Marginal - Volume 6 - 2021

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Volume 6 – 2021

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Hopkinton High School’s Literary Magazine Volume 6 Spring 2021

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 17.

22.

40.

57.

68.

73.

76.

80.

85.

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Saltwater Kevin Gu The Princess and the Servant Girl Mary Billeter The Trials and Tribulations of a High School Party Maggie Joyce* Deserted Ava Pappalardo* Otto’s Song Anonymous benny Brandon Fu* One in Eight Hundred Lauren Pantazes* Pyrrha and Doe Maggie Joyce* Blood or Bliss Mary Billeter The Price of Happiness Ashley Wojcik*

POETRY 8. Doctrine 13. School Days 20. How to Fly 27. Trees Ignite 32. Hope is Not Lost 35. The Sun Rose 37. Lizzie 48. Red Gold 54. Voicemail 66. Toxic Media 79. Schooling the School System 90. The Cynic 91. And the Words Rained Down 97. Worthy of No Eye

Mia Carboni Lily Brown* Carmen Thomas* Tiffany Mikulis* Eva Bennet Anonymous Chloe Baril* Kevin Gu Chloe Baril* Maura Souza* Esther Klinger Harrison Bograd* Owen Fitzpatrick* Bridget Walker*

ESSAYS 29. The Hands that Tick Around the Dial 50. Relativity and Reclamation of Success 64. Ever Since I Started Talking * indicates student’s first appearance in Marginal

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Alisa Stolyar* Mia Carboni Julianne Sage*

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ARTWORK Cover. Get Well Soon!

15. Goodbye, 2020 21. My Mom Beat Cancer (pt. 1) 28. Radiant 34. We Will Rise 39. In a Deep Gloom We Sat 56. Contemplation 72. Tiger King 84. i need help immediately 98. My Mom Beat Cancer (pt. 2)

Nia Alvarado Rodriguez Emily Jiang* Owen Fitzpatrick* Lillian Gallagher* Prisha Shrivastava* Veronica Stolyar* Kevin Gu Avery Ravech* Nia Alvarado Rodriguez Owen Fitzpatrick*

COMMENTS 7.

14.

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31.

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49.

67.

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From the Advisor 2021 Art Contest Editor’s Choice – Writing Capitol Riot Responses 2021 Poetry Contest Senior-Write-Is Contest 2021 Fiction Contest How to Submit, How to Join, and How We Work

* indicates student’s first appearance in Marginal

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MARGINAL 2021

Volume 6

Head Editor - Writing Mia Carboni Head Editor - Art Alisa Stolyar Editors Zoe Coelho Alveena Ehsan Owen Fitzpatrick Lillian Gallagher Evanya Mathur Ruben Noroian Veronica Stolyar Assistant Editors Bridget O’Connor Faculty Advisor Mr. Lally

Marginal is the annual literary magazine created by the students at Hopkinton High School. Volume 6 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 a mixed media work by Nia Alvarado Rodriguez. The magazine costs $10 and the proceeds fund our printing of the subsequent edition and our contest prizes.

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From the Advisor We adapt.

As I write this summary, we still have not yet returned to a full-time school schedule. And I intentionally avoid the word “normal” here, because there has been nothing remotely approaching normal about this year. We’ve had to solicit submissions in unusual ways, since our students have been out of the building this year more than they have been in it. We have not yet been able to hold an inperson meeting of our editors. But I have been so incredibly impressed by the work that our editors have put in this year – especially the editors whom I have not yet properly met. I’ve said it before, but I’ll happily say it again – thank you, thank you, thank you.

To my senior staff, specifically Mia and Alisa, I would like to acknowledge how saddened I was that this year turned out the way that it did for our magazine. This was supposed to be *your* volume.

You put in the work. And I was really looking forward to our meetings and seeing how you would help improve our publication.

But regardless of the insurmountable obstacles that this year threw at us, you pulled it off anyway. I am so incredibly impressed at all that you have done to make our little magazine shine.

I would like to thank the Hopkinton PTO for providing the funds required to allow us to publish our magazine. One of our goals has been to make this magazine fiscally independent, but this past year has made that goal literally impossible. Without your help, we would not exist. Thank you so very much.

Thank you to the NCTE REALM contest, who awarded our 2020 magazine with a First Class rating, making us one of only a handful of publications who have earned that award. We cannot express how encouraging that award has been, especially in a time where it feels like all of this has been an uphill battle.

Mr. Lally Marginal Advisor

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MIA CARBONI

Doctrine I. -Holy MaryA spot of purple light bathes the hem of my skirt and the top of my knee. Sitting in the pew, my fingers absentmindedly swim in the dusty glass-stained air over my lap. The gently iridescent hue looks particularly striking on my unpainted nails, and I admire them while words of the homily float over my head.

-Mother of GodMy parents, having chosen the same row in the front of the church, sit like proud statues, their eyes fixed on the wallpaper behind the altar or perhaps the murals on the wall. Not a single member of the family heard the holy, droning words. They floated, as they always did, out of the altar and blew through the congregation like a thick fog, then rose like steam, like smoke, silently into the rafters.

-Pray for usMarveling still at the violet glow, I feel eyes on the back of my head.

A hundred pairs of separate eyes, boring together two hundred separate holes in my skull. I hate sitting in the front, subject to the psychoanalysis of God and any other distracted pair of eyes. It’s a good thing they can only see my hair, sorting out which of the golden brown locks is twisted or uncombed. No one, save for Father, can see my eyes. No one watches when I lift them from the violet bath at my lap and bring my gaze discreetly forward.

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-SinnersAt the front of the church, just outside the darker enclave of the altar, stood a woman. Tall and pretty. Her eyes looked like sleep, her dress melting smoothly to the floor. Under the shadow of her veil, she gives the worn carpet a graceful smile.

-NowThe church was empty; the congregation dissolved like the words of the priest. I stand, slowly. She turns to me; I rise to meet her, ten feet tall.

-And at the hourI knock my knee on my way out of the pew, but she doesn’t seem to mind. I laugh, and my laugh she echoes richly with the sound of a violin and I look up from that worn carpet of the aisle and suddenly I am there with her -Of our deathIn an embrace, and her sleeve feels cool like the blue water of a young river, but her shoulder is Warm, warm like autumn sun, warm like an embrace like a kiss like glory like an alleluia like an -Amen-

II. -Our FatherMeetings were compressing. The air pressure in the church hall grew stronger; it pushed on the walls of the room and my lungs. I took a deep breath in, and like the air, stale laughter released around me like one collective sigh. I joined in a little too loud, checking the time with a flick of my wrist. One hour.

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-Who art in heavenPeople who I call friends, call me friends, there is a glint of pride in their smiles, and not fear. Above their chests rest gold. He keeps his over his sweatshirt. The same cross that hangs around my neck, the same gold, the same size, but mine pulls me down. My throat tightens underneath it, my chest constricts under its weight, and nothing short of all my strength could keep me from crashing to the floor, through the floor. I can see the soles of his shoes floating, just slightly, above the ground, and I know his gold would never send him to the floor.

-Hallowed be Thy nameThe room is full of teenagers with gold around their necks and apostolic names and laughter I can see pushing upwards from bright teeth, but there are no eyes when I look up from his shoes. Each face glitters, smiles, laughs of gold and acid and sees with empty eyes. I look down.

-Thy kingdom comeAs I knew it would, the carpet of the church hall below my feet began to melt away. My skin was duller, grayer, no blessings shone through, my shadow emptier. They couldn’t see, the gold-laden apostolic boys and girls glistening with stardust, their eyes gone and their shoes floating. The floor was crashing underneath us. They did not know.

-Thy will be doneI see her across the room, eyeless and shimmering, the soles of her shoes floating inches off the worn carpet. I lift one foot, the concrete underneath shifting to engulf my leg up to the ankle. She looks at me, blankly smiling, eyes missing, hand outstretched.

-On EarthI fall through the ground, into the earth, the room melting down with me like a sinking ship. Miles away now, I see them. My friends.

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Floating on pride, golden. The girl. Her hand poised to save me, to lift me up, sanctuary in the storm, golden. The chain around my own neck tightens, and I swim to meet her. I touch her hand. The sea turns to gold, scalding. Golden salvation, scalding rejection, for it wasn’t her hand at all, it was his, and I knew it and didn’t know, and he sent me down crashing while they all floated, floated with acrid smiles and empty eyes and golden hands and golden feet and golden hearts just -As it is in Heaven-

III. -I confessTo betrayal, to cowardice, to lies and say I hate myself, but I cannot say why. They plead for forgiveness to a vague and undiscovered crime, screaming for an absent executioner to absolve them They cry -To almighty GodAnd ask him to choose, to absolve their souls or condemn them to hell because they understand nothing My congregation disappears, gold chains condemn him, and we are left to gather strength alone -And to youMy society, my congregation and our classmates, let this be our formal rejection of your criticism because I cannot understand it although I can crush myself with the same cruelty I cannot understand your repulsion although I share it I reject it and repeat it

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-My brotherI inform you I am drowning too and place the blame on your neck Serves you right! I wanted to love you and I couldn’t, and neither could you love me because I was a woman and you a man I’m Sorry I’m Sorry you’re drowning too I hope we are both saved one day -And sisterFor you I hold nothing but love you’re my religion and my murderess if God will not kill me I give you permission I Deserve It For I have greatly Sinned in my thoughts and in my words in what I have done and what I have failed to do

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LILY BROWN

School Days Envy you, you blue faced people.

Wear a mask pinned up with needles.

Paint it blue to look like you.

Hope you will forget me too.

Behind me walks a suit of mail.

Don’t ask me why I look so pale.

You crouch! You squawk! You fall! You tremble!

Oh please, oh please, just don’t remember the clothes I picked out don’t fit quite right, you doubt I will ever fit your life So we continue this fruitless strife.

Millions of others just like me.

Unfortunately, we will never meet.

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2021 Art Contest Editors’ Notes This past year has been an unconventional one to say the least but the creativity and imagination that we have seen in this year’s contests did not disappoint. The Marginal team of editors are honored to award two students this year for their fantastic submissions to the art contest, Nia Alvarado Rodriguez for winning our contest, Emily Jiang, this year’s runner-up. Both works of art displayed the emotions and experiences that many of us have run into during this pandemic in a way better than words can describe.

Rodriguez’s attention to detail and creative symbolism behind the use of the masks in her piece is exquisite in highlighting how intrinsic this pandemic, as well as the masks themselves, have become in our lives. The woman’s fatigued eyes are a reflection of the difficulties that many have faced and continue to face. With this piece of art, Rodriguez depicted such strong emotions, and her award is well deserved. We are proud to feature her winning entry as the cover art for this year’s magazine.

Jiang’s painting is a snapshot into this new world that we have had to adjust to. With not being able to interact with many of those who we love and care about as we normally would, we have had to create new norms in order to do so. Through this painting, Jiang captured our ability to bounce back from tragedy and find ways to celebrate with each other even through hardships. It seems as though each brushstroke in this piece has a purpose, and the bright colors illuminate the canvas, sort of showing the light at the end of the tunnel.

Congratulations to both Nia and Emily for your talented and powerful works of art!

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Goodbye, 2020

by Emily Jiang (acrylic on canvas)

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2020-21 Editor’s Choice Award - Writing Each year, Marginal gives an annual Editor’s Choice Award, where our head editor selects an exemplary writing submission and explains what made it stand out.

Kevin Gu’s “Saltwater,” inspired by Philip Booth’s poem “First Lesson,” was far and away the most emotive work of fiction submitted to Marginal this year. With its impressive command of language, form, and emotion, junior Kevin Gu’s work stood out at our (virtual) editing roundtable this year. Poetic imagery and raw emotion run through this piece like an electric current, pulling us out to sea with the narrator. We’re lucky to have writers as talented as Kevin involved with our publication. His incredible skill makes “Saltwater” a clear choice for this year’s Editor’s Choice Award.

Congratulations, Kevin!

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KEVIN GU

Saltwater lie gently and wide to the light-year stars, lie back, and the sea will hold you.

—Philip Booth, “First Lesson” I think I’m crying, but I’m not sure.

Underwater, no one can see your tears. Not even yourself.

Lie back. Lie out. Lie up. Lie gently.

The salty undertones of the sea caress the inside of my eyes and a near-painful urge builds up. Close them, close them, close them, it rings in my ears, shut out the sea. My thin eyelids scream against the currents, they strain to ease the burning pain. As if the moment I close my eyes, the blackness will soothe salted flesh. Yet, I extend my eyes wide open, tendrils of straw hair squirming over my face. Because if I give in at once, the image of my mother’s silhouette disappears, and she’s gone before another breath of tangy salt can enter my lungs.

She told me that one day she wouldn’t be here with me anymore; and if anything bad were to happen, I had to learn how to swim. So here I am, under the shimmering night sky, rain falling on the surface of the turbulent sea. Twilight waves become distorted from the rhythmic, pattering tempo of rainwater droplets.

Tonight, the sky is lit up, not by the moon, but by the horizon.

Aegean grey spreads across the ocean until I can almost see into nothingness. Almost. The sky turns infinite—murky horizon disappears, sea and sky blended together by thin clouds. Or maybe it’s not the sky, maybe it’s just my eyes—blurry with white foam, crashing foam, thrashing into irises.

Air bubbles spread around me like a halo. I try to scream, but the rocking motion of the frothy sea refuses to let me speak. And then I

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writhe. Struggling and kicking until a dull ache builds up in my throat.

“The sea will hold you.” She promised me. She was the one who placed me in the water. She set me down like she would when I was a baby, cradled in a blanket. A blanket that held me when the nights were long and cold. A blanket that felt like my mother’s scent— hearth. A blanket that pushed itself down my throat and suffocated the bubbles from my brewing lungs.

The moment she placed me down, I had looked high into the sky, trying to count the stars. Hidden behind rain, I could only glimpse the glowing refractions of starlight as they pelted onto my forehead.

The sea whispered to me. Feel the water seep into your skin. My head was back, face lifted up, and I let the rain wash away the salt in my eyelashes.

