The The Apricot Apricot Journal Journal
A compilation of literary works written by
A compilation of literary works written by South High Community School students. South High Community School students.
Editors’ Note Editors’ Note
Hello everyone!
This marks the Apricot Journal’s fourth issue of the year—and our last regular issue of the school year. In this issue are pieces with a number of different themes—community, care, hope, mystery, reflection. They are representative of all the different types of writing we have published this year, and the broad interests and feelings of our writers. We are a diverse community at South, with a myriad of different experiences and perspectives. We saw this with the International Show; we see it everyday talking to peers and walking down the hallways. So, it makes sense that we can also see this in the writing of our peers and friends. Everyone brings something different to the table, and that means everyone is valuable. We hope that this issue of the Journal, with its poems, stories, and vignettes, and a number of different themes, will demonstrate that.
Additionally, this issue features our third-ever Staff Portfolio, a section featuring writing by our own Journal staff. This allows our amazing staff with an area to express themselves, and share with all of you what is important to them.
Though this issue is our last regular one of the year, we will be publishing a Best of the Year issue in May, selecting some of our favorite pieces from the year to create one more issue. We can’t wait to tell you more about it, and to contact the writers who we’d like to feature!
All together, this issue of the Apricot Journal will make you think and reflect it will make you happy, nostalgic, and sad. We hope you enjoy it!
All the best,
The Editors-in-Chief
Editors' Note
Table of Contents
Tree
Keeva Cavanaugh, Grade 9
The Gardenia
Emma Robeau, Grade 12
Jason Murillo, Grade 11
A Boring, Cold Poem Winter Ambivalence
Henry Nguyen, Grade 11
Alexa Benson, Grade 10
Murder of Her Mind
Kristen Doan, Grade 9 No Poet
The Poster Girl
Andy Vo, Grade 9
What Made the Swan Sad, Made it Perfect
Imran Mbaziira, Grade 12
Staff Porfolio
First Snowfall
Anya Geist, Grade 11
My Obligation to the Heart City (Worcester, MA)
Denisa Iljas, Grade 11
To Love in Excess
Christine Lam, Grade 12
Driving in the Berkshires
Benedict Morrow, Grade 11
Black Hole
Natalie Boucher, Grade 11
Run
Jenny Huynh, Grade 10
The Case of the Scarlet Elevator
Daniel Arnold, Grade 12
Tree
Keeva Cavanaugh, Grade 9
wouldn’t it be cool if i was just a tree moving with the wind, and swaying in the breeze?
i think it would be nice living so carefree; especially if my planet had no humanity. nobody to take me from the ground i stood; nobody to make me into wasteful wood. no chops, no burns, no pulp, no paper. a peaceful life that i could savor.
i’d stand tall and proud till the very end, where i’d become a seed and live this life again.
The Gardenia
Emma Robeau, Grade 12
She never had a permanent home. She was always moving around from city to city, attending every apartment viewing or open house she could find. She never had much luck. Everything was out of budget, too expensive for her to afford. She was an author, or trying to be, at least. She wrote horror novels for a while, then attempted fantasy. Each book she published failed to bring in enough money. But she never gave up.
She got a call one morning, as she was sitting in her car. An apartment, finally one she could afford. She had gotten it! Her eyes teared up and her heart filled with joy. For the first time in a long time, she was to have a place to call “home.”
She moved her things into the apartment within an hour and a half. There was not much to bring in; her entire life was packed into five medium sized cardboard boxes. That night, she sat on the lime-colored couch in silence, a part of her terrified. She didn’t feel the excitement she had felt that morning when she got the call. Instead, she felt afraid. She had no family to call, no friends to talk to. She was alone.
The next morning, she went out for a walk in the local park. It was springtime, flowers blooming practically everywhere it seemed. She picked as many as she could find, thinking they would make a nice bouquet for her apartment, a nice splash of color against the dull, white walls. She passed a metal bench, not noticing the elderly woman sitting there.
“That’s a beautiful bouquet.” She turned around, surprised. She looked down at the flowers, slightly wilting in her hand.
“Thank you. I love that flower you have. A gardenia, isn’t it?” The woman looked up at her, her eyes filled with amazement.
“Sure is. I’m surprised you knew what it was, not many people know flowers that well.”
“My mom loved them. She kept a flower garden in our backyard when I was a kid.”
“That’s wonderful. Why don’t you take a seat? You look like you could use a break.”
So, she did. They talked for hours. She told the woman about her writing career, her big move, and her goals for the future. The woman simply listened, her kind face being a comforting presence for the girl.
“It’s getting kind of late, I should go. It was nice talking to you," she said.
“Of course. If you ever need someone to talk to again, you know where to find me.” The woman winked playfully.
“Do you come here everyday?”
“Yes. My husband and I used to take walks here every morning. We would always sit on this bench, and I would watch as he picked gardenias from that bush. Now it’s just me, and I make sure to pick a flower for him, so I can feel like he’s here, with me.” The girl’s eyes began to tear up.
“I’ll be back tomorrow. I can keep you company.” The woman’s face lit up with joy. And, sure enough, the girl went back, everyday, to sit and talk with the woman. It became the one thing she looked forward to. They talked about life, recent events, and television shows. They talked about the woman’s dream to open a flower shop, about her husband’s endeavors as an architect. They became close friends, and for the first time in a long time, the girl didn’t feel alone anymore.
