Pendragon by Greens Farms Academy Middle School

PENDRAGON 2014

Pendragon is a publication of the Greens Farms Academy Middle School, 35 Beachside Avenue, Greens Farms, Connecticut 06838. Front cover: Jake Sinnott (8)

Back cover: Georgia Ferris (8)

Design, layout & typesetting by Mr. Ben Gott Pendragon Board Members (* denotes a student in eighth grade): Nicholas Attai*

Tyler Bieder*

Lil Breier

Josh Cohn

Charlie Courtemanche*

Eva Ebbesen

Eva Hafner*

Patrick Howard

Celeste Matte*

Bella Nixon

Jack Ramsay

Rikeh Saingbe

Gracyn Sollmann*

Lila Wells

Faculty Advisors:

Thanks to:

Mr. Benjamin Gott Mrs. Robbi Hartt Mr. Griffen Stabler

Ms. Elizabeth Cleary Mr. Drew Meyer Mr. Matt Norko

http://www.gfacademy.org pendragon@gfacademy.org All submissions were reviewed anonymously and chosen on merit alone. 1

TABLE OF CONTENTS Dear Past Self .........................................................................4 Changing Skies .......................................................................6 The Accident ..........................................................................7 Alfred White ...........................................................................8 Sprinkler ..................................................................................9 Accept Yourself .....................................................................10 Next Step ................................................................................12 Desperate ................................................................................13 Land of Unique .....................................................................14 “Clever chimps at Kansas City Zoo make brief break to freedom” .................................................................................15 Swirl .........................................................................................16 Divergent.................................................................................18 My Mother’s Wishes ..............................................................20 “Toddler found inside claw machine” ................................20 a chink in the armor ..............................................................21 Two Nights .............................................................................23 It’s Up! .....................................................................................24 “Want to earn free beverages?” ...........................................26 My Room.................................................................................27 The Dog ..................................................................................28 Aunt Alexandra ......................................................................29 Shall I compare thee to a Starbucks coffee? ......................30 Loping Ride ............................................................................31 Burma Shave ..........................................................................33 blasted......................................................................................33 Where I Belong ......................................................................34 Three Men ..............................................................................35 2

Studying ...................................................................................36 Break Down the Wall ............................................................37 An Undefined Destination ...................................................38 Where I Belong ......................................................................39 Darkness .................................................................................40 Spring.......................................................................................40 Carnival ...................................................................................41 Lefty .........................................................................................42 Dear High School Me: ..........................................................43 Time is My Enemy ................................................................44 When Statues Dance .............................................................45 Parasailing ...............................................................................47 “Marathon Runner Unit for Boston’s youngest victim”..48 The Past, Full of Memories .................................................49 High School ............................................................................50 Where I Belong ......................................................................52 Fireworks ................................................................................54 Abyssinian Night....................................................................56 Blue Eyes ................................................................................57 Afternoon Tea ........................................................................59 My Mamas ..............................................................................61 Oblivion ..................................................................................62 Mount Washington ................................................................65

Dear Past Self Dear Past Self: Be kind to your sisters. Their long hair won’t be there to braid forever and their frayed jeans can’t be held on to till the end of time. Never notice when your brother messes up his magic tricks. He smiles so wide when you do, too. I know you love Hannah Montana. Do that while you can. She grows up kinda funky. Hold your mom’s hand in the parking lot. It makes her feel safe just as much as it makes you feel safe. Thank her for all she does as often as you can. Her face softens at the words. Her cheeks turn light pink and her eyes look like the ocean on a clear day, instead of the dark stormy sea that often clouds them. Memorize every moment of those days in the summer where time is just a suggestion and laughter mixes with the sounds of crickets like carefully crafted harmony. Read lots of books, even if you’d rather be watching Spongebob. He can wait. Listen to every word of advice your dad gives you. His soothing booming voice is somehow always right. Don’t forget to remember to write this letter in the future. Wear whatever clothes you want. Wanna wear a bandana and overalls to school? Go for it. Walk barefoot whenever you want. It’s such a liberating feeling to sink your feet in wet grass on a crisp evening in July, and you know it. Friends come and go. It’s okay. 4

Laugh wherever the air craves for it, love whenever a heart needs you to, hug every person who silently begs for it, and enjoy the moments you should. Sincerely, Your Future Self

â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Abby Comey (8)

Photograph by Susannah Johnson (8)

Changing Skies Until the move happened, From the refreshing, warm breeze to the bitter cold, I did not realize how hard best friends were to find. From a warm and cozy heart, To a chilly and uncertain soul, With the pinch of frostbite at every turn and with every move. I did not know my house hopping, from one friend’s to the other, And those long strolls in the park would not go on forever. I did not know that I could not walk those endless sea glass-filled beaches for eternity. I knew it was my home; I just did not know how long it was going to last. My safe haven seemed too good to be true. Those bright, sun-filled, blue skies did not look as if they were going to disappear into cold and dark space. I did not know I would eventually have to look away from the powerful rays of the sun, blinding me from the truth. I did not know when the magnificent, magenta sunset painted on the sky would fade away, right before my eyes. After an intense game of soccer and slumping down on the refreshing grass, feeling the delightful cool tickle on my back, I find my eyes making their way back up to the stars and to the sky, and my eyes are pulled back into the light, from the stars and fantasies twinkling so shiny, so bright.

—Sophie Staeger (7) 6

The Accident The leaves around us are just changing color as we walk up the hill toward Cedar Heights. I look at my watch: 8:30. I can see the gas station, the potent smell of gasoline wafting into my nose. I can hear the roar of High Ridge Road as we walk up to the sidewalk. The policeman in the street raises his hand in a sign: STOP . I race out in front of everyone else, thinking it is safe, when a red car comes speeding down the road. I hear an earsplitting SCREECH as the tire hits my leg. My hands smack the window. I can hear only silence. Julie is bawling behind me as I roll up my long pants and see that my leg is at an angle. But I feel no pain-No need to cry.

