipe I saw her circle in Self magazine earlier that week, an article called “How to Spice Up Your Diet.” I tried to deflect the attention away from myself by asking Danica how her day in the city had been, subconsciously signing the words as I spoke them. She perked up in her seat, signing about how she spent her day with the Power Kids at a fancy restaurant where they drank non-alcoholic versions of alcoholic beverages. The Power Kids were a group of children from St. Veronica’s Hospital who all had various disabilities. They were treated to free movies, musicals in the city, and VIP passes to theme parks. I thought it was a pointless program. It told the children that because they had a disability they were special, and that they could do things and experience things that other kids could not. And that just wasn’t true. But Danica loved it, so we kept on sending her. Over the next few weeks, Rachel and I cleaned up the beach, picking up strewn branches and flinging them back into the forest. We used our shirts to scrub the thick slime from the dock and used it as a marker to designate an area for swimming laps. We tried diving. Rachel taught me to tuck my chin down to my chest and raise my arms over my head, one hand over the other. I could never get it right. Rachel demonstrated flawless dives, and I watched her body cut through the surface of the water. From the dock I could see her underwater, her fiery red hair floating around her head like a cloud, and I remembered a time sophomore year when she decided she wanted to smoke. I told her I didn’t want to, but she didn’t listen; She cracked open the box of Marlboros. I coughed and coughed as the smoke prickled at my throat, while she inhaled expertly, only coughing once. She kept the habit up until an English teacher caught her behind the auditorium and told her parents. Now she only smoked when she was upset or drunk. “I’m failing math,” Rachel said one day as she side-stroked passed me. I sat up from my floating and waited for my feet to drift to the ground before saying, “What do you mean? You’re great at math.” I tried smiling at her, but she didn’t smile back. “I can’t come to the lake anymore,” she said. “I’m always tired when I get home. I never have time for my work.” I turned away from her and sat down under the water, watching the cracked sunlight skitter across my wrinkled hands. She said something else, but I didn’t hear her, only the gurgled blur of vibrations underwater. I pretended that I was an earthworm, sensing the vibrations of a predator nearby. When I came up for air, Rachel was gone. I swam a few more laps, butterfly stroking and flutter kicking, before dragging myself out of the water. I pulled my sweatshirt over my head and walked the quarter-mile down the path back to the neighborhood. The wind whipped at my face and hair, and I pulled my sweatshirt closer to myself, trying to get home quickly. Nights like these made me think of Tyler. I blew into the house with a flurry of wind. My mother was waiting for me 30
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F I C T I O N inside. “Where have you been?” she asked, her lips tight. She was trying not to look angry. Danica clung to the bottom of Mom’s skirt. It was new, but the thread along the hem was already starting to unravel. “I went for a swim,” I said, dropping my keys on the table near the door. I kicked off my shoes and headed towards the stairs, hoping she wouldn’t press the matter any further. “You were supposed to take your sister to her group meeting today,” Mom said. She was trying not to raise her voice in front of Danica—not that it mattered. “You never told me that.” “I specifically told you this morning,” she said. She ran a hand through her hair and signaled for Danica to go into the kitchen. “I just don’t understand,” she said. “Why have you been acting like this lately? Forgetting things… you practically live in the library.” She was getting upset. She kept squinting her eyes to keep from choking up, and I had to turn away. “When I was your age I was different.” She looked as if she wanted to say more, but she stopped and placed a hand on the stairwell, waiting for me to say something. I shrugged. “I didn’t hear you this morning. That’s all.” I went to my room, closing the door softly behind me. I turned up the volume of my stereo, opened the window, and pressed my hands over my ears until all I could hear was a cacophony of crashing drums and wind. Then I collapsed on my bed and fell asleep in my wet clothes. I was on the school community service trip when we found out about Tyler. We were in Guatemala, helping to build houses in some of the poorer villages. I had been looking forward to the trip for months. We were working with a church group from upstate New York, and they told us about how they went to mass in a village at the top of a mountain. The road to the village was slender, allowing room for only one vehicle at a