Marginal - Volume 5

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Hopkinton High School’s Literary Magazine Volume 5 Spring 2020

Hopkinton High School c/o Marginal 90 Hayden Rowe Street, Hopkinton, Massachusetts, 01748 508.497.9830 marginal@hopkinton.k12.ma.us https://hhsmarginal.wordpress.com

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FICTION 35. Great Wave 48. The Ghosts of Morgraig Castle 65. LOVEDRUNK

Kate Lagassé Mary Billeter* Jack Micallef

POETRY 6. Graphomania Matvey Ortyashov* 14. From Spam to Mars Olivia Gladu* 18. Desolation Within Annalise Curl 20. Love, Savannah Victoria Kray 22. Still Bleeding Marley Sensenderfer 27. Water Jessica Franchock* 28. Paper Buildings Kevin Gu 32. Red Mia Carboni 41. Grey Rabbit Nicholas Brown* 44. A Portrait Joel du Plessis* 46. The Art of War Linnea Pappas-Byers* 56. A Simple Response Would Have Sufficed Angela O’Leary* 59. I Used to Be… Sofia Dunne* 62. Words Like Music Mantra Rajkumar 63. The Ups and Downs of Confidence Simran Kaur* 70. Permanence Salma Bryan* 77. Storm Alisa Stolyar 78. Wasp’s Nest Kate Lagassé 79. Blizzards of Monochrome Kevin Gu ESSAYS 8. We Called them Rehaals Cam Highwater* 24. The Little Things Sara Weissinger 42. My Name Drew Rancatore* 60. Spite Maximillian J. Valentine* 71. Conformity and Roles in American Society Sara Weissinger * indicates student’s first appearance in Marginal

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ARTWORK Cover. Windy City 12. Mirror 19. Life From Death 23. 20th Century Model 26. Magenta Everglades 31. Lens of Time 53. Blood Red 54. Scanner Art 64. Venetian Sunshowers 69. Space is the Place 76. A Perception of Makeup 83. Walk

Linnea Pappas-Byers* Jack Micallef Sara Weissinger Nia Alvarado Rodriguez Jack Micallef Linnea Pappas-Byers Jack Micallef Deeksha Vaidyanathan* Kevin Gu Linnea Pappas-Byers Kate Lagassé Jack Micallef

COMMENTS 5.

13.

34.

55.

84.

From the Advisor Editor’s Choice - Writing Senior-Write-Is Contest Hopkinton Middle School Writing Contest How to Submit, How to Join, and How We Work

* indicates student’s first appearance in Marginal

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MARGINAL 2020

Volume 5

Head Editor Mia Carboni Editors Isabelle O’Rourke Ambrose Rajendran Alisa Stolyar Assistant Editors Ruben Noroian Sreya Ravi Faculty Advisor Mr. Lally

Marginal is the annual literary magazine created by the students of Hopkinton High School. Volume 5 was created using Microsoft Word and a run of 60 copies was printed by Instant Publisher, Memphis, Tennessee. The text is set in Garamond (text) and Marion Regular (titles), and the cover and header font is Verb. The magazine was printed on 80# white high gloss enamel stock, with a perfect-bound cover with UV coating gloss. The cover artwork is by Linnea Pappas-Byers and was created using cut paper, pens, and acrylic paint. The magazine costs $10 and the proceeds fund our printing of the subsequent edition and our contest prizes. One copy of this year’s edition will be given to all students whose work is included.

Profits help pay for the prizes for our annual contests.

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From the Advisor We did it.

The departure of our editing staff last year hit harder than I’d expected, leaving us with a skeleton crew this year. We completely restructured how our afterschool meetings ran. Getting submissions to our contests took a lot more coaxing than usual. The one café that offered to promote our magazine had to shut down and relocate.

And then the catastrophe.

I cannot begin to thank my editing staff enough for the work that they put in to get us to the finish line this year (Was that a marathon metaphor? Apologies.) It’s been an odd year, but you made it feel like it was all running smoothly (Another marathon metaphor?

Oh dear.) To Mia especially, who was an unbelievable help from start to finish – thank you so much. I honestly didn’t think we’d get this done. You made this magazine happen.

I would like to thank the Hopkinton PTA for again providing the funds required to allow us to publish our magazine. Without a selling season this year, your support is doubly appreciated.

Thank you to Ambrose, our lone senior editor, for your dedication to our publication over the past two years. We’ll miss you!

Thank you to the NCTE REALM contest, who awarded our 2019 magazine with an Excellent rating, and to the ASPA competition, which gave us a First Place designation. More importantly, thank you to both organizations for encouraging publications like this one.

Finally, I would like to dedicate this year’s magazine to the Class of 2020, who deserved better than what they got.

Mr. Lally Marginal Advisor

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MATVEY ORTYASHOV

Graphomania 1.

Enticing lyrics. Form and substance. Words forever tend to lose their precious essence and fly away – a flock of silly birds – their freedom lines the road to obsolescence.

Precision is the necessary trait of any poem worthy of remaining in literature, and every author’s fate is to constraint, the sense and form maintaining.

No easy task, but any worthy bard exhibits spirit, spunky perseverance and disregard, no matter that it’s hard, of influence or any interference.

Such paradox – it now, as well as then, creates true poets, artists, simply men.

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2.

A worthy poet, understanding his non-trivial goals and methods, if objective, performs his test, his own analyses of his perspective and his introspective, in other words, his past and present work.

This said, I can so readily envision a quiet person going quite berserk, his self-esteem and poems in collision.

Such observation I can also make of this creation, lovely and aesthetic, well metered: its meaning is opaque it’s strictly rhymes, but barely poetic.

A perfect illustration of a piece of graphomania – pitiful decease…

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CAM HIGHWATER

We Called them Rehaals We called them rehaals. We could have just as easily called them “book stands” instead, but it simply didn’t feel right. We were learning in an Arabic class, so we used the Arabic term. If you were to purchase one today, you might find cheaply manufactured plastic toys that would break if you accidentally leaned on them. But our rehaals were different.

They were comprised of two flat pieces of solid, heavy wood that were interlocked together to create an ‘X.’ When it came time to read, we would fold it open, pulling the legs apart to create a satisfying V shape that would nicely complement the bindings of an open book, keeping it at an angle that would make it easy to read sitting on the floor. They had carvings in them – some of them depicting mosques, or flowers, or a nighttime sky. All of the carvings were most intricately detailed, beautiful work I had ever seen, and when I got bored, I would marvel at them and run my fingers over the wood.

It was all I knew – since I was five years old, I had been attending the class. Every single Saturday and Sunday, mixed in with an occasional Friday night, I would get out of my dad’s car in his reserved parking spot and walk through the glass door of the mas’ajid in Framingham. My eyes would adjust to the bright fluorescent lights and stark white walls that made the large rectangular room feel less like a mosque, less like a place of worship, and more like a sterilized hospital with bookshelves and colored rugs. I would see all of my friends – more than friends, I would call them brothers, faces I had grown up with – and give each of them a deliberate, earnest handshake and a deft “salaam”. We would all sit on our knees, in a single file line with our backs facing the wall, set our Qurans down on a rehaal, open them up and practice.

“Practice.” The word was a part of our daily lives. “Practice” was the term we used to describe what we did, and it was the command that would be given to us time and time again. I used to wonder why we called it that, considering it was undescriptive and broad, but thinking about it now I can’t seem to come up with a word that better

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encompassed our class. We would all sit beside each other in a row and “practice”; we would read, all of us reciting different parts of the Qur’an but keeping our voices at the same volume, using the same tone, swaying gently back and forth to the same rhythm. If one were to listen from a distance, they would just hear a bunch of high-pitched jumbled yelling, but each of us had our own distinct task. The younger kids would just recite out loud straight from the book, reading page after page after page until the day that they could proudly tell their parents that they have read every word, every letter in the Qur’an at least once.

The older of us had a more difficult form of practicing: we would read the same short section of a page, sometimes two, over and over and over again until we had committed it to memory. But not just the sequence of the words, of course – there is a word in the Arabic language, tajweed, which is defined as a “set of rules governing exactly which way a word in the Qur’an should be pronounced.” The delivery of each letter, from the pressure applied when pronouncing a consonant to the difference in stretching a vowel to three fingers versus five fingers, was integral to the recitation. When we thought we had our “lesson” (the passage that we had to memorize) down, we would stand up, walk to the other side of the room and recite to the leader of the mosque, the Imaam.