A couple days later, on a bright sunny morning, the girl grabbed a gardenia she had bought and planted in a little pot for the woman and walked down to the bench, except this time, she wasn’t there. She was always there before her. The girl looked around and sat down on the bench and waited. She came back everyday, hoping the woman would be there on the bench. But she never was. That afternoon, when the girl made it back to her apartment, she picked up the newspaper on her way inside. She flipped through it, as she always did, but this time, something caught her eye. The obituary section. There it was, the woman’s face, her kind eyes holding the same comforting gaze as they always did. The girl began to cry, those cries eventually turning into sobs. She had lost the one person who truly cared about her, the way no one ever had, and she didn’t even get to say goodbye. She went to bed that night clutching the newspaper under her arm, the gardenia on the side of her bed. She walked down to the park early the next morning and planted the gardenia next to the bench. She sat down, letting the warm, summer air touch her face. She opened her eyes and glanced up at the sky. Above her, the clouds came together to form a flower. A gardenia. She smiled and looked out upon the lake in front of her. She was finally home.
Winter Ambivalence
Jason Murillo, Grade 11
I love the winter
I love the frigid air and the feeling it brings
I love frolicking in the snow and going down hills in tobaggans
I love January
It’s the beginning of something new
It’s also the month of my birthday
But I also hate it
I hate how the sun goes to rest at four
I hate going to succumbing to the comfort of my bed
I hate the danger of driving when it just snowed
And the possibility of slipping on black ice
Despite all of this, they still won’t cancel school
I certainly do not feel neutral about winter
Is ambivalence an emotion?
Because that is what I’m feeling
Not great, not bad, but not neutral either
Rather both great and bad
Talk about conflicting!
A Boring, Cold Poem
Henry
Nguyen, Grade 11
I sat still in my dimly lit kitchen next to the old heater. This frigid night being so cold, I saw myself blowing out hot breaths that escape into the solid air. It's getting dark now, so I’ll have to find things to do in this cold home of mine.
Being alone, I found my joy in cooking. I did what I know best, filling my body with joy, of health, of safety, of warmth.
As I ate while sitting in the dimly lit kitchen, I thought about what else I could do…and do I did.
In my room, I called up a friend to ask about their day at school. We talked happily, but wondered if we could be closer. After, I felt the need to work some kinks out, so I set up the TV karaoke machine and danced it out.
After all this time has passed, I feel a bit lighter. I took a look around my home to see my bright lights, I saw the warmth radiating from the walls, and I felt warmer, on this cold winter night.
No Poet
Alexa Benson, Grade 10
I am no poet.
Just a myriad of violent vowels and consonants, Barely as literate as a parrot, always talking, no one listening, Hardly filling the deafening silence with my thoughts, Never as bright as what I occasionally write, Sometimes even bullied by the pen and paper under my very eyes, Simply an olive branch to the great writers of the past, For I am no poet.
Just a cluster of literary devices, Molded by my influence, On my trusty red notebook, For I am no poet.
Murder of Her Mind
Kristen Doan, Grade 9
On one early morning, when the sky was still stained a scarlet red and puffs of smoke rose from quaint houses, a figure hurried through the rain-filled streets of London. The lamp posts were still lit and the smell of coffee brewing drifted through the shopkeepers’ windows, lifting civilians from their slumber.
The figure briskly walked from block to block, adorned in a long black trench coat and clutching a brown briefcase. She had short black hair and freckles speckled around her cheeks. Her shoes clacked repetitively on the stained street tiles.
“Late, late,” she muttered to herself. She passed a large, magnificent estate that gleamed in the reds of the sunrise. She continued down the winding path until she saw a black building that towered above all the others, that spiraled upward. Large windows and intricate designs made up a Victorian style university. She ducked inside.
The figure made a left turn into the first room, a classroom, where many rows of seats were set up. She scurried to a seat at the back.
“Did the professor take attendance yet, Eden?” she whispered to her friend sitting next to her.
“No, you’re good,” she said, deathly pale,” but look, Alice. Look at the screen.”
Alice slowly swiveled to face the TV at the front of the classroom. Every student was facing forward, eyes glued to the big projector screen. It was on the news channel.
Another murder. Today. The seventh one this week. In Lexington Mansion. Alice clasped her hand over her mouth in horror. The mansion right next to the university.
As students piled through the doors of the university, signaling the day’s end, Alice pulled Eden by the sleeve to the dining hall.
“We have to do something about this,” Alice whispered urgently, looking around to make sure no one was listening. “Seven people dead? Who knows how many other people will die because of this murderer too.”
“Do you seriously think we can just walk into the crime scene?” Eden rolled her eyes. She turned to leave, but Alice yanked her arm. “Watch.”
Alice exited through the doors and Eden trailed behind, cautious. Dozens of police cars were parked down the street. Alice followed a shabby, dirt path to the back of the building, where vines snaked into the stone brick and mushrooms grew wildly. Towering foliage casted dingy shadows and soon made way to a large building, with impressive windows and ornate detailing. The mansion. Alice motioned to one of the many windows and glanced around for a sizeable rock. She reached for one, but Eden tugged at her sleeve.
“This is illegal, Alice,” Eden said under her breath, furrowing her brows. “What if the headmaster finds out? How are you going to risk your scholarship for this? How are you going to risk everything for this?”
“I’m not going to risk another person’s death, Eden. I’m not putting my education above a person’s life,” Alice replied coolly. “If you value your education more, I’m not stopping you from leaving.”
She turned to the ground again, and found a decent rock. She peered through the window, saw the coast was clear, and threw the rock. Alice ducked back and waited to hear if anyone was coming. No one did.