time. If another car was coming from the other direction, they had to back up to a curve and allow the other person to scrape past. The fog got thicker and thicker as they ascended the mountain, and the road only got narrower. They couldn’t turn back, and if a car started coming down the mountain without seeing them, they would be killed. So they all held hands and prayed, cut the headlights, and drove. That night our group went with them to a campfire after our chaperones told us about Tyler. I remember one girl sitting next to me, a girl I had never spoken to before, crying into my shoulder while I held her. I stared into the twitching flames of the fire, looking around at the group, at the light flickering off of their faces. Nobody said anything, until one girl from the other group started saying the “Our Father” in a low, shaky voice. Someone from our group joined her. Then one by one voices began to rise up with the smoke, echoing up into the sky, repeating the prayer over and over. I cupped my hands over my ears and hummed, trying to smother the sound. I didn’t want to hear anything. I laid there on the cold, hard ground, humming and shaking until, eventually, I fell asleep with everyone else—the fire crackling out sometime during the night. We stopped going to the lake. The History Channel filled my afternoons with fake documentaries about aliens and the existence of vampires. I watched the old movies that came on TV, trying to imagine myself somewhere in the midst of flawed protagonists and love interests harboring dangerous secrets. My muscles dissolved back TMC Winter 2011
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F I C T I O N into the girlish softness that I hated so much. I went to parties, got drunk, and got fat—just like my mother wanted. Rachel’s birthday rolled around in late June. I came to her house bearing gifts, and her face lit up when she opened the ukulele I bought for her from Barnes and Noble. She tuned it until she thought the strings harmonized well and picked out familiar tunes on the fret board. After strumming a few improvised chords, she went to her parents’ liquor cabinet and found a bottle of vodka behind some of the darker bottles. She drank it straight, but I mixed mine with some Coke, so I couldn’t taste it as much as feel it, scraping fire down my throat. It felt good. I needed it—the heat in my ears, the blood buzzing through my head—until it was all I could hear. We stumbled out into the wet breeze of night; Rachel clutching the bottle. Rain fell down on us, but we walked, giggling and bumping into to each other. Everything looked foreign to me as we whirled past strange images dancing in the night. And then we were at the lake. We ran into the water, tearing off our clothes as we went, the icy lake welcoming us back into its depths. We coughed and shivered and swam with our heads under the water until everything went quiet. Rain shook the surface of the water. I listened to it for a while: the clunk of the water, the trickle of my hands stroking the surface. Thunder rumbled overhead. “We should get back,” I said. No response. I looked around for Rachel, but I couldn’t see her. I tried calling to her, but her name hid in the back of my throat. And then I saw her. Her pale skin was glowing in the moonlight as she floated face-down in the water. Her body was slightly submerged, her hair spilling around her head like blood. I thrashed towards her, hot tears streaming down my cheeks, yelling her name, praying, really praying that she was okay. When I reached her she stood up and looked at me, trails of water slithering down her face and catching the moonlight as she laughed, laughed at me for caring. In a surge of anger I brought my hand back and slapped her hard across the face. She stumbled back and her hands flew up to her cheek. “What the hell!” she said, her eyes raking mine for an explanation. The rain fell harder. I glared at her. “Don’t ever do that again,” I said. I could see the red mark forming on her cheek. She let her hands fall and walked out of the water. I swam some laps to calm down: one after the other, taking my time, kicking slowly, legs straight. She waited for me to finish, and we walked back home in silence. I looked at the ground as I walked, and the grass shivered, glistening in the moonlight, almost as if it was moving. And then I realized that it was moving. Thousands of earthworms writhed on the ground, slicking dirt back as they plunged into the earth. They intertwined against each other, rising and falling into darkness. That night I dreamt I was in Fight Club. Rachel was on top of me, punching me over and over, smiling as my blood spurted onto her shirt. And then I was beating up myself, enjoying the pound of pain on my face. I kept on punching, wanting to hurt myself, the sound of my blows thudding to silence as everything numbed over and went quiet, as if I were underwater: peaceful and deaf.