—Tyler Bieder (8) 7

Alfred White We are not aware of the consequences. We are not vigilant of the danger of storms and winds, so strong, so powerful. The earth is suddenly cold and frosty. I feel paralyzed in a claustrophobic world, not aware, not present. We rock, we turn, we suffer. Everything collapses in an envelope of screams. Oars creak. Darkness falls as we crash into ice, extra crisp. The night twinkles in my hands. There is not a flash of light to be seen. In the distance, paradise. In the future, our lives. The children, the fathers, the mothers. Why must the story come to an end? I save my soul. I am not aware of the consequences.

â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Sophia Bonehill (6) 8

Sprinkler Mrs. Petterossy told me to be careful of the sprinkler: “Watch out, it hits the bathroom door.” She told me to wait for it to pass and then run out to the Winnebago. After I finished brushing my teeth, I pressed my ear against the old, wooden door and listened for the sprinkler. Then in the distance I heard the faint noise. ch, ch, ch, ch The noise got louder and louder until the spray of water pounded on the door. When I knew it had passed, I made my frantic escape. I thought I was home free. My heart sank to my feet like a rock. The camper drove out of the dirt parking lot. Alone Alone Alone My feet crunched as I ran on the dirt, but I knew I was too late. —Wes Breier (6) 9

Accept Yourself I saw two girls today Sweet cheeked, bright eyed happy-go-luckies. The two of them crouched over a tattered book with smiles of sunshine. Percy Jackson flickered in their eyes and their tongues poked out of their mouths as they turned the pages. They treasured that in life which I had given up on: youth, books, bright green toenails, and those ginormous cotton scrunchies! I eyeballed them curiously, something about that pure innocence was unfamiliar to me. Were they from a foreign world? Somewhere far, far away from the manicured lawns of Westport, Connecticut, where the buttery blonde sunshine was relished from a simple front porch, rather than Mom’s house in the Hamptons. I scrutinized them in my head to repair my sense of superiority. Scraggly parts? Mickey Mouse tees? and we ALL know that taking-on-the-world five year old style really isn’t a thing anymore... but then I wondered: who was I to judge? 10

I could take one look at their unbroken innocence and be jealous all I wanted, and blame myself all I wanted for the person I have become, and long for the care-free person I wished I were: a roll-in-the-dirt, do-a-million-cartwheels-even-though-I-didn’tknow-how kind of girl, but I wasn’t. And I realized I would have to accept myself to truly accept others, because no matter how much I wished I was them, I know the kinds of people out there: those who craved a life like mine, lived on sour lemons that just never got juiced, or those who appreciated whatever life threw at them with joy and confidence. When life gives you lemons, make lemonade! I can prove to the world that I am not just a puppet in their show. So when you wish you were someone you’re not, just take a deep breath, and remember to accept yourself. —Saloni Jain (7)

Next Step Who? What I am supposed to do Because he did this? I should do that Because of the dark color of her skin Her slight jerk of an accent She should be different She should have a 5.0 GPA I have those people I know those people But I am not one of them I am a girl that daydreams In arithmetic Dreaming of literature Creating a mosaic in my head Of the next story I will create But then I think I should not I am not supposed to What do people do when they are stuck? Do they climb Deeper into their knowledge in order to find themselves? I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to be a repeat I want to be me A girl with a different personality A girl that enjoys taking pride in her appearance The girl that loves friends The girl that doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t bury herself in her English grammar book 12

To hide her insecurities. But the struggles that face my tan skin Block my capabilities The talk from others The way I look The way I should act How my height affects the way I am supposed to be treated. Is that right? Should that happen? No one will ever find out Because everyone repeats the same No risk takers, no individuals Standing up for what’s right and wrong Saying that a girl should be called “stupid” because of the way she looks They sit there and ponder their next step —Rose Mascarenhas (8)

Desperate A sun of gold with a sky of blue. The thin wisp of garlic and lavender fills the air as I sit on cold stone not yet warmed up from the bright spring sun. The sea sparkles in the sunlight with the tingling salt in the air. As the flowers perk up from the fading frozen tundra, the wind whispers through the trees. The golden rays hit my face as the sun brings the desperate land into full bloom. —Kelley Mooney (6) 13

Land of Unique They say, “The home is where the heart is” But I don’t think that’s true Because my heart is here Yet I know, I feel I don’t belong, Or rather I can’t belong. I can’t belong because I am different. I can’t belong because I am special. But special is who I am, and different is my home. So where I belong is not a place but a mindset. I belong in the World of Difference, and I am a citizen of the Land of Unique. —Rikeh Saingbe (7)

“Clever chimps at Kansas City Zoo make brief break to freedom” I stare at the monsters as they stare back at me. The people: they point, they laugh, they smile as I pry at the bars, screeching for freedom before I give up once again. But this time is different: the door opens just enough for me to scurry across the land and grip it with my claws as we run out. The people scream, but we don’t stop. Instead, we stare up at the sun as we remember what it’s like to be free in a world without being watched. We run for the gate as all around us 15

the animals roar for us to help them escape, too. Then the van pulls up, and we are pulled back. We know that we will never be free again. —Owen Minson (6)