The Imaam had moved to Massachusetts from India before I was born. He had no English-speaking skills whatsoever; but he had an incredibly close group of friends, including my father. Together they started the mosque in Framingham, electing themselves as the board of directors, and slowly but surely built the Muslim community in the town up to where it is today. The children of the rest of the board and I became the Imaam’s first students in America. We all saw him as a weird sort of religious father figure, not only because he had he known us since we were babies, but he taught us about the Quran and how to read it. He was eccentric, to say the least. As the number of students in the class grew, he hired assistants, past students of his own, to help him on the weekends and listen to the younger students. And while the assistants ordered the kids to sit in a single file line and wait their turn, Imaam Saab (which the students respectfully called him) had a different method for listening to the older students. We would sit around him, not in a circle but in a chaotic throng, and while the outside of the bunch practiced their lesson, he would listen to the three or four of us that were closest to him – at the same time. I could never understand how he did it, where he got that uncanny ability to listen to more than

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one person at a time, let alone four. Sometimes he would keep our books open in front of him, sometimes he wouldn’t, but it never mattered. Whether he was looking or not, whether one of us was louder than the other, whether the entire class was loud enough to drown us out, it never mattered because he knew all 604 pages, all 9060 lines of Arabic in the Quran like the back of his hand. And if any of us made even the slightest mistake – if we failed to round our lips on a certain consonant or didn’t use our throat when pronouncing a “ha” sound – he would catch us, and he would react.

To say that the Imaam had a temper is like calling Queen Elizabeth II “a famous old British lady.” Sometimes, when he would hear a mistake, silence the entire class with one word and begin giving us a lecture about the exact significance of the blunder, which would snowball into an hour-long sermon. Other times, he would get angry, mark an “X” in our book where we made the mistake and scream at us to go and practice more. But other times, he would get really angry. Slaps to the face, whippings with plastic coat hangers, and sometimes even a whack with a rehaal – they weren’t pretty, but it would be lying to say that they were much less than common. I was 13 years when I got my worst. I had been on the same two-page-long lesson for a week, and I was under pressure from both my dad and the Imaam to finish it and move on. It was my second time reading to him that day, and by the time I was done with the first page I had already made two mistakes. At this point, I could tell he was angry – he had fully turned to face me, staring me down and waiting for me to fumble one last time. It didn’t take too long – three lines into the second page and I tripped, missing a letter. He was a rather large man but moved at lightning speed and didn’t give me any time to try and duck. He grabbed my right ear and used it as a handle, yanking my face to an inch from his, and ordered me to repeat myself. I was quaking with fear and could barely bring the words to my lips. Two mistakes this time. His twisted my ear so hard I thought he would rip it clean off and gave me one more chance to redeem myself. All I had to do was say the right words and he would let go. He’d give me a disgusted snort and tell me to continue. The class that had fallen deathly silent, and with everyone was looking at me, I made the same fatal mistake a third time. I was too terrified to pay any mind to the foreign cuss words he screamed at me after that, but as soon as I saw his free hand go for the hilt of my rehaal I knew exactly what was coming. Even so, I barely had time to brace myself.

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SMACK. He hit me harder than I expected, square on the shoulder. I tried to stay as still as possible. It didn’t seem fair to me – I was always told by my parents that Islam is a purely peaceful religion. But this man taught me all about Islam, dare I say more than they did. He embodied Islam for me – so what was going on? Imaam Saab never mentioned anything about peace. This wasn’t peaceful. Why was this happening?

SMACK. The rehaal was incredibly heavy, and my arm was already sore.

But I was determined not to cry. I could feel every single pair of eyes in the room boring holes into me, adding to the humility. Rubbing salt into the wound. He hadn’t stopped screaming. Maybe he was enjoying it?

Maybe, but I wouldn’t let him. This was cruelty, and I wouldn’t let him win. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I bit my lip and winced as he winded up again.

SMACK. The wood made an audible knock against the edge of my= shoulder blade, and the pain had grown exponentially. It was a war now between the Imaam and me, to see how long it would take me to break.

My determination was wearing down fast. I could feel my eyes welling up. No, I told myself. You’re stronger than this.

CRACK. One of the interlocked pieces of wood splintered. The Imaam snapped at me to pick it up and roared at the rest of the class to stop gawking and resume practicing. I began picking up pieces with one hand and putting them in the other, and as I tried unsuccessfully to suppress my heaving sobs, I realized two things: that the rehaal wasn’t made of wood, it was actually just particle board; and I wasn’t as strong as I thought.

We Called them Rehaals was the co-winner of our 2020 Senor-Write-Is Contest

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Mirror

by Jack Micallef (photograph)

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2019-20 Editor’s Choice Award - Writing Beginning this year, Marginal will give an annual Editor’s Choice Award, where our head editor selects an exemplary writing submission and explains what made it stand out.

With a deft control of humor and a tone that is both playful and witty, Olivia Gladu’s From Spam to Mars was far and away the most extraordinary piece of humorous poetry we saw this year. Each word is skillfully chosen, each line crafted to deliver an impressive amount of information about the author whilst maintaining the tone that makes this poem so lovable. Reading the poem feels like having an amicable conversation with Olivia herself, but the writing is electric with both energy and talent. Nothing she writes is “Unintentional…” but rather each stanza works to paint a picture of the author in this especially charming poem. The incredible skill Olivia demonstrates in From Spam to Mars made it a clear choice for this year’s Editor’s Choice award. Incredible job, Olivia!

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OLIVIA GLADU

From Spam to Mars I have a fear of my mother holding fruit.

She threw one at my forehead one time.

Accidentally, of course.

I think.

It was an apple.

It made that crunching sound.

We laughed hysterically.

It was pretty funny.

But I would never admit that.

I ridicule her for it.

Boogie boarding in frigid 60-degree water can be exciting.

I was trampled by a wave once.

The lifeguard had to swim out.

I was covered in scratches.

I jumped back in twenty minutes later.

My protective stepdad was not thrilled.

Halloween is my favorite holiday.

Our family hosted costume parties.

One time, a candle sat too close to a painting.

It caught on fire.

The portrait of a toddler burned.

I was that toddler.

I decided not to take offense.

I forgive… but I don’t forget.

I broke my big toe playing soccer.

I played the next game before realizing it was a painful decision.

I still went to a Bat Mitzvah that night.

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When I was little, I choked on a munchkin, at my sister’s birthday party.

A nearby parent performed the Heimlich.

I lived.

The attention helped relieve the trauma.

At the family Christmas party, I received a box of 1,000 gumballs in the Yankee Swap.

As well as toothpaste.

That same year a golden toilet seat was up for grabs.

I was pulling for that one.

My friend once gave me a pink, heart-covered framed print of a Cindy Sherman painting.

She also gave me Spam.

We watch horror movies together.

I was at a March in D.C. once.

We arrived at 5 am.

We stood until 12 pm.

I desperately needed to use the bathroom.

This became an issue.

I trampled five bystanders to reach the porta-potty.

My first time in NYC at the M&M store, I was nine years old.

Lots of money saved up for the trip.

Most of it spent there.

An unnecessary amount.

I cried.

I despise wasting money.

I never paid for M&Ms again.

Except the peanut ones, those are killer.

I am not a naturally aggressive player,

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unless provoked.

Then, as my Papa liked to say, “fiery, redhead girl” emerges.

Many think I punched a player.

I did not.

It was my elbow.

Unintentional… of course!

A technical was called.

In my defense, she started it.

6th-grade basketball was… eventful.

When I cat sit for a friend, I write notes about Kevin, the cat, each time.

One day I believe he was seeing ghosts.

My friend thinks it was just a lamp.

I’m not so convinced.

My 16th birthday consisted of a flea market, Chic-fil-a, and an abandoned insane asylum trip with my sister.

It was the best birthday I’ve ever had.

I can still recite every moon phase.

Mrs. Huestis dug a hole in my brain and placed this knowledge there forever.

She also sparked my interest in the planets.

If the opportunity arises, I may move to Mars.

Although I’ve never embraced change, I have learned to accept it.

I’ll revise my answer to an indefinite maybe.

Picture this: 2009, winter hats, all year ‘round, and sock monkeys.

I found the sock monkey hat of a lifetime,

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striped in bright, rainbow tones.

I was furious when my friend copied me.

Later, I understood the importance of this absolute betrayal.

I was the trendsetter.

All before the age of ten.

Sometimes, I amaze myself.

My older sister and I seldom fight.

We were on vacation.

We screamed at each other in the hotel room until she cried.

We apologized.

We forgave.

Then we bought gelato.

It was delicious.

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ANNALISE CURL

Desolation Within Thou shall be stunned at how distant one seems.

Neither here nor there you find life amongst.

An abiding wreck is the Sheikh’s regime; Thoughts decanting out from thy lack of trust.

Thou give imposing expressions of love, Yet the locutions fall fictitiously.

Henceforth, morbidly I exist above, Whilst everyone taunts maliciously.

A myriad of lies that rest egregious, Assembled by the hidden malevolent.

Ye emit declarations of aegis, Yet thou stride beyond the evident.

A soloist shall yearn for a duet, However, she is too damaged to try.

The tape failed beneath the shattered cassette, “Je suis là pour toi,” will not qualify.

If thee possess thou ow’st intuition, Rid me of thy abyss of perdition.

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Life From Death

by Sara Weissinger (watercolor, pen, cut paper)

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VICTORIA KRAY

Love, Savannah The palm trees lined the beach, Just like you line my heart, The little wind brushing, Mumbling, I couldn’t hear your talking, Trinket of my honor, Is you giving me your kiss, Little wooden flower, Made of all your fits, Joyous morning arising, Like a box of fox leopard kits, See your little laughs, Blooming over the horizon, Like that of Laomedeia over Neptune.