The police must be out in the front, Alice thought. She swept off the remaining shards of glass clinging to the window and clambered inside. Eden heaved a heavy sigh and begrudgingly went in after her.
Inside, the hallway was damp, and had dark red wallpaper that peeled at the edges. Spiderwebs hung from the ceiling and untouched grime embellished the walls. As the two walked warily, their footsteps echoed loudly. It was eerily quiet. No police.
At the end of the hallway, the ceiling opened up to house a stunning black chandelier that glistened in the dim light, and two grand staircases that curled towards the main door. Large, heavy curtains covered the windows here.
“Wow,” Alice breathed, “it’s magnificent.”
“Yes, it sure is.” They gazed at the chandelier only for a moment longer.
“Let’s go.” Alice motioned for Eden to follow. They crept around the staircase into what looked to be the living room. Only a grand piano sat in the center, almost lonely-looking. They continued to the next room, a very long room that almost resembled a hallway. The room was very tall as well, as it held many tall paintings. The paintings were all portraits of people. The subjects all appeared to be quite young, around Alice and Eden’s age. As Alice eyed the paintings, she got the sense that their eyes were following her. Were they . . . moving?
“Yes.”
That wasn’t Eden.
She slowly turned around. The painting behind her was of a girl with large eyes and a large smile that showed her pointed teeth.
“Sorry, did I scare you?” She tilted her head and her smile widened. “We haven’t had visitors in so long.”
“You . . . you can talk?” Alice stepped back behind Eden, who squinted coldly at the unknown girl.
“Is that so odd?” She threw her head back and laughed. “What’s your name?” She reached her long, dark fingernails towards them, as if to shake hands.
“Linda,” Alice said, eyeing Eden.
“ . . . Oh, really,” the girl said, her eyes glistening. She smiled an even greater grin. Alice saw her teeth were yellowing. “ . . . A lovely name.”
Alice turned away, uncomfortable and eager to walk farther down the hallway, and heard no objection from the girl in the painting. Somehow, she felt eerily as if her abrupt end to their conversation had done something. The air felt different now.
They only walked a few feet before Alice heard another voice.
“You know, I was there when he killed them. All seven of them.”
Alice whipped her head around, but saw no one.
“Look up.”
She did. A painting of an old man with gaunt features and sunken eyes grinned down at her. His eyes were blood-shot.
“You could be next.”
Eden shifted uncomfortably and lowered her head to the floor. Alice tugged her sleeve and briskly moved along. The carpet was a dark red color here.
“He cornered one and just stood in front of her until she died of fear. He didn’t lay a hand on her,” a voice cackled. A different voice.
“He knows you’re here,” another, sing-song voice called after them. “Hah! You’re already dead meat. You should run while you still can.”
“Please, what should we do? Tell us how to survive him!” Eden called out helplessly, but the paintings ignored her cry for help.
Alice started running, eyes glued to the floor, with Eden right on her heels. He’s here. He’s coming. We’re not getting out of here alive. She started breathing faster and looked up for a split second. Hundreds of eyes stared at her from the paintings. They were wide-open, almost as if they could see into her. They look so real. As if they could walk right out. She started hyperventilating and dug her fingernails into Eden’s arm. They could see the end of the hallway. A few more feet, and Eden took a sharp right turn into an open room, quickly locking it right after.
They collapsed onto the floor, breathing heavily. Safe, Alice thought, trying to calm herself, but it wasn’t working. They sat there for what seemed to be a long time, desperately trying to calm themselves. Alice decided to finally look around the room they were in. Only a few black curtains hung on the wall, but besides that . . . . Paintings covered every inch of the room. Every. Inch. And every single one’s wide-open eyes were looking at her, grinning madly with their gnarled hands outstretched towards her.
Alice screamed and scrambled to a corner. She let out another shriek as the sudden spurt of energy had sprained her ankle. Eden stood defiantly in front of her, but Alice could still see the fear on her face, and that her fingers were shaking.
They tried to breathe deep breaths, but it was as if a heavy fog had entered their lungs, making it impossible to breathe. The fingers in the paintings looked like they were reaching out of the frame itself, clawing towards them. Alice couldn’t see clearly in all the chaos, but she could’ve sworn the figures were actually coming out of the paintings, and were grabbing at her feet. She yelped and kicked her foot, hoping to knock her attacker backwards, but she felt nothing. Her measly attempt at attacking them caused an uproar of laughter from the paintings. The sensation had disappeared right after. She couldn’t tell if someone had actually grabbed her, or if it was all in her head. Their laughs became so loud Eden fell to the ground, hard, desperately trying to cover her ears. Laughter became screams, and Alice tried to scream back, but her screams became sobs. Amidst all the chaos, the two held onto each other and clutched the black curtains by the windows about themselves. When will this end? both thought despairingly. But then something miraculous happened.
It stopped. The paintings grew still in a moment’s time. No screams, no laughter, no hands grabbing their feet.
The portraits showed perfectly normal, smiling people. As the frames sat unmoving, so did the bundle of curtains on the floor. The killer had come and struck again.
Deathly still and deathly silent.
But who?
The Poster Girl
Andy Vo, Grade 9
It's summer vacation and I have nothing to do at home. I pull out some chips and put on a random show. While watching, boredom still somehow crept back into my mind. How the hell can I pass the time? Games could help. I put on some headphones and started listening to music. And find some games online. I felt like I played for hours and yet nothing could occupy me. It’s only 9:53, and the weather is so all over the place. I swear to God it's freezing then suddenly blazing. I don't know. The show was a basic game show. I don’t really understand how watching a contestant screaming in a box is entertaining. I turn off the show and put my music a little bit louder and let the tuneful sounds fill my mind. What else could I do? Nothing like waiting for a package the next day. So I opened my laptop and started browsing random shopping websites.