Swirl Oh, how our people have suffered! Covered by the dark veil of separation. We want equality: a prominent Elvis Presley Integration Parade. But no, I can’t see Elvis because I’m chocolate and they’re vanilla. There’s no difference in sweetness. Man, I wish it could be a Vanilla-Chocolate Swirl. They made an appeal to show that they are the same as everyone else 16

but refusal didn’t discourage them. We ARE the same humans as they are. We were created by the same God and given our own individual color. Those colors are supposed to form a rainbow. We must join together and bring light after the storm that rages on. We deliberately march on toward the Promised Land with a Vanilla-Chocolate Swirl in hand. —Jack Ramsay (6)

Divergent Sweat pours off me. I look down: nothing but darkness. We jump into a pit. What the hell? My heart pounds, blood pressure to the max. I move to the edge. We all stand there like dominos, no one moving, as we wait for the catastrophic event. I see a glint in the coachâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes as I step up: â&#x20AC;&#x153;I am selfish. I am brave.â&#x20AC;? I take a step and leap. Wind rushes through me. I am flying. My stomach is gone. The black pit engulfs me. My ears pop as I fly down so fast, like a rocket. I hit the ground, the impact like hitting concrete. I get stuck in a weird net. As I stand up, my body moans. There is a light. I follow it and a tall man, very handsome, is standing there. 18

He opens his mouth: “Welcome to your new home.” I feel something in my body. “I feel like someone breathed new air into my lungs. I am not Abnegation. I am not Dauntless. I am Divergent.” —Jake Sinnott (8)

Photograph by Ellen Burbank (8)

My Mother’s Wishes A mother’s wishes, thrown into a bathroom sink. My mother said I shouldn’t do it. I disagreed. I went against her wishes. A few things were all I’d need: Oxide. Blue powder. Tinfoil. Comb. Paintbrushes. Hairbrushes. Shampoo. All thrown into one sink— the bathroom sink— along with my mother’s wishes. —Eva Ebbesen (7)

“Toddler found inside claw machine” I slowly creep through the exit of the claw machine to find the ultimate prize. I sit and wait for hours as I cry and wonder to myself: “Will anyone find me?” Hours go by, and I slowly lose hope. Then, I hear a noise. It slowly creeps up to my ears as I hear and see people bang on the window of my cage. 20

They will never know. They will never know. —Win Courtemanche (6)

a chink in the armor when lighting strikes— no, splits or cracks or opens yes, reveals like the secrets hiding under your fingernails that are just too buried to pick at— it shows—but only for a millisecond, like a note cut too short the light punctures all grey and lets its own radiance bleed through the sky like a deep wound it’s not frightening, or ominous, or a warning from whatever higher power is above but the lighting is its own signal to say there is life past grey and all grey must end now— instantly, yes, suddenly, but not for long— not before its sharpest point gets to kiss the earth and seal the illumination— its creation that displays the cracks in the bad and the hope just dying to pry itself out of its confining barrier like a Plexiglas wall separating loved ones— 21

the yin and yang long to drink in each other’s adversity scratching desperately like smashing plates and a pair of eyes trying to fit the pieces of an ancient puzzle back together did you ever think the lightning is just a chink in the armor? no, the lightning only strikes for a millisecond, because sometimes too much light at once blinds those same eyes —Gracyn Sollmann (8)

Photograph by Lucy Holzinger (7) 22

Two Nights I belong where we’re quiet and silent or, in an instant, exaggerated and loud. Where we’re someone we’re not. Where, with talent, confidence, and a little magic, we could be a kind peasant named Tevia, a stressed and eccentric songwriter named Albert Peterson, or Agwé, the god of water. Homework starts later than we should be asleep. There are no get-togethers after school. Rehearsals end at dinner, but we miss it. We arrive at the Playhouse a week before showtime. We meet new people, new friends, new support, for only one of the fifty-two weeks of the year. The ghosts of Conrad Birdie, Inspector Javert, and Jack Kelley walk the halls of the historic venue. Images of Mr. Stout and Jerry Stiller remind us that we aren’t the first. We become a family. 23

Effort. Devotion. Practice. All for just two nights at 7:00 at the Westport Country Playhouse. Student tickets for $5.00. Everyone else pays $10.00. These are tickets for two nights of a lifetime. —Patrick Howard (7)

It’s Up!

Thousands trapped! the paper said, my eyes glued to the page with amazement; my face leaking... but boys don’t cry. The sadness was more than I could take at age 12. The act of keeping people in their own city, only because they wanted freedom. It was like when my mother put rubber bands on the candy cabinet so I could not get the sweet, delicious treat I wanted. They could not get the flawless taste of freedom, except they paid a bigger price. Instead of rubber bands, it was guns— the guns that took the lives of many. —Flynn Murtaugh (6) 24

Photograph by Bella Litt (8)

“Want to earn free beverages?” The unanswered question of my life: but boy, do I. I sip away wishes of what could have been— cold or warm, they’re all the same to me. But why should I pursue this dream? A peaceful embarking on what never was? I discover the things that I never knew were there as I dig and dig for something new, itching for a surprise. I finally see what this has done to me. Rewards don’t compare to what I want to have, because you can’t earn greatness. I sit and stare and wonder: Do I want to embark on this new adventure? —Dilan Patel (6)

My Room The enclosed space that guides me to sleep and shows me to the end of a tunnel called work. A suit of armor, it hides me from scary environments. It protects me from the harsh world of winter and is a prison during the beautiful, warm days of summer. An endearing smell, pleasant, normal, and peaceful. It changes, evolves, and stores memories of the past. It sheltered me from reality for years and taught me one thing as I grew up. Nothing green and scary hides in the closet of my room. —Edward Robins (7)

The Dog I am being driven back. Two hours pass and we stop. I am taken by a stranger and driven to a homeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; not my old home, though. When we get there, a new pair of eyes meet mine. He is not happy. I am left with this man, and I decide to make him like me. I jump into his lap. He strokes my fur. I hear an argumentâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; something about bringing me back tomorrow. I wake up and wag my tail at the man. His eyes meet mine, but this time, he is happy. I follow him, always at his heels. Ten years pass. I am now an old dog with a sister and a friend. I guess my charm worked.