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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12
K a a r i n
P h e l p s
Self-Portrait
p a i n t i n g
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P O E T R Y Lincoln-Sudbury Regional High School / Grade 12
S h e l l
F e d a
O’Connell Street
(After “Border Crossing: France / Switzerland” by Janée J. Baugher) The confidence of morning, The day’s cold heat does not yet stifle, but subtract the prefix and the suffix becomes unbearable. It’s early enough that the breeze is evenly balanced. New asphalt under my feet, but the ghosts of rubble remain. The echoes of screams, shouts, gunshots. A déjà-vu: time compressed to now, the past breaking in the breeze and shattering in the sunlight as I stand still. A crossing of times. Across time, the poet’s voice speaks unchanging words. Spoke? Speaks. Despite static syllables, our words are dynamic.
m u s i c
eee .
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A Thousand Miles Away Ipswich High School
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/ Grade 12
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The Hawkfield Band
Charles Finn,Will Galanis, Connor Hanna, Emmanuel Piras, Drew Wood
A R T Brimmer and May School / Grade 12
Times Square
m i x e d
M i n
m e d i a
J i n
L e e
r e l i e f
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A R T Taunton High School / Grade 12
R a c h e l
A l l e n
Hold on Tight
P a i n t T o o l
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S A I
A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12
S a r a h
Self-Portrait
S t e v e s
p a i n t i n g
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P O E T R Y Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 10
E m i l y
D e w e y
Shallow Apathy If I could go back in time, I would have paid less attention To the unforgiving tile floors, The orders and the chaos, And more to what you were saying. I wouldn’t have wasted moments Staring, my eyes affixed At the glowing red cliffs On the incessant and deafening monitors. I would stop scrutinizing the strangers Who didn’t matter, Wouldn’t examine their flaws As they rushed Through the turmoil. Wouldn’t have fidgeted so much, Stopped loathing this time wasted, Wondering why I had to be here anyways, Bored to tears. I would have told them to hurry, Or saved you myself. You would have been fine, If I had just paid attention. I wouldn’t have drowned you out, Your voice silent, Swallowed by white coats. My ears ringing, Your last words Unheard.
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M U S I C Somerville High School / Grade 11
Late for class
S a m a n t h a
C a r v a l h o
p h o t o g r a p h y
m u s i c
eee .
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Or So I Thought
K y l e
B i l l i n g s
Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12
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N O N F I C T I O N Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 12
S h a n n o n
A Cadence Militia
M c C a r t h y
Bullets fly through the air, each one cutting the atmosphere in tones and notes. The ammunition from the exploding cannons sounds a screeching falsetto. The soldiers, like black and white keys, each have a tone: a life of their own beyond the battlefield stage. Sands whip innocently across the performance; the sun shines blissfully, and the wind provides the harmony. The air accepts the sounds and even carries them so that everyone can listen—nothing has changed here. War is just a performance that doesn’t require a ticket. The audience is usually rather vicious, and the conductor, like a libretto with missing pages, improvises as needed. The maestro, a man with many gleaming badges and sharp features, runs the show. Each one of the black and white keys is perfectly in tune, only playing their song when he presses them. They wait diligently for his command. This is not the first song. Fractured pieces of gun metal cover the ground, while specks of blood add color to the otherwise unpainted earth below their boots. A piano breaks: the keys fall, some chip, and others disappear completely. The maestro continues to conduct, working around missing notes. Shattered glass, covered with layers of gunpowder, blood, and tears from broken homes, reflects into the skies like stained glass in a theater. Lined up perfectly, the opposing troops fight. Each victory stolen, a crescendo; and every loss, ending mezzo-piano. Inhale. Close your eyes and everything is quiet; this is the moment before the moment. Without notice trumpets are blaring, drums boom, and flutes and violins screech. Fighting for air time, the sounds overlap and fuse together. The practiced musicians engage in their craft. Open your eyes and machine guns are screaming, bombs are exploding, people are dying. War has an unchained melody, and the rhythm is deadly. Exhale.