“My name is Emma Williams”, I read as I scrolled through Amazon. The ad caught my eye. It was a digital poster for a missing child. She was only 15 years old and was missing. I clicked on the ad and it already felt weird. My parents were out of state and I'm an only child. It was 11:46 p.m. When I clicked on the ad, it showed my zip code, which asked for my name. I hesitated, why would a missing child poster ask for my name? I exit the site and close my laptop. I got a little worried because it knew my zip code. I decided to go on my phone instead. It was my first year moving into a new state so I had no friends, just my parents. I thought about the poster more. It was peculiar that it popped up on the Amazon website. Amazon doesn’t really have ads like those. I go on my phone and scroll through social media but I can't get distracted. Curiosity was clawing at me, calling me to the laptop. I open the laptop again and click on the search bar. "Emma Williams” Google already showed the girl who went missing in 2018. She wasn’t popular, but she went missing in the same town I just moved to. Westport. Why are the ads still popping up? It's been 4 years. Do the parents actually think she's still out there? I go back to my history and click on the website again. There I saw Emma Williams's face. I put a random name in the box. “Cindy Jefferson”, it let me in. The website showed all these missing kids with pictures and descriptions of them. I see one named “Mia Nguyen”. The description states “small Asian girl, brown eyes, birthmark on the top left side of her back…” It kept going more and more. I felt sick to my stomach reading it. The parents must really care about their children like this. I kept scrolling through the website and it just kept going on and on. I felt a deep sadness knowing that all these kids were somewhere out there alone and scared. Sometimes I felt like I knew some of them.
I suddenly realized that the time was 1:32 a.m. How long was I scrolling through this website? I close my laptop and lay in my bed. Jeez, how am I supposed to sleep after seeing all those kids? I feel so shaken. I open my bedroom door and head to the kitchen to get some water. Suddenly, the hairs on my neck started to stand up. And that familiar shiver comes when I feel like I’m being watched. I quickly get my water and hurry back to my room. I didn’t notice it was storming outside. I guess I'll just put on the show I was watching earlier. I need to stop being so paranoid it's summer. People are supposed to have fun during the summer, not rotting in their houses all year. I knew it wasn’t storming earlier. I open my phone and see that it started a few minutes ago. Huh, the rain is extremely heavy and the winds seem pretty violent. I open back up my laptop and look through the website again. “Tasha Stone,” I read. What the fuck. I moved my hand to my mouth. That was my name. I get up and run out my bedroom door. I hurry to lock all the doors and windows on the first floor. I ran down the stairs to the basement and hurried to close the basement door to realize that it was left open. I still close it and lock it. I feel a sharp gaze on me. I hurry up the stairs and lock the door leading to the basement.
I’m out of breath and go back up the stairs to my room. The storm hasn’t calmed down at all and I can barely breathe. I lock my bedroom door and hurry to the computer again. I click on the profile with my name. “Blonde, blue eyes, straight hair, birthmark on hand” There was no picture on my profile yet. The description matched me perfectly. I went and grabbed my phone but I realized it wasn't there. I left my phone on the bed but it wasn’t there. Where could it be? How does this goddamn website know who I am? I start to panic. I need to call someone. I managed to text my parents on the laptop. “Mom, there is someone in the house and I need you to call the cops'' No response. I start to cry. I tried texting my dad the same thing but no response again. I grab my laptop and try to get help but nothing would work. I go back to my profile staring at it in shock. I see a photo of myself locking the basement door.
I heard the noise of something dragging on the first floor, luckily I was on the second floor. I know it's not too late to hide so I quietly open the door and lock it and hide in my parent's bedroom. I close my parent’s door and slide under their bed. I try my best and keep calm while hearing the dragging come up the stairs and into my bedroom. I hear my bedroom door getting kicked down and an angry yell comes from the room. “Tasha, where are you?!” The loud dragging started getting louder and louder. I hold my breath as the door opens. I shut my eyes and cover my mouth cowering in fear. The footsteps and the dragging surrounded the bed one time and quickly left. I noticed that the footsteps weren't muddy or wet meaning he must’ve been in my house before the storm occurred. I don’t know what to do and I can barely breathe. I slipped out of the bed and crept out into the hall and peered down the stairs. No one was there and the lights were off. Where was the man? I hear a footstep behind me and before I can look back I already started running.
Even if it was completely dark I felt like I knew where everything was. I don’t know what the man looked like but the only thing I can think about right now is getting the fuck out of here. I open the front door and run out screaming for help. I don’t think the man was behind me but a truck pulled up beside me and rolled the window down. “Hello Sir, I need help. There was a guy in my house and I was just running out of my house. I need you to call the cops and drive us somewhere safe please!” The man looked at me scared and concerned but he opened the passenger door and told me to get in. I get in, no questions asked, scared for my life. He immediately started driving.
“What's your name, kid?” he asked.
“Tasha Stone,” I responded nervously. “What’s your name, sir?” I asked. I didn’t notice but I was violently shaking and tearing up while I was in his car. I was breathing heavily and my entire body was tense.
"My name is Jameson Thatcher.”
“Sir, where are we going?” I asked tensely. I look out the window to see roads I’m not familiar with. Where is this man bringing me? He didn’t even call the police. Should I be worried?