That’s when the first wave hits me, pulling me under deeply, swirling together from the undertow. Inhaling salt and seaweed, my eyes shoot open. I realize that, in the sea, you can’t see. At night, only you and your fear of drowning exist. Yet so, my legs propel a shivering body to the lurching surface until flashes of black and white stars appear in my own head—TV static buzzes in my ears. My mother is standing 15 feet away from me. Looking at me, softly.

“When the time comes, I won’t be able to help you anymore. You have to find your own way to the island,” she says loudly. She looks down, with a gentle expression. “You need to learn how to swim.

Survive it. Survive the sea on your own.”

“Please, mama,” I gasped, tears running laps down my face. It was too much.

My mother had said the same thing a few hours earlier when we walked on the shoreline, littered with gritty sand. The burnt umber sunset illuminated my body as I looked at her. She smiled, a radiant expression, before telling me in her excited “8-year old voice” that we would learn how to swim today. We walked for hours, together, hand-in-hand, her telling me stories, me listening to each word. When

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nighttime came, she gently held me on the surface of the water. I laughed and giggled. Until she let go.

In that moment, I felt alone. Almost like the loneliest person in the world. Maybe I was. Like someone who had nothing, left in a world that gave her the most immense blackness that existed. Nothingness, but joined with the burnt feeling of salt. I was truly but a speck in the enormous ocean. A dandelion opened to the sun, stem dried and shriveled, seeds carried in the wind and left to soar away from her roots. The obscured light-year stars swirled above the clouds and deep beneath my scratchy eyelids. I couldn’t tell if the salty flavor in my mouth was from the sea’s malevolent grasps or my saltwater tears. And I drowned. Or so I thought.

Rounded eyes stare at me, waiting. “Mama,” I sob, “please. No more.”

“Try again, you can do it. You need to.” she says.

She put me down again as my chest quivers, horizon spinning around and around.

She won’t listen, and so I lie back, out, up, gently. Waves rack over my small body, I wince, expecting it to stab me from behind and let me wither down. But the foam kisses my cheek instead. Sweetly and softly, like a caress from gentle hands. I slowly open my eyes. A water lily opens to the sun, my mouth points to the sky, gaping towards the absoluteness. Rainfall soothes the cracks in my lips as I inhale deeply, undertones of sanded water fragrant in the air.

And I do not sink.

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CARMEN THOMAS

How to Fly at an early age i had to learn how to fly out of the room with the shuttered windows and into the wide blue sky trying not to feel so hollow they say birds of a feather flock together but i’m not so sure because my feathers have been alone forever and i had to teach myself to endure and so i sit with the silent empty space thinking of those azure heavens and i cry dreaming of the place where i can fly ready to leave on these tired wings.

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My Mom Beat Cancer (pt. 1)

by Owen Fitzpatrick (photography)

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MARY BILLETER

The Princess and the Servant Girl Once upon a time, there was a young girl trapped in a tower, as princesses often are. But this girl had a secret: she was not a princess.

Astrid had been in the tower for years, but every day, she relived the day the dragon came.

That day, she had been watering the flowers and sneaking glances at Princess Rebecca, who had never noticed her. After all, why would a princess notice a servant girl? But her normal routine changed that day, when the palace was put on lockdown. All servants were instructed to go to their quarters and wait.

Astrid had meant to obey—really, she had—but she had gotten distracted and walked in completely the wrong direction. When she realized, she was far out of her way and the fastest way to where she was supposed to be was through the throne room. She had been through the throne room plenty of times to clean it before, but never during a lockdown.

Of course, the guards stopped her, but when she explained where she was going, they let her pass with an order to be as silent as a mouse. Once she was inside the throne room, though, she froze.

Only a few feet away from her, Princess Rebecca leaned on the wall, pouting. She was surrounded by guards, but that didn’t stop Astrid’s heart from fluttering. Even so close to her, Princess Rebecca didn’t notice Astrid. She looked annoyed, with her arms crossed over her chest and her bottom lip jutting out.

“I can’t believe Father would do this to me.” she was telling one of her guards, “The dragon wants to kidnap me—not Mother, not Lars, not Christopher, me—and yet here I am sitting on the sidelines while they decide what to do. It’s not fair!”

Astrid paled. She had heard that Prince Lars and Prince Christopher had slain a dragon, but she hadn’t dared to imagine that the dragons would demand revenge! How would the kingdom survive without its princess? How would Astrid survive?

She stayed up against the wall, not saying a word. She wasn’t sure if she could have moved if she tried.

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The palace shook. Dust and palace fell from the ceiling. Once.

Twice. The guards raised their weapons. The princess’s eyes widened.

Astrid quavered.

And a giant claw crashed through the plastered wall.

Astrid and the queen screamed in unison. One of the princes fainted. The princess trembled but held her ground. Astrid respected that.

At the sound of her scream, Princess Rebecca turned to Astrid in surprise.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the princess said.

Those weren’t the words that Astrid had expected. She had expected the princess’s first words to be ordering food. She had wished that they would be words of love. Not this. Never this.

“Hey. Did you hear me?” the princess said, “You have to run.

People are going to get hurt. That’s why I think they should have just let the dragon take me. It would save lives. Too late now. It’s fair. My brothers killed the dragon’s sister, so the dragon should be able to take theirs. Just go! Run!” Astrid nodded, but she didn’t move. The dragon clawed at the hole in the wall until it was big enough for her to reach through.

“I see you received my message. Give me the princess,” the dragon demanded, “and I will allow the rest of your palace to stand.”

Before she could question it, Astrid stepped forward and shouted, “I am here, dragon. Take me. Do whatever you have to do. But do not hurt my people.”

“What are you doing?” Princess Rebecca hissed.

“Saving your life,” Astrid hissed back.

The princess opened her mouth to argue, but the dragon cut her off with a scoff. “You don’t look like any princess to me. Where are your golden scales? Where are your human silks?”

“We switched,” Astrid lied, “The girl dressed as a princess is really a servant girl. I am Princess Rebecca.

Understanding, the queen clutched her pearl necklace, drew a shaky breath, and moaned, “No, my sweet, sweet daughter! You are ruining your life! You are ruining your father’s plan! It would have kept you safe!”

“You can’t really let her-” Princess Rebecca started, but her mother cut her off with a glare.

“Hold your tongue, servant girl,” the queen told her pointedly.

Princess Rebecca scowled. “I am the princess. She is the fake.”

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“She was the one who suggested this plan, O Great Dragon,” Astrid explained, “but I knew we wouldn’t be able to fool your senses.

My father thought it would be worth a try anyways. But I cannot let another girl suffer in my place.”

Smoke rose from the dragon’s nostrils. “At least one of you is honest.”

Astrid held her breath. This was the moment of truth. Either she would be taken, or the princess would.

And then she was in the air, her arms pinned to her sides by red claws. Her head was light and throbbing, dizzy and scared. She screamed, but when her head cleared, she was glad that her princess was safe.

Astrid pulled her thoughts back into her present, back into her tower. Remembering the pained look in Princess Rebecca’s eyes would not help her escape.

She sighed and turned away from the tower window and the rising eastern sun.

Astrid had lived in the tower for years. That much was true. But those years were not spent idle. It had taken only a week for her to find the hidden trapdoor beneath her princess-y four-poster bed. The trapdoor led to a ladder that took her into an abandoned library. She believed it had once been a wizard who lived in the tower. After all, who else would have this kind of knowledge? Who else would be able to teach her magic with only words on paper?

Over the years, she had read every book and mastered almost every spell and potion. She was almost ready to escape.

She was almost ready to save herself.

After all, no one else was coming to help her. No knight would rush to her rescue when their true princess was still safe and warm in her palace. After all, Astrid had doomed herself with her lie.

She didn’t regret it.

Astrid plucked a book from the table, brushed a spider off her shoulder, and climbed back up the ladder into the sunlight. Then she lay down on her soft rug and absent-mindedly sent a spell over her shoulder to make her bed.

She loved the tingle in her fingertips, the metallic taste on her tongue, the way magic grounded her and let her fly at the same moment.

“Amor meus, ego veni-” A crash outside of her tower broke her concentration. Her spell exploded in her hands. Astrid shook ashes out of her eyelashes and cast

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a quick healing spell on her cheeks. She stood up and dusted off her too-small dress. She scowled.

Sure, visitors were rare, but couldn’t they wait to announce their presence until she wasn’t in the middle of a spell that required strong, steady concentration?

Astrid leaned out of her window, looking for the source of the noise.

There, down on the ground, a shining knight battled the dragon that had threatened Astrid’s beloved princess. Astrid’s heart soared, but only for a moment.

Because the knight was losing.

This could not be. The knight was supposed to win. That was how the story went, not this, not a shield melting, not a blade shattering against the dragon’s scales! This was all wrong!

Astrid could help.

She hadn’t planned on killing the dragon—the death of a dragon had started this, hadn’t it?—but she knew that she could. She knew that she could win.

“Frigida flamma! Glacio!”

With a combination of two spells—challenging spells, but still, only two—the dragon fell. The dragon’s fire froze around her mouth.

Astrid watched on in rage and horror and awe as her magic spread across the dragon’s skin, turning each magnificent scale to ice. The knight drove her broken sword between two scales and into the dragon’s heart.

Astrid shook. She tried to steady her breathing, but her efforts were futile.

Her tormentor, her protector, was gone. Astrid’s magic had taken a life.

On the ground, the knight collapsed.

“Are you alright down there?” Astrid called.

The knight looked up at her. “Thanks to you. That was your magic, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” “Do you…” the knight hesitated, “want to stay there? I came to bring you home, but if you want to stay…”

“No!” Astrid shouted down, “No, I’ve learned all I could from the tower, I think. I’ll come down. I’m not… entirely sure how to do that though.”

“Wait there. I can help.”

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“Alright.” Astrid pulled away from the window. She magicked up a mirror and pulled out the small makeup kit she had found. The knight expected a princess. She would have to look like a princess.

Makeup applied, she put on her best gown—the deep red one that reminded her of her country’s flag.

She heard grunting behind her and returned to the window just in time to pull the knight through the window. Once he regained his breath, he uncoiled a stretch of rope and tied one end to Astrid’s bed.

The other end, he tied around his and Astrid’s waists. Then he gently lowered Astrid from her tower, her home, her prison.

Astrid relished the feeling of soft earth and grass between her toes. It was something she hadn’t experienced in so long. Such a small sensation, often taken for granted, and she had missed it like she would an arm.

The knight reached the ground and soothed his horse. “We must return home.”

“Of course.” Astrid bit her lip as the knight pulled her onto the horse behind him. “But you must know. I am not the princess.”

“I know,” the knight said. He removed his shining helmet, letting black locks fall around his—her—chubby cheeks. She turned so that Astrid could see her clearly and smiled. “Because I am.”

“Princess Rebecca?”

“At your service, m’lady,” the princess laughed. “What? Did you think I would let you remain in that tower forever after you sacrificed yourself for me? I couldn’t stop thinking of you for weeks after the dragon came. I would have come sooner, but I was training. I was only just knighted last week.”

“You came.”

“And I always will.”

Astrid wrapped her arms around her princess’s waist and rested her head on her shoulder. The princess and the servant girl rode into the sunset, sure to live happily ever after.

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TIFFANY MIKULIS

Trees Ignite Trees ignite, oceans rapidly rise, our planet scaringly warms Storms intensify, as some of us hope for reform Birds dance gloriously amongst the trees of our forests The glossy surface of the Earth’s oceans churn As the moon floats peacefully like a majestic swan in a lake Our world So seamlessly scintillating Deterioration, turmoil, disaster Nature no longer hums its effortless tunes Yet We don’t believe our scientists People refuse to react We simply continue to act in such negligent ways And every day we look outside and see the pollution’s gray haze Why won’t people listen to us?

Do we need to rephrase?

New leaders bring fresh hope As we pray our future does not fall off a tightrope Rebuild.

Recycle.

Re-use.

And your footprint will reduce Our earth needs us We must act as one And fix the messes that have just begun.

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Radiant

by Lillian Gallagher (photograph)

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ALISA STOLYAR

The Hands that Tick Around the Dial I choose to follow Time because I find shadows of myself lurking inside the case of the clock. My life functions like clockwork with daily routines and repetitive patterns in which I am the hands that tick around the dial.

The hour hand is stubborn and slow to quit. It assumes the greatest responsibility because it makes the most sense to round to the nearest hour. It’s the boldest and most important. Time would move too hastily without the hour hand.

The minute hand seems less important than the hour hand, but Time wouldn’t be able to move if we didn’t count the minutes.

The minute hand wants to explore the face of the clock and takes its time to dwell on every tick mark. It’s punctual, expecting you to be on time. The minute hand makes Time exact with its projections, leaving no questions as to when something happens. Time would be too vague without the minute hand.

The second hand is one that we disregard the most, for nobody pays attention to the seconds in a minute. It rounds the dial with panic, leaving little time to slack off. The second hand rotates with initiative, pushing one minute to the next. Time wouldn’t tick without the second hand’s urgency.

When someone is close to me, I notice their habits becoming my own. As I followed Time, I started to borrow its mannerisms.

Since I have been an obedient follower to Time for so long, it has helped me build myself into my own version of a clock. I rely on my hour hand, my minute hand, and my second hand as much as Time does.

My hour hand strengthens my voice and keeps me patient. It allows me to speak up and state my opinions even when they differ from the rest. In a world of people who sometimes intimidate me, my hour hand reminds me that I am a leader and yearn to be heard.

It also teaches me to be patient for not everything renders immediate triumph. After so many hours spent waiting for results in a lab for my extracurricular research projects, my hour hand showed me that it Volume 6 – 2021

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takes many long ticks around the clock to really enjoy progress. I believe I would abandon my beliefs and tasks too swiftly without my precious hour hand.

Like Time’s minute hand, my minute hand doesn’t want to leave any stones unturned or any questions unanswered. It’s always looking to expand my knowledge and help me find precise, unambiguous solutions to the problems I stumble upon. My minute hand is what encouraged me to learn an entire year’s worth of geometry before sophomore year because math is a major interest of mine. It’s what nags me to review Russian every now and then so my fluent first language is preserved. My minute hand fuels my drive and curiosity and without it, my life would be monotonous.