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A R T Ipswich High School / Grade 10
R o b b y
F a y
Definition
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F I C T I O N Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 11
L o r i s s a
C o u r n o y e r
Message in a Bottle It was Wednesday. Wednesday, just about 5 o’clock, meant it was time for a walk. Charley and I have been friends since preschool, and taking walks was now an activity that we practiced religiously. The sun still held its bearings in the sky, and we walked along the side walk of our serene, suburban neighborhood. Each house was almost identical: the colors cascading from white, to yellow, to blue, then back to white, accompanied by thick green grass with accents of leafy shrubs. Everyone’s mailboxes were black, matching their shutters, with green recycling bins sitting right next to them. It was straight out of a storybook. Heat radiated from the black tar, and I wore my Syracuse sweatshirt proudly, not minding the sweat that became present on my forehead. Always having to be the practical one, Charley wore a plain white T-shirt and wrinkled cargo shorts, a bottle of Snapple in his hand. His steps were heavy on the pavement, making them smack down hard, splashing water up from a puddle. He didn’t talk, but chased a rock along the curb with his feet, kicking it far ahead of us until we caught up to it again. Then he’d give it another strike with the toe of his sneaker, hurling it into the distance. “Are you alright Charley? I feel like you’re stressed or something.” “Yeah. I’m fine,” he replied quickly, not picking his head up from the ground. “You sure? Because if you wanna talk you know…” His head snapped up in frustration, “I said I was fine! If there was something wrong, I would tell you.” I studied the lines in his forehead, knowing this was a tell-tale sign for me to drop the subject. He let out a breath of annoyance, and I let the silence settle between us once again. I could still sense his mind was being fogged with worries. Once I was done with the battle in my head, deciding whether or not to change the subject, he finally spoke. “I didn’t get into Yale.” Charley: Student Council President, member of almost every sports team, grade point average a 3.9, with more than 20 hours of community service under his belt. “What?!” I said with a little more surprise in my voice than I had intended. “Yeah. Apparently to them I’m just some jock that somehow struck it good with the teachers.” His breath now matched his footsteps, heavy and full of anger. “Wow. Charley I…God I’m sorry?” I hadn’t meant that to be a question. “Hah don’t worry about it,” he said sarcastically. Taking a sip of his Snapple, he turned the cap over in his hand, “Vultures can fly six hours without flapping their wings. Damn. Kinda like me huh? Didn’t even have to try half the time, just glided right on through. But now, now I actually have to,” he put up two air quotes with his fingers, “flap my wings to try to get somewhere. Where the hell did this come from?” “You know Charley, you’re not the only one who didn’t get into the school 42
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F I C T I O N you wanted. Some of us really did have to try to get where we are and still failed. Have you ever thought of that?” “Of course I thought of that. I’m not narcissistic. You should know me better than that. You just don’t get it though. I’ve been put on top of this high pedestal, and I’m not blaming anyone but myself—don’t get me wrong. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished.” Whenever Charley started to let his guard down his voice would soften. The angst and sharpness was removed from his tone. “I thought I had it all set in stone; I would be a half hour away from New York City, major in history, try out for the lacrosse team. The script was written.” He picked his head, and I watched his gaze go beyond me to Parker’s Playground. His eyes tightened, creating dimples at the corners of his lids, matching the ones in his cheeks. A screaming blond haired toddler scooted down the slide, throwing her hands into the air wildly and landing into the arms of her praising father. “Remember that? We could go down a slide. A frickin’ slide and have our parents be proud. Now it takes honor roll and a couple scholarships to barely get a pat on the back.” I didn’t