“Somewhere safe.” He looks at me and smiles. He continues driving, moving his eyes away from me. I feel uneasy, I look at him and notice that he's wearing overalls and a red flannel underneath. He seemed to be in his mid-50s. I don’t question him but I look around his car. I pulled down the sun visor for the mirror and photos of the kids on the website fell out. He slams the brakes and looks at me. I open the car door and start running. I don’t know where I am but I keep running and running. Nothing was in sight. All it seemed around me were fields and the emptiness of the dark. I feel blood running in my veins, my heart is pounding. Again I start to tear up and cry. I can’t hear anything or see anything. I hear an endless noise of pounding and ringing in my ear. I feel like I'm gonna vomit. I saw the headlights of the truck behind me and Jameson got out of his car. Before I can get away he pulls something out and I feel my muscles tense and stiffen. My body collapses on the ground feeling the gravel and mud on my face. I scream in pain feeling the prongs jolt me with electricity. After I was tased I tried to get up but I was quickly dragged away. I was incredibly exhausted and limp. I was tossed in the back of his truck but before he started driving I felt a syringe plunge into my leg. And feel my consciousness slip in and out. The other man in the house got into his truck with his metal baseball bat. I could barely hear what they were saying. I finally feel my consciousness rest.
Even if it was completely dark I felt like I knew where everything was. I don’t know what the m I suddenly awake feeling the heavy ropes and chains wrapped around me. It was a wet and damp basement. My cheek was on the cold floor. And this horrid scent filled my nose. The basement was dark and I could barely see. I heard the rattling of chains hitting something like metal bars. Suddenly a dim yellow light came from a small light bulb in the middle of the room. I looked around immediately to see a few figures in cages around the room. There were empty cages and cages with kids in them. I felt sick to my stomach. I start screaming for help or some sort of attention. And suddenly the kids in the cages all stared at me. They’re eyes telling me to shut up. But it was too late. One of the men came down to the basement.
“Jameson, you don’t have to do this. Please let us go!” I shrieked.
“Shut up, kid - yell again and I’ll fucking kill you! Look, I’ll give you some room, but that doesn’t mean I’m letting you go. Keep it down or all of you will fucking die,” he yelled.
He takes off the ropes and chains binding me to the ground. And immediately leaves. I get up and feel sick. While getting up, my hand touched something on the ground. It was warm, wet, chunky, grim, and thick. The color was a dark reddishbrown. I start to gag and retch but hold myself back. I get up and start to make my way up to the door. I tried opening it but it was locked. The basement appeared to have no windows or vents. I recognized some of the kids. I realized each cage had a name on it. I go to one of the empty cages and I see one of the kids' names. “Mia Nguyen,” I read. The cages were about 5 feet tall and 5 feet wide. I go to one of the kids. “How do we get out of here?” I ask.
“We can’t. Everyday we hear some of the men leave to ‘harvest’ some kids,” a boy replied. He was sitting down hugging his legs. He seemed about 15 years old. “Some of us after getting captured get dragged out of the basement. We don’t know what happened to the people that got dragged out. But I’m sure it isn’t good. One time a small girl got dragged out by her hair and all we could hear after were awful screams,” he whispered.
The boy seemed emotionless, like a robot. I look at him and say nothing. I feel like I can’t really remember anything or say anything. It felt like hearing that I couldn’t escape and get back to how things once were, was sickening. I feel a hard heavy pounding in my head again. I go to the other side of the basement to see more of the kids. But all of them turned away, not looking to talk. All I can think about is screaming. I collapse on the floor. Accepting my life not knowing what will happen. It looks like the kids were given pet food and water in bowls. I close my eyes and fall asleep.
I hear the basement door slamming open and flashlights on my restless body. It was one of the random men in this hellhole. I don’t know what he was doing but it appeared he was examining my mouth, eyes, and body. After he turned away I quickly got up and snapped. I lunged at him with all my strength in hopes of knocking him down. But he was too strong. After I lunged at him he gripped his hand around my throat slamming me onto the ground. He opened one of the cages that didn’t have a name and threw me in it. He then stabbed me with something. At this point, I feel everything is over. There is no hope. I don’t know how long it's been since I first got here but now everything feels pointless. Everyone has been doing nothing but eating and sleeping. I fall into that same routine. Everyday I wake up to a new arrival. The same thing happens everyday. They scream, the men come and yell, then they lose it like the rest of us. Some kids even got dragged out like one of the boys said. After they get dragged out, they scream, and we hear some type of motor or mechanical saw.
Every day followed the line of me opening my eyes, eating, drinking, looking at the new kidnapped kid, and going back to sleep. Every day it was the same pattern. We don’t know what they do to the kids out there but frankly, we don’t have the energy enough to worry. Every day is already so draining. None of the kids I was originally here with are here now. I close my eyes and the next day I awake to my cage door getting opened.
What Made the Swan Sad, Made it Perfect
Imran Mabaziira, Grade 12
I had a dream
An intense waking for the painful laying
An empty swan for no saying
That’s the light I need
A light that’s steep
A tunnel so deep, oh mother eve
The swan lets go
A void to fill, now is the time to fulfill
The deep seed emptiness of nothing
The living of dying
The lonely needing, a quiet room
Now gush your feeling, for quiet was not fulfilling
But now you have no one to confess your fears
The ones that let the swan go and made life less clear
Nothing could complete me if not the swan by my side
For it makes me who I am, the meaning of my life, day and night, ticking clock on the wall
Without it I’m nothing but a giant hole
PStafforfolio
First Snowfall
Anya Geist, Grade 11
tomorrow the world will be soggy it will be forty and drizzling loudly shoes will make squishy noises in the mud roads will be grimy and wet as cars tear across them the air will feel damp, angry and the sky will look like scratchy wet wool
but right now the first snow falls and the night is still white flakes descend silently upon the ground softly they cover yards and driveways and perch gracefully atop bare branches the occasional car is muffled—its sound hidden, its lights dimmed and far up above there are warm grey clouds as the world is lulled blissfully to sleep
My Obligation to the Heart City (Worcester, MA)
Denisa Iljas, Grade 11
I live in a place full of grocery stores, Grocery stores that have no open spaces when Christmas comes along, And we are forced to hop through the puddles, cracks, and stones.