Take it or leave it, But one is never left, The door barricaded by my envy, And the drinks You’ve never left.

Toying with my little heart, That doll from barren lands, Warm is his little chest I gather, The distant playing of bands.

Summertime rolls around Like a restless pretty lady, Things are hot and still, Except you, like object Hades, Maybe I’m not your Luna, And we’re more like Jupiter Or Neptune, But I’m a Martian on your Earth, And I’ll spread peace and prosper Making instruments out of phosphor,

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And saxophones from bones And drums from real ones, And love triangles with interest.

Flowering fields are new to me, Because all I see was barren.

Now Vegas hills’ hummingbirds sing for me, And I can smell the trees, And see the fields more clearly now, A snowflake in my Saharan air.

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MARLEY SENSENDERFER

Still Bleeding I’ll never understand why I trust you.

Your shining blue eyes seemed so innocent, so alluring.

I wanted to believe that you would never let me down, and you didn’t.

You would never drop me when we flew across the sky on broken wings.

I trust you so completely, so blindly.

You couldn’t deliver the final blow with the sword grasped tightly in your hand.

Nothing could break our bond.

The feeling of the air as it rushed through my lips never felt better than when you were there to hear it.

You would always be there.

I don’t have to worry about you showing up, because I trust you with everything.

I knew, deep down, that you would never plunge your sword into my still-beating heart, bleeding me out slowly until I had nothing left.

My blind eyes had every reason to believe you with no evidence at all.

Hearts intertwined like the thickest ropes, but I never knew that the choking was yet to come.

I didn’t see the daggers behind your eyes.

You never spoke with lashing words that cut me too deep.

The biting sting of acidic tears never touched my skin, and I was completely fine.

I am completely fine, because I trust you.

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20th Century Model

by Nia Alvarado Rodriguez (watercolor painting)

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SARA WEISSINGER

The Little Things I love to capture the little things.

I fill my phone with thousands of beautiful, brief moments.

Golden buttercups smattering a walkway like spilled drops of honey, radiating an air of peace that flits away as fast as it arrives. A decadent meal of the finest instant ramen with eggs and cheese, which I made myself for lunch, like the extraordinary chef I am. Water tinged green in an empty yogurt cup with veins of feathery blue paint bleeding through it as I mix the next color for my art project. A screenshot of a meme about global warming, both for future sharing and also to remind myself of how much the world still needs to change. Dozens of slow-motion videos of skipping rocks with my mom at the lake, the last one showing a whole seven skips before I decided not to push my luck by trying again and possibly ending on a worse note. A solitary deer eating leaves in my backyard, which I, sadly, proceeded to scare away by accident while I tried to get a closer picture.

My room, too, is peppered with these everyday souvenirs. I’m constantly observing and learning, trying to preserve every memory I can to the best of my ability. A carefully organized assortment of delicately handled records with album cover edges worn down from use, myriad pristine vinyls in well-loved sleeves, that was passed down from my mom to me. Dried flowers from dance recitals and holidays past, immortalizing not only their beauty but also the memories and relationships they represent, held in “vases” of recycled glass bottles from all of the exotic sodas I can find. A picture of my shoe after a dusty hike with a smiley face wiped into it, as if on a foggy car window, which I thought was just silly enough to pay for a print of. Old notes and worksheets beneath my bed and at the bottom of my closet “just in case I ever need them again,” despite the judging looks from some friends who are more eager to purge. A bookshelf that overflows into a stack on the floor next to my desk, with books I’ve loved from fourth grade up through high school.

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Any stuffed animal, that I just couldn’t bear to pass down to my little brother, sitting either on my bed or in a tub in the corner of my room. Commemorative coins from historical sites in Paris, all except Notre Dame, which I now sincerely regret. Every letter and note my friends have written me tucked away in a drawer or tacked onto the wall, every quip written on paper or in a text just to be sure it isn’t forgotten. As I compile this collection, I try to preserve the things that bring me joy, capturing little vignettes of myself and my life in the process.

Each seemingly insignificant thing adds up to who I am. Each memento is a snapshot of the moments that matter most to me or a peek into someone else’s story. A pride flag pin bought in Provincetown. A strip of caution tape brimming with doodles and signatures from my art camp friends. I live vicariously through glimpses of other people’s lives, captured moments inviting me to challenge my worldview, influencing my tastes, values, and ambitions.

Vintage postcards from 1917, humanizing estranged eras while giving light to the confusing passage of time. Above all else, however, as I document the daily jokes and adventures I share with my friends, I learn to both cherish each moment with them and to not take myself too seriously. Prom selfies in glittery fedoras. Strings of Polaroid photos hanging like holiday lights, filled with scenes of innocent hijinks and whimsical tomfoolery.

Moments seized in time, beauty in the ordinary.

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Magenta Everglades

by Jack Micallef (photograph)

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JESSICA FRANCHOCK

Water What does it feel like to drown in beauty?

To look up to see lilies like clouds, Some which have bloomed into furious pinks And others who laze as buds until they spill open like ink.

What does it feel like to float in purity?

To flow from truth to lies like a tree’s false reflection.

Warped by the pool, not an exact copy, but something new.

A dark oaky green contrasting deep blue.

What does it feel like to swim in knowledge?

To drift away from the confined pool into open water.

Where lily pads are replaced by seaweed and plastic And the waves and tides reduce noise to a dreary static.

What does it feel like to be pulled under a spell?

To fly and fall with each frog that hops from home to home, As they croak out forgotten melodies, leaping to new heights.

With every jump they resemble birds and nearly take flight.

What does it feel like to sink?

To fall under the turquoise, indigos, baby blues.

To reach a ground veiled by large shadows, Surrounded by rushing water then silent repose.

Water was the runner up of the 2019 Senior-Write-Is Contest.

It is inspired by Claude Monet’s Water Lilies (1906)

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KEVIN GU

Paper Buildings stacks of inked papers pile high up in my messy, wooden home, wobbling from the weight of its unstable foundation paper houses and paper towns loom over me, engulfing the dusty, cracking ground scattered in broken pencil tips and crumpled sticky notes I try to race away from endless paper buildings that collapse and fall and drown me in cuts of blood and ink and stress and a mess of nothing because “quiz next Thursday” “homework due tomorrow” “test on Wednesday” don’t mean anything to me when I can’t seem to to see anything else but the stacks of documents that leer over

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my shaking shoulders I punched a hole in my wall the other day all for an equation that wouldn’t untangle in my tired brain— plaster fell through cardboard walls and my hand came out bleeding, from paper cuts all those paper buildings, constructed high enough to block out the stars— for nothing but a single letter that determines who I am now and who I will become paper cities suffocate me until my lungs tighten from the unknowns of another day and lights that flicker in dark ink stains are from candles that try to make sense of my velvety thoughts and nothing seems to wake me up again from my sleep-deprived mind as paper sheets rain down from the sky,

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blocking me from dreaming about the sights I’ll never get to see.

Paper Buildings was the winner of our 2019 Poetry Contest

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Lens of Time

by Linnea Pappas-Byers (cut paper & collage)

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MIA CARBONI

Red My lips are red, and full Of words held back against clenched teeth Arguments Relinquished with nervous breath.

My lips are soft Except when coated in saltwater and laughter Or in the syrup of birthday pancakes And cheap cotton candy.

Smile Politely, sweet Lips forgive quickly A smooth exterior inside worry sores grow bigger and the scars Bleed Metallic fear takes a sword to my tongue.

Red lips Red with lies, and truth Of beauty, warped By piercing eyes and snickering friends.

Mother, you were right – they are a virtue.

But tell me why Girls use concealer to mute the red to roughen the soft Their words are muted, my thoughts are rough My force of habit has become my softest armor; And yet My Lips Are Still Soft With song and kisses My Lips Are Still Red Red with rage And My Lips Are Still Full Of energy and excitement They will no longer allow my words to hide behind

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These lips that give invitations to speak To parties I’m not invited

Red was the runner-up in our 2019 Poetry Contest

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Class of 2020 Senior-Write-Is Contest Editors’ Notes We were once again very pleased with the interest in our annual Senior-Write-Is Contest – our annual writing contest open only to the graduating class of that year. Over one third of our writing submissions to this year’s magazine came during this contest, and very many of this year’s seniors stood out with their strong works.

This year’s runner up is Jessica Franchock’s Water, a poem based on Claude Monet’s Water Lilies. Her poem introduces a series of introspective rhetorical questions and impressed us with its variety of rich images and its tightly controlled language. Good poetry “makes it new,” and this poem adds some pleasantly unexpected descriptions to some universal ideas.

This year, we awarded two First Place prizes. The first, We Called Them Rehaals (which can be found on page 8) is a haunting memoir about a young man who faces a grueling trial. The control of the pacing and the ability to inject occasional moments of humor into such a heavy piece made this one stand out. The range of emotions in this piece is excellent, and the final moment stays in your mind well after you have turned the page.

Our other co-winner is the story that follows, Kate Lagassé’s Great Wave, a beautifully imagined short story about love and memory. The story is loaded with terrific little moments – an unexpected turn of a phrase, a detail that shows the depths of the protagonist, the clever metaphors – all of it creates a story that really works on so many levels. These pieces were an absolute pleasure to read. We hope you enjoy them as much as we did.