â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Josh Cohn (6) 28

Aunt Alexandra I am a caged bird. I was held back from my real emotions— emotions I thought were not in my soul; emotions I thought I could not produce. But I did. I thought that I only cared about my kind and myself. But I don’t. When did this change happen? I do not know. Maybe overnight? I am still lost. Even though I don’t know when I have changed, I have gone from making racist remarks to defending a BLACK man. I do not know what this is, but, one day, I will find out. I have gone from treating their kind like dirt to crying for them. I can feel there is something in my body—my DNA—has changed. I want to feel like this, but I don’t want anyone to know. I am caged by my PARENTS. I am caged by my FAMILY. I am caged by SOCIETY. They have taught me the wrong actions. They did not teach me right from wrong. I am caged by MYSELF. I am keeping all of my emotions to myself and not expressing them. Now I have learned that this is the right way to live.

—Charles Clemons (7)

Shall I compare thee to a Starbucks coffee? Shall I compare thee to a Starbucks coffee? Thou art more swagging and more yay: Rough winds do cool the heat of coffee, And buying one hath too expensive these days: Sometimes, too hot the coffee is and burns thy tongue, And often is his frothy complexion of the cream dissolved, And every sip is super fun, By chance, or simple the size makes it better: But my eternal love for you shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that coffee you ask me to hold, Nor shall spilt coffee ever wanderâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;st in the shade, When in eternal lines you shall be bold Also never will I let your coffee turn cold So long as girls can sip, or iPhones can take photos, So long as I live, and I give Starbucks coffee to thee. â&#x20AC;&#x201D;J.C. Foster (8)

Loping Ride I felt my heart smile as I felt the warm evening New Zealand sun, and felt the sapphire sky kiss my face. We loped through the cool woods, the sun seeping through the emerald leaves, flashing sprinkles of sunflower warmth on Lily’s ebony mane like the tiny fireflies that hovered at night. I sat forward, letting the leather reins slide through my fingers, squeezing my heels into her barrel, urging her to go faster. My ears were filled with the graceful clomping of the horses’ hooves. Suddenly, I heard not the steady rhythm of hooves but a skip in the beat, and the next thing I saw was that Oscar’s back hooves were flying towards Lily’s face. I felt Lily spring upward, and though I tried to grip the saddle horn, my fingers slipped right off as if they were buttered, and I flew through the air, landing on the hard-packed dirt. I lay there, too stunned to move, as I watched Lily’s hooves fly over me in slow motion, suspended for just a millisecond. My dad Whoa’d! Oscar and circled back, careful to not get Oscar’s prancing hooves too close to my sore body. I sat up, my shoulder throbbing and my wrist burning from the rough grass surrounding me. I fit my dusty boot back into the chafed leather stirrup and pulled on the saddle horn, heaving myself upwards and onto Lily’s back. I pulled the mahogany reins over her head and dug my heels down. The next moment we were loping through the warm New Zealand sun, and I felt the sapphire sky kiss my face once again. —Elizabeth McCormick (7)

Photograph by Maia Carpenter (8) 32

Burma Shave It wouldn’t work. Hypnotists. Charm sellers. All busts. No money. Just vats upon vats of shaving cream. Billboards were everywhere. Every kid in America knew the phrase: Don’t Lose Your Head To Gain A Minute, You Need Your Head. Your Brains Are In It: Burma Shave. —George Sarbinowski (6)

blasted while i worked at my desk like the rest of the bees around me who were actually men and women the cars drove past and lulled me toward the realm of sleep i listened to a car’s motor get steadily louder like a great lion humming an incomprehensible tune the car just kept getting louder i knew something was wrong but it was too late for as i stood i was blasted off my feet and felt no more —Charlie Bohnsack (6) 33

Where I Belong My cleats’ spikes plunge into the grass like knives into blood red steak, churning it with a mixture of dirt, sweat, and determination. My breath is pulsing, resting inches away from my grasp, but I just can’t catch it. Mud streaks my face like warrior paint, and I attack the forward with the ball as if this were a battlefield. I throw my body at her, wrenching my elbows into her ribcage whenever I can. In this moment, I exist to stop the ball. My body is in debt, pumping my legs with energy it doesn’t have, squeezing out sweat beads with water it can’t waste. But I’m doing it anyway. I charge, plowing the girl down like a train; I have no brakes. Our feet tangle like jungle vines, sending her thrashing body plummeting towards the ground, taking me with her. But even as I see the ref flash yellow, a sweat-salt, dirt-marked smile remains. I belong in this surge of adrenaline. This field is my home; this team is my family. —Lil Breier (7) 34

Three Men The winding roads made my head turn. Our cars, meant for normal roads, cruised along the rocky dirt. The first man glared at us with beady red eyes. His ragged clothing, his shaggy dirty hair, and his face, astonished, and covered with dirt. He followed us around the turns. His goats followed him. We didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know where we were going. People did not speak English. Thankfully, though, Grammy spoke Greek, their native language. She got out, ready to ask the second man for directions. She muttered words I did not understand. The third man rode his motorcycle down the jagged street. Grammy spoke Greek to him. You could hear it in his voiceâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; 35

“Yes.” His sass annoyed me: he thought it was so obvious, but it really wasn’t. They were all the same. They thought that we knew where we were going; that we knew which path to take. —Vicki Stuart (6)

Studying Math problem, math problem, why can’t I solve you? Math problem, math problem, why are you so hard? Math problem, math problem, you make me groan. Math problem, math problem— Oh, hey—my phone! I’m done with math! —Jack Soper (8)

Break Down the Wall I don’t think of it as being different, or weird, or a freak. I think of it as being unique. I think of it as being me. To me, being yourself is about standing out. It’s about being the black sheep in the herd of white. It’s about wearing the pink shirt when everyone else wears gray. It shows confidence, that you aren’t afraid to be yourself. That you don’t have to hide behind brands and labels, make-up and designer names to be seen as what others want you to be. Being what others want you to be just puts up a barrier between the fake you and the real you. And only you can break that barrier down. You’ve got to make all the fakeness stop before people can see who you really are. Before they can see how unique, different, and weird you are. For those of you out there who are afraid to shine: go ahead and be different. Be weird. Be a freak. Be yourself. I dare you.