I live in a place where people do not know how to drive, People swerving, cutting, beeping, speeding, and yelling, And we are forced to hit the breaks.
I live in a place where I always know someone, A familiar face on the sidewalk might have been My friend, My teacher, Or my dentist. And I say, “I remember you!”
But I love this place, This place that cries in winters and smiles in the summers. This place that some people hate for its dirt roads, And its constant stop signs, But this is Worcester And I love Worcester.
I live in a place which I will always return to Whether it is today or tomorrow, Or the next day. I will return to my favorite grocery stores, I will return to drive on the same roads, And I will return to see some familiar faces.
To Love in Excess
Christine Lam, Grade 12
moderation i've never done well to love in excess is all i've ever known
to my bookshelf crowded with an nth number of worlds i have yet to venture to the colony of stuffed animals who reside in every nook and cranny of these four walls i call home
to those i hold dear spanning time zones to love in excess or not at all
Driving in the Berkshires
Benedict Morrow, Grade 11
Driving in the Berkshires
Purple mountains and trees
Switchbacks
Trying to keep speed, Keep position
Going to some college
Financial aid and admissions
Dorms
Is this it?
Will I spend my life in this small town?
Hard to think
The future is far
The present is here
The road winds
And I cannot see the next turn
I cannot see where my life is going
Black Hole
Natalie Boucher, Grade 11
It’s so dark it here I can’t see straight
Everything so twisty and tangled
Life was too thick and I got lost
Stretched too thin and far between
Tell her I’m sorry I said what I said I was born to be so blind and I didn’t know any better
But it’s really so simple I promise
They said life was a movie and it is
Remember when we watched on the couch
And it was dark?
But the screen?
So clear
Rambling
rambling but remember what happened
What happened at the end?
They were right but only a little bit
My time left is so short
So short but please listen
Suddenly I see something so strange
A divine pattern
I was always there I think
Can you hear me?
Run
Jenny Huynh, Grade 10
Brand new school. This would be my first day of this school. Me and my family had recently moved to the heart and center of the nation. The brand new all AI controlled city. This city was said to be the trendsetter.
My dad had gotten a job here creating even more stupid robots (as if we hadn’t had enough already). I’m sick of these stupid robots controlling my life.
Walking in the desolate blank white hall to homeroom. Standing just outside the door out of view from everyone in the class. I hear, “Everyone, I want you all to give a warm welcome to Izzie.” I had wondered for a second how they knew I was outside. But what had mattered the most was it was from a completely non robotic voice. I was so relieved, NO ROBOT TEACHER!!! Inhale. Exhale. I take a step through the threshold. And BAAM! Metallic skin. Glass eyes. Fake teacher. There was actually no way. This is an actual hell controlled by robots.
RING!! RING!!
“Hey Izzie, could you stick after class for a bit?” Ms. T announced at the front of the room. “Mhm,” was all I could utter out to her. As all the students had ushered out it had suddenly just been me and the teacher.
Her cold robot ass fingers take a firm grip on my shoulder. I let out a whimper and you would think that would make her loosen up a tad. “You ought to pay for you son of a ***** fa-,” and silence. Ms. T was cut off. Her head had come undone. It was the equivalent to someone getting their neck snapped off. I was stunned. Then I hear. Run. I listen and do just that. I ran through the wrecked streets. Covered in blazing fires. Everything was flying everywhere. I was ducking right and left. Disgruntled robots. Havoc had overtaken the city. Robots had always ruled.
The Case of the Scarlet Elevator
Daniel Arnold, Grade 12
When I arrived at the lobby of the Garriedeb Building, the body wasn’t the first thing I noticed. In fact, from the entryway it wasn’t visible at all. To reach it you had to stride past the pair of policemen standing guard, regardless of their objections, and past the front desk so you could reach the elevator. And it was there that you could view the dead body of Midas Richman.
The Garrideb Building has eight floors, although only six of them are open to the public. The first floor has a reception desk and a small tearoom. Floors two and three are offices for various insurance companies. Floor five is under construction. Floors four and six are for shopping, having various stores, boutiques, and restaurants. There’s also a clinic on the sixth floor. Floor seven is an office as well, but this time they’re offices belonging to the owner of the building, Midas Richman. (The building is, obviously, not named for him, but for its long-deceased architect from whom Richman purchased the building.) Floor eight requires a key to access, and is home to the apartments of Midas and his wife, Merida Richman.
The one upside of Midas Richman’s murder was that whomever inherited stewardship of the Garrideb building would have an excellent excuse to recarpet the elevator, which was really quite ghastly, featuring entirely too much paisley and a general clashing color scheme. However, as Richman had been faintly eviscerated, it was now mainly in shades of red, which didn’t help its appearance.
“Hey, this is an active crime scene, no civilians allowed.” The police had caught up. The speaker was the taller one, who wore a maroon cravat. His voice was sharp, metallic. The shorter one, who wore a navy bowler hat simply glowered.