My second hand keeps me on my toes. It’s the little voice inside my head that worries about every possible negative outcome and warns me of any downfalls I may encounter. It urges me to rest when a demanding gymnastics practice has been too harsh on my back and joints, and to drive home slowly from practice in the midst of a New England blizzard because getting home late is better than not getting home at all. No matter how annoying it gets to be constantly aware of the likely effects of my actions, my second hand doesn’t let me be reckless and maintains my drive to be and do better. I may take Time’s second hand for granted, but I don’t know how I could survive without mine.

My hands work in harmony to make me tick as I should. Just as a clock without its hands wouldn’t be a clock, I wouldn’t be myself without my hands.

The Hands that Tick Around the Dial was the runner up of the 2019 Senior-Write-Is Contest.

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Capitol Riot Responses In response to the attack on the U.S. Capitol Building perpetrated on January 6, 2021, we offered students the opportunity to send in their own new and original artwork and written pieces that they created in response to what they witnessed that day.

The following pages highlight some of the responses we received.

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EVA BENNET

Hope is Not Lost!

Two little girls sit in the yard, playing with their dolls, Mother and Father by the TV. Kamala Harris, the first woman vice president elect of color It’s a time to be proud.

The little girls pick up their toys, wondering what the ruckus is about, but it wasn’t about Kamala, not like usual.

Mother and Father exchanged glances worries thick in the air, mumbling about American carnage and fragile democracy, pride versus supremacy.

Thousands on TV, pushing and shoving, threats thrown left and right, screaming for blood - looking for Pence and Pelosi.

Clear, piercing glass soared through the air, elected leaders hiding from violence.

Turn away, turn away But unable, staring straight ahead.

Democracy in the balance - thrown into the flames, our foundation quakes.

Lies they listen to, spoken by a man who only says what they want to hear, “We're going to the Capitol.”

Flags held high above their heads, thirteen stars, floating crossed, above a blue.

The little girls covered their eyes, pondering about their place in the world - as little brown girls.

Mom and Dad saw the little girls, and pulled them close, and they sat by the parents, all together Thinking in silence.

We lost our children that day, World, not just five lives, five physical beings -

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Souls.

Innocence stolen.

We as people seem to forget We Are The World.

Mother hugged them tight, it will be okay.

Most leaders came together, to keep America from breaking apart.

Father said a hero Black cop saved Pence.

We the people prevailed.

It’s a brave new day, watching the first woman vice president, she looks like them.

Finally, “a President for all Americans,” “America is better than this,” “We will not fail.”

Little girls smile - Hope is not lost, Hope is not lost!

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We Will Rise

by Prisha Shrivastava (pencils, decoupage)

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ANONYMOUS

The Sun Rose The sun rose engraving in us a day we shall not forget.

Our divided minds shall not dwell, for our hearts are united.

We should choose not to fall or solemnly sit hopeless on our knees upon something so hopeful, so bright.

The future awaits us with only what time may know.

The past had hope.

So hopeful of what they could never be but always imagined it was possible.

We cannot take this from them.

We must brush our fallen knees from the dust of the saddened past and rise again to a country finer, greater and most hopeful.

The sun will surely rise again.

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2020 Poetry Contest This year’s first-place winner of the Poetry Contest is sophomore Chloe Baril for her poem “Lizzie.” Baril establishes herself within Marginal’s pages for the first time this year as a poet with exciting talent. Her tone is playfully somber and with her use of repetition, her voice rings out sharp and clear. The potency of its layered, developing messages raise “Lizzie” above other pieces submitted to the contest this year. Baril’s feminist messages found their perfect venue with her lovable style and unmatched technique.

We are so happy to grant Chloe the first-place prize. Excellent job, Chloe!

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CHLOE BARIL

Lizzie Herman swings on the swings I am playing fairies with the fairies He told me today he hated my pink shirt This is my favorite pink shirt His shirt looks no different than my own I wish I could wear it the way he does I guess the fact that it’s on me makes it worse Or at least that’s what he tells me I am envious of his green sneakers The way the engulf his feet when he runs He never seems to touch the ground I wish my pink sneakers could do that I guess the fact that they are pink makes them unable Or at least that’s what he tells me I change my socks every day to a new frilly pair with no holes I wish I could say the same about Herman But his grey wool socks have never left the confines of his sneaker I wish I didn’t have to worry about the holes in my socks I guess it’s the fact that I’m a girl Or at least that’s what he tells me Herman says I should call him Ahab Ahab-it? I asked him once He spat on my shoes and sung me a lullaby Said the only way I could grow up was to learn my lessons and He had quite a few up his sleeve I wish I could have a few up my sleeve I guess it’s the fact that my sleeves aren’t long enough Or at least that’s what he tells me

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I have never told Herman he couldn’t go on the swings He’s told me 32 times and counting I have not swung on the swings one time this whole school year I guess it’s the fact that I am Lizzie Or at least that’s what he tells me

Lizzie was the winner of our 2020 Poetry Contest

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In a Deep Gloom We Sat

by Veronica Stolyar (watercolor & pencil)

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MAGGIE JOYCE

The Trials and Tribulations of a High School Party I tugged on my sneakers and laced them tightly. Where they had once been white, they were stained tan. Such is the life of a pair of party shoes, I thought. I turned to the mirror, double-checking how I looked before I left. I donned a large black hoodie so my mother couldn’t see my outfit. What she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her, right?

My phone lit up with a notification.

1 Message from josh <3: omw The homecoming party of the year was tonight. I didn’t like to go to parties, but I tended to be invited. I might as well go. Plus, Josh had asked me to come.

Josh wasn’t a friend. He wasn’t my boyfriend, either. He was just my boy. When he showed up to his first day of school in old baggy jeans and white Converse, I knew it. When I asked if he needed help getting to class, I knew it. When we were partnered up in biology, I knew it. I suppose he found out along the way too, and we became whatever we were last summer. It was now our sophomore year.

I didn’t understand Josh. I think that was what I liked about him, though. I was always one for a challenge. He asked me to the Winter Formal, our school dance, but just because I was the only girl he could get quick enough. He took me on dates but told his boys it was nothing serious. I even met his mom. What kind of boy takes you to meet his mom, if not one that likes you?

I smiled and texted Josh back. see you soon!!! :) I ruffled my hair before grabbing my bag and going downstairs. I had to get past my mother without revealing too much about tonight’s plans. She was in the kitchen, baking. “Hey mom!” I said cheerfully.

“Hi, hon,” she replied, not turning to look at me. So far, so good.

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“I’m going over to Charlie’s,” I said.

“What time will you be home?” she asked.

I skirted the question gracefully. “Not too late. I’m not sure.

I’ll text you, though.”

Still, the questions did not end. “Who’s taking you?”

“Josh,” I answered flatly. So close. My mom was certainly not a fan of Josh’s. I cried too loudly for her to not find out about us. She knew about everything, which made it hard to circumvent her in times like these. She audibly sighed and stopped kneading the dough.

“Really, Inez? I thought we discussed this,” she said, in her typical mom voice.

“Mom, it’s just a ride. Don’t worry.”

“Oh, sure. Do I look like I just fell off the turnip truck?” She returned to kneading, more aggressively than before.

“I’m not with him or anything!” I said defensively. At least I wasn’t lying.

“Then stop entertaining him.”

“I can entertain him if I want. He’s my friend. I like him,” I snapped.

“You know what your problem is, Inez? You just don’t care about yourself-” “Mom, c’mon-” “It’s true, Inez! You would rather get yourself hurt a million times than stick up for yourself once. You were this way when you were a kid, and nothing has changed. I didn’t raise a doormat.”

A car horn honked from the street. “I’m going now, Mom,” I said quietly.

“Make good choices, Inez,” she responded sternly. I shut the door before she decided she had more to say. I jogged down the steps and walked towards the street.

“Hey, ‘Nez,” Josh said when I opened the door.

“Thanks for picking me up,” I said as I got into the car. I scuffed my shoe on the door and hurriedly tried to rub away the stain. Josh’s car was old, maybe from the early 2000s, and worn. On the dashboard were his friends’ signatures written in Sharpie. The floor was littered with trash. His radio played loud punk rock music I had never heard before.

“No problem,” he replied casually. He wore dark jeans and a tee-shirt of a band I, yet again, didn’t recognize. He ran a hand

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through his black, floppy hair and revealed the strands dyed bright pink underneath. He started the car and held my hand.

I gazed out the window as the town passed us by. The night was clear, but the moon was nowhere to be seen. The streetlights blazed orange against the navy of the sky. My mind still raced with the argument I had with my mother before I left. I bit my nails as I thought about it.

Josh noticed my mood quickly. “You OK?” “Yeah, I just had a fight with my mom before you picked me up,” I said, and gestured as if it was nothing.

“Really? Over what?” he asked. His eyebrows furrowed with concern. I smiled lightly. It was sweet that he worried about me. I clearly was not difficult to please.

“Oh, nothing,” I said lightly. “She just didn’t think I should come today.”

He scoffed and turned back to the road. “Well, your mom sounds pretty crazy.”

I glared at him sharply. “My mother is not crazy.”

“Ok, ok,” he gestured defensively. “Sorry.”

I looked back out the window, watching as the houses blurred into one. Pretty houses, with pretty families and pretty lives in a pretty town. Pretty dads and pretty moms and pretty daughters who looked in the mirror and liked what they saw. No coupon boxes. No arguments. No yard work. Simplicity. I sighed. Josh turned the wheel, and we pulled into the driveway of Charlie’s house.

I quickly got out of the car and jogged up the steps, but Josh caught me before we went in. We met at the doorstep, and I rang the bell. His arm circled my waist. I hated when he did this: presenting us as a couple just for show. I rolled my eyes and tried to push his hand off me, but he persisted. Josh opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the door opening.

“What’s up, losers!” Charlie greeted us. He was already clearly in a mood, though the party had started not even fifteen minutes beforehand. He leaned against the doorframe, stooping down to whisper in my ear, “How ya doin’, baby?” I pushed him away jokingly.

Charlie always flirted with me like this. He and I had been friends for as long as I could remember. We met in the first grade, and we had been inseparable since then. When we were nine, we got

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married; when we were thirteen, he was my first kiss. I introduced Charlie to Josh when he moved to town in freshman year, and they got along for the most part. Charlie was attractive, sure, with his warm eyes and his stupid blond hair he obsessively maintains. I’d just never thought of him like that. Still, I could see the way Charlie clenched his teeth when Josh and I were together. Boys. Josh dapped Charlie up, and we were ushered into the house.

The music in the house was far too loud, and the air was way too hot. Josh quickly found his crew and disappeared to wherever he goes when he decides my company is all too boring. I searched the crowd for my friend Jane and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned and squealed, “‘Nez!” She hugged me tightly.

Jane was small and mild mannered. She was tan from her summer job working on a golf course. Her platinum blonde hair was cut so that it sat just below her chin, and freckles danced across her cheeks. She had done her makeup in bright neons so that the low light of the party would illuminate it in the darkness. I liked to joke that I was a little in love with Jane. It was true.

I threw my arms around her and led us away from the crowd.

We sat together on the couch in Charlie’s living room. “So, what are we drinking tonight?” I peered over into Jane’s cup, but she pushed me away before I could see.

Charlie walked over and handed me a cup of a mystery liquid.

I swished it around. “What is this?” I asked. “Why is it… blue?”

“It’s punch. Just trust me,” Charlie answered. I took a sip. I wasn’t picky, so I downed it. Charlie patted me on the back, saying, “Look who’s all grown up!” I only laughed in response.

Charlie chuckled a little. He proceeded to stretch himself over my legs and Jane’s, putting his head in my lap. I made eyes with Jane.

Is he… for real?

She only gave me the same expression in response. I don’t know. I shrugged. The party continued around us as we talked and drank. Eventually, Jane nudged me. “I think I just saw Josh go into one of the bedrooms.” She pointed upwards and nodded.

“Oh, Jesus,” I sighed. I didn’t think much of it at the time: Josh was generally moody anyway, and he tired of parties quickly. I may not have been a social butterfly, but at least I had some stamina.

I pushed Charlie’s head off my lap and walked upstairs.

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I reached the door of Charlie’s little sister’s bedroom, cup in hand. I knocked lightly. “Josh?” No response. I opened the door.

Josh, in all his stupid glory, was making out with another girl.

She was pretty, and I recognized her from school. What was her name again? Ana? Alice? My mouth dropped open. “Wow,” I whispered. I was barely even angry at this point, nor was I surprised. Just disappointed.

“Jesus, Inez!” he shouted. He got up off the bed and stepped towards me.

The girl sat up and looked between us. She had big brown eyes and blonde hair down to her hips, and she was beautiful. Josh did not have bad taste, after all. “Josh?” she asked. “What’s going on?”

“Just don’t- stay there, April.” Ah, I thought. April. I turned to leave, but Josh grabbed my wrist and pulled me back towards him.

He spilled my drink all over my shoes in the process. “‘Nez, let me explain,” he pleaded. “Please.”

“No.” I shocked myself with my tone. I had never stood up to Josh before. I usually just stood there and took it. Once I had started, though, I didn’t stop. The rage I had built up since the summer spilled out faster than I could catch it. “No, you know what Josh? You are so- so awful to me! You think you can just show up and mess with me for weeks on end? Do I even mean anything to you, or am I just another girl to use for a week and drop? And you-” I hesitated. “With every opportunity of being sweet and helpful and a good kid, you are mean and miserable and a total asshole!”

“Inez-” Josh started. He tightened his grip on my wrist.

“Go to hell, Josh.” I said defeatedly. I yanked myself out of his hands and left the party.

I walked out the front door into the quiet of the night. Josh’s car still sat in the driveway. I stood in front of it sadly. After kicking his tire in anger, I walked away.

The walk was long, but, of course, I didn’t have a ride anymore. I stumbled home on my stupid walk of shame. At least the night was warm. I ignored the frequent buzzing of my phone in my waistband. In a sudden reclamation of my senses, I remembered that I left my bag at Charlie’s, and that Jane was probably still waiting on my return. I groaned. Stupid Inez, always doing stupid stuff. I opened my

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phone and saw that they had messaged me several times. I texted them as I walked.