—Celeste Matte (8) 37

An Undefined Destination They say my imagination wanders. My question is, where to? I know for a fact my mind is impenetrable— a vacuum to the commotion absently stirring it. Here’s one thing about vacuums, though: they only absorb. I know for a fact that spotlight scorches the skin of jealousy and lures it farther away from realism; from the truth. Some things are just better kept tucked away where grimy hands can’t decode them word by word, letter by letter, truth by truth. I know for a fact that my fairytales do not yet have functioning limbs. You see, I haven’t yet taught them how to walk. They are merely toddlers before my gruesome teenage years. I know for a fact that shame does not climb mountains. It is a bus waiting for closure; waiting to reach the next stop and move on. But that bus keeps on rolling, passing stops every mile without an inch of hesitation. I know for a fact that grief does not swim in rivers, or lakes, or streams. You see, grief creates them. Those rivers, those lakes, those endless gutters; they are cracked with holes of hope here and there. I know for a fact that pride does not build bridges. It collapses them; it breaks them with its weight. It sinks ships like it did the Titanic. I know for a fact that greed does not carry gold. It carries misfortune and disappointment, like Midas did his “touch.” It too cannot walk. Its sagging shoulders are too weighted to continuously lift and transfer about. I know for a fact that my imagination cannot in any possible way wander.

Where would it go?

—Madison Reynertson (8) 38

Where I Belong I belong near the crystal clear ocean, with the sand like grains of brown sugar sticking to salty wet feet, each one covered in glue. I belong where seashells are the oceans wind chimes that move with the rhythm of the rolling waves. I belong where your hair is always crusted with a layer of salt and tangled by the endless wind. I belong where the sound of seagulls is the only song that is stuck in your head. I belong in the whitecaps— the white lava on the peak of the wave. I belong where the only thing you can see is the endless blue portrait in motion and the only sounds are the waves as they crash onto the shore then roll back out. —Julia Edwards (7)

Darkness I am twelve year old, and I’m still afraid of the dark. I am not scared of the darkness in my room. I am terrified of the darkness, cruelness, and hatred of the world. Just a few steps away from my bedroom. Just a few steps away. —CC Poli (6)

Spring The ground lies under me, hard and flat. The wind breathes down my neck, warm and wet. It carries on its back peace and silence. It sways the trees but silences the cars. Spring is coming— I can smell it in the air. It whispers through the plants.

—Sarah Wagner (6)

Carnival It starts with flashing lights from far away that dance across distant tree tops, like a can of paint spilled across the shadows of the trees. Soon, it becomes the sweet, constant smell of kettle corn and tall neon structures. Everything is faded, but, in a way, everything seems new and bright. Laughter and screaming echo through the lot. I feel the oddly pleasant feeling as my stomach drops and a scream pushes its way from the back of my throat to the cool air. My friends grip my wrists, their knuckles white and hands comfortingly warm. Small tufts of cotton candy weave through the crowd like birdsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; feet pounding on pavement. Eyes bright, smile brighter. The material of my magenta sweatshirt rubs against my arms. The night ends with a view from the top of the tallest ride. Bright lights flash, the smell overwhelming and the sound like music. It is beautiful in a way no one else seems to notice except me. And now, when I stand outside at night, the slightest breeze seems to carry the smell of caramel and the feeling of warm hands that grip mine in blissful fear, oblivious to the fact that reality will hit us again, sooner or later. â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Macy Lawton (8) 41

Lefty Growing up as a lefty was hard for me. I couldn’t golf, even though it was my favorite sport. I had to buy lefty clubs, which were always more expensive. Playing baseball was a little better than golf. I had to buy a lefty glove. I had an advantage for pitching, even though I wasn’t good at pitching. I always had trouble eating at the table. My elbow would always hit the person next to me. He always gave me a glare like I had cut him off in the left lane. I always struggled in art class. The righty scissors just wouldn’t work. —Britt Marcus (6)

Dear High School Me: I have a few things I want to say to us today, but let me start with the basics: When we become older, I don’t want us to change. I want our personalities to stay the same and for us to stay true to who we are and to not change because of peer pressure or anything else because frankly, I like us the way we are, don’t you? I want smiles to stay and not let little bunny fade, keeping his jingle forever and to continue to keep our love for Disney. Secondly, I want us to not be wrapped up in boy drama. We’re going to have the sunniest shiniest sparkling smile on our face or just have a big dark grey cloud dragging over our heads, pouring rain on us that will turn into tears streaking down our faces— I don’t want that. I want us to be able to focus on the important things like school and family. I want us to love our family and friends through and through, no matter how weird or crazy they get, (and, let’s be honest: we both know how insane they all are!) Yet, I know so many sad stories about kids who suddenly hate their families and turn on them when something goes wrong. I don’t want that to be us. I love our family and our friends, and I want that to stay like that and I want our friends to always stay friends, even though the struggles can be hard. Lastly: no tattoos or smoking for us. I know peer pressure is a struggle, but I don’t want us to have to go through the pain of bright red lungs turning as dark as coal and tattoos damaging skin just to have some pointless picture painting on it. Well, God, I’m harsh! 43