“Your boss sent me to help out. Now tell me, has a preliminary autopsy been performed?”
“I’m not telling you that.” He seemed unswayed by my excellent excuse.
“Fine, I’ll do my own. Go call Chief Masters, he’ll tell you what I did, that he asked Remi Arietty to investigate a murder at the Garriedeb building as a personal favor.” With that, I turned back to the elevator. I could hear a set of footsteps headed away from me. Just one though; the navy gentlemen seemed interested in staying.
The single elevator of the Garrideb building was of a good size, around fifteen feet by fifteen. The doors were, however, only five feet in width, leaving a sizable blind spot to either side which would conceal anything there unless you actually stepped into the elevator proper or looked at it from an angle. It was in this blind spot, against the left wall, where Richman laid. He had been stabbed once in the heart. The wound was deep, but narrow. He was wearing an unbuttoned, rumpled, suit jacket that was remarkably unbloodied over a white shirt, which had not escaped the same fate. His hat was laid haphazardly on his head. I removed it to find a wound to the back of the skull.
“He fell when he was stabbed, striking his head on the wall.” The short officer’s voice was smooth, almost melodic. “Oh, we haven’t been introduced. I’m Officer Dumas. The other guy is Officer Dee.” I nodded in recognition.
“No blood on the wall,” I noted. “The head wound is bleeding, though it looks older than the stab wound, so there should be some on the elevator wall, but it’s clean.” I paused and turned. “Who was in the building?”
“Five people. They’re all still here.” He pointed to the reception desk. I could just barely make out the top of a blue bucket hat with palm fronds on it “You can go talk to the receptionist if you want. I won’t tell Doe.”
“My thanks, officer.” He was being oddly accommodating. What was his aim? Regardless, I stepped over to the desk. It was oddly high, a good four feet. The top of the receptionist’s hat just barely made it over. “Good evening… sir?”
“And yourself.” The receptionist was typing away at the keyboard of his desktop computer, although he seemed completely unable to see the screen. “Sean Holiday. I’m the night receptionist. Oh, and I found the body.”
“Why are you so much shorter than this desk?”
“My chair broke. It’s one of those ones that goes up and down, but it’s stuck at the lowest setting.”
“Couldn’t you get it fixed? Or stand?”
“I’m hoping this’ll make people think I’m not here and go away, so then I don’t have to do my job.” He seemed like he wouldn’t be of much help.
“So you couldn’t actually see anything?”
“Of course I could! This desk doesn’t surround me fully, I can still see things to the side. That’s how I found the body. I noticed it in the elevator, since it’s to the right of the desk. I can see people going in and out of the elevators just fine.”
“When did you last see Mr. Richman still alive?” A moment of silence then transpired. I could imagine Holiday (or what I thought of him looking like, which was to say a Christmas elf) closing his eyes in concentration. At last, he spoke.
“It was… 10:30? Or thereabouts. He waltzed into the elevator with another guy who I don’t really know, but who had a cane, and I didn’t see him again until around 10:50 when the elevator came back with corpse in tow.”
“And nobody else came into the building or left?”
“Not one. Are you lot going to let me go home yet?”
“Almost, I have one more question.” Holiday groaned. “Was his jacket buttoned?” Sean didn’t answer right away, clearly bewildered. “I’m not joking.”
“Of course he was. What kind of question is that?”
“Thank you, Mr. Holiday, you’ve been a big help.”
The Garrideb Building, thankfully, had stairs. They were locked most of the time, since they were for maintenance purposes, but, before I got there the cops had talked their way into getting a key so as to move between floors without disturbing the crime scene. They were filthy and ill-lit due to their underuse. In fact, the lack of any disturbance to the layers of dust coating each step confirmed my suspicions that the killer couldn’t have used them.
“We need to retrace what the victim did prior to his death to determine the sequence of events,” I said. Dumas’ response was quick.
“As far as we can tell, he went from the lobby to his apartment, then tried to go back down to the lobby, but got killed on the way down. That’s what everyone’s stories suggest, at least.”
“Then let’s start at the top.”
Midas’ suites were objectively quite nice, but hostile too. They felt barely lived in. The air was stale, and smelled of liquor. And, of course, there was no one to be found awaiting us.
“The wife should be here” said Dumas, apologetically. “She was intoxicated when we arrived, though, so she’s probably passed out in some nook.” Indeed, a cursory search found Mrs. Merida Richman in the parlor, peacefully sleeping in the remains of her glass coffee table. Dumas nudged her with his shoe.
“I’m innocent!” Her eyes shot open. “Whatever it was, I didn't do it. Probably.” Merida was a ginger, and short. She had yet to change out of her nightgown and understandably looked a mess.
“Perhaps we should attain a doctor?” I indicated the various gashes about her body. None were of incredible severity, but they were numerous. Dumas nodded, then skittered off. “I gather you were drinking last night, Merida?”
“Of course I was. It was a Thursday, after all”
“And could you tell me what transpired that night?” Merida’s expression seemed hesitant, but a few seconds later, she nodded.
“It’s all pretty foggy, but I remember that Midas came up to the apartment at 10:30 or so. He was drunk, and he and I got into some kind of fight, and then he left, I think. I might have punched him, because I remember being really angry at him, and I remember him having a bloody nose when he left around 10:40.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Richman. You have my condolences.” Merida didn’t seem that outwardly sad about Midas’ loss, mostly confused. But grief varies, it was certainly not a good reason for me to point the finger at her. On my way out of the parlor, I noticed one last thing: the fire pokers. Three of them were very dusty, but one of them was totally clean.