4 Notifications from “angular studies” Group (jane :0 and sir charles) j: where r u nez? i miss u :( c: where did u go bbg????/??

To “angular studies” Group (jane :0 and sir charles): hey sorry i left josh cheated on me lol I checked my other notifications. I had six missed calls and several messages from Josh, the last one reading: 1 Notification from josh <3: it was just a kiss stop overreacting I stepped in a puddle. My emotions finally caught up with me, and I sat on the curb in defeat. I hugged my knees and rested my chin between them while swallowing back tears. You were naive, I thought to myself. You knew this would happen. Sure I knew. But wasn’t it sweet to just believe? Wasn’t it refreshing to just take it all at face value? Of course I was naive; I was only fifteen. Who was I to question someone who said they liked me?

A white Jeep pulled up in front of me, and out of the window, April shouted. “Do you need a ride home?” She had a sweet Southern drawl that was hard to find up here.

Getting into the same car with my ex-boyfriend’s side fling was not a part of the itinerary before the night started, but still, I sighed and answered, “Yeah.”

“Hey, Inez!” Charlie said from the backseat. He was laying down over the entire middle seat. He held my bag in his hands. I snatched it from him before he stole anything important.

“What’s he doing here?” I asked April.

“I wanted to find you. I figured he would know where you were.” She started the car and drove away slowly.

While Charlie babbled aimlessly in the back, April and I sat in silence. Eventually, she spoke. “Look, Inez, I’m real sorry. If I had known you two were a thing-” “It’s OK, April,” I said. “It’s not your fault. Bad guys cheat on nice girls with other nice girls all the time.” I gestured like I was brushing it off.

“Yeah, Josh sucks!” Charlie yelled. Always a charmer.

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She looked over at me and smiled. “OK. I just felt real guilty about it.”

I shrugged. “What can you do? I assume he didn’t tell you, right?”

She shook her head in response. “And I dumped him right there after you left.” She pointed empathetically. “I just know he would’ve done the same thing if I were you.”

I nodded. “Yeah, that’s Josh for you.”

We both understood each other, at least. “Where do you live?” I asked. “I don’t want this to be inconvenient for you.”

“It’s no problem,” she replied. “I live on Grove Street. The green one.”

The green one. On Grove Street. A pretty house I had envied for years, and one I stared at every time I passed it. I chuckled a little, but this soon turned to full-blown laughter. April looked at me weird.

“What’s so funny?” Even she had started to laugh.

“Nothing,” I answered, smiling. “Just funny.”

She pulled into my driveway, and I got out of the car.

“Thanks for the ride, April.”

“Have a good night,” she said as she waved goodbye.

“You too,” I said. I blew a kiss to Charlie, and he waved goodbye as well.

My mom was still awake when I went inside. She sat on the couch, reading. “How was it, Inez?” she asked. She was not still angry with me, thankfully.

I sat down next to her. “Oh, you know.” I put my head on her shoulder.

“I was thinking we could go shopping for your Winter Formal dress tomorrow,” she said.

Tears again rose in my throat, and before I knew it, they finally fell down my face. “Oh, honey,” my mom said sympathetically. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t have a date to the Winter Formal anymore, Mom,” I answered between sobs.

My mother seemed shocked. “Josh broke up with you?”

“No,” I replied. I had almost composed myself. “I dumped him because he kissed another girl.” My tears came back louder and faster now.

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My mom hugged me tightly and rubbed my back. “It’s ok, Inez. You know how boys are.”

“Yeah,” I nodded my head frantically. “Yeah, boys are stupid.

Josh is stupid.”

She smiled at me. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing. Just take Charlie to the Winter Formal, and I’ll find you the best damn dress Chesterbrook High has ever seen.”

I laughed a little. “Ok, Mom.” I sat there for the rest of the night, and I woke up in my bed to the sun in my eyes.

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KEVIN GU

Red Gold Teach me how to paint those tattered juice stains, red blood-lit flowers sipping on my saggy low-rise jeans, crimson lanterns emanating under the expansive new year sky.

Let me trace the upward curves of my eyes, pulling reflections into almond wax crayons. & how my skin, yellow ochre, shrivels under leering gazes like rotting kumquat fruits in the summer heat. Teach me how to pull the noisy 3 pm afternoons of the Chinese market into my grandmother’s embrace.

I pray I’ll remember the ginseng perfume that loiters in my nostrils & the jade necklace that boils deep in my oolong tea. Then tell me the stories of market vendors that sell seared fish, electric fan weaving the wafting threads of salt & peppercorns, and remind me to be proud of these scrawny bones, angles of a clock’s hands—the breadth of the joints marked with crooked indents.

Distill red-gold silk, drink it in.

Cough up lychee berry juice that simmers in my lungs & scream with firecrackers that light up the burning silence. I’ll watch the golden-skin dragons flutter down from shattered mirrors, sending soot and blotted velvet into the concrete. 剪紙1 & smell the thin snowflakes, aren’t they saccharine like sugarwater and smoke?

1

Cut paper (paper-cutting): cut-outs depicting zodiac symbols or animals that typically represent luck and prosperity in Chinese culture — the paper is usually red in color

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Class of 2021 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. As usual, this contest proved to be our biggest draw of the year, with over a quarter of our writing submissions to this year’s magazine coming during this contest. This year’s runner up is Alisa Stolyar’s The Hands that Tick Around the Dial , a personal essay that effectively deploys the conceit of a clock’s hands as a parallel to Stolyar’s own life philosophy, her own multifaceted self. It’s clever, and it’s a great example of how an essay can provide insight to the author both as a person and as a creative thinker.

This year, our winner was Mia Carboni’s powerful essay, The Relativity and Reclamation of Success: Black Progress as it Evolves in America. This essay deftly and concisely examines over 150 years of anti-Black sentiment in the United States, with examinations of texts by W.E.B. DuBois, Ralph Ellison, and Frederick Douglass. The argument is sharp and insightful and manages to take a remarkably complicated issue, and a trio of intellectual titans and present itself in a way that is easy to follow without becoming simplistic or overgeneralized.

Beyond the writing itself is the timeliness of Carboni’s thoughts, as her final paragraph even seems to acknowledge. But her insight remains relevant even past her final sentence. In the few months since we opened this contest, our nation has welcomed its first African-American Vice-President, Secretary of Defense, and Ambassador to the United Nations (among other positions), which might provide a sort of sense of equality and achievement but has also witnessed the racial strife caused by the race-driven restrictive voting laws in Georgia and has held its breath while Derek Chauvin was being convicted of murdering George Floyd. There is still much work to be done.

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MIA CARBONI

The Relativity and Reclamation of Success: Black Progress as it Evolves in America After years of slavery, total freedom was not achieved by the Emancipation Proclamation, even if hope for freedom existed. But this hope for success, though progressive, was consistently and consciously deconstructed by white supremacy throughout America’s history. Hope, success, and progress are all loosely defined terms in our history. Was success when Frederick Douglass saw luxury in his early life as an enslaved person, and was hope when W. E. B. Du Bois saw a vision of progress and togetherness as one race in the early twentieth century? Hope was seemingly absent in the Jim Crow Era when Ralph Ellison wrote Invisible Man, but the man’s invisibility was relative, and his perception of his success was complicated by the eyes of white supremacists. Progress itself took on different meanings: success, hope, change, and freedom, all of which were relative and constantly changing, and the racialization of blackness during American chattel slavery made it impossible for progress to occur unobstructed by white supremacy.

Success exists only in relation to something, and progress exists only relative to a status held in the past. Frederick Douglass documented his early life in slavery living on a plantation including moments that felt like success relative to his dire situation. During his childhood living as a slave, there was a time when “It was a great thing to have the privilege of dipping a piece of bread into the water in which the meat had been boiled, and the skin taken from the rusty bacon was a positive luxury” (Douglass 35). Using phrases such as “great thing” and “positive luxury,” Douglass examines how the strength and positivity with which he approached the struggles of his early life is a relative success; it is an improvement relative to his past situation. W. E. B. Du Bois also wrote about the relativity of success in his youth. For Du Bois, this was the sudden realization that “...I was different from the others; or like, mayhap, in heart and life and longing, but shut out from their world by a vast veil. I had thereafter

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no desire to tear down that veil, to creep through; I held all beyond it in common contempt and lived above it in a region of blue sky and great wandering shadows” (Du Bois 4). Du Bois describes the isolating experience of feeling intentionally excluded as a child on account of his race, knowing that his personal success would always be considered failure next to “the others.” Both Douglass and Du Bois document experiences in their youth that define success in a relative sense. For Douglass, growing up an enslaved person meant joy in simple things since as a child he could understand nothing better. For Du Bois, this meant feeling unsuccessful from the very beginning in a way unrelated to his tangible success.

America’s history of hostility toward black people altered the perception of progress. Du Bois notes that lack of progress tended to “seem like absence of power, like weakness. And yet it is not weakness,—it is the contradiction of double aims” (Du Bois 6). In the decades following the Emancipation, black people in America were met with the obstacle, expectation, and responsibility for progress, or “striving.” It was not immediately successful. The “double aims” illustrate how black progress would look drastically different in the eyes of a black person versus in the eyes of a white man, and so this progress lost its power due to its relativity. Race has the power to redefine entire perceptions of success and of self. Ralph Ellison wrote The Invisible Man in Jim Crow America when the main character’s invisibility is as real as his blackness. He realizes he has “illuminated the blackness of my invisibility—and vice versa. And so I play the invisible music of my isolation. The last statement doesn't seem just right, does it? But it is; you hear this music simply because music is heard and seldom seen, except by musicians” (Ellison 11).

To Ellison, invisibility is blackness and blackness is invisibility. The “invisible music of [his] isolation” exemplifies his unheard pain. Even though music is “heard” by everyone, only musicians see it, and in the same way, the only people who can understand his pain are black people who feel the pain themselves. White people refuse to recognize his humanity. Ellison describes how the end of slavery was not the end of oppression. The invisible man tells how he has “been boomeranged across my head so much that [he] now can see the darkness of lightness” (Ellison 5). Ellison sees the “darkness” of slavery in the “lightness” of the supposed freedom of Jim Crow America in the forties. The boomerang is a metaphor for the Volume 6 – 2021

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constant enforcement of centuries-old power struggles. Douglass asked: “In what new skin will the old snake come forth?” White supremacist ideology feeding off constructed ideas of race has taken multiple paths, “boomeranged” through society, as Ellison answers, each time causing destruction and pain. Almost a century after the abolition of slavery, Ellison should be living in a more progressive time, but a race-driven society drives his progress into invisibility.

White supremacy actively destabilized any concept of black success during the Reconstruction and in the years following. Du Bois wrote how after the deconstruction of the slave system, “a people thus handicapped ought not to be asked to race with the world, but rather allowed to give all its time and thought to its own social problems. But alas! while sociologists gleefully count his bastards and his prostitutes, the very soul of the toiling, sweating black man is darkened by the shadow of a vast despair” (Du Bois 9).

The contrast between the practical social reclamation needed after the Emancipation and what white society and government gave black citizens is so stark, Du Bois takes on a flippant tone. The way white “sociologists” excitedly measure the progress of black people directly forms the “shadow of a vast despair” and contributes to the racialization of blackness as less than acceptable. Ellison describes the way white supremacy hindered black progress in the mid-twentieth century as the invisible man needed to “remember that I am invisible and walk softly so as not to awaken the sleeping ones. Sometimes it is best not to awaken them; there are few things in the world as dangerous as sleepwalkers” (Ellison 4). Ellison emphasizes the unconscious nature of bigotry as it is enacted, but not as it is experienced. In saying “it is best not to awaken them,” Ellison argues that unjustifiable racism is easier handled than racism that someone whole-heartedly believes enough to justify. This description is evocative of how during the Jim Crow Era, black success was not only looked down upon by society but was often seen as a threat demanding action. Progress was hindered, and success was restricted by white supremacy.

The construction of race in America hinders hope for progress as well as progress itself, causing anger and desperation. Du Bois saw a future of social progress but recognizes a “nameless prejudice that leaps beyond all this” which leaves him “helpless,

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dismayed, and well-nigh speechless” (Du Bois 10). While Du Bois writes black people are ready to recognize (and work to amend) lapses in progress that white people also recognize, he also details how “nameless prejudice,” prejudice due to deep-rooted racism and bigotry, leaves them feeling “helpless” and results in a loss of hope and confidence. Ellison, too, years later, feels this nameless presence and wonders whether he is not “simply a phantom in other people's minds. Say, a figure in a nightmare which the sleeper tries with all his strength to destroy.” With this loss of identity, he finds that “out of resentment, you begin to bump people back” (Ellison 3). White people are asleep, unconscious, which places the power of recognizing the bigotry back into the hands of black people. The “resentment” that causes him to “bump people back” comes from a place of hyperawareness. Ellison’s invisibility was not relative to him, it was relative to a “particular disposition of the eyes of those with whom I come in contact” (Ellison 1), which leaves him feeling hopeless for progress if he cannot control that disposition, the “nameless prejudice” Du Bois witnessed and that continues today.

As a consequence of the construction of race in America, from the centuries of slavery to the Reconstruction to the Jim Crow era to modern-day, black people have had to exist differently in society. It has created a second lens through which black progress and black success are viewed; no achievement is safe from the critical duplicity of “nameless prejudice” of white supremacy. The relativity leads to resentment. Today, the evidence of Ellison’s “boomerang” of history is plastered over the walls of America. Black progress has been wrongly measured relative to the past and relative to white people, but it is also relative to the future. Today, hope for a future unencumbered by the weight of prejudice is a necessity.

The Relativity and Reclamation of Success: Black Progress as it Evolves in America was the winner of the 2021 Senior-Write-Is Contest.