I know it sounds like I want us to be perfect, but I don’t expect that— after all, no one is. I just want us to stay true to who we are because I know, to us, that is what matters most. Please remember my wishes for us! Sincerely, Your thirteen-year-old self: Alex

—Alex Nason (7)

Time is My Enemy Time is my enemy, I can’t control it; no one can. It races by, deceiving me. Time zooms away and leaves me behind to eat its dust. On its little feet it runs. It does not stop I can’t catch it or stop it. No matter how hard I try, I will always be one step behind. —Nikki Farber (6)

When Statues Dance When statues dance, rubbles turn to riches as they dance to their first Marvin Gaye tune soul blues blue Jay perched onto my ears like a light blanket of volume covering my skin and when you shout at the top of your lungs with a voice so loud only god could hear and those birds think that it is a welcoming call like days of civilization praise today without a word the second bird grasps my arm I try to Harlem shake off the renaissance of times dancing not to lyrics but to freedom say, What’s Going On? like the church side West Side Story 45

The innocent pray for the innocent always stay here because the cuffs and shackles contain heavy dark days and turn them into light when broken free and start up that 1970’s jukebox and stomp the floorboard Footloose Smokey Jimi’s guitar to Edwin Starr “War” and turn it into the most raw image of the Berlin Wall radio jam damaged game of freeze tag and you won —Nicholas Attai (8)

Parasailing The wind brushes through my hair. It’s salty, but it feels good, I guess. My feet dangle as I swim in the air, like they are free from hard labor, I guess. The smile on my face stretches from ear to ear, but still I don’t seem to be happy— more like scared, I guess. The view is amazing, as usual, but still that smile is fake; forced, I guess. Then, the thoughts rush through me: the scared ones. They’re not nice. I shake them off, Like a dog who’s wet. I’m fine. —Elyse Kimball (6) 47

“Marathon Runner Unit for Boston’s youngest victim” As I lie there, I hear the screams of my parents. I only see the bright lights and the gates as they wait for me. The color of red flashes through my mind. I know that I have died on the inside. The vision of a person with fuzzy black hair in the distance standing there calmly, I know something has happened, but what? What I know isn’t true— I am in my bed, asleep. Please, someone, kiss me before I fall asleep. I see a white blanket. Then the pain and I are gone with the wind. —Bella Worrell (6)

The Past, Full of Memories The Past is what is gone, full of memories, full of sadness, hope, laughter and love. I come from stuffed animals to keep me through the night to endless days lying in the dancing sun at the Wörthersee from fresh bread to the colorful, happy fruit tarts and German chocolate cake from a shop window. This is where I come from. I am from adventurous weekends climbing through “the Jungle” full of mysteries and new places to be discovered I am from long nights, hopelessly learning math at the dinner table with my dad. From joyful moments coming out of my room to find my boots filled with sweets and teaching our special dog, Bonnie, a new trick and even the special hugs from the special people in my life. There are sad memories, too: funerals of loved ones where the tears never seem to stop, going on and on like a rainy day and erasing memories of laughter and love with family and friends without even knowing. The past creates many characteristics about a person. I am from foreign foods, like spätzle and goulash; from cold days, shopping for bathing suits in Germany with my mom. The past leaves us where we are: full of memories.

—Amy Petschek (7) 49

High School High School: hundreds of different people. Hundreds of different personalities. Hundreds of people to blame when you’re too scared to blame yourself. Too many different things to think about; too many things to balance at once: Schoolwork. Parties. Friends; family. How do you escape? What is there to cut? Everything you do adds onto one more thing. Your reputation: cut parties? You’re an unsocial weirdo. Cut school work? You’re a slacker. Cut family? You’re selfish. Why is your reputation so important? Why does who you are depend so much on which party you go to or how many friends you have? Why does it affect your true personality and how others view you? High school is cruel, but the students are more so, constantly judging others whom they see as different. Why?

—Alyssia Getschow (8) 50

Photograph by Teagan Martindale (7) 51

Where I Belong I belong among the trees, the dirty floors, the gentle breeze; placid lakes and rough sandy paths and happiness in the air. I belong where I am never alone; where darkness holds no fears, only friendly faces; where silence may be difficult, but it does not matter. I belong where the sun sings, but when it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t, no one cares. I will stay and have fun anyway and drink hot chocolate among the quiet trees today. I belong where I am always with friends , but if I ever feel trapped on the green expanse, I can run away above the soft white clouds to mountains far, far away. I belong where spirits are bright and the colors are soft; where I can fly over a great green lake alone in control of my craft in the silent waters. I belong where the greatest sadness is to leave; where whatever I do, big or small, does not matter because, at the end of the night, 52

I will be with the people I love safe and sound, because I belong here— and I know I will always belong here, among the silent trees. —William Shabecoff (7)

Mixed media “message” by Wren Ferris (8) 53

Fireworks As the sun dies down, it closes its eyes and slowly sinks in the endless bright, blue water. As it submerges in the water, a sunset appears, looking so beautiful. Stripes of orange, purple, and pink form in the dimly lit sky like a piece of ribbon being unraveled from its spool. The waves crash against the dry sand, making it wet. Shhhhhhhhhh whisper the waves. The sound gives me a feeling of peace and quiet as I wait patiently. I see that the sunset has disappeared; the sky is now as black as a chalkboard. The moon rapidly decorates the fresh slate of darkness with the star stickers grasped in its hand giving off flashes of bright light all around. Everything is calm until a burst of excitement fills the air. The children are ready to wave the sizzling sparklers and the radiant glow sticks. BOOM! FLASH! CRACKLE! The first few fireworks shoot in the dark atmosphere above. They glisten and gleam and shine all around. 54

