EPOCH Volume 4 - Skidompha Library by skidompha

EPOCH a CREATIVE magazine for teens by teens Volume 4 - June 2019

a collaboration between young adults and Skidompha Library in Damariscotta, Maine

COVER ART “Blue” by Gabbie Boord, Grade 12 Lincoln Academy, Newcastle, Maine Photo courtesy of Nina Sylvia [Full artwork featured on page 40]

SUBMISSIONS: To submit original work for the next issue of Epoch (December 2019), please email your work to Kelsey Gibbs, Skidompha Library Director of Communications, at kgibbs@skidompha.org by September 25, 2019 Be sure to include your full name, your school, and grade. EDITORIAL BOARD: Do you like editing and talking about writing and art? AND eating cookies? If you’d like to apply to our Editorial Board, please email a short introduction to Kelsey Gibbs (kgibbs@skidompha.org) to apply.

*** Epoch is a publication of Skidompha Library All material presented here is original work from local young adults, who retain all copyrights. No portion of this magazine may be reproduced without express permission from the author or artist.

VOLUME 4 - May 2019 Biannual Teen Publication Skidompha Library 184 Main Street Damariscotta, ME 04543 207-563-5513

CONTENTS Letter from the Editors.................................................................................................5 Follow Me by Calla Ruff............................................................................................6 Guรฐdรณmlega by Sam Richards.............................................................................7 Water Shoot by Ruohan Lin..............................................................................8 The Race by Kylie Blake.......................................................................................9 I Could Fly by Scarlett Abbott.................................................................................9 Fears of a Child and Her Teenage Iteration by Calla Ruff.........................................10 Hubris by Anna Drake............................................................................................11 Bare Bones by Ethan Thompson.......................................................................12 Smoke and Blood by Alexa Barstow..............................................................13 Metro by Harland Pusey-Nazzaro......................................................................19 Iris by Mya Bessey.................................................................................................20 Yellow by Mya Bessey.......................................................................................20 Rabbit by Mya Bessey...................................................................................20 Artwork by Noah Henry............................................................................21 Artwork by Nancy Thibodeau......................................................................22 The Knife and the Fire by Gavin Clark..............................................................23 Santa: The Truth Revealed by Connor Parson........................................................24 From Death Comes Life by Deanna Dupuis................................................................26 Secret Critics of a Forbidden Gallery by Isaac Russell............................................28 Waterfall by Maren Cooper................................................................................30 Water Pitcher by Harry Yi.................................................................................31 Cold Day by Leon Wang......................................................................................32 Courage by Quinn Overlock............................................................................33 Wish by Quinn Overlock..............................................................................34 Trisect by Sequoia Patten................................................................................35 Grayscale by Alexa Barstow.................................................................................36 World So Gray by Genevieve Cowan......................................................................38 Discrimination by Emily Leighton................................................................................39 Blue by Gabbie Boord..............................................................................................40 Mogao Cave 96: Maitreya Enlightenment by Wenxin Liang...................................41 The Real National Security Crisis: Gun Laws in the U.S. vs. Japan by Liam Allen.....42 Artwork by Sam Scheuzger...........................................................................................43 Mishaps of a Cutting Board by Ruth Burchstead.............................................................44 5 by Cat Robinson........................................................................................................44 Book of Wonders by Sophie Erickson......................................................................45 Artwork by Aleah Sebrey.....................................................................................46 Farewell Ode to Goggles by Aelia Russell..............................................................47 Artwork by Rebecca Johnson.....................................................................................48 River Run by Calla Ruff...........................................................................................49 Growing With Me by Kate Mason.....................................................................50 Enthusiasm & Uncertainty by Addie Mullin...........................................................51

EPOCH Editorial Board- Vol. 4 From Left to Right: Kelsey Gibbs, Liam Allen, Alexa Barstow, Gordon Clark, Genevieve Cowan, and Isaac Russell Photo courtesy of Jeannette Eaton

“Time is not duration but intensity; time is the beat and the interval [...]” - Ursula K. Le Guin in A Fisherman of the Inland Sea

Dear Reader, It’s that time of year again-- the rhythm of another school year drawing to a close. The percussive plodding of classes, the scratching of pencils to paper, the tapping of keys on our laptops. For some of us, these last months mean leaving our teachers, and for others it means saying goodbye to our friends. They say that life gets faster as it goes; now we believe it. As we grow older, it seems that we all find ourselves looking at the clock; constantly checking for what happens next, preparing for the next task in a busy schedule, instead of stopping to appreciate what’s happening in the moment. Yet as artists, our minds tend not to run by a clock. The question is, though, where can we find time to create when our lives appear trapped within the world’s pocket watch? Ideas can come in the moment or over months, and are only molded when the beat and the interval of an artist’s creativity flow freely. An artist doesn’t give heed to the passage of real time, only that within their work. In their minds, they are separate from time and space, looking from the outside in. We welcome our readers to consider taking some time to sit down, look through some of these pages, and appreciate the moment. Look away from the clock, and allow your mind to wander past the two hands and twelve numbers we so often live our lives by, just as we’ve done to create this magazine. We hope that these pages inspire your own timeless stories and art.