On the seventh floor were two people, one in an ushanka and orange coat, the other in nursing scrubs, with her fingers bandaged. I could hear the door to the stairwell open behind me. It seemed Mr. Dumas had availed himself of that doctor and was also quite winded from running to catch up with me.
“These… are.. Ms… Carla.. Marks..” Here he indicated the woman in orange, who was extremely tall, and quite muscle clad. She shivered, despite the fair weather and our indoor location. Dumas paused to take a breath. “And Ms. Candace Striper.” For the second woman, he indicated the one in nurse’s attire. She was rather short, and her hair was so blonde it was almost white, though it did have streaks of pastel pink through it. “They were on floors four and six, but we questioned them together since their testimonies were basically the same.” Marks nodded.
“Da, we both saw capitalist in elevator when it opened and then it closed and went to different floor. Simple, no? Now you go away.” You can guess what sort of accent she held.
“Not so fast. Details are everything.” In response, Carla sighed, loudly.
“Fine.” She led us to a desk by the back wall of the office, which the only light still on in the office was above. “I am in office, right over here, and suddenly elevator opens. I see man in hat and jacket, but is far away, and office is dark. I do not see any more details than that.”
“Same for me.” Candace said. “Well, it wasn’t that dark and I wasn’t as far away, but by the time I noticed the doors had opened, they closed almost immediately after. I saw what Carla saw. He had a hat and a jacket. Ooh, and a cane.” Carla frowned.
“He had no cane,” Marks said.
I allowed myself a small smile. “Which floor were you on again?”
“I was on fourth, Candace was on sixth.”
As we walked down to the third floor, where the last witness was, I peered through the window on the door to floors six, five, and four. Floor six had a fountain dead center, and Ms. Striper’s place of employment could be seen right next to the door, not too far from the elevator. I could see it well enough to see a cart of some sort, as well as a gurney. On the medical cart was a whole lot of medical supplies, including a bloody scalpel. Strange thing to have in a place like this. Floor five, the one under construction, had not much in it other than a pile of drywall in the middle of the room. Floor four had the same layout as six, and wasn’t very worthy of note.At last, floor three.
It was laid out more or less the same as the offices on the seventh floor, albeit a bit more luminous. On my way in, I noticed a trash bin with some bloody tissue in it. We were greeted upon arrival by the final witness.
“Hello there. I’m having a bit of leg pain, so forgive me if I don’t rise.” The buttery voice came from a man in dress pants and a white button up, sitting at a nearby desk. “Art Connors, at your service.” His hair was very dark in color, and his complexion quite pale. His features were sharp and striking. “I was out drinking with Midas, but we parted ways once we got to the elevator. I came here, and I assume he went to his rooms. That’s all, I’m afraid.” I smiled. What useful witnesses. I pulled Dumas aside. “Bring all the witnesses to the fifth floor. I’ve solved this.”
It was always lovely to get to do this sort of thing. Nobody ever listens to the private detective, especially when they’re short and look like a child, so when you get to force them to listen to you, that’s always good fun. I paced in circles, the suspects lined up in front of me. Sean Holiday looked bothered to be there, but I imagine that’s usual. His face, which I could finally see, was sunburnt and uninteresting. Merida and Candace seemed nervous, but probably for different reasons. Only Carla and Art seemed to be anything approaching calm.
“Let’s go over what happened, generally. Art and Midas walk in and are seen by Sean. Midas goes to the penthouse, Art to the third floor. Midas has an argument with his wife, is struck by her, bloodying his nose. He goes past the sixth and fourth floors by elevator. He has a cane on the sixth, but lacks one on the fourth. He does not pass the third, and is found dead by the time he reaches the lobby. Prior to his death his suit jacket and hat were taken off before being put back on.” I continue circling before standing directly in front of Candace and Carla, ever inseparable. “How did you know it was Midas in the elevator?”
“Well… his clothes. The hat and jacket were very… distinct.” It was Candy who spoke.
“Yes, very gaudy,” said Carla.
“Now, here’s where some oddities appear in the story. Midas shouldn't have had that cane, namely. Art Connors should have.” Connors merely raised an eyebrow. “I suspect that these clothes were stolen by Art in the penthouse, which he did, in fact, enter. However, how could he have stolen the clothes before the stabbing? With his accomplice’s help, of course. Merida Richman.” Merida gasped at this, clutching her pearls. She hadn’t been wearing pearls in the penthouse. “An accidental accomplice, is my guess. She got too drunk and so did he, they fought, and she hit him with the fire poker, which is why it’s been washed. Connors stole the clothes, stabbed him, and rode the elevator down, obfuscating the time of death. Another piece of evidence that Art was in the penthouse would be the bloody tissue. Merida punched somebody, after all. It was him, most likely. Now, the anomaly of the elevator stopping on the fourth and six floors. That was so he’d be seen and secure an alibi. But then what of the vanishing cane? Where did Art Connors’ cane go?”
“The fifth floor, where else?” Dumas interrupted me.
“That was a rhetorical question. But yes, the fifth floor.” I walked over to the pile of drywall and drew out of it just what I had expected to find. The cane. And from the cane I drew another unsurprising article. A bloodied blade. “Why else would he hide the cane, if it wasn’t the murder weapon?” The noise, which had already been minimal, went out of the room entirely save one sound. Every face was in various states of shock, (particularly Merida, who looked more confused than ever) save one. Art Connors looked at the cane sword and he laughed and laughed and laughed.
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Editor-in-Chief
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Editor-in-Chief
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