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KATE LAGASSÉ

Great Wave After nine years, nine years of loving and hating you, I am only just learning that my head can remain above water. If I wish, I can swim, or test just how long I can hold my breath by your side.

Large ocean waves grab at the shore like giants trying to pull themselves onto land. In the dark, I cannot see them, but instead, hear their groans as they attempt to grasp solid land in their reaching fingers. My feet are burrowed beneath the sand, and my legs, coated in a thin grainy layer, like powdered sugar. In the cool, damp earth, my toes and fingers are paper-white. Yet, I feel untouched by the cold. I feel unbothered by the sticking sand and its abrasive grasp.

Crashing like glass exploding upon impact, the waves prevent my heavy eyelids from closing. My own personal symphony. I feel calm.

Pressure releases beneath my fingers as sand escapes my clenched fist. I am calm.

Who was I before I met you?

I ask myself this question often these days. Even more frequently as I lie awake, attentive to the colorful shadows passing on my dusty yellow walls from streetlights flickering outside the window.

An animated painting of the night.

Was I always this malleable? Another gold medal that you bit just to observe the marks left behind? I try to convince myself that I was enchanted by your story from the start. Emiline would always laugh as she explained the ways I’ve adopted little pieces of you without knowing. At least, when she first told me, she was laughing. Now, it’s Emmy’s first point of contention when I call her. She’s the friend I can always rely on to be right, even in the moments it infuriates me.

It’s been a while since I’ve called her.

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Before I met you, I hated beer. I know that for sure; I hated beer. It smells like a fraternity’s lingering ghost and tastes like the kiss of each poor decision I made during high school. Not that we were an exception. With time I became attracted to the musty smell, similar to your cologne. Kissing the edge of a long-necked, glass bottle would only bring me trouble, but God, how I loved feeling intoxicated by you.

Before I met you, I used to sleep in the middle of the bed.

Now, it’s comical to me that rolling over is like facing the urge to peek beneath the bedspread for monsters. Almost comical, but not enough, Georgia. Some nights I even dream that upon lifting the duvet, I’ll see your head at my knees with the same devilish, gleaming smile unchanged in my mind. My heart pounds, but with what feeling?

Before I met you, rock and roll cd’s stayed on my shelves.

Too many car rides with my dad, his cheeks, always warm, and his eyes, always twinkling. He’d be listening to Springsteen, the king of Thunder Road himself, and my mind would be anywhere but in the passenger seat of his beaten green truck. The guitars and drums, the lead vocal and pounding beat, how it whispers to me now. The guilty tune of my own conscience.

You could have been a better daughter.

He still loves you.

But will they allow you to come home?

I could silence the thoughts as my head rested on your bare chest. You hummed Runaways like The Killers wrote lullabies. Our anthem. Always the score to our memories together. I loved thinking that I escaped the worst of reality by your side. I was that lucky girl.

The lucky girl you took along on the ride. The lucky girl that caught your eye. How I loved when you started your stories of us with that thought: I caught your eye. Now, you’ve taught me I was wrong, haven’t you? I was never captivating; I was in captivity. Ensnared from the start, I was just the prey you were waiting for to smell the

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trap. Your eyes, a double-barreled gun that all you had to do was aim.

And darling, you were one hell of a shot.

I even loved the way you smelled of cigarettes even though I hate them with every fiber in my being. That was the common theme with you: contradiction. How could I love so much of the things that bring me such disgust?

Exhaling deeply, my eyes search tirelessly for the drifting twinkle of tanker ships. My fingers dance along the edge of the large guard stand I rest my back against, gingerly prying away at the splintered wood. I imagine I’m picking away at myself, trying to peel the parts of me away that you have consumed.

It’s been 9 years.

When we left Michigan, you told me it was what we needed, what I needed. Of course, we’d return, but not until we had ‘explored’ our youth, grasping the fleeting opportunities that promised to escape us in our thirties. It was so appealing when you described this fantasy. Every searching soul ends up in California. A hajj for dreaming and distressed college graduates.

We made it there in a day, and just as fast, I wanted to leave.

You’d shush my pleas of concern, telling me to take a breath. Instead, I’m sure I’ve been holding the same air in my lungs all this time. It was easier than removing from your hand from over my mouth and nose, just as I never stopped you from pulling me into your lap.

You’d whisper into my ear that I’d love it soon. You whispered those words like someday I’d believe them.

I’ll love this at some point, won’t I? I’ll come to love the bustle of eight-lane traffic trying to reach unreachable places in impossible measures of time. I’ll come to love the strip malls and fast-food chains. I’ll come to love the ‘perfect’ weather, so warm that I am not bothered when you leave the bed

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without a goodbye. I’ll come to love the way your film equipment covers the floor in our already-too-small studio apartment and see that it’s more than just the shit I step on trying to reach the bathroom. We never cook. We never clean. “Let’s live without rules”, you told me. No rules made by our parents or our bosses. Neither of our paths would determine our lives. When I woke up this morning, I didn’t want to love this because I was holding onto an image I once loved of you.

After an hour, my eyes have begun to adjust to the dark horizon.

I see the outline of a lighthouse that hasn’t worked in years on the left-side coast and wonder if anyone will ever check up on it. I guess we have to accept that some lights just burn out.

In the waves, I see a pale figure and watch its movements. In my chest, there’s a growing tightness, a burning in my eyes, but I’m anchored to the sand. The moonlight acts like a twisted spotlight on the waves as they push and pull the body like large hands rocking its delicate frame to sleep. I can see her hair, a silver mane in the water that’s coursing in every which way like the smoke used to from your lips. She’s on her back, arms outstretched with her eyes open to the sky.

When I was a kid, I’d lay on my back the same way beneath the stars. I’d imagine that if I stared hard enough at the twinkling specks, I’d see the constellations begin to move. After all, some wonders go unmissed when you don’t pay attention. Pale cheeks and silver-blonde hair, my mom used to tell me I was her little ghost. It’s been far too long since I was my mother’s anything.

Fumbling from my seat, the sand covers my long legs. I should be asleep. Maybe I am. This would be the most normal dream I’ve had in quite some time. I finger the collar of your crew-neck sweatshirt and pull it over my head, catching my ears along the way. My skin immediately contracts at the cold air’s touch and shivers at the thought that you’ve ever seen me this way. I step out of my cotton shorts and breathe in.

Humming, I realize no one can hear me.

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My lips part and exhale lyrics as if I’m whispering a secret to the ocean.

“In my darkness, I remember” Each step feels like I am somewhere I shouldn’t be, doing something I shouldn’t be doing, but I know it’s right.

“Momma’s words reoccur to me,” The little ghost is caught on the surface of the waves.

“Surrender to the good lord,” At the edge of the waterline, the sand turns frigid. My toes no longer penetrate the surface but instead imprint the ground. My mark on this state, soon to be washed away by the current. My exposed skin shakes.

“And he’ll wipe your slate clean” I wince at the first clutch of icy hands around my ankles. One deep breath and I run. Charging into the water, my lungs fill shallowly with short breaths. I grimace and wave my arms as I wade past my knees, my hips, and the leap forward, throwing my body into the frozen waves. The water bites at my snow-white skin, stinging as it steals what remaining heat is left in my body. As my chest pulses like the tick of a clock, I grow less and less bothered by the cold as my lungs begin to burn and alight the air stuck in my lungs. I could stay here. I could be the girl that got away. The girl that made her own escape. The girl that doesn’t have to see you, or face you, in a world, we twisted and molded until it suffocated us. I am not your girl. And I will not be someone that only lived to be your girl. Your hand around my mouth and fingers pinching my nose, release. Finally, the breath I’ve been holding for so long, the Michigan air I last filled my lungs with, exhales.

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Gasping, my eyes are wide as I break the surface. The pound of my heart, a hand slapping against my chest. “Surrender to the good lord,” My voice is shaky but louder.

“And he’ll wipe your slate clean” As I outstretch my arms, my head speaking to the sky, I think I see a pale arm reaching from the waves towards me. As I reach back, my fingers break the water’s surface and I know, for once in a long time, it’s just me. Cold water has never felt better.

Great Wave was the co-winner of the 2020 Senior-Write-Is Contest. It features lyrics from River by Leon Bridges et. al.

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NICHOLAS BROWN

Grey Rabbit The pavement shouts a curt reply Sneakers slam a lullaby As I push on up the hill Pounding footwork, common drill As I round the very top I see the fateful final spot There he scurried, there he played Till his body then was flayed Fur was grey, rich and bold Now his only soul is sold Poor chap, a sorry sight Rubber murder, final fright

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DREW RANCATORE

My Name The name’s Rancatore. Drew Rancatore. A five-syllable name.

Thirteen letters. It’s a name that substitute teachers stutter at, but don’t butcher. I like my name, all the way from the first d to the last e. My first name is not Andrew, which is a common misconception.