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CHLOE BARIL

Voicemail hi honey it’s mom, calling you to remind you to stir the soup. don’t forget to mean it. you can’t pretend to stir the soup, i will know if you didn’t stir the soup. call me when you do, maybe i’ll let you give it a taste. add a dash of remorse if you’re feeling like it needs something. hi darling, it’s your mother, calling you to remind you to let the bees out. but don’t force them out, remember, there is a silly little diagram in the cupboard above the stove we haven’t fully paid off yet. call me when you do, i want to say hello to the queen, see how my daughter is treating her babies. hi my love, it’s mommy, calling you to remind you it’s picture day. i laid out the dress with 11 silvers buttons down the spine on the banister next to the first-floor staircase. call me when you try it on,

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i’ll rush downstairs and pretend it looks as good on you as i had hoped. hi bug, it’s mama, calling you to remind you how much i love you. i can never find the words, but since you never pick up your phone it’s like i’m talking to a wall. it’s easier. you wouldn’t understand. call me when you get this, i miss your voice and the way you said my name.

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Contemplation

by Kevin Gu (digital)

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AVA PAPPALARDO

Deserted The intense force of the sun beats down upon Luka’s neck as he stumbles through the desert. The arid environment proves to be a suitable advisory, but Luka resolves to beat it. He had been walking for God knows how long with stretches of sand as far as the eye could see in all directions. He should have stopped and looked at his surroundings when he first gained consciousness, but he didn’t, so now he is stuck walking to nowhere. He glances into the clear sky searching for an answer, but it holds none. Sand squishes through his beat-up sneakers as he peers at the sun-scorched sand dunes on the horizon.

Maybe if there is a town, he can find someone to help him!

With newfound energy, Luka strides forward. Yes, maybe he’d be alright. He just has to keep moving. Keep moving or he’d end up a skeleton like the ones that now dotted his path. He sighs, this constant movement could only be helpful for so long. It is only a matter of time before he fainted from the heat, dehydration, lack of sleep or exhaustion. One is bound to kill him.

This is a pointless endeavor anyway, for all he knows he could be walking in a giant circle. There are no landmarks and no way to identify where in the world he is. Maybe if he could remember how he got here, he could remember how to leave? Luka scans his mind for memories--any memories that could help him, but he comes up with nothing. It’s like he had been born into existence just hours ago. He knows only the sweaty walk of the desert. It’s hard to know what bothers him more; the fact that he has no memories of his life before the desert or that he is completely alone. Even the animals seem to be avoiding him.

Every moment is torture. Luka has to fight the heat’s desire to curl its deadly claws around him with every step. He must keep moving. Luka strips off his threadbare sweatshirt and wraps it around his sweaty brow. His feet catch on each other and he tumbles into the sandy depths. It is so warm on the ground, and he is so, so tired.

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needs to be, not some town. Still, a small voice of resistance tells him that if he stays there, he will die. Is death so bad if the alternative is walking for the rest of his life? Luka lays in the sand for another moment, not willing to let go of the sandy blanket that comforts him.

A shrill cry perks his attention, but he ignores it. Again, it sounds, but he brushes it off as some desert animal. The scream began to take shape as curiosity pries Luka from the desert's grip.

Luka drowsily opens his eyes and stands to face the sound. The call breaks into Luka’s psyche as it worms its way into a place he can’t reach. He recognizes the sound. Not only from the other times he’d heard in when he was in the sand, but from a time where he wasn’t in this place. Suddenly, the blankness of his mind seems less foreboding. He ties all his hopes to this voice. Maybe it is the key to unlocking the walls of uncertainty in his mind!

Luka races across the sand the best he can, the sand shifting around his feet. He runs a few more paces and then waits for another interlude from the caller. It doesn’t come. He desperately searches for the source of the sound, and in the distance, he sees a figure. His eyes bulge and he darts towards it with the last of his strength. Even with his sand coated eyes he can see that the figure is standing awkwardly.

He wipes the sand from his face and walks cautiously towards the figure. It's standing completely still. Luka shades his eyes from the bright sun and squints to see it. It’s a girl.

“Hello,” Luka rasps, coughing through his parched lips. The girl looks at him with fear in her eyes and she directs her gaze towards the sand in front of her. Confused, he follows her sight to see a nest of rattlesnakes slithering and hissing. Slowly she points to his shoes. Luka carefully takes off his shoe and makes eye contact with the girl. She nods and Luka throws his shoe past her. The snakes surge to attack the shoe, leaving the girl unguarded.

“Come!” He barks hoarsely. The girl leaps away from the mauling snakes and falls on Luka. They scramble to get up, and start running away from the serpents. Who knows what will happen once they discover the truth of their ‘catch?’

“Hold on,” Luka pants, stopping. The girl looks behind her as if checking for the snakes.

“I can’t run anymore,” Luka huffs. He thought he was tired before from his hours-long journey, but now sprinting from their attackers brings on a new wave of exhaustion.

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“Okay,” the girl breathes. “Let’s slow down, we can’t stop.”

“I know,” Luka adds bitterly.

“So why are you out here?” The girl asks, striding across the sand, barefooted.

“To be honest, I don’t know. I can’t remember why I’m here or where here is,” Luka responds. The girl studies Luka for a moment with an unreadable look on her face.

“Do you remember anything from before this?” She probes.

Luka closes his eyes, and searches once again for a hint of anything.

“Luka. That’s my name...and all I can remember. Everything else is too blurry,” Luka says discouragingly.

“I’m...I’m Tessa,” she adds hesitantly, turning to look at him.

Luka smiles. Now that this girl has a name, she seems more human.

“Do you live here?” He asks her. She sighs.

“I don’t know. Just like you, the only thing I remember is that my name is Tessa,” she replies. The feeling of unrest is palpable between the two. Luka tries to find a way to lighten the mood.

“Why don’t you have shoes?” He teases. Tessa offers him a weak smile in return.

“Let’s just say, that was not the first snake I’ve encountered,” she responds knowingly. Luka laughs to himself. This girl is fascinating. There’s a lull in the conversation.

“Does it bother you?” Luka asks.

“Hmm? What do you mean?” Tessa inquires. Luka chooses his words carefully.

“Does it bother you that...that you can’t remember...anything?”

Luka finishes. Tessa considers this.

“No, maybe we were meant to forget. I’d rather not have memories at all then have bad ones,” Tessa says, making eye contact with him. He holds her gaze for a few seconds. Above them, some clouds shift over the sky, muddling the serene blue of before.

Tessa sees Luka’s worried expression and punches him lightly on the shoulder.

“Luka, don’t worry about it, this is probably some form of heat stroke. Once we cool down, we’ll remember everything, okay?”

Tessa tries. Luka shoots her a goofy smile.

“You know, this could be a heat induced delusion. You’re probably not even real!” He laughs, putting his mind off of the graveness of their situation.

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him.

“Who knows, maybe this is all a dream,” Tessa adds, pinching

“Ow!” “You’re not dreaming,” Tessa explains simply. They laugh.

Luka takes off his other shoe, sick of walking unevenly.

“What I wouldn’t give for water,” Luka remarks, discarding the shoe in the sand.

“Me too,” Tessa sighs. Luka looks at the horizon and sees a train of camels, plodding through the sand.

“Tessa,” he whispers. Tessa stops in her tracks; she sees them too.

“We have to get their attention, if we don’t, we’ll probably die out here,” she warns. Luka nods, and the pair run to the nearest of the camels.

“Hello!” They yell in unison. The rider straightens and peers at them with asperity.

“What do you want?” The man croaks.

“We want to go with you, please,” Luka explains. “We don’t know why we’re here and we don’t know how to get back to civilization.”

“I didn’t ask for your whole sob story kid, and I don’t have the patience nor the energy to argue. We’re heading to the main city out west; you can come with us...or not. I don’t care,” the man retorts. Tessa shrugs and they run farther down the line to find an empty camel. They mount it’s back with some difficulty. The swaying motion of the camel eases their nerves.

“Tessa, if you’ve dealt with those snakes before, why were you yelling?” Luka questions.

“I was surprised by them and...I ran out of shoes. I didn’t know what else to do,” she explains.

“So, what? You tried to scare them off?” Luka taunts.

“Oh, shut up!” Tessa laughs. She hands Luka a water bottle.

“Water,” Luka breathes.

“I know, I guess we chose the right camel,” Tessa replies.

Luka downs half the water and holds it out to Tessa. She hesitates for a moment and Luka is left unsure of whether he should clean it with his shirt hem. Thankfully, Tessa takes it from his outstretched hand and finishes it.

“That’s better,” she says.

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“Agreed,” Luka echoes. Exhausted from the morning’s activities, they doze as the camel train makes its way towards humanity. Luka stirs as the camels come to a harsh stop. Tessa yawns and stretches her arms.

“Tess,” Luka says breathlessly, marveling at the huge structure before them. The nickname flows easily off his lips and Tessa doesn’t even notice.

“Wow,” Tessa says, a smile growing on her face. They groggily get off their camel and thank the drivers. The cranky man’s harsh eyes seem to soften with pity as they enter the city. As if he knows of some horror they aren’t aware of. The uneasy feeling passes as the city’s wide gates allow Tessa and Luka past the grand facade of the stone oasis. The roads are dry, and the buildings are bleached.

The once cloudy blanket above seems to brighten as they walk along the streets. Vendors sell spices, fruits and shiny objects, trying to pass off their wares as ‘special.’ The locals leer at the newcomers and whisper as they pass by them. Tessa moves closer to Luka. Luka blushes at her proximity, even though he knows it’s only for protection. He stares longingly for her hand, his fingers twitching.

“Aye! You!” A man shouts. His beard is tangled and there’s a long scar running from his chin to his eye. His voice is deep and scratchy. Tessa’s eyes met Luka’s, unsure what to do.

“Um...hello sir?” Luka replies, turning to face the man. The man only glares at him. Tessa tries to reason with the scarred civilian.

“Sir, we’re just passing through. We don’t want any trouble--” “You better shut up,” the man growls. Anger grows inside of Luka from a place he was previously unaware of. He has no right to talk to Tess that way.

“You are not welcome here, both of you,” the man sniffs.

The sound of his voice swells Luka’s rage. He grabs Tessa’s hand and resumes walking. The man wrenches Tessa from his grip and holds her to his greasy chest. Tessa grunts and mouths ‘help.’ The man shoves a filthy rag in her mouth. Luka’s anger boils inside him. He can hear his heart pounding in his ears.

“Let her go,” he commands. The man laughs and takes out his knife. Luka’s gut drops.

“No, no please! Don’t hurt her!” He pleads, reaching his arms out as if somehow he could pause the disaster. A satisfied smile stretches over the man’s rotting teeth. Luka is so focused on freeing

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Tessa from the man’s grasp, that he fails to notice Tessa’s attempted warnings. After a wave of blinding pain, Luka’s vision begins to fade.

He sees Tessa lurch in the man's arms and hears her let out a muffled scream. Luka collapses on the ground and his mind fades to black.

His head is pounding. Luka grimaces as he moves his aching muscles. He groans, it’s like his brain is about to implode.

“Luka? Luka can you hear me?” A faint voice asks. Luka forces his eyes to focus and is able to see Tessa. Her blue eyes--as clear as the sky itself, are wide with concern. He quickly gets up, only to have to steady himself on the closest stone wall. He looks around.

“Where are we?” He asks.

“In prison,” she clarifies. Luka’s mind races. Prison? How did he end up here? As if to remind him, a searing pain shoots through his skull. He winces.

“How are you?” Tessa asks, touching his shoulder.

“Fine, just a little headache, that’s all,” he replies. She frowns.

“How about you?” He asks her.

“Just bruised, so I’m fine,” she answers, clutching her arm.

She’s lying, but then again, so is he.

They embrace each other, just happy to have survived this ordeal. It’s strange how much Luka trusts Tessa. After all, they had met only hours ago. Perhaps he remembers her from his time before the desert? Maybe that’s why he called her ‘Tess,’ because he remembered. Luka can tell Tessa feels it too. He trusts her with his life and yet, he had just failed to protect hers. The now familiar bubbling of his anger rises in his chest. How dare that man hurt her! How dare he lock them up! Luka hates him. He wants to make that man with the scar hurt a thousand times greater than they had. With each minute, Luka’s memories start to clear. He can’t ‘see’ them exactly, but it’s nice to have some sense of self again. The more he sits with Tessa, the more layers seem to be added to his existence. He remembers remorse and passion. He remembers the thrills he enjoyed in his former life. His mind’s spinning now that some of the barriers obstructing it have been removed. Tessa is the only thing consistent through everything. The only thing that’s ever mattered to him. He knows that now. And that man hurt her. Luka seethes with loathing and steps towards the locked door. With a powerful kick, the door breaks

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from its hinges. Tessa lets out a yelp of surprise but follows Luka quickly down the hallway. They hear voices.

“Wait here,” Luka whispers. She complies.

Tessa hears the sound of a struggle and the clash of metal for a long time. Then it stops. Curiosity overtakes her and she looks down the hallway. The giant windows display the darkened sky, but the moonlight shines it’s beams on the situation. Bodies of guards are strewn every which way, all baring blood on their midsection. At the far end of the corridor stands Luka, his back to her. At the sound of her feet slapping the wooden floor, Luka turns. He’s clutching a knife he took from one of the guards and stares at her with the last of his wrath. His once bright eyes are dim and crazed. His shirt is bloodied, and he smiles with a gleeful viciousness. Below him, the scarred man, the life gone from his grey eyes. Lukas' gaze lightens as he recognizes her, and he drops his knife. It clatters on the floor. Luka sees her horrified expression.

“Hey Tess,” he sighs sadly. “You remember now, don’t you?”

He asks, a pained expression on his face. The last remnants of her memory clicked into place the moment she saw his eyes. Tessa lets out a shaky breath. “...I do,” she says, failing to keep her voice steady.

“And?” He asks.

“You’re a monster,” she voices softly. At this, the silent chasm between them grows apparent. Luka’s face is blank as he stares at his hands, the blood from his victims staining it red.

“I know,” he says remorsefully. The moon illuminates a small tear sliding down his cheek.

