Ursum Issue Eight
Chief Editor Theresa Abrahamsen
Student Editors Arin Mikalonis Juliette Volpe
Teacher Advisor Mrs. LaPlante
Cover Art by Theresa Abrahamsen
Table of Contents Editor’s Note Artwork
5
Arin Mikalonis
Untitled
Where I’m From
Dylan Matheos
7
Olivia D’Agata
8
Arin Mikalonis
Artwork One in the Mirror Prose Poetry
6
10
Theresa Abrahamsen
11
Alessandra Boffi
13
Artwork
Natalia Vicencio
15
Artwork
Natalia Vicencio
16
Theresa Abrahamsen
17
Pulled into the Deep Prose
Ashley Casavant
18
Artwork
Anja Sheahan
19
Artwork
Katelyn
20
Alexander
21
Artwork The Sadness of Quiche Coming Out
Camden Robertson Arin Mikalonis
22 24
Artwork
Natalia Vicencio
26
Artwork
Natalia Vicencio
27
Forgiven
Theresa Abrahamsen
28
Poetry
Ashley Casavant
30
Artwork
Arin Mikalonis
31
Artwork
Theresa Abrahamsen
32
A Diamond in the Rough
Morgan Wichmann
33
Artwork
Josh Brown
37
Editor’s Note Dear Reader, We welcome you to the eighth issue of Granby Memorial High School’s Literary Magazine, Ursum. At Ursum we create an atmosphere for our writers, editors, and readers so they can express themselves in a non-judgmental environment. Here their ideas can flow freely without fear of resentment or criticism. Their writing gives us, the reader, a story. A story that gives us an idea about their hopes, dreams, and their life. Their art paints a picture of how they see the world and the people around them. As the reader it is important for us to open our eyes and step into their shoes so we can understand what they are going through. Then we can reflect on our lives and make connections with them. This is what the issues in Ursum d o for their audiences. We like to thank those who have submitted their work to us. Thank them for sharing their stories and giving us a new understanding about the world and others. Also, we’d like to thank you the readers for taking your time and showing your interest in what your peers have shared with you. Thank you so much. Sincerely,
The Ursum Team
Arin Mikalonis
Untitled Dylan Matheos _______________________________________ In the heart of North Carolina lay my worst nightmare, my hated relatives. My family and I had just experienced a grueling 13 hour drive We had arrived at my aunt’s house and awaited my uncle’s vow renewal ceremony the next day. My uncle was a chain smoker. The massive house reeked of old cigarettes and emptiness, Like an old and rundown apartment made to look new again. The neighborhood was rich, and the land surrounding the house was gorgeous. Green stretched for what seemed miles, up and down hills, around trees that stood like mountains in the distance. I went into the garage and took out the golf cart I had loved so much as a kid. I drove it all around the yard, the aroma of nostalgia seeming to fill the air. It felt peaceful, the bright summer sun beaming down on me. When night arrived and darkness had veiled the grass, I stood on the balcony, overlooking the grandeur that was the neighborhood. Street lights and nature met like a match made in heaven, Illuminating the plains like a bright summer day. It looked as though lanterns were about to be lit and cast into the sky in celebration. The next day we left the neighborhood that just hours ago had looked like a bright town, to embark on another 13 hour drive. At least it wasn’t for nothing.
Where I’m From Olivia D’Agata _______________________________________ I am from the ladybugs on my sister’s baby blanket From dawn soap, and snuggle laundry detergent I am from the crooked bricks on our patio, and the smell of dryer sheets slipping through the vent to the back door I am from the tomatoes growing in my father's garden (the ripe and not so ripe misshapen orbs that you can pop into your mouth with ease) I'm from painting eggs on Easter, and faking smiles From Erin Lacy and Angela Nora I’m from the fear of slamming doors, and the sound of her car pulling into the garage From the phrases “shopping is so much more fun when you’re skinny”, and “ wipe that look off your face or I'll do it for you” I'm from forced Christianity, which quickly seeped into atheism. From the smell of freshly made italian pizza, and irish soda bread.
I am from my mother’s outbursts at the restaurant table because her food wasn't to her liking, I am from the way my mother's eyes would glaze over when she had an episode. I am from my mother, but I am not her.
Arin Mikalonis
One in the Mirror ​
​ Theresa Abrahamsen
_______________________________________ There is a creature in my mirror. She has long thin lashes. Bony cheeks. Dull gunmetal eyes. Cracked lips. Wired blond hair. There is a creature in my mirror. Long claws reach out for me. Fangs peak through her opened mouth. She snarls. There is a creature in my mirror. She grows a few inches taller. Pale skin glistens in the moonlight. The scent of ashes burns my nostrils. There is a creature in my mirror. A reflection of someone who I once knew. A woman who shares my blood. The one who introduced me to the dark. There is a creature in my mirror. She grabs ahold on me. I do not scream.
There is a creature in my mirror. She pulls on my chain. I am trapped in the mirror. Forever enslaved.