It’s simply Drew. In reality, my name is a past tense verb that means: “to produce by making lines and marks, especially with a pen or pencil, on paper,” as in “I drew a picture.” If my name was Andrew, I wouldn’t be able to claim that you can associate it with art class. As for my last name, its dictionary search produces no results. It would sound odd to say, “I Rancatore a picture.” Whenever someone asks how I spell my last name, I tell them I break it up into three words.

“Ran,” “Cat,” and “Ore.” Often times others pronounce it this way.

It is actually said as “Ran-Cat-Or-E” This is just a minor issue. I would be more alarmed if someone pronounced my name “Drew Jones.”

The name Drew is of English origin. Its non-dictionary meaning is “manly,” which is fitting when you think about it, considering I am a male. But my name can also be a girl’s name, which makes me wonder what my reaction would be if I were a girl and my name meant the literal opposite of my gender. I am the first (and greatest) Drew in my family, dating back several generations. My parents had several names planned out for me when I was born but decided on Drew for a very special reason: they liked it. When you think of a Drew, the actress Drew Barrymore might come to mind.

Or perhaps New Orleans Saints QB Drew Brees. Or maybe after reading this paper to this point, the first one you think of is Drew Rancatore. Although I may not be on the same level of fame as the aforementioned Drews, I’m on their level when it comes to alphabetical orders by first name.

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My name is like a rock. Drew. It’s hard and compact, almost as if you can feel the “An” trying to burst out its left side. You can stumble over scattered forms of it in your backyard and try with all your might to crack it in half, but you simply can’t. “Dr” and “Ew” are not names. Rancatore seems to have a flowing aspect to it, like a river. After all, people do skip rocks across rivers. According to the internet, there is only one person in the United States with the name of Drew Rancatore. I happen to be that person. So now that you’ve met the one and only, you could make a picture of what you think I look like. You know, put a face to the name. I could even talk you through it.

Or perhaps you already Drew it.

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JOEL du PLESSIS

A Portrait Fluttering leaves, skin-bare trees A reflection of a man shows not what he sees A mirror of his form shows him as much as it would velvet’s touch.

His feelings hidden, his opinion not enough To bring him confidence nor companion’s touch.

He’d shed tear after tear and still none would hear him His heart’s rhetoric would become his mind’s and grant him burdens and burdens.

But he cannot put word and thought into action, He cannot roll his tape when they say action He feels as if there is still a leash that he is on And his righted wrongs, will remain forever wrong.

A spark lights a fire in him, a new curiosity His focus lies on something new, but not in its entirety His life suddenly has meaning, but in reality, it has renewed its meaning His life will reach towering new heights, but also fall to great new depths Because with all the life in the world, there is still death.

As this life falls to death, death gives way to more life, Those fluttering leaves will fall and become crackling leaves The trees will be barer, and seemingly barer of life But leaves that fall in the autumn are replaced by flowers in the spring The dry trees are refreshed and filled with birds full of life that will continuously sing.

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With all those seasons that change, becoming years The watering eyes drying from the past tears, He must decide On how to find life; Shall he spend subsequent seasons wallowing in, and lamenting his pain, Or shall he open his mouth and ask for help?

All that we know is that he stands alone in the rain, His tears hidden by his surrounding sadness, His struggles merely camouflaged by the world’s sadness.

He stands without protection from the elements.

Without a jacket, nor under a canopy.

He stands like a skin-bare tree, His feelings his fluttering leaves in the wind.

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LINNEA PAPPAS-BYERS

The Art of War They will give you the helmet And the camouflage pants They will drill you and kill you and send back a star But they will not give the food Or the college Or the shelter Or the hospital bed Or even the wages to pay for it Unless you kill for it Die for it Give up your peace of mind for it But there is plenty of food to go around Plenty of empty homes Plenty of space in schools and hospitals But that food, that, space is not for us It sits on the tall shelf of wealth and power, Held in the hands of the same men Who throw it away and leave it empty With excuses of supply and demand and exponential growth Whose factories make the guns and the bombs and the tanks Whose pockets fill with hundred-dollar bills Every time one of us is starved into the boots and the helmet And sent off to shoot At people like us who were chained to their guns By poverty and draft

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And the cities and forests burn all around us And the innocent’s homes are bombed While the pigs will sit by in their fancy silk sheets With their false diagnoses costing a pretty penny Saying “How noble it is, the art of war, How glorious it will be for our nation, How proud we are of our little toy soldiers God bless God bless God bless.”

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MARY BILLETER

The Ghosts of Morgraig Castle The young woman stared into the castle ruins, not quite believing what she was hearing. True, she had heard the stories, rumors, and legends of the old stone castle on the grassy highlands, but she had never imagined it could be real. She had never believed it could be real.

Wind blew through her hair, pushing her towards the low stone wall.

She knew she should be worried, as a young woman alone where no one would think to look for her should she encounter trouble, but she only felt a strange sense of curiosity and calm.

Something about the ruins felt right, like a rope was pulling her forwards into what had once been a beautiful castle.

The tranquil melody came again, floating on the wind to her ears. It was hauntingly beautiful, but she couldn’t see where it was coming from. No one was on the moor but her and the wind and the crumbling old stones.

It was the music that set these ruins apart from the other castles scattered across the country. It was the music that sparked the stories, the rumors, the legends. The stories claimed that the music played itself. The rumors claimed the music came from the crazy old man that lived at the edge of town – that he was secretly a musical genius who practiced near the ruins so no one would hear him. The legends claimed that years ago, a fairy had cursed the royal organist to play forever.

Regardless, the organ played, somewhere out of sight.

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“Hello?” The woman called, not expecting a response. The organ player never responded to anyone. Somewhere in the ruins, the music stopped.

Silence.

She sighed. She should have known better than to think she would be able to solve the mystery of the ruins.

“Hello.”

The young woman jumped, looking around wildly for the owner of the voice that had spoken. A faint gasp came from somewhere beside her, but she couldn’t see anyone there.

“Can you… hear me?” The voice asked, no louder than a whisper.

The woman stretched out her hand, looking for someone invisible. Surely, she would at least be able to feel the person. She couldn’t have gone crazy. She had heard a voice, and voices must come from somewhere.

“Where are you?” She muttered under her breath.

“You’ll never be able to see, but I am here, I promise. I am a ghost. My life has long been forgotten by everyone, even me. I am the one who plays the Forgotten Organ, found only in the memory of this castle, Morgraig Castle. It is all I know of the world.” exist.”

“You’re a ghost? But… that’s impossible. Ghosts don’t “Either I exist or you’re talking to yourself.”

“If you’re real… what’s your name?”

Wind rushed past the woman’s left ear, and another, deeper voice replied, “None of us remember our names. All we remember is

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the castle. We wish we could take care of it the way we once could. If it fades until even the stones are no more than rubble, the only thing tethering us to mortal memory will be gone.”

“Why don’t you ask the living for help?”

More wind swirled around the young woman, snickering.

“If we could, dear, we would.” The air seemed to grow melancholy as the organist replied, “They hear my music, but they don’t hear me.”

A third ghost cut in, “You are the first living being to hear our voices since the castle was destroyed long ago. You are our only chance at being remembered. Please, please help us. We want to remember who we are. We want our stories to be told.”

To any outsiders, the scene must have looked crazy. They couldn’t hear the voices of hundreds of ghosts across the moor.

But the young woman could.

The next day, she returned.

She bought the land upon which the castle had once stood.

For years, the young woman returned, slowly rebuilding the castle with the help of her ghosts. As the castle returned to its former glory, so did the memories of the ghosts. Often, the young woman could be found sitting in the green grass with her eyes closed, listening to the stories they told of the people who had come and gone in the town far below.

Still, the ghosts couldn’t remember who they were.

When she came home at night, people whispered that she had gone insane. They heard her stories of ghosts on the moor and deemed her unsuitable to be around.

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Still, many realized she was wise beyond her years. Children would listen to her stories with wide eyes and bright smiles until their parents pulled them away.

Her project expanded. Curious travelers from miles away came to see the reconstruction of the ancient castle. Some donated to keep the project going, especially as the castle grew closer to completion.

Though the townspeople ignored her at first, there came a time where they couldn’t stand back and watch.

“Do you want any help, miss?” One child asked, the first to approach the young woman.

“That would be very nice. Do you know what would really help? Finding records of those who used to live here. Can you do that for me?”

The child tilted his head and asked, “Why do you need that?”

She smiled and explained, “They’re my friends, and they want people to remember them. The best we can do to help them is to spread their stories.”

The child ran off and convinced all of his friends to help him learn about the old castle ruins. From that point onwards, the desire to learn about the old castle spread like wildfire through the town.

The young woman watched it with a growing smile, until, finally, the castle had been completely restored.

Not long after the castle had been completed, the young woman moved into the castle. She dressed as though she had lived in the castle before it had ever been destroyed and used her manner of dressing to teach those around her what she had learned about the castle and its history. Everyone in the little town called her the Lady of Morgraig Castle.

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School students came to the castle on field trips. They looked around with awe written on their faces. Sometimes, the Forgotten Organ serenaded the students, to their eternal delight.

The young woman was often quoted, saying, “If we forget the past, it may as well have never happened. There are lessons to learn from the past that should never be swept under the rug. There are people out there who are waiting for their stories to be told. We must remember the past.”