know what to say to him. How do you reassure someone that their parents are proud of them, when you know they would be crushed to find out his secret? The only thing I could say right now was the truth. “Well, I’m proud of you.” His eyebrows rose as I said this then scrunched together as he dissected the words. Charley may have been good at academics, but he was terrible at keeping a poker face, at keeping the relief that washed over him undetected. He struggled to hide it; a grin crept up one side of his face then disappeared when he bite his lip to try to hide it once again. Charley kicked the rock that had never left his foot and sent it skidding along the sidewalk as we made our way down to the lake. It was more like a pond, surrounded by more of that ebullient green grass, but it was the closest thing to a lake we had. The water mirrored the sun’s cascading colors in the sky, making a perfect reflection. Shadows played hide and seek with themselves: only being visible when you stood a certain way. The pending night air was crisp and refreshing to my lungs. It slid down my throat. Frogs that were hot and swollen from the day’s heat chirped in delight, welcoming the coolness of the evening. While Charley skipped rocks over the glassy lake I walked along the edge of it. There was a bottle bobbing in the ripples along the shore of the pond; I picked it up and held it in my hand. It was Charley’s from last week. He had thrown it into the middle of the pond in merriment of the completion of finals. I twisted off the cap and made my way back over to where he was wading in the water. I handed him the lid, and he read it out loud, “#167: 70% of students who hang a poster of the college they want to attend in their room get accepted by that college.” He turned to me and smiled, this time not even bothering to try to conceal it. “Guess I shoulda bought more posters.”
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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 9
Value Self Por trait
H a y l e y
B a r r y
p a i n t i n g m u s i c
eee .
CLICK TO LISTEN
Bayber r y Hill Ipswich High School / Grade 12
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T h e
H a w k f i e l d
B a n d
Charles Finn,Will Galanis, Connor Hanna, Emmanuel Piras, Drew Wood
A R T Everett High School / Grade 10
The Beauty of Ballet
L i n d s a y
M a h e r
A smooth stream of pink satin, Slips onto her feet in a whisper. Elastic runs across her ankle bones. Inside, A box of stone, Solid, And ready to rise on. Ribbons sewn in place of ankles, Twisting in unison up her leg. Slowly, She rises on her box, Gliding across the floor: A swan. Controlled vertebras, Reluctant. Stiff. Exposing everything but her toes, Awash with beauty.
a d o b e
Mount Pollen
p h o t o s h o p
A l e x a n d e r
C S 5
N a l l y
Chicopee Comprehensive High School / Grade 11
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A R T Brimmer and May School / Grade 12
M i n
J i n
L e e
Red Coat
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p a s t e l
A R T Brimmer and May School / Grade 12
Indian Cor n
M i n
J i n
L e e
d r a w i n g
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A R T Bridgewater-Raynham Regional High School / Grade 11
C h e l s e a
Sunset at Mayflower
F l a h e r t y
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P O E T R Y Advanced Math and Science Academy / Grade 12
N a t h a n i e l
N y s t e d t
Beaches
You caught me, with my skinny body sitting on the concrete shelf with a road map on my lap ready to go, ready to smile. You caught me in the sand with its granular feeling, bleached, made portable, just as we were ready to go. Can we get on the move now? The car’s warmer with its blue upholstery and stereo. I’m not wearing a shirt, just the short swim trunks you told me to get, ‘cause they were edgy and attractive, plus my tan sandals– do you really want me to drive? You still have that silver chain around your neck. –Yea, I guess I do. I almost forgot I had it on I almost forgot to take it off, though I haven’t touched the water yet. Do the others know we are here? I don’t want them to think we’re late. –It doesn’t matter, I told them. Maybe we could stay here for a bit and continue facing the shore. I find it comfortable here on the concrete shelf by the beach’s soft, soft sand listening to the car’s stereo ready to go, ready to smile.