As they waltz, tango, and tap the night sky, more fireworks pop up and bounce about. I am surrounded by the booming sound of the fireworks that make noise as loud as a sumo wrestler stomping his feet. They’re full of colors— red, white, and blue— an American flag in the sky. People Oooooh! and Aaaaah!, for the night of the fireworks has finally come. —Allison Telesz (6)

Abyssinian Night I set up for the night and lie down on my bedroll. My legs are sore from marching all day; my face is raw from sunburn. I think about my family. I miss my home, my friends. But this is a great adventureâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; the greatest adventure of allâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; and I do it for my country. As I drift into sleep, I notice how warm the bedroll is and how soft it feels, almost as if I am in the presence of someone I love. Dawn comes. I am still warm, and I wonder why. As I open my eyes, I understand: sleeping next to my bedroll is the largest ostrich I have ever seen. I know how dangerous these animals are. I know that these beasts can kill a grown man, if provoked. I remove the bedroll, carefully making sure not to disturb the bird. As I back away, its head lifts. It slowly rises from its deep sleep and stares at me with large, sad eyes. Then it turns and walks away. â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Luke Hammer (7) 56

Blue Eyes Throughout my entire life, I have questioned my religion and nationality. My parents have always insisted that I was a Jew. My physical features gave me no reason to argue. My hair is the color of a pitch-black tunnel. The thick eyebrows match my hair, as if they were paired together. But, the eyes: they are an odd blue color, as blue as the ocean. This one feature makes me skeptical. I married a fully Jewish woman; therefore, my children are at least half Jewish. They look very similar to their mother, and not one of the three has blue eyes. Dark hair, dark eyebrows, and dark eyes— not even the slightest degree of light. Just dark. Should I believe in every man for himself ? Could I join the Nazis? Should I fight a war to save me from suffering in the concentration camps? I could dye my eyebrows and hair blonde. My blue eyes could save me. They could allow me to be a member of the master race. “What is your religion?” “Christian, sir.” I could lie, immediately becoming part of the Nazi party. 57

“What is your religion?” “Judaism, sir,” I could tell the truth, and immediately face the suffering I want to avoid. Should I believe in every man for himself ? My girls would be at home, in hiding. I want to protect them. I can’t leave them alone, anxious, afraid. Daughters without a father. Wife without a husband. I would rather suffer for my girls —maybe with my girls— than avoid my own suffering. My blue eyes see clearly now.

—Alex Nesi (7)

Afternoon Tea I felt hot tears of frustration building up in my eyes. My head was spinning and there was still so much work to be done. I felt my confidence and focus collapse like an unstable building. Suddenly, I heard my tired complaints explode out of my mouth as though they were exploding out of a volcano. Mom listened to my complaints and she knew how to help me get the stress off my back. She told me to calm down and keep working while she made a hot pot of tea. My eyes drifted away from my work and I sat on the big stool. I was a giant lump of helplessness. My eyes glanced over at the teapot, an overcast blue object with a big sunflower with vibrant yellow petals. It woke me up in an instant. Lost sleep attacked me and made my focus die. Mom carried out some tealeaves, milk, and sugar for the remedy. As the cabinet door opened, I saw all the plates and bowls we owned with blue lining and patterns around a white glaze lined up on the shelf. My mom pulled out a tiny teacup with a matching plate. As three minutes passed, Mom went over to the kettle and poured the boiling water into the pot. I watched as the steam hover over our heads and drift up towards the ceiling like spirits. As Mom set a strainer over my cup, the tea filled it, and she added a little milk to the mixture. The dark, watery liquid turned into a milky brown. She took a spoon and dipped it into the sugar bowl, emerging with a spoonful of sweetness. The sugar lightly fell into the tea, and I watched as she stirred. I had never been keen on tea, and, because of this, I was dreading the first taste. As Mom brought it over to me, I looked at the tea and knew in an instant I would detest it, but I tried it anyway. As soon as the tea reached my lips, I felt the warmth of the tea run through my 59

throat and I tasted a warm, comforting taste. My stress dissolved and my worries ran away. The tea woke my body and focused my brain. It made my head stop spinning with thoughts. Ever since the first sip, drinking tea has become a daily event. At about 4:30 in the afternoon, the fresh scent of tea leaves fills my nose and warms the air around me. The energy I spent during the day is recovered, and I am ready to take on anything. Tea is my armor and comfort against the trials of homework. —Avery Duer (6)

Drawing by Celeste Matte, (8)

My Mamas My mamas used to talk a little something to me. Something like to ignore people’s judgements. To forget the nasty words they say about my mamas. They say a little something called love doesn’t have to be between a man and a woman. Or a dog and a dog. Or a polka dot and a polka dot. They say, why can’t a little doggy fall in love with a cat? Or a polka dot fall in love with a hexagon? Why can’t a woman fall in love with a woman? A little something called prejudice clouds people’s minds, my mamas say, and makes them put their noses in our business. But my mamas have sweet minds and crazy hearts that make me mad when people are mean. ‘Cause A little something called hate means a little something called love means a little something called courage means a little something called my mamas. —Abby Everett (6)