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JULIANNE SAGE

Ever Since I Started Talking Ever since I started talking, I haven’t been able to stop. I talk to everyone. I never follow the rule of “Don’t talk to strangers” because I have so much to say to everyone. I love telling people stories and asking people about their lives. Even in preschool, I coordinated all of the playdates. I was chosen to be the one who greets the new kids and shows them around to make them feel included. This is when I first discovered my main skill in life. Talking to people brought me joy and it brought joy to others too.

Every summer since fifth grade I went to sleep away camp. I always invited my cabinmates to talk and play games which helped us to get to know each other and bond even though we were all from different backgrounds. My last year at camp we went on an overnight backpacking trip to Mount Washington. As we set up camp on the side of the mountain and started to make a fire to cook dinner, I noticed there were other tents around and I invited people over. By breaking the “Don’t talk to strangers” rule once again, I was given the trail name “The Ambassador” by these middle-aged Appalachian Trail through-hikers. By listening to their stories, I learned a lot of very valuable lessons. As they reflected on their lives, they said how they should have followed their dreams earlier, and that the measure of success comes from within. This will always stick with me.

This year I saw on social media that a girl I grew up with but had lost touch with was struggling a lot with mental health and a toxic family environment. She was reaching out for help. She had no one. As someone who struggled with mental health problems myself, I had to reach out. I FaceTimed her and talked to her for hours catching up on what we had missed in each other’s lives. About a week after, I invited her to a bonfire with my friends. She now hangs out with us all the time and leans on us as one of her greatest supports. I realized that real connections can begin over social media and turn into true friendships.

Through all of this, I have learned the value of treating people with kindness and listening before I make a judgment. I have

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gained friends, experiences, and memories that I wouldn't trade for the world. The greatest thing I have learned is that no matter how different we may seem on the surface, everyone is trying their best to be the best they can. The key to understanding this is listening to each other and putting ourselves in each other's shoes. There is never a bad or wrong time to connect with someone. As we learn more about one another we will realize that we are more similar than we are different. Even if people seem completely different, they can end up fitting together perfectly. When we accept each other’s differences and understand each other’s similarities this will create an overall greater environment.

I plan on bringing my skills as “The Ambassador” to everything my future holds. I believe that what has come naturally to me my whole life can be used to bring people together on a broader level, not just a personal one. Simply empathizing with others could change people's perceptions and their relationships with each other for the better. Moving forward I will continue to bring people together in college and beyond. I will talk, listen, and connect with as many people as possible to make them feel heard and understood.

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MAURA SOUZA

Toxic Media She used to talk a lot, but they called her loud.

Telling her to lower her voice silencing her before she even began.

She used to laugh constantly, but that was obnoxious.

It’s not funny they echoed stealing her joy because they were empty.

She used to be confident, she believed in herself.

Fearless of other’s thoughts and opinions, those opinions now haunt her daily.

She used to be extroverted, not afraid to speak out.

Now she’d rather bury her thoughts inside, they didn’t want to hear her anyway.

She used to love her body, now she obsesses over it.

Afraid to be judged, afraid to be different they told her how she has to look.

They brought out our insecurities they stole our youth they turned girls against each other and twisted the truth Are we living our lives or have we just become products of the media?

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2020 Fiction Contest Editors’ Notes We are pleased to share with you Otto’s Song, the winner of our 2020 Fiction Contest. Set in Germany during World War Two, this story examines Otto, a musician who seems at odds with the militaristic Berlin that surrounds him. The story moves at a quick clip through a series of anecdotes that establish Otto as a sort of misfit, but one who has a connection to the finer things in life. Without getting too much into the plot, suffice it to say that we were both saddened and charmed by the turn at the end – a difficult feat to pull off for a writer. We hope you enjoy it as well.

Our runner up this year was Maggie Joyce’s Pyrrha and Doe. In critiquing this piece, our editors offered, “I honestly wish the story could keep going,” “I could not wait to find out how it ended,” and “I truly loved this story. [It] caught my attention from the very first paragraph.” We are thrilled to be able to feature both of these pieces in the magazine this year. Congratulations to both!

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ANONYMOUS

Otto’s Song BERLIN, GERMANY 1938 How can the world seem perfectly fine one day, then go all wrong the next? It just didn’t make sense. Especially not to Otto.

Well, a lot of things did not make sense to Otto. Especially how some people could live cold and hungry in little shacks while others lived in big houses, like his family’s. The Wolff estate, his father had once told him, and all ours. All yours.

That was, of course, when he was still a little boy, and Otto’s mother had insisted that his oddities would pass.

“Why, just look at him, Elena!” The father would shout angrily, “He should be playing with guns instead of sitting around all day with that- that stupid violin. He needs to learn to be a man!”

“Meine Liebe,” the mother would coax softly, “Otto is only eight. He is just a timid child, but it will pass. It will pass.”

But it did not pass.

When Otto reached ten years of age, his tutor told his parents she was worried; he was still struggling with his letters but knew his scales by heart. His priorities are in the wrong place, she admonished.

When Otto reached twelve years of age, the other boys spoke in excited whispers of artillery units and tanks, while Otto fervently performed his songs for their droopy-eyed dog, Bruno- no one else would listen.

When Otto reached sixteen, the others were already being taken to war, one by one. At school, all the boys were told to line up.

Like little ants we are, thought Otto, as each boy was physically and mentally inspected by the physician.

“Take this letter home to Dein Vater,” the physician had said to him, a look of pity in his eyes.

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And so it was that by eighteen years of age, Otto was the only boy left in their neighborhood. “Eighteen and still not serving our country,” The neighbors whispered, “How shameful!”

Otto did not hear any of this, for he was far too busy with his new song. A sad one it was, but he was not sure why. His father, however, had heard all of it.

“Mein Gott!” He begged the physician, “Just let him be drafted! I do not care whether he is ready or not!” The physician shook his head.

“If you truly want Otto to be fixed, admit him to the hospital,” the physician suggested. The father refused. A child in the mental ward...it would be the end of them, he decided.

Otto watched the world from the Wolff estate with mild interest. He lined his tin soldiers on his bedroom windowsill to match the ones he saw march through the streets. They looked funny in those outfits of theirs. Why, they all look the same, he thought. How were you supposed to tell the difference between a friend and an enemy?

Once, as he sat playing away in his room, he heard the soldiers return, and got up to stand curiously by the window.

As they marched in unison, he watched as they all simultaneously raised an arm in salute.

He saluted back, attempting to mimic them. But it didn’t feel quite right, so he dropped his hand and left the window, uninterested, returning to his spot on the floor.

Two years had passed. The year was now 1943.

As Otto lay in his bed at night, he heard urgent whispers, angry whispers. And as Otto sat at the breakfast table in the morning, he saw urgent words in the papers, angry words. His father was angry all the time. “Germany has already lost,” he would say, “It’s hopeless.” At the last part, he would always look at Otto as if to say, “It’s you. You are hopeless.”

Whenever this happened, Otto retreated into his bedroom, and then nothing could be heard for the next few hours except for the mournful singing of his violin, saying, “I know.”

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Otto was a twenty-year-old man, still living with his parents.

Until he wasn’t.

On the fifteenth of August, his father had finally had enough.

The mother had cried and begged, but they had all known, perhaps even Otto, that the day would come.

Stumbling out onto the sidewalk, a small suitcase with only some of his belongings was thrown out behind him. A pause. Then, almost like an afterthought, the violin went too, hitting the front steps harshly and sliding down to land at Otto’s feet. The front door slammed shut, and that was that.

“Get yourself a job, son. And don’t come back.” Otto repeated the instructions given to him under his breath to remember them properly. “Job. Don’t come back.”

It turned out that they were both harder to accomplish than previously thought. No matter which direction he went, his feet somehow walked him right back to the gates of the Wolff estate. He had to scold himself each time and force himself to turn around.

As for a job, he had no idea how to go about getting one.

“I’m here to get myself a job,” he would announce in each store he walked into, looking down at the floor. Each time he was thrown back out, regurgitated like bile.

“I know you,” the store owners would growl cruelly. From where, Otto asked curiously? But there was never any answer.

The sun was setting over the tops of chimneys and tall buildings of brick and stone. Otto was cold, hungry, and a little bit homesick.

“Don’t come back,” he reminded himself, and kept walking.

He kept going until the rough pavement under his shoes turned to dirt pathways, and the streets turned to grass-covered hills.

Weary, he sat on one of these hills, looking up at the darkening sky, and down again. Which was when he spotted it, not too far off. From his seat, high above the ground, he could see a small, grey establishment. Smoky clouds churned from it. Otto sat up and peered closer, at the long rows of barracks, at the fences that surrounded it.

Ah, yes. He knew these- from the pictures in the papers. Camps, they were called.

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They looked sad, he thought, for something that was supposed to be good for their country. He saw little figures through the fence, all wearing stripes, and he felt sad for them, and for himself as well. Look at us, Otto thought. We are far from home, and we are hopeless. And so Otto did what he always did when he felt hopeless. He picked his violin up, which lay beside him like a sleeping lover, and began to play. Why not? There was no father there to tell him he shouldn’t. And, he decided, even though he had left Bruno behind there would always be someone listening.

Not a mile away, at the bottom of the great, grassy hill stood the camp. A boy emerged from one of the low barracks, his striped shirt slipping off one of his thin shoulders. A faraway melody was playing somewhere, sad but hopeful. He stood in the dust in his bare feet and listened.

Otto’s Song was the winner of the 2020 Fiction Contest Volume 6 – 2021

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Tiger King

by Avery Ravech (digital)

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BRANDON FU

benny father was never there, only a brief memory at the beginning of your life. you imagined his name to be ed, and ed would be the best father there could be. he would cook barbecues, build treehouses with you and benny, and do all the fatherly things that you heard of. but you never brought this up to mother because she didn’t like mentioning father. she was always guarded and said that father brought back “bad memories.” she tugged at her left sleeve when she said this. sometimes, when she wasn’t careful, you caught a glimpse at a dark scar on her left shoulder. you never understood why father and the scar were correlated. benny did. mother died from alzheimer’s. she couldn’t remember you when you went to see her last. your name was a foreign language, one that she could not understand. her vacant eyes no longer spoke of any love, but there was not much love in the first place, for you or benny. you would rather take your own life than be taken without memory of a life. so you left. nobody noticed. you are on a train, on the way to work. the train is dirty, overcrowded, busy, disorganized, cold, loud. you are wearing a gray suit that is crinkling, ruffled by the tall woman pressing up against your shoulder. her fur coat burns minuscule holes through the suit and into your skin. your belt itches. you look down. a rather large stomach bulges below you, and suddenly you wonder what you ate to make yourself so fat. benny would never allow that to happen. your cheeks flush red, but no one notices. you look around. an old woman sits, hunched over, scrolling through a cell phone. a young man, dressed in shorts and a white shirt, blows bubble gum while staring out the window. a boy, holding onto his mother’s hand, dangles a toy skateboard and drops it. the boy picks up his toy, then points at your hand. “is that a guitar?” he asks playfully. you look down at him, straighten your tie, and give a curt nod. “cool,” the boy says before his mother pulls him away from you.

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the tall woman has stopped leaning on you, and you relax your shoulder, unruffling your suit. a bead of sweat trickles down your forehead, and you realize that the sun is already high in the sky. you check your watch and affirm that you will arrive on time to work. shuffling to your unoccupied cubicle, you take a deep breath, pat down the suit, and drop the guitar case. you wipe your thin, oily hair with your handkerchief and adjust the framed picture of you and benny. benny’s friends used to say that you and he had two opposite personalities. he would retort that you balanced each other out. it was true. you were cold, distant, intimidating at first glance. he was social, kind, easygoing, loving. it was benny who saved up all of his allowance to chip in for your guitar. it was benny who got you the interview for the job that you currently have. it was benny who paid for mother’s care bills, and his own when he was ill. benny died two years ago. you cannot remember the last time you said a word to someone. you do not even know if you have spoken since benny died. fortunately, your job does not require speaking with people, and you are pretty good at it. around lunchtime, your employer, whose name was something like mark or max, drops papers into your cubicle. you start to work on those, and by three you are done, without fail. after finishing up, you pick up your guitar case and leave around 4:30. benny always thought it was great when you played guitar. he would ask you to bring it out and strum a few chords while he improvised a song. the chords remain, but the lyrics are lost. you arrive at your street corner, take the guitar out of its case, and begin strumming. you never make money, nor do you want the useless charity of people in the form of spare change. you just want to play. no one hears your music. it is a loud street corner, and you do not have an amplifier, but you know that benny can hear it. after he died, you started playing on the street, giving him the music you knew he deserved, in the heaven he knew existed. you play your favorite song. your fingers feel cold on the steel strings as you strum the chords. you decide to change the

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melody today. it is not like anybody will notice. you close your eyes. benny used to say that this was “our brotherhood song.” “it’s something that siblings have: a song.” you thought it was preposterous, but you complied, playing it over and over again to him as he created silly lyrics, somber lyrics, brotherly lyrics. someone clears their throat. you stop mid-song. a boy stands in front of you, casting his shadow onto your eyes, blocking the afternoon sun. you look up timidly. he is holding a five-dollar bill. “my mom sits over there sometimes,” the boy says. his breath swirls around the air before slowly fading away. “she likes to listen to your music.” he bends down and drops the money into your empty case. you look past him, at the woman standing a few yards away from you. gives a small wave. the boy gets back up. “she says your music cheers her up. she also told me that you changed her favorite song today, the one that you were just playing. she still likes it, though. I like it too, a lot.” you look at the boy’s green eyes, the same shade of benevolent eyes benny had. you look back at the mother. she is smiling at the boy, and she spots you looking at her. she smiles at you. you start to smile too, and suddenly you feel warm, even though you are only wearing the suit you wore to work that day. you look again at the boy, and you open your mouth.

“Thank you.”

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LAUREN PANTAZES

One in Eight Hundred “Ryan we’re going to miss it, hurry up!” I don’t know how he expects me to catch up with these chicken legs and a telescope on my back.

“Maybe if someone didn’t run ahead while they were helping me carrying this thing we would be there by now,” My back was going to break any minute. Luckily Leo came back and took the telescope off my back.

“Sorry, I just got excited!” I could see the headphones in his ears, no wonder he’s yelling. “See it’s not that heavy!”