Prose/Poetry Alessandra Boffi _______________________________________ Her beauty translates to music Standing, together, harmonizing Time is merely a variable Circling around us An enigma to keep When we enjoy that which we do We could live Filling each moment With a different source of happiness Time would yet continue Speeding up Never slowing down Going And going And going Not allowing us to even attempt At winning this race All we ask is to be able To hold To grasp Onto those things People Places Moments we adore Holding them so dearly to ourselves It is in these moments I feel the memories reside in my soul
Bringing a tear to my eye As I realize how quickly they pass How irreplaceable
Natalia Vicencio
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Natalia Vicencio
Pulled into the Deep ​ ​ Theresa Abrahamsen _______________________________________ Keep your head above the water, so you do not drown. Like a snake, slither through the murky water. Ignore the sharp pebbles scraping at your knees and feet. Head bobs up for air that you were deprived of. Mouth hangs open like the jaws of a hippo as little drops drip down your chin and gauntly arms. Lay back down in your watery bed. Let it shield your eyes from the fields. Hair floats around your face as the sea weed becomes your blanket. You forget your lungs are burning. You forget the noises in your head. Here you are safe in your watery portrait. Painted by colors of blue and green. The sea captivates you and you allow yourself to be pulled into the deep.
Prose Ashley Casavant _______________________________________ This was the moment that I had fought for. My homework sat rushed through in my backpack. I was undeterred. This experience was going to be the most meaningful that I could make it. I sat on the couch. It was dark. I opened up Netflix. I was prepared to watch the series finale of the television show that had engulfed my life up until that very point. Quickly I sent a text to my friends, Kelly, Emma, and Kaite, who were eagerly waiting to hear my reaction to the tragedy that I did not yet see coming. A slow and agonizing 43 minutes passed by as I watched my worst fears unfolding on the television. The back of my neck twinged in fear. The inevitable ending to five years of ups and downs and twists and turns unfolded before me, and I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes, my mind racing, my hands shaking. The music cut out. The title of the show covered the screen. That was it. It was over. What was I going to do now? I sat for a while. I waited. I waited to see my favorite characters’ faces disappear. One last scene. I waited for closure and I waited for the security of knowing that all those that I had grown attached to were alright, and that everything that had happened was supposed to happen. I never moved off the couch. I never turned my head. I looked and I waited, feeling my stomach churn inside of me. After an eternity of waiting, I began to accept the inevitable; the show was over. Their lives were over. I reached out and I grabbed my phone. My friends were waiting to cry with me. After that moment the show was always in the back of my mind. I found the song that was used in the final scene and became obsessed with its soft but ever-intensifying melodies because that was all that I had left to hold on to. I know I can rewatch it at my leisure. But it will never be the same as the first time. No more surprises. No more hope for a better ending. A constant dread. It was a forever goodbye that I could not handle. I want to hold onto the characters,
the plot, and the details of a universe that I can never be a part of. I know I am always afraid to let go. And yet still I know that I will carry with me forever the memory of “The Originals�, and how they changed me.
Anja Sheahan
Katelyn
Alexander
The Sadness of Quiche Camden Robertson _______________________________________ when I left the home I had grown up in I did not cry out of the back left window of the car I watched it fade like the tide slowly taking a sand castle you spend all day building I knew that I could no longer call that house my home and never again would I smell the air within so familiar, feel the carpet between my toes so know, and so mine I did not cry. instead, I cried eating quiche sitting on the floor of an unfurnished dining room off a green paper plate we sat against a wall painted a shade of yellow that reminded me of egg nog, but not quite so sweet the wooden floor was cold, was unwelcoming, was unknown I cried because I had never eaten quiche before, and the heat of a foreign oven left a metallic taste in my mouth I cried because its ingredients were stored in a fridge colder than the one I had known before, and the pantry was painted white, when it should have been painted blue I cried because I envied the binding strength of egg yolks, which left leaves of spinach so intertwined that both shredded if separated I cried because I didn’t want quiche I didn’t know what I wanted looking back I would love to tell you that I wasn’t angry that I ate that quiche gratefully and with grace,
but instead I sat broken, eating quiche on a cold floor, off a green paper plate and I was angry I was angry at that oven, at the fridge, at the pantry, at those eggs because they left a metallic taste in my mouth
Coming Out Arin Mikalonis _______________________________________ There was silence we stared for a long time, her old eyes searching my blotched young face I wasn’t so young anymore, fat hot tears falling from my eyes, down my chin It felt like fire I was cold, but it was fire falling down my cheeks yet it did little to warm me. I couldn’t see her well, but knew she was watching, I shifted again in the stiff car seat, back pressed hard against rough fabric, fingers running over the paper straw wrapper ringing in my hands, one of many in my pockets, aged with stress, anxiety It gave me little comfort as I waited for response, It came, there was relief and pain I was relieved, but her words gave me more pain, I love you she had said, she had told me that she loved me. But then you’ll always be my little girl. I cried more, said ok, It wasn’t ok, I wasn’t ok, but it was alright. What else could I do? I had declared the death of the girl I was in turn for me to live, I mourned, She mourned, Mourning is alright. I mourned for the loss of myself as she did, we mourned the possibilities together, what would’ve become of her We didn’t know, or