Oblivion Oblivion is inevitable because there will come a time when all of us are dead, when no one will wonder who lived in this era, when no one will question who left a mark on this world, or ask who made it better, and who was too sick to do anything. But sometimes, the marks humans leave are scars— big, ugly scars that never go away. Just when you think you have won the battle, you have lost, because we’re as likely to hurt the universe as we are to help it, and we’re not likely to do either as the world returns to its state of ambiguity, back to circling around the sun, with the stars there to prove that we have made our way around the universe for over forever and not once has anyone seen all of the stars in the sky. They are a haze of bleakness, telling us that there is too much to learn and not enough time in one lifetime. My thoughts are stars I can’t seem to fathom into constellations all jumbled up in one big universe they call a brain. They are just there, and I can’t seem to find enough power to find two that are alike, to make a constellation out of them, and to form them into something bigger, 62

something different, something unique among all of the single stars. Instead, we find imaginary galaxies and constellations, where life is so uncertain, where we are all na誰ve enough to think that this cluster of planets will lead us to something new, something different. And the people who inhabit this fictional galaxy are so oblivious to everything that in some twisted way, it becomes beautiful. It is no longer meaningful to fear oblivion for that reason alone. And when we realize that there are other worlds where there are people not as sick as we are, we realize that ignorance is bliss because not knowing makes the pressure fall away from my chest just the slightest bit and I know I am still living, still waking up every day and still going to sleep every night, eating every meal in the same fashion you do, maybe a little differently, but still living day by day, hoping to be alive tomorrow. Those people who leave that big ugly scar on the world, those people are us and the others that pity us and our sickness because we are the side effect of cancer, and whether we choose to take the path already worn from so many footsteps just like ours, or deviate to one less worn, we should not worry if we left a mark or an ugly scar. 63

Do not fear death, for everyone encounters it. Do not fear oblivion, for that is inevitable. Do not fear fear, because the only thing we have to fear is getting up in the morning and worrying about if we left a mark on this world. Do not fear anything that will chose the path for you. You must not worry about which path you chose, but must trust yourself to make the right choice when it comes time. Remember that you don’t get to choose if you get hurt in this world, but you do have some say in who hurts you. I like my choices. I hope you like yours. —Alexandra L. Wagner (8)

Mount Washington I had heard that this trip was the best, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about climbing the tallest mountain in the Northeast of America. It was 12:30 when the camp group started on the climb. At first, the terrain was wooded, the path strewn with mossy boulders. Many times, streams ran through the cracks between the rocks and the roots. I was hot, sweaty, and out of breath when we reached our first break. My friend Clay whipped out his disposable camera and snapped multiple pictures of the parking lot, which stood out against the sea of pine needles behind us. It confused me, how he took pictures of such ordinary sights, and I knew he would run out of film before the real views. I looked up and saw that the ridges and valleys on the face of the mountain looked purple in the early afternoon glow. A cool wind rushed at us from the top of the mountain. I squinted my eyes, and could just make out the summit, which was shrouded by fog. It looked like a pile of rocks sitting on the mountain. “Let’s go,” I heard my counselor say, and reluctantly, the group continued to climb. Luckily, I was one of the faster hikers in the group, so I had longer breaks, while we had to wait for the stragglers. After multiple wrong turns, and a lot of whining, the group found its pace. Three hours had passed, and I realized I was not as tired as I used to be. In fact, I would have preferred if the group went faster, and if we did not have to wait for the slow kids as often as we did. Soon, Clay and I scrambled up some rocks, and gasped. In front of us, the path disappeared, and the only plants were scraggily bushes and trees. Withered grass waved in the brisk wind, and I was hit with the urge to put on my fleece. I turned around to grab my fleece from my backpack, and almost fainted. Looking behind us, all the trees blended into a single color. We could not make out the parking lot anymore because we were so far away. Clay and a few other campers took out their cameras and snapped a few pictures. The group trudged along through the barren land. On our left, there was a valley full of trees, which were standing still because of the protection of the wind. It amazed me that there could be such a calm atmosphere only a small distance away. We soon came to our next break on a large boulder. The wind was cold, and it smelled as if it were going to rain. Clouds obscured the sun, and I shivered 65

in my navy blue fleece. For the next hour, the camp cabin walked along the trodden path, only half aware of the slight drizzle that came to us from the clouds above. I felt as if four hours ago had been in a different lifetime. Soon, the group reached a rocky slope made up of boulders. The drizzle made them slippery and hard to climb, but we started up anyway. It was not steep; however, it looked as if the boulders would never end. We could not see the summit of the mountain. At first, it was difficult, and I slipped down the huge slope, but soon I developed a steady rhythm in which I scrambled over boulders. Put my foot there, my hand there, and repeat, I constantly told myself. My counselor, Timmy, was going at my pace, and soon, Clay was right beside me. Suddenly, we heard shouts below us and turned around to see a huge bank of fog, swallowing the mountainside in a white substance. “Keep climbing!” Timmy commanded. We vigorously climbed, but it was too late. The fog had swallowed the group below us, and I caught my last glimpse of the sea of trees as we were blinded by the mist. Well, I thought to myself, now I know there is no turning back. The climbing wasn’t much more difficult in the fog, but it seemed like we were not getting closer to the summit. Out of the gloom, a single red tower became visible. I was confused about why there was a smoke stack on the summit of this natural mountain. I stepped onto a flat surface, and looked down to see it was a paved road. Amazed, I walked further to find a parking lot filled with vans, cars, and motorcycles. The sound of talking and engines reached my ears as the restaurant came into view. People were walking around the tourist attraction, taking pictures, eating, and buying MY CAR CLIMBED MT. WASHINGTON bumper stickers. I had envisioned the summit to be a beautiful meadow. I had thought there would be an old wooden sign, which said SUMMIT: MOUNT WASHINGTON, 6283 FT. I was disappointed when I saw a family crowded around the sign, wrestling to touch it. The fog finally cleared as I turned around, blocking out our terrible destination, and took a picture of the green valley that lay spread out in front of me. —Andy McIlvaine (7) 66