“I wasn’t on the swim team for four years,” “Still not that heavy Ry!” He started to head back up the hill to the lookout spot with me trailing behind him.

Bláth Park is one of the most popular date spots in the county. A couple of immigrants in the 1840s named it due to the flowers that were found there. The flowers make the park very popular before dates. Now, it is winter. Today the garden was covered in snow instead of flowers, the pond was frozen over, getting ready for this year’s skaters. According to Leo, the lookout point is perfect for stargazing. I can see why. The only light pollution would be our flashlights when we come back down and there won’t be a lot of trees blocking the sky. I found a log and collapsed on it.

Leo grabbed the telescope from me to set it up. He took out his headphones as well. I bet he was listening to Hadestown again.

“How long until sunset Ry?” “10 minutes,” I felt the cold all over my body, I looked over at Leo and he is just shaking. We wait, we see the conjunction, we leave, no more, no less.

“Why couldn’t the conjunction happen when it was warmer out!?!”

“If you’ve been through a Rochester winter, you wouldn’t be complaining” he looked at me with a look of disbelief.

“There is no way it could be colder than this,” “Trust me it is,”

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“Maybe you can take me there to show me, then I’ll believe you,” “Do you need any help with that?”

“Just finished,” “That was quick,” Like all the times you finished your tests before the rest of us and still got a perfect score.

“When you have been doing this since you were a kid, you get pretty good at doing it,” “What do we do now?”

“We sit down, and we wait until we can see the conjunction,” He moved the telescope next to me and sat down. The last time we sat this close was when mom caught me on that date. I came home, her brows were furrowed, and she had her you-screwed-up-badly face on. She yelled about how she thought I was bringing shame to the family. About how I should pray to God and ask him to fix me. I told her that I didn’t need it. I had two hours to pack and leave. I was out by one. I haven’t talked to her since. Right now, she’s probably making the fruitcake the raccoons are a big fan of. With nowhere else to go I drove to Leo’s. He may look like he wouldn’t care, but once you get to know him, he’s just the softest person you’ll ever meet. He sat with me while I cried. His parents got a room ready for me. He’s lucky to have such a supportive family, that’s something I can never have.

“So how did you get into this? This doesn’t seem like something you’d be into,” “Dad used to take me to this very spot and teach me about the constellations and their shapes. He’d always told me that stars shine more when they are together, to form a constellation. This is actually the first time I’ve been back since the accident.” His voice is starting to crack. “I always asked him if there were stories behind them, he always said he would tell me, but he never got the chance.”

“You know I have been reading about those stories?”

“Really? Can I hear them?”

“We might not have time,” “Oh, come on! Just one, please?”

“Okay, Do you know about Lyra?”

“Of course, I do,” “Well, that was Orpheus’s harp, he used it to write love songs for his wife, Eurydice,”

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“I think I know where this is going,” “Then Eurydice died, and Orpheus went to the underworld to play for Hades. Hades loved his music and when he stopped, Hades made a deal that when Orpheus completed the song, he would allow Eurydice to return with him. However, when Orpheus was presented with his wife, Hades told him that he could not look back at Eurydice otherwise she’d have to go back to the underworld.”

“As they were almost out, he stopped hearing her walking and looked back, right?”

“Yes, and when Orpheus died, Zeus placed Lyra in the sky to honor their great love. I hope to have that one day” “Would you do that with me?”

“I wouldn’t be able to keep going on without seeing you,” “Ry! I think I see it!” He pointed to a star with four points, larger and brighter than anything else in the sky. I’m guessing he couldn’t see the planets themselves with the telescope.

“That’s Jupiter?”

“And Saturn, they won't be this close for another eight hundred years.”

“What do they look like in the telescope?”

“Still just stars, but I like this way better.”

“Wow, you don’t get many stars in town,” “That’s why we came here, was it worth the hike?”

“Yes! We should do this once it is warmer out.”

“Agreed” “I wouldn’t want to experience this with anyone else,” “Me neither,” He then pulled me towards him, soon my eyes were off of the stars and onto his eyes. Heart beating, thoughts racing, body shaking. Should I kiss him? No, you dumbass! But the opportunity is right there, and I had a crush on him. What if he doesn’t like you back Before I could say anything, he leaned in and kissed me.

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ESTHER KLINGER

Schooling the School System “We won’t give you any homework,” they say, “But here’s this 5-page paper due in a day.”

“Be free, have fun, enjoy your youth” “Oh, and by the way, let me introduce This test that’ll leave your brain feeling like a boat in a hurricane.”

“You couldn't complete it? A vain attempt?

Is this subject just not your bent?”

“You’re living history - in ‘unprecedented times’- so don’t worry about SATs, Just remember, colleges won’t welcome one’s application without these!”

“I won’t give you more than 20 minutes of work a day,” they say Just make sure to read this book, take notes, then write the essay!”

And then they’re SHOCKED that our mental health is low.

They say, “scrap social media, the surging sickness, that’s the solution, you know” Never do they admit that they’re the ones to blame “In fact - let’s give them more school, that’ll solve it!” they proclaim.

All I ask is for a reasonable amount of school.

Maybe a break.

Maybe even a life.

But I sit on my butt, Slaving away, Doing busywork That doesn’t matter anyway.

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MAGGIE JOYCE

Pyrrha and Doe I stood silently against the wall of a great hall. People filled the room, whether they were servants, citizens, or royalty. The feast in celebration of the princess’s sixteenth birthday sat on stone tables on both sides of the hall. Hundreds of candles lit the room, and the cool night air filled the hall. The thrones had been arranged so that the princess sat in the middle. My dress was light green, like grass in the spring, and tickled my ankles as I stood.

As for Princess Iphigenia, she looked stunning. Her dress was of a dark pink fabric that swirled as she danced. Her auburn hair was tied up tightly, and the tiara she wore twinkled in the candlelight. She was dancing with a young man of tall stature and short, platinum hair: Prince Asa. He was of a nation I could not remember, nor cared to learn. Cruel to his bones, and merciless: my fellow kitchen maids and I often wondered if he even had a heart. I rolled my eyes and looked away. I sensed someone staring at me, and I glanced back at the princess. Our eyes locked briefly. She nodded towards the door, and I exited the castle and walked towards the edge of the lawn.

It had been this way since we were twelve. From the kitchen, I had seen her more and more as we aged. Her beauty was captivating, her kindness even more gripping. Finally, we met formally on the palace grounds three years ago. Instant friendship quickly became fierce endearment. I was enamored with her. I would know her by the sound of her feet hitting the grass, by the way the sunlight illuminated her irises. Her touch burned my skin with the warmth of a thousand summers. She was unforgettable, undeniable: a goddess amongst mortals.

I watched her emerge from the castle gates. A smile struck her face like sunlight, and she kicked off her shoes to run down the hill. Before I realized it, she was in front of me. We were toe to toe, our foreheads touching. She held my hands between us.

I looked up. “Good evening, Pyrrha.”

“Good evening, Doe.” Such were our nicknames for each other: her for her fiery red hair, mine for my wide brown eyes.

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The music from the band could still be heard faintly from outside the castle. “May I have this dance, Princess?” I offered her my hand.

“Of course,” she responded.

She clasped her hands at the base of my neck. I placed my hands on her hips, and we waltzed to the sound of the party. When the song ended, I pulled her closer to me and rested my chin on her shoulder.

“You are to marry him, yes?” I asked softly.

“Yes,” she replied flatly, as if it were a chore.

“I do not want you to.”

“I do not want to, either.”

“Then why?” I let go and walked away from her, exasperated.

“My father wishes it,” she answered. “There is no other way.”

I turned around to face her. “There is, Iphigenia! You just do not wish to accept it!”

“If you are suggesting that I-” “That is exactly what I am suggesting, Iphigenia,” I said harshly.

The princess’s face hardened. “I cannot leave the kingdom, Enndolynn. I cannot leave Asa.” I approached her and stood so that we were eye to eye. “You would spend your entire life unhappy for men who do not love you.”

“Asa loves me,” she said, her voice cracking. She was struggling to maintain her composure: the perfect princess crumbled before me.

“He does not. Have you not seen the way he looks at the other women of the castle? Your mother, your cousins, your aunts?

Asa is with you because it is convenient for him. Asa is with you because it makes him richer!” I spat angrily. Her naivete was endearing, but frustrating; I questioned how she could be so oblivious.

“You are to refer to him as Prince,” Iphigenia said coldly.

Iphigenia was not a cold person, and her tone clearly displeased her, as she blanched after she heard her own words.

“Oh?” I scoffed. “And what are you to do about it, Iphigenia?” I stepped closer to her, and she turned away from me.

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“Just as I thought. You are soft-hearted to your core. You would not dare misbehave, not even for your own happiness.”

A tear fell from her eye, but she caught it quickly, as if I would not notice. As she collected herself, my anger melted. Who was I to reproach her blind trust, her persistent optimism? It was not her fault she had never had anything to disbelieve. I cupped her cheek with my hand, and she leaned into the touch. “I am leaving this place, Iphigenia,” I said gently.

She looked at me sadly. “I know,” she said. Of course she had known: my attempts at hiding the truth from her were always futile. She held my hand to her cheek and cried silently as we stood.

Eventually, she asked, “When?”

“Tonight. At midnight. I want you to join me,” I answered. I was begging, pleading, digging through her eyes for even a glimmer of hope.

She looked down at her feet. “I should not,” she said quietly.

“Nor should I,” I answered. “But I will.”

I pressed my lips lightly to hers and slowly made my way back up the castle green.

Night befell the castle shortly after our meeting. I was waiting at the edge of the forest, contemplating my route of escape to distract myself from the distinct lack of Iphigenia. I needed only to cross the river to leave the kingdom. Iphigenia and I had done it many times before during the hot summers of our youth. At the very least, my departure was not to be a long journey. I turned to leave before I heard a voice in the dark.

“Doe!” Iphigenia whispered. I heard her footsteps get closer to me. “Doe!” “You came?!” I answered with disbelief.

In a patch of moonlight, I was finally able to see her. She wore a simple canvas dress and flat leather shoes. Her hair was still up from the party earlier. On her back she carried a small sack.

“Of course I did,” she responded.

I smiled at her. “We must go, then.”

We started our journey through the woods. The moon was high and illuminated our path clearly. It was a trip we had taken many times, so the journey was not foreign to us. I led the way and Iphigenia followed close behind.

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Iphigenia suddenly grabbed my dress and forced me to a stop. I turned around to ask what had happened, but she held a finger to her lips and listened intently. From behind us came footsteps: first one set, then several, all marching down the path we were on. I looked over my shoulder and watched as Prince Asa and his knights approached us.

We took off down the path, crashing through the brush. Asa realized we had spotted him and ordered his men to follow. Iphigenia quickly fell behind as I raced down the trail. She never had anything to run from before.

I heard Iphigenia’s body hit the ground with a sickening crack and stopped in my tracks. Asa had her pinned to the dirt, his forearm crushing her neck. She writhed underneath his weight. “Pyrrha!” I cried.

Iphigenia reached out to me and clawed at the ground. “Go,” she screamed. “Go!” The knights were catching up to me, and fast. I turned and ran. My once-steady feet now began to stumble as tears streamed down my face. The footsteps behind me became louder and louder, as did the clanging of armor and the nocking of arrows. I could feel the breath of a knight on my neck. I veered off the path and ran through the trees. The knights tried to follow, but their armor was too heavy for the unweathered terrain of the forest. The sound of their footsteps quickly became distant, but I did not stop running. I reached the river and dove into the clear water, crossing it with much difficulty. I emerged, and still I ran. I ran for days, years: I ran from kitchens and maids and castles and kings and princesses. I ran as if running would allow me to forget the unforgettable.

Finally, I stumbled through the brush into a clearing. I had been running so long the sun had begun to rise, illuminating the trees surrounding me. The sounds of a town could be heard a short distance from where I stood. I collapsed onto the ground.

Freedom, I thought. I then reminded myself of a girl with flaming red hair, a soft smile, and a heart of gold. Almost.

I fell asleep cold without her touch to burn my skin.

Pyrrha and Doe was the runner-up in our 2020 Fiction Contest Volume 6 – 2021

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i need help immediately

by Nia Alvarado Rodriguez (mixed media)

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MARY BILLETER

Blood or Bliss Charity watched the dark clouds on the horizon roll closer.

She breathed in the salty ocean air and felt the wind running wild through her hair. She envied her younger sisters, Joy and Hope, safe at home while she was on a ship on the rolling and crashing waves.

She had been on the boat ever since her father had promised her hand in marriage to some rich duke in another country that neither of them had ever met. Her father had shipped her off like a package that he was thankful to get rid of. Just the thought of her father and future husband made her blood boil.

She took a deep breath and her mother’s voice echoed in her ears, “Patience, Charity. Remain calm, loving, and forgiving.

Remember your name. Kindness. Love. Charity.”

Well, Charity didn’t feel very charitable. She pouted and put her hand on her chin.

Behind her, the sailors argued about the oncoming storm.

One sailor grabbed Charity and held a knife to her throat. Charity tensed, but quickly calmed herself. This was one sailor who always threatened her. It didn’t mean anything. He wouldn’t physically hurt her.

“We will not survive this storm with the woman on board!”

The sailor growled, “We must get rid of her. If we cannot get her to shore, we must throw her overboard.

“No,” the captain calmly replied, just like he always did, “We are to be paid by the Duke to deliver his maiden. If she doesn’t reach her destination, we don’t get our money.”

“What, so your money is more important than my life?” The words flooded out of her before Charity could stop them, “You are being paid to have me married to a man I have not met. It is not a marriage of love or courtship. It is a marriage out of greed, on the parts of my father and the Duke. You are just as greedy as they are.

The Duke is not to be my husband; he is to be my captor.”

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Her outburst took the captain by surprise. His eyes flashed with anger. “Is that what you think of us, little lady? You say we are greedy. Scoundrels. Dogs. Pirates. Is that what we are?”

Charity held her tongue.

“Answer me!” the captain barked.