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P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Grade 10
Yvonne
A v e r i l l
H e a l e y
The photo he got out to show me is of her, draped over the counter of an olive 1970s kitchen, radiant at thirty-five with maple skin and cropped pixie hair, naked practically, exposing the thin waist of a failed ballerina, still graceful, Pall Mall in hand, smirking at the fool behind the camera. Her image shakes now in the hands of an old man, still taken by a Polaroid.
p h o t o g r a p h y
New York City Brimmer and May School / Grade 11
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E m i l y
G o b b i
A R T Brimmer and May School / Grade 12
M i n
J i n
L e e
Portrait
m i x e d
m e d i a
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N O N F I C T I O N Longmeadow High School / Grade 12
Epiphany
G a b r i e l l e
M a d d e n
Our group bumps and meanders along the rocky dirt road of Ghana. Sixteen of us crammed into the bright orange nineteen seventy-five Mercedes Benz bus, sweat dripping down our faces as we acclimate to the blistering new climate. Each corner gradually turned with the idea burning in our minds that we are inching closer to our final destination. As we ascend the top of the last hill the blue ocean waves are thunderous, as if our arrival has caused the water to rejoice. The group bursts out with cries of joy when we meet the ocean for the first time, as though they had been holding their breath until the blue water met our orange bus. Yet we are still anxious to congregate with the people of the village. Finally, we see children on the sides of the road gaily waving and smiling at us, as if we are family. The bus stops, and we all pile out eager to begin our new lives in the village. As we walk up to the village’s community house, hundreds of children and adults radiate warmth and love in our direction. Although this is clearly a day both our group and the village have been waiting for, there is slight hesitation and a feeling of apprehension in the air as we all whisper to each other, “What should we do?” and “Where do we go?” We feel hundreds of curious eyes inspecting our thick, white sneakers, name brand clothing, and bright white skin. Everyone is quiet as we silently acknowledge the differences between us. The children are barely clothed and have feet callused enough to walk on broken glass. One little girl wearing grubby white underwear is holding onto a rusty, dented tin car. I look at her with sadness in my heart; I have a certain longing to give her my clean clothes, childhood toys, and everything I own, if it would help. I sit on the dry, burnt, orange dirt ground. I see these people who seem to have nothing at all except the mud huts they call home and the clothes on their backs; My heart aches. I look at the little girl and summon her with my hand. She sits right across from me, the two of us alone in the middle of the room. I motion with my hand for her to pass me the car, and she reluctantly does so. The car slowly bumps over the dirt as we had just minutes before. I send it back to the girl, and she looks up at me, the expression on her face nearly brings me to tears for it is overcome with an unknown contentment. My heart is filled to the brim with unexplainable joy. I suddenly feel sorry for myself because I know that in my life happiness is not gained through simplicity. This child has shown me that having nothing makes you love everything.
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A R T Tantasqua Regional High School / Grade 10
L i n d s e y
M c G a n n
Hide and Seek
p h o t o g r a p h y
TMC Winter 2011
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P O E T R Y Chicopee High School / Grade 12
A m y
L e c l e r c
M e e t M e I n Pa r i s ? Would you like to meet me in Paris? On a day when the weather is fine? To kiss on the Champs Élysées? To smile and sip sweet wine? I would like to meet you in Paris To wake above a bread shop scent To smile over coffee in the morning Feeling what last night meant Would you like to meet me in Paris? To stroll along the Seine? To marvel at the Louvre? To never be where we have been? I would like to meet you in Paris To sail to Notre Dame avec vous To be in awe of Versaille’s mirror hall As I am in awe of you Would you like to meet me in Paris? To feel the sun in your soul? To hold my hand and kiss my lips? To at last feel whole?
m u s i c
eee .
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Per petual Night Lexington High School / Grade 11
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M i n a
L i
A R T Brimmer and May School / Grade 12
Boardwalk
J u l i a
P i n c u s
p h o t o g r a p h y TMC Winter 2011
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A R T The Hartsbrook School / Grade 12
K a i t l i n
W ild Devotion
M u r p h y
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Va l u e S e l f P o r t r a i t ( p a i n t i n g ) C a s s a n d r a
F i n n e g a n
Oakmont Regional High School / Grade 9