The young woman published all the information the town found out about the original castle, and all the stories the ghosts had told her in a beautiful, leather-bound book. The books sold in countries all over the world.

One copy, she kept for herself. She wrapped it in golden paper and carried the package through the main entrance, up the grand staircase, down a drafty corridor, and into a large hall with an organ at the end. The keys moved on their own, playing the same haunting melody that the organist had played when the young woman first heard the ghosts of the castle.

She gently placed the gold-wrapped book next to the organ and left the room, a smile tugging at her lips.

The organ stopped. Gusts of wind rushed into the room; hundreds of ghosts crowded around the glittering gift.

The organist read the tag aloud to the crowd of ghosts, “To the first ghost I ever met, the player of the Forgotten Organ, Lady Gertrude of Wales. I know your name. I hear you. You are remembered and will never again be forgotten.”

The Ghosts of Morgraig Castle was the winner of the 2019 Fiction Contest

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Blood Red

by Jack Micallef (photograph)

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Scanner Art

by Deeksha Vaidyanathan (digital)

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2020 Middle School Writing Contest We are ecstatic to introduce for the first time the Hopkinton Middle School writing contest and welcome two very talented middle school students to the pages of our publication. The contest this year dealt with the complicated and ever-fluid subject of identity. The invaluable perspective on the identity of youth shone through in all of our submissions. This year’s second-place winner is Sofia Dunne’s I Used to Be…, a sentimental and inspiring tribute to the triumphs attributed to an evolving identity. In this poem, Dunne uses touching language as she reveals her path to becoming who she is today: responsible, funny and enthusiastic.

This year’s first-place winner was Angela O’Leary for her poem A Simple Response Would Have Sufficed. This was an introspective rendition of a coming of age story. O’Leary writes with impressively natural inflection coupled with skillful placement of imagery, relaying complicated emotions in a touching yet compelling way. A powerful rhythm is achieved through rhyme and repetition. The poem is potent, and we cannot wait to see more from Angela in the coming years.

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ANGELA O’LEARY

A Simple Response Would Have Sufficed I thought it to be, as simple as it was said Nothing to go wrong Nothing to go red If only I had known I wouldn’t have made a fool I wouldn’t have been deserted by those I thought I knew Nothing would happen No, I wouldn’t take the bait I wouldn’t cry I wouldn’t faint If only I had known She wouldn’t have seen He wouldn’t have heard They wouldn’t all mock me They wouldn’t all stare I wouldn’t have to change To fear, to leave I would just be me Without all the grief I’ve made my mistakes I shouldn’t have tried I shouldn’t have said I should have simply tried to pretend If I never did say Then everything would be the same And I wouldn’t be sitting here wondering If it was all a mistake

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A mistake that edged on and on Causing the loss of all my friends The loss of me I am lost Hoping to be found By the one I still love The one who broke me down Everything happens for a reason As I used to say Even if it hurts me Even if it hurts It can’t be undone Even if I could choose I wouldn’t undo Because this is where I am This is who I’m supposed to be If only I had known It would be alright It wouldn’t be the same But it would be fine It isn’t my ideal future I imagined with the one I loved But they didn’t feel the same Not the same Now I look back At how they all pushed me away Even him Even her I wonder if it was truly them Or if it was forced By someone they thought Cared for them

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Now I wish I could talk to them The one who broke me down Tell them I wasn’t mad Ask them how they felt Alas, I, like others, always thought of myself first No matter what you say No matter what you feel Always you first Then them But If I never did say Then everything would be the same And I wouldn’t be sitting here wondering If it was simply fate

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SOFIA DUNNE

I Used to Be‌ I used to be a shy little girl, But now I am a responsible Funny, and enthusiastic girl.

Instead of looking down when I meet someone I look them In the eyes and greet them.

Instead of talking in a quiet Voice, I speak in a good volume.

I am no longer a shy little girl.

I am a responsible, funny, and Enthusiastic girl.

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MAXIMILLIAN J. VALENTINE

Spite Every person has both an angel and a devil on their shoulders.

The form that each one takes depends on the individual.

In your case, they take the form of Spite and Anxiety.

Your life is sunshine-filled, unpredictable, wild. You are young, exploring the world. Seeing for yourself the life you know so well from television and picture books. All children fall, your mother reassures.

They always get back up. A phrase your father repeats. He wants you to believe it, to become it. You can do anything you put your mind to.

Your parents’ advice is something you follow daily. Never let someone tell you what you can or cannot do. Defiance is your flame. Spite, your motivation. Something that strengthens as you grow, learn; thrive. But it is not negative; it is the voice that defies. When someone asserts that you are incapable of something, Spite contradicts: Look! Here I am! I can do it, and I have!

This voice is your closest friend.

Through elementary school, your hometown. Your teachers claim you are the problem and do nothing to help. You have never been the problem; accomplishments state otherwise, passion prevails.

Through middle school, a charter. You are introduced to the internet, cliques that try to mold you into someone you are not. Never let them change who you are; your happiness is harmless; they are not worth your time.

And into high school, home again. The real world begins to creep in. Diagnosed with depression during freshman year, returning to prior friendships is difficult. Almost a forgotten memory, friends never think of inviting you to events. You spend this year alone. Spite’s voice is still there, albeit quiet. Chronic anxiety is not something you have officially been diagnosed with, yet it is something you’re certain you

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have. It is to be acknowledged, not ignored, as much as you want to at times. Anxiety sits on one shoulder, Spite on the other; the two will always clash.

Anxiety grows with the pressure of grades, classes, homework, and tests. Paired with Procrastination, it seems nothing will ever get done. You manage, with the help of parents, friends, and Spite. Still, Anxiety has burrowed into your head, slowly but surely.

It starts in your toes, a tapping foot, then crawls up to your knee. Your entire leg bounces now. It continues up your thigh and into your stomach, coiling inside. A piece of it is left behind, you can feel it blistering, as the rest moves up your torso, through your throat and out of your mouth in the form of harsh words.

Spite keeps your grades up; Anxiety keeps you rooted to the spot during junior year. College is in two years’ time. Memories of horror-story-like experiences of older friends are brought to the surface.

Fear of the future. Sexism, racism, ableism, classism. Factors that terrify you because you worry you cannot make a change. You are afraid that you will not survive in the society that older generations have built.

Again, Spite triumphs; rendering Anxiety nearly nonverbal. You have survived junior year. With the help of your teachers, something you never had in elementary school. With supportive friends, something middle school never quite accomplished. You do not yet know what you want to do next, but you are determined. To help others and yourself, to do what you enjoy.

My future is mine and mine alone. Even with Anxiety whispering in my ear, I know that the voice of Spite will lift me up and past what I have already done. Spite is confidence; I embrace it fully in my work. There are strong negative connotations with a word such as Spite, but the strength of such a word is a necessary descriptor of my abilities. Both the harsh sound of spite and the meaning I claim for it are a strong blow against those who denounce my worth. And I will never give it up; not for anyone.

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MANTRA RAJKUMAR

Words Like Music Foreheads kiss the dusty floor Bare feet caress the stone steps Beaming bright eyes a thousand fires in the dark light the curved oil lamps of each work-worn and weary heart.

A voice ripples through the room, warm as golden honey and deep as the roaring ocean.

In a strange tongue, it chants words that spiral around me like smoke and I breathe them in filling my soul with their mystery.

They ebb and flow, like water lapping a riverbed.

Rise and fall, like a breathing body.

I do not understand what they mean, but the words are like music, and you do not need to understand the words of a song to know its meaning.

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SIMRAN KAUR

The Ups and Downs of Confidence I long to be a sunflower.

You’ll never hear me say I am loved.

I know in my heart The sunflowers are always leaning towards the bright, infinite sun.

And that…

My emotions are my own suffering; not to be shared with anyone.

I refuse to believe I am valuable.

I am ashamed to hold my stem and petals down low, deep into my roots.

No longer can I say I belong in a florists’ garden. (read bottom to top)

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Venetian Sunshowers

by Kevin Gu (digital)

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JACK MICALLEF

LOVEDRUNK I’ve been drinking all night. I don’t feel drunk, but my fingers keep messing with the radio. I want to just get back home to sleep but the monotony red and green lights shining from above keep distracting me. The never-ending white dashes zip past me in perfectly spaced out increments. I wish life was forgiving. I wish I could hit the magical ‘undo button’ and remove the past that haunts my present. But there’s no going back in life, and hindsight is crystal clear. Just got to learn to live with the shit, I guess. My cup is filled to the brim and I have to sip it before I turn, or I’ll spill it all over my shirt. My hands are not too steady, and I keep messing with the radio. But I don’t feel drunk. I don’t feel anything.

Damn, this drink is good. I continue to mess with the radio.

‘And I swear that I don’t have a gun, no I don't have a gun…’ Come As You Are, Nirvana. What an awesome song. The whole album is awesome, one of the few that I can play through and enjoy every song. Such emotion. The pain in his voice is all I can feel right now. I’m not listening to the music or the rhythm, no. I’m not listening to the words; I’m listening to a cry for help. If only you didn’t have that shotgun, Kurt. What a waste.