at least she didn’t, I didn’t let her know what I knew. She still would have died, later perhaps, but she would have died and it wouldn’t have left room for the boy that took her place, It’s a long road, and that’s alright, we’ll keep walking
Natalia Vicencio
Natalia Vicencio
Forgiven Theresa Abrahamsen _______________________________________ I don’t want to let you in. I couldn’t care less if you stood out there with the howling wind and its tears for company. I shouldn’t allow you into my shelter for what you’ve done to me. But I do. I am not like you. The old door opens. Our eyes lock. You stand, once with pride, now with guilt. Your eyes once full of life are dull and polluted. Your skin is unhealthily pale and bones stick through the skin like poles hidden under leather. Your lips are cracked and dark racoon rings highlight your under lids. I know I shouldn’t let you in, but I do. I walk out into the darkness, rain pounding on the roof, dampening our skin and clothes. Thunder shouts overhead as I lift you up like how a mother would cradle her child, and carry you into my home. You cling onto me and make horrible gasps. Your sobs are the worst sound I’ve ever heard, and no matter how hard I try, my ears cannot block out your cries. Settling you in the chair, you continue to cry. I know I should feel bad, but I don’t. You did this to yourself, therefore I cannot pity you. Before all of that, I would. I would cry along with you. Defeat the enemy in a heartbeat. Now I stand and watch. Watch in silence. Watch in bitterness. You ask me for forgiveness. You tell me you’re sorry. Your words don’t mean a thing to me.
Do you hate me, you ask. Words fail me. I should. I know I should. But I cannot. I have every reason too. You hurt me. You abandoned me. Lied to me. Attacked me. But I cannot hate you. You never cared for what happened to me. What was said. The bruises. The other marks. The poison fed to me. You didn’t bat an eyelash. Your lips never quivered. Your hands never reached out. You just stood there watching. Yet I still cannot hate you. Now my head dips down. Looking at the floor. Bitter taste becomes sweet. My hands shake. Fingers curl into my palms. Lungs let out shaky breaths. I tell you exactly what you want to hear. What I wanted to say remains hidden under lock and key. There is no use for them now. The battle is over. Long forgotten. To you that is. For me, the war continues on. It is not you who stays up late. It is not you who has hidden scars that need healing. It is not you who has to watch their back. It is not you who is drowning. It is you who is flying with the wings that were once mine. All of this is fine. It is I who will be watching you soar above me. I will still continue to follow you and hold my tongue. For I can never hate you. I forgive you.
Poetry Ashley Casavant _______________________________________ Sweaty palms Heart racing Hands shaking Breath catching. The inevitable grew ever closer. One last scene. I cannot say goodbye, I cannot let them go. I grasp for something to hold on to and Obsession mounts I can never be a part of their world After the long silence “Are You Still Watching?” Netflix asked I have no answer. I know that I hold on too much. But I also know that I will forever carry with me “The Originals” And how they changed me.
Arin Mikalonis
Theresa Abrahamsen
A Diamond in the Rough Morgan Wichmann _______________________________________ Almost every weekend when my sister comes home from college, the one thing she asks me is: Can we go to Savers? Now if you’re not familiar with the chain, it’s a thrift store that offers you the best deals on used clothing, home goods, accessories, and anything else you could think of. Whenever I step into the store, I automatically go to the CD aisle. I get excited to look at the plethora of CD’s they offer, from classic rock to today's hit pops to early 2000’s blast, and many more. This section brings the greatest nostalgia because one CD from Miley Cyrus as Hannah Montana can bring back a flood of beloved memories. The occasional scrapes and color fade on the CD case are what makes the whole experience worthwhile because you get that true feeling of it being from that time frame. A brand new CD cover just wouldn’t give the same feeling because it screams “2019” at you rather than the year of whenever the CD was
produced. The $1 price tag makes it even more special because I’m jumping to buy it and add it to my CD collection in my car. Savers isn’t the only thrift store I shop at. While I go to Savers for all my home decorations and accessories and whatnot, Plato's Closet is where I go for my clothes. They offer all my favorite brands for cheap prices that I wouldn’t be able to get at face value regularly. You may say to yourself: wearing other people’s clothing is gross! Who knows if they sweat in those or what other bodily fluids are on them. You can’t think too much about those claims because one spin cycle with hot water at your house will erase any of those hazards? On top of that, thrift shopping is one of the best environmentally friendly things you can do on a daily basis. The average American throws away 81 pounds of clothes
PER YEAR. That can add up to about 26 BILLION pounds of clothing being thrown away every year and being sent to landfills. This is extremely preventable by donating your gently used clothing to local consignment stores. In return, less clothing will have to be mass produced at factories resulting in less natural resources being consumed. Why buy something brand new when you can experience an item that has traveled through the world? You can say to everyone that your shirt has more character than in their whole pinky finger. As if sprucing up your wardrobe with unique clothing isn’t enough, your wallet AND the environment will be thanking you. Recycle away your preconceived notions of thrift shopping and try something new today!
Josh Brown