Choosing her words carefully, Charity responded, “I apologize for my sharp words. It escaped my control. You are gentlemen, noblemen, who work hard for the money you earn. You do what you must to survive in this world. I cannot fault you for that.”

“But?” “But I do not approve of the way I have been treated on your ship, Captain. I am a lady, not a package.”

The captain laughed, “The lady has pretty words, doesn’t she, men?”

The sailors laughed their agreement.

“And that’s not all. It would be a shame to deprive the Duke of such a pretty prize.” The captain smirked at her, “Still, I doubt he’ll miss her tongue. What do you say, men? Should we throw the lady off the ship, or cut out her tongue? I suggest the latter, so that we can get our money and continue to admire the pretty thing without her talking back to us.”

The sailors mocked and jeered at Charity.

“Throw her overboard!”

“Drown the witch!”

“Cut out her tongue!”

The captain held up his hand, “All those in favor of throwing Miss Charity overboard, say Aye!” “Aye!” Many of the sailors cried.

“No amount of money is worth the trouble of keeping her aboard,” the threatening sailor said, “Bad luck, havin’ a woman aboard. It’s her life or ours.”

The captain turned to Charity with a smug smile and shrugged as though there was nothing he could do. “I suppose he has a point, especially with this storm comin’ on. The people have spoken. Goodbye, Miss Charity. Who knows? Maybe we’ll be able to get our money anyways, if we have a good enough sob story and the Duke has a soft enough heart. Really, we’re doing him a favor by taking you off his hands.”

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Charity took a step back towards the edge of the boat. The sailors rushed forward to grab her. She tried to push them away, but there were too many. They tied her legs and wrists together, leaving her legs only loose enough for her to take tiny steps.

Once the sailors declared the knots to be tight enough, they forced Charity to hobble towards the large plank of wood jutting out over the ocean. It was humiliating, but she refused to let her dignity be crushed. She kept her head up high as they pushed her onto the plank.

The sailors started to chant, “Walk the plank! Walk the plank!

Walk the plank!”

Under her breath, Charity muttered, “I can’t walk.”

Behind the sailors, the dark clouds grew closer and more threatening.

The sailor that had threatened her came up next to the plank as his fellow sailors cheered. “Let’s help you on your way!” He grinned wickedly and moved to shove Charity off the plank.

She crouched and jumped off, wanting her last act to be of her own free will. She fell towards the churning black waves below.

She hit the surface of the water and the world went black.

She couldn’t tell which way was up or down as the waves pulled her in every direction. Her lungs burned, but she couldn’t fill them with oxygen without swallowing saltwater. She struggled to kick to the surface, but it was no use. Her legs were still tied together, and she barely knew how to swim. She wouldn’t have been able to swim in her heavy skirts anyway, seeing how quickly the fabric filled up with water.

She tried to open her eyes, but the water was too much, and she quickly shut them again. Thrashing in the darkness, she felt something cut her arm. She maneuvered so that the thing, which felt like a sharp rock, would cut through the bands on her arms.

With her arms once again in use, she tried to claw her way to the surface. But she couldn’t tell which way was up or whether she was sinking or floating. For all she knew, her efforts were only taking her farther away from any chance at life. Her arms grew weak, and stars of light speckled her vision, even with her eyes closed. She lost consciousness and sunk back towards the ocean floor. ~~~

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She could breathe. That was the first thing Charity noticed when she woke up. She didn’t know where she was, but she could breathe.

“Joy, Hope, my sisters! You’ve rescued me!” Charity cried out. Her voice sounded strange and echoey. When no one responded to her call, she opened her eyes and gasped.

She was still laying at the bottom of the ocean, but something had changed. She could breathe and she could see. The strings on the back of her corset floated around her in the water, undone. Her heavy skirt reached upwards, toward the surface. Her hair fanned out around her.

Charity sat up and noticed something glistening near her feet.

No, not her feet. Her fins. Her legs had changed and merged to become one glistening tail, dark teal at the bottom and slowly changing to white the farther up her legs the scales went. The rope, still tied tightly around her legs—or her tail—had also merged with the scales, as though it had always been that way.

Charity pulled off her skirts and watched as the last part of her thighs merged into one tail. From the waist down, she was some kind of fish. From the waist up, she was human.

“Oh my goodness,” Charity breathed.

“I know,” a voice said. “It’s wonderful to get your tail, isn’t it? Like you’re free for the first time in your life.”

Charity jumped.

“Oh! I’m so sorry to scare you!” Another fish-woman swam in front of Charity. She was beautiful, with dark skin, black curls, and a golden tail. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am the one they call Ophelia. They tried to drown me the same way they tried to drown you. See the scales around my wrists and the bumps on my tail where my ankles would be? Those used to be the chains.”

“How did this happen? How did I become a… a…”

“A mermaid? You became a mermaid the same way we all did. Ocean Mother saved you. She changed your human legs into fins and gave you gills, so that you can survive and swim down here.”

“But I don’t know how to swim.”

“You don’t have to swim like a human. We can swim faster than they can anyways. You’ll pick up the skill quickly,” Ophelia assured her, “What’s your name?”

“Charity.”

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“Nice to meet you, Charity. We are sisters in the ocean now. I will help you adjust to the lifestyle of this ocean.”

“How many… mermaids… are there?”

“Oh, there’s plenty of us down here. We have our own society, where we lift each other up and do not cause each other pain or fear, unlike those who tried to kill us. When you’re ready, I will take you to meet the others. You’ll love it here.”

And she did.

She and her oceanic sisters swam free, free, without anyone telling them what to do or who to be. And when the time came for her human sisters to be married, Charity and Ophelia sank the ship.

And when Hope and Joy awoke, Charity was there to teach them how to swim.

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HARRISON BOGRAD

The Cynic When the low command the high The light shines upon their face They are burdened with a bowl But enlightened with his hands As shaved the same makes not the man He looks to the hound as example He wears no cargo nor shame Not weighted by love nor hate The only man he despises is Plato's As plucked the same makes not the man

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OWEN FITZPATRICK

And the Words Rained Down The phone rang. The world stopped. The car kept going.

Trapped in the backseat I could not see her face.

She looked at him, Not me.

He froze.

His jaw clenched tight.

Fear.

Trapped.

Tight.

His eyes did not meet hers again for days. His faith shredded.

She grew formal. She clawed in her bag for a scrap of paper. Dug deep in the armrest for a broken pen. Teeth out. Head bent, she scribbled. Back arched in a circle of pain.

I searched the window for a reflection to read her face.

There were no tears, but fear sat where happiness once lay in her eyes.

She was scared. Darkness crept in. She looked at him searching for recognition and understanding, asking him for help in a conversation he could not hear, but he knew every word.

She stiffened her back. Her eyes reclaimed the road. I watched, hearing nothing as her hand grazed her long, blonde curls. She nodded in imperceptible agreement. Her hand with the broken pen touched her forehead, eyes closed, she reached for him. The call ended. Parking the car, with one motion, he ran to her. Opening her door, she fell from her high seat into his arms. Instantly, I was by her side. They wouldn’t let go of each other, ever.

My words felt underwater. She couldn’t hear me. My brother took a step backward. Away.

I asked.

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I asked again.

She turned to me and the blue in her eyes had changed. Forever.

There were storms. A cloud hung over her.

Threatening.

Menacing.

I saw pain, but the fear was gone.

I saw anger.

I saw fierce.

I saw command.

I saw resolve.

I saw strength.

It was a Sunday. We were outside a restaurant. Perched in a neighborhood very far from home. The sky went grey.

And the words rained down.

My mom has cancer.

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ASHLEY WOJCIK

The Price of Happiness In a small but comfortable suburb just outside of New York City lived ninety-year-old socialite Shirley Sharpe. Was it the aroma of her Chanel Number 5 perfume filling the air or the click of her redbottom Louboutin flats filling the silence that made her so captivating? Shirley herself liked to think it was both.

With one look at her perfectly blown-out hair and her Botoxfilled face, one might assume that Shirley grew up with a silver spoon in her mouth. But much to Shirley’s dismay, her parents were actually just ordinary, working-class folk who barely got by. But every year, her family would save up to go on their annual trip to the city. One year, they decided to stop on Fifth Avenue and window shop. Shirley was in awe as she looked around and saw all the designer stores and fancy people. It was at that moment that she devised her life’s plan.

Shirley spent her life clawing her way to the top: befriending important people, getting photographed at fancy events, and bargainhunting for designer clothes. Then one day, she caught the eye of the most stunning man, Samuel Sharpe. With his charm and kind eyes, and of course, his trust fund and house in the Hamptons, Shirley knew she loved him. They had a beautiful wedding soon after, launching Shirley into her high-society dreams.

And they were happy together up until three years ago when Samuel died of a heart attack. Shirley was sad, but she never let her camera-ready smile fade. She grieved in the only way she knew how: retail therapy. Although her designer closet was filled to the brim with fabulous pieces, shopping was her favorite pastime. Shirley was ninety-years-old and never had any children, so Samuel’s money was all hers to spend, and boy, did she spend it. The workers at Bloomingdales knew her by name and happily swiped her credit card with every purchase she made.

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But one day, Shirley was buying a gorgeous, pale yellow Hermès bag, when she heard the most gruesome sound. “Your card’s been declined,” Dillon, her personal shopper, said over the screech of the computer alarm. Shirley took a deep breath and told him to try it again, glancing around quickly to see if anyone had noticed. He swiped again and the returning sound of social suicide rang through the store. Panicking, Shirley escaped quickly, walking faster than a ninety-year-old should to escape the embarrassment.

She went straight to the bank to see Jon, her personal teller, to get to the bottom of this. “It’s true,” he announced. “You’ve used up all your personal savings.” “What?” Shirley replied, “It can’t be.”

“Well with all the purchases you’ve made in the last few years, I’m afraid you’re broke. Maybe you should think about getting a job?”

Jon said, with little to no empathy. With a I-swear-I’m-not-actuallycrying chuckle, Shirley said, “You can’t be serious.” She looked around before whispering “I’m ninety-years old and I’ve never worked a day in my life!”

Shirley married young and never went to college. What could she do? Hundreds of thoughts slammed into her mind like a repeated slap in the face. Shirley cringed as she pictured what her friends at the country club would say about her during their weekly Sunday Brunch.

“That Shirley Sharpe lost her membership and now works at the club,” one would snicker. “Shirley, you mean the old homeless women down the street?” The other would snort as they sipped on their mimosas, without a care in the world.

“Maybe you could sell some of your old clothes?” Jon suggested, interrupting her thoughts. “After all, you are the most fashionable woman in town,” he said, with an artificial smile on his face. “I’m sure people would love to buy from you.” Seeing no other option, Shirley left before she could be seen, slamming the door behind her.

Crying in her closet, Shirley looked around at her most prized possessions. The Prada she wore to her ex-best friend’s second wedding, the Gucci she wore to her niece’s graduation: how could

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she part with these memories? “Get rid of it,” she told herself. “But I can’t!” She pleaded. “But you have no choice!” she reminded herself.

Sighing, she picked up an old Burberry sweater. The last time she wore it was before meeting Samuel when she was desperately social climbing. Her current situation felt eerily similar, she noted, and decided it would have to do.

Glancing at the sweater, Shirley noticed a small hole in the sleeve. She pulled out her late-mother’s sewing kit and began stitching up the patch. When she was finished with the hole, Shirley decided to add a collar, because after all, collars were in style this season and if she did it just right, it could look like the one she saw in last month’s issue of Vogue. When she was finished, she stepped back, proudly admiring her work.

Shirley posted the sweater online and was excited to see how quickly it sold. She was able to sell it for double the price she paid.

“Wow,” she thought. “That was easy.” As Shirley scrolled through the page, she was astonished to see dozens of comments asking for more. A smile grew across her face as she stood up and got to work.

All night, Shirley tore apart her closet, finding anything she could to give away. She took her vintage pieces and added details with her sewing machine to make them unique and stylish. One by one, they sold quickly, filling Shirley’s bank account and her heart.

A few weeks later, Shirley was walking down the street when a woman caught her eye and stopped her. “Are you Shirley Sharpe?”, the woman asked. “My friend bought a gorgeous dress from you.

Can you make me one?” At that moment, Shirley laughed. A laugh that will live forever in her mind, because for once, it wasn’t to disguise her grief for her husband or because there was a camera in front of her. For once, it wasn’t because her fake friends made a notso-funny joke about someone wearing white after Labor Day. She was laughing out of pure joy, and for once, it was real. Shirley replied proudly, “I was just getting materials to make more.”

Shirley ran to the fabric store, collecting as much as she could. Without using her clothes as inspiration, she designed more

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pieces from scratch. She used her knowledge of what she had seen in stores and at fashion shows, along with her own impeccable style to make fabulous one-of-a-kind designs. Her clothes continued to sell out and quickly, the streets filled with Shirley’s designs.

Soon enough, Shirley opened her own boutique on Fifth Avenue, next to the ones she dreamed of as a little girl. Shirley was a household name, and she had more money than she knew what to do with, but for once in her life, Shirley didn’t care.

She imagined her stuck-up friends hearing of her success.

They would probably drop her name at every party in hopes of latching onto her fame and using her in any way they could. Shirley made a mental note to find better, more genuine friends. Shirley laughed as she thought about the naive, insecure girl she used to be.

Her entire life had been centered around clawing after other insecure people and in the shadow of her husband. Shirley always told herself that she was just a pretty face, but in actuality, she had real talent. “If my younger self could see me now…” Shirley thought.

She named her boutique Shirley Humphrey Designs, which is her maiden name, because this business was something Shirley achieved all on her own. She may be ninety-years old, but for the first time in her life, Shirley felt like she had her whole life in front of her.

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BRIDGET WALKER

Worthy of No Eye I am never pleased with my work Like a broken record A faulty cork I can’t see past the little things The thin The small No one can see it No one at all Pages only started but never finished Things that will never be submitted Tons of notebooks filled to the brim A story graveyard A garbage bin No, you can’t look And neither will I Just paper and pen Worthy of no eye Reading this now I see many mistakes Let’s just find out how long this will take to waste

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My Mom Beat Cancer (pt. 2)

by Owen Fitzpatrick (photography)

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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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