My phone rings at the best part. How typical. Ignore. My thoughts are scattered like the buckshot throughout his brain. Orange juice, 18 years old, Vietnam War, girlfriend, Kermit the Frog, breakup, Stranger Things, Layla. Thoughts of her always crowding my head. Why are thoughts of her always crowding my head? I can’t think like this. I gave in.

The weather reminded me of her. Of us. How we used to stay out all night with no destination in sight. We had an unfathomable love for each other.

She was warm and golden like the summer sun. She was the flowers’ buds beginning to bloom at the tip of the season. She was the distant memory of winter and my escape from the cold. She was mine. And just like the weather changes, she did too. Why? The sun’s rays stopped gently shining down onto my face, they were blocked by the smog of cumulonimbus clouds circling above. I am now

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engulfed in the midnight blue light that illuminates my face. I am blue.

It starts to rain outside. I roll down the window. The cool breeze stroking my long mahogany-colored hair. The brisk raindrops caressing my face, falling onto my lips. The wind calling out my name, like she used when I was making love to her. I can’t resist, but I have to. The pitter-patter of water droplets rain down onto my windshield like a symphony of snare drums. I turn up the volume. I drown out the outside world, I sink into my worn-out leather seat, and I immerse myself into the soft strumming of guitars playing on the radio.

My phone rings again. I take a glance at who it is. It’s her, Layla. Should I answer? No, I don’t need her anymore. I’m independent. I’ve moved on. But what if it’s urgent? I have to act somehow, right? What if something really bad happened to her? I pick up. An instant surge of regret flows through me as I tap accept.

“Hey.” “Hey.” “Can you talk?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Peter, I’m sorry about what I’ve put you through, I sincerely am, but I need some space. These last couple of days, our relationsh– friendship has gotten a bit unhealthy and I think tone. She spoke with such superiority, as if she was my mother, enraged at me for not taking out the trash. She made me feel like nothing, like it was her world and I was merely just living in it. The daggers in her voice pierced me, a sudden pain radiates from my chest. She didn’t even realize how much her or her words meant to me. She throws them around like they’re nothing, and they’re not.

Earlier tonight, when I saw you at the party, while I felt awful for how you were feeling and looked, you said a few things that made me pretty uncomfortable. If you’re feeling lonely and confused, just talk to someone, anyone, just not me.

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She was at the party? I didn’t even see her. She was probably upstairs with some dude who doesn’t even know the first thing about her. They were probably saying some sappy shit about how they’re soulmates or some bullshit stuff about horoscopes while sharing a drink. The fella probably got a little taste of her too for all I know. She wouldn’t do that though. That’s not like her. She likes me too much to move on that fast.

The truth is, Peter, I don’t like you anymore. It’s over…

Please don’t drive by my house to see me. Try to maybe use some of your free time for schoolwork, I’ve got work to get done and I’m very busy after school. Please don’t tell me how you want to cuddle me, kiss me, or anything else about my body. I know you have feelings for me, but this has been very difficult for me since I cannot give you this. You have to stop making this harder for me than it has to be, I am in another relationship with someone else… I know you’re unhappy, but what I do alone with Tommy…

Tommy? Why the hell Tommy? Why him of all people? He’s the sort of guy who values looks over personality. All he ever wants to do is hook up with someone.

He probably took you to his room and showed you things you would need a private browser to find. Get your head out of the gutter, Layla. You’re better than this. … is my business. I haven’t been dishonest or mean about it.

I can’t control how I feel, and you’ve got to understand and respect that. I don’t mind hanging out and talking with you, but some of these behaviors need to stop. Please consider what I’ve said… I would really hate to see something happen to our friendship but if you need to be angry, or cut ties with me, I would rather you do this than we continue acting this way with each other. I’m sorry this had to be over the phone rather than in person. Let me know if you have any questions.” …

“Hello? Peter? Do you want to ask me anything?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure, you don’t sound it?”

“Yep, sure, I’m fine.”

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“Alright then. Goodnight Peter.”

“Goodbye Layla.”

I hang up. I scream. I never thought that she would be one to break up with someone over the phone. That tore me up inside. She tore me up inside. I will never be able to put myself back together. I don’t want her subtle whisper to soothe me. I don’t want her hand to gently rub up beside mine. I don’t want her sweet scent of Chanel perfume to cloud my head. I don’t want her soft lips to press against me. I don’t want her perfect ocean-blue eyes to look into mine. Never again. Not anymore.

My eyes well up, they begin to water. A tear runs down my cheek. My vision is nothing but a blur. I tilt back my cup to take a sip of my drink. THUD. THUD. My drink spills onto the already tearsoaked shirt that I last wore when we had our first kiss. What was that?

Did I hit something? Whatever. I had to go. Places to be and drinks to be drunk.

I just kept driving. I didn’t look back. I don’t know what happened. I saw a figure, moving, flailing its arms. Maybe it was a deer. Flashes of red and blue lights reflected in the rearview mirror. The noise grew as the lights got closer. My hands are not too steady, and I keep messing with the radio. But I don’t feel drunk. I don’t feel anything. There’s no going back. ‘Everything's my fault, I take all the blame, aqua seafoam shame, sunburn, freezer burn, choking on the ashes of her…’ All Apologies.

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Space is the Place

by Linnea Pappas-Byers (pen & collage)

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SALMA BRYAN

Permanence I am in love with the permanence of the pen a flourish of dark ink a smudged word from an over-eager Reader Hounding my work like a Bloodthirsty monster Chasing the strong scent of my words The colors themselves vary Bringing with them an aura Of difference Setting the ether of thoughts in stone On the bright white of the unexpected page Never to be undone By the eraser of time

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SARA WESSINGER

Conformity and Roles in American Society As much as many statues, poems, and nationalist ideals may try to tell us otherwise, America is, and has been throughout its history, defined by conformity. Conformity can mean women’s choice to wear pants in the workplace to solidify their respectability and empowerment by conforming to a traditionally male style of dress, while men who wear skirts or other “feminine” clothing to express themselves are emasculated and viewed as weak or lesser by many. It can mean immigrants and their children forgetting their traditions, distancing themselves from their culture to avoid the sideeyed glances from those who fear that which is different, it can mean crowds screaming that “in America, we speak English,” despite the fact that we have no one official language. For people of color, especially African Americans, it can mean concealers that are always a number of shades too light for you, or mainstream hair salons that can’t cater to your hair type, or in the past it could mean advertisements for creams that were meant to lighten your skin, or relaxers that were meant to remove any and all texture and natural beauty from your hair. It can be looking up to white characters and celebrities in the media and marveling at their “beauty,” it can mean wishing for blue eyes.

The idea of assimilation and the assumption of the role given to you in the face of an oppressive society is one that drives many of the events of Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye, although ideals of conformity affect many characters differently. As seen in society, many of the pressures that these characters face are due to their race, pressures that are further exacerbated by their gender through male struggles with toxic ideals of masculinity and, similarly, female struggles with their femininity.

As reflected in American society at large, many women in this text face pressure to conform to ideas of motherhood, beauty, and housewifery, a pressure which is further compounded by that which Volume 5 – 2020

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derives from their race. When confronted with the societal expectation of loving white dolls as her own children or idolizing white celebrities like Shirley Temple, Claudia initially rejects these suggestions. She then speaks of how she “learned much later to worship her, just as I learned to delight in cleanliness, knowing, even as I learned, that the change was adjustment without improvement,” describing her process of changing from loving herself as she was to assimilating into the role society offered her. This adjustment, to the adjuster’s detriment, is one endemic to many characters in the book, including Geraldine and Mrs. Breedlove. Both of these characters latch onto organization and housework in response to the roles presented to them in accordance with their gender, and distance themselves from their blackness, or “funkiness” as Geraldine refers to it, in their desire to seem as white, or socially desirable, as they possibly can.

For Mrs. Breedlove, she throws herself into her job as a servant to a white household, and begins to resent her non-white family as she revels in the fragile “power” she is granted by her job, a power which is simply due to her association with white people and not actually belonging to her. Her consumption of mass media, as well, leads her to compare the people in her life to fictional, white, rich characters, and leads to her finding that “white men [take] such good care of they women” and that seeing them “ made coming home hard, and looking at Cholly hard” (Morrison 123). In her adjustment to the societal pressures she faces, she learns to see herself and her children as “ugly,” internalizing the hate that’s directed at her and thereby helping society at large to keep her in her place.

Meanwhile, characters like Geraldine, with her boiled sheets and “perfect” household, strove with all of their might to be the perfect housewife, trying to get as close to whiteness as possible to do so. This internalized racism that drives much of Geraldine’s actions and aspirations makes its greatest appearance through her fear of Pecola as the girl “she had seen... all of her life” (Morrison 91), and also expresses itself through her providing for her son in many physical ways but never emotionally. In many ways, she uses her cat

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as the one source of humanity and happiness in her life and fills the role of a mother but not of a true mom in her son’s life.

In men throughout the text, oppressive social systems manifest in the oppressed a self-destructive mixture of toxic masculinity and internalized racism. In some ways, these men are more fortunate than their female counterparts, because at first it seems as though race is the only marginalizing factor in their lives, but it soon becomes evident that where women’s issues arose from gender issues compounded by their race, men’s issues arise mainly from their race, which is then compounded by their gender.

Characters like Cholly reflect the societal pressures of not being “wanted” by society, and of being viewed as lesser for their race, which is then made worse by the expectations on him to be powerful and protective. His initial societal failure is that he wasn’t born white and that he was born to parents who didn’t want him. Blue, his father figure, then gives him purpose through “the women Blue had had, and the fights he’d been in when he was younger, about how he talked his way out of getting lynched once, and how others hadn’t” (Morrison 134). These expectations, those of strength and masculine ideas of success, are incredibly damaging to Cholly especially when he is then humiliated by white men and unable to protect Darlene, because he realizes he has no emotional support whatsoever from the people who matter most to him. Blue, due to his tales of his own heroism and strength, doesn’t offer any chance for emotional vulnerability for Cholly, and when Cholly finally finds his true father, he’s cast out yet again by his last remaining family in favor of his father’s gambling habits, preventing him from reconnecting and growing and overcoming the emotional damage he’s accumulated throughout his life. Without a support network of any kind, Cholly turns to a perverted sense of freedom in which he takes what he wants, hurts who he wants, “loves” who he wants, and generally turns outward the abuse, distaste, and hardship he’s faced throughout his life, taking out his misfortune on others and masking the pain through his alcoholism. Even once he “settles down” with Mrs. Breedlove and his children, he continues on a destructive, irresponsible path, raping his wife and eventually his own daughter, fighting constantly with his wife, and instilling yet another generation of unhealthy coping mechanisms in his son, Sammy, who has a habit

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of running away from his problems. Cholly’s life, just as his son’s and his father’s before him, is one of violence and escapism, one without responsibility, “but to whom can [they] be responsible, and why should [they] be, when you refuse to see me?” (Ellison 10). Because these characters are “unseen” by society, their futile attempts to be heard are unsuccessful, and they fail to realize that while they may not be responsible to society at large, they still owe a responsibility to their family and those they care about. Cholly’s adherence to detrimental masculine ideals in an attempt to conform ends up hurting and pushing away those who are actually capable of listening.

In his focus on conforming to masculine ideals of protection, Cholly hyper-fixates on an idea of impotence that stemmed from his oppression by white men and does anything he can to recover from that “humiliation”. In his effort to assimilate into the toxic, white, patriarchal ideals, he destroys any chance he has of healing, and of finding love and support in the people who could best understand him. In his case, “adjustment without improvement” is more of an adjustment to his immediate detriment. His feeling of impotence is a manifestation of his helplessness in the face of a society that already despises him for his race, a feeling which is then worsened by the fact that he doesn’t live up to masculine standards either, through his failure in providing for both monetary stability and the protection of those he loves. His conformity is to the negative stereotypes he sees himself portrayed as, from his idolization of the Devil early in his life to the implied murder in his young adulthood, when discussing his dangerous freedom.

Throughout the text, both men and women face innumerable issues that stem from their race, which results in an attempt to conform as cleanly as possible to a society that leaves no place for them in order to cope with the weight of it all. As influential authors like Ta-Nehisi Coates put it, they “have wanted to escape into the Dream, to fold my country over my head like a blanket. But this has never been an option because the Dream rests on our backs, the bedding made from our bodies” (Coates 11). Regardless of gender, the characters in this book all must grapple with this idea, as must all Americans today. In many instances, patriotic conformity is at the forefront of this issue, with societal pressure against black athletes

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who kneel during the national anthem as a protest for their fellow African Americans who are subject to police brutality. In this case, white Americans who decry what they perceive as “disrespect of the flag” need to realize that their ideal of America is not a reality for most Americans. They don’t realize, or more sinisterly, perhaps they do, that an America where police are to be trusted and the flag really does stand for freedom only exists for those who are free to enter, and those pushed to the outskirts by society in generational or recent past cannot take part in their idea of America. For those whose role is to work with no reward, to either change themselves to fit a mold of self-hate or face backlash against their self-love, America is less a beacon of light and democracy and more a blinding flashlight wielded by those in power, searching for every exploitable “flaw” in those deemed lesser.

Works Cited Coates, Ta-Nehisi. Between the World and Me. Spiegel & Grau, 2015.

Ellison, Ralph. Invisible Man. New American Library, 1952.

Morrison, Toni. The Bluest Eye. Vintage Books, 2007.

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A Perception of Makeup

by Kate Lagassé (pencil drawing)

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ALISA STOLYAR

Storm On the verge of tears but I remind myself That far beyond the fears, a gentle force resides.

An energy too simple to be reckoned with so passionately.

Behind the curtain is a story waiting to be unleashed, But it stands still, frozen in its forgotten sanity.

Rationality is something easily escaped As sprinting from reality is a hopeless approach to soothe the weary lungs.

A rampant mind is not something one craves, For it is the cause of the ruins of another beautiful masterpiece.

There is not enough time in the world, And the calm after the storm will not come soon enough.

Struggling for air while the merciless current pulls me under, But it is shallow here. Why are you drowning?

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KATE LAGASSÉ

Wasp’s Nest Light underneath your touch Hold her like the air Escaping from your lungs Afraid of when it runs out You draw her closer.

Watch her trace lines on your skin Her eyes Flickering across your face like Wings beating Beating Her head against your chest She can hear the rhythm of life Beginning and ending The moment caught in between Life only just beginning And already moving on Without reason She left you on fire The taste of honey in your mouth The cruel kiss of a liar Only seeming to have chosen Dancing along petals Then to be one with the wind.

The prettiest things sting too

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KEVIN GU

Blizzards of Monochrome i. Snowflakes and Dusty Ice when I was young and free, I used to watch snow fall during cold, dreary winter months grey skies would surround the world and envelope it in monochromatic light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere slight wisps of curling wind brushed past my rose-blossomed cheeks and I would lay on thickly blanketed ground that sent shards of bitter coldness up my spine those days were when white, fluttering pieces of confetti pulled down towards the earth in sheets in whirls in blizzards Volume 5 – 2020

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the warmth from my body would transfer onto swirling pieces of white and turn them into clear drops of liquid that slid down my face I closed my eyes and would imagine that tears trickled down instead of melted snowflakes I tried to become an adult adults were always sad; suppressed tears built up before overflowing eyes became watery before becoming thawing ice that fell on dusty floors of kitchens; noticeable, but ignored, forgotten the adults shivered and mumbled as if they were cold, as if hypothermia had already reached their pale, blue-colored veins blankets could never warm them up and fires never melted ice that hung from thin, wiry eyelashes

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tape never silenced constant droning noises of useless mumbles and monotonous dreams that came from their chapped lips ii. Hills of Snow and Wood when I was young and free, I used to sled down snowy hills, trying to reach a destination I didn’t know of joy pushed me along smooth, white landscapes. my mouth, wide open, captured tiny snowflakes in it, and my laughter bounced through snow before being captured in blanketed ground I wondered, if my father sat on the old, wooden sled that I traversed upon, would he move? or would hills flatten out into featureless, undamaged planes where joy

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cannot push, and despondency causes him to stay, unmoving? the urge for an unblemished, perfectly stable life leveled the curves and valleys of their imaginations failure enhanced the fragmentation of their fizzled ambitions until they tried no more Won’t you join me in the snow?

When I was young and free, in the snow I would smile and play.

But not anymore.

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Walk

by Jack Micallef (photograph)

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How to Submit Marginal accepts submissions from any HHS student, and we accept work throughout the year. Students may submit any original writing or artwork to Mr. Lally in the English hallway or to our email address: marginal@hopkinton.k12.ma.us There are no limits to the number of submissions an individual student may enter, although the advisor retains the right to trim the selection of any large number (10+) of submissions from a single student. We ask that students consider keeping their written submissions shorter than five full pages, double-spaced, although longer pieces will be considered. Artwork should be submitted digitally, with a high-resolution image of the artwork.

Around January of each year, we close submissions for that school year’s magazine, but will still accept submissions from any non-seniors for the following year’s publication. Due to space constraints, we can only accept 20-25% of all submitted work, depending on the number of submissions.

How to Join All HHS students are welcome to join our editing staff. We generally meet after school once a week (which day in particular is an annual choice made by the returning staff). Regular attendance is not mandatory. Students can assist as frequently as they are able. Once a student attends his or her sixth meeting, that student earns the title of Assistant Editor. Once a student attends an eleventh meeting, that student is promoted to Editor. Our Head Editor positions are generally selected by the departing staff or returning staff in years when we do not have many seniors, in collaboration with the advisor. Students do not need to submit original work to be an editor.

How We Work Marginal’s main goal is to provide an avenue for the school’s writers and artists to receive a greater audience for their work. Student submissions are made anonymous by the advisor and are graded by the student editors, with the highest cumulative scores earning a place in our magazine. This year, we primarily held discussions of each piece to determine which pieces would be published, and to determine our contest winners. To prevent overvaluing any particular student’s artwork or writing, students may not have more than two written or two artwork submissions printed in the magazine, excepting contest winners.

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