Your editors,

Liam Allen (Grade 8, Center for Teaching and Learning, Edgecomb) Genevieve Cowan (Grade 9, Homeschooled, Friendship) Alexa Barstow (Grade 10, Oceanside High School, Rockland) Isaac Russell (Grade 10, Lincoln Academy, Newcastle) Gordon Clark (EPOCH Writing Mentor) Kelsey Gibbs (Skidompha Director of Communications)

Follow Me by Calla Ruff, Grade 8 Center for Teaching and Learning, Edgecomb I step into the shallows of the salty water. A breeze blows sand at my feet as the ocean glares back at the sun. I crouch to sea level, Momâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s phone in hand, and snap a few pictures. The waves chase me to drier sand, so I move on. I need not check to know those frames donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t capture this moment: my moment. They never do, but I never stop trying. Moments like these belong to the Maine coast. They exist exclusively here. I yearn to stay forever. I yearn to leave. I yearn for my sparkling sea to follow. But then the boundless blue ocean sucks my moment away. So I move on, too.

Guรฐdรณmlega by Sam Richards, Grade 11 Lincoln Academy, Newcastle Photo courtesy of Nina Sylvia

Water Shoot by Ruohan Lin, Grade 10 Lincoln Academy, Newcastle Photo courtesy of Nina Sylvia

The Race by Kylie Blake, Grade 7 Medomak Middle School, Waldoboro The crunch of a runnerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s shoes creeps closer and closer towards my back, The sound becomes distant as I move faster along the trail The booming voice of my coach comes from the top of the hill. Move along! Keep going! My shirt starts to dance as the breeze blows by, My hair, in a ponytail, jumps through the air with every stride My heart flutters, the shortness of breath, the thrill, The sight of the finish line.

I Could fly by Scarlett Abbott, Grade 8 Medomak Middle School, Waldoboro In the light of the shining stars We sit Alone listening to the soft radio As it plays a song Feeling as though I could fly With all the butterflies dancing in my stomach our hands intertwined your loving face my soulmate A one ray of sunshine in the debris of my disastrous life Sitting under the stars with You.

Fears of a Child and her Teenage Iteration by Calla Ruff, Grade 8 Center for Teaching and Learning, Edgecomb Bees buzzing too close. Being stuck in a job I hate. The scary helping teachers who prowl the school to expose the troublemakers. Being prevented from doing the things that make life enjoyable. Another car accident. Kitty dying. Upside-down roller coasters: I don’t want to fall out! Fire. Super high heights. Or even sorta high heights. Heights in general, I guess. My sister trapped in a bad relationship. Another fire, ’cause then we can’t heat our house in the fireplace this winter. Rape. Losing my favorite stuffie, who I’ve had since I was born. Loved ones’ death—but mostly my sister’s. The Dark swallowing me up in my sleep. Loneliness.

Hubris by Anna Drake, Grade 11 Lincoln Academy, Newcastle Photo courtesy of Nina Sylvia

Bare Bones by Ethan Thompson, Grade 12 Lincoln Academy, Newcastle Photo courtesy of Nina Sylvia

Smoke and Blood by Alexa Barstow, Grade 10 Oceanside High School, Rockland

If you were to see him, you’d say the boy looked fifteen. He himself cannot remember being any younger than fifteen, and he will never experience being any older. He has been fifteen for centuries, and it seems that fifteen he will remain. The boy, first and foremost, is a traveler. A traveler of the world, but also a traveler of time. He has not moved time in any way it should not be moved, has not touched it in an unnatural fashion. But he has existed for so long that he has travelled through the decades, and in turn, travelled through the ages. He’s seen nations expand, watched countless wars (and spent much of his time on the battlefield), and been a witness to the worst of humankind. He does not measure time, though. For what is time to him if he is forever fifteen? He has stepped foot on every continent. He has seen every city, every small town, every hamlet in existence. He has watched as they’ve fallen like cards built into the shape of a house, a life, that cannot withstand the wind. The boy, he is that wind. He’s white as snow, and cold as the harshest winter. The blood in his veins does not move, but it is the color of spilled ink. The same color as his hair and his eyes, which look as if his pupils expanded until they covered up his irises and scleras. He looks as if he’s come from a world that lacks color. He smells like smoke and blood, and this scent is the first sign of his presence. And though no one has ever been able to say they’ve seen the boy, they associate this scent, his scent, with fast approaching death. The truth is, though, humans know nothing of death. They certainly pretend to. Their awareness of its inevitability somehow makes them believe they understand it, but they are in the dark. How can they know something that no one has ever been able to live through? They preach on about endless peace, of the other side, of sweet and soothing darkness. Death is none of those things. Death is a boy, eternalized at fifteen, who smells like smoke and blood. A boy with veins of rotted blood, and with eyes dark as a starless sky. Humans know nothing of death, because for all of their ramblings, they never mention that Death is handsome. On the nineteenth day of January, the boy steps into a hospital. He thinks, not for the first time, about what a strange place a hospital is. On the third floor,

a woman has just been informed she is cancer free, and is crying for joy with her husband and children. On the seventh floor, a middle-aged man has just awoken from a coma, and his family is rushing to get to him as soon as possible. And on the sixth floor, there is a woman waiting for the boy, though she does not know it yet. He steps into the nearby open elevator, just before the doors slide shut. The other occupants of the elevator cannot see him, but they shiver at his presence, wrapping their coats closer around them. The boy stares down at his bare feet, fascinated by the yellow carpet they’ve put as the elevator floor. It gives the boy a slight headache. He gets off on the sixth floor, walking silently down the hall. Room 633 is his destination, and the door is open for him when he arrives. He strides into the room, straightening up as he prepares for the task ahead of him. There is only one person in the room. A woman, young and pale and gaunt with sickness. The boy wants to have some pity on her; he knows she must be expecting what is to come, but he doubts that will make it any easier on her, or her husband, who the boy knows has run downstairs to grab coffee. He approaches the bedside, reaching his hands out, and lying his palms down on the woman’s pregnant belly. The baby beneath her skin senses him, and begins to move in distress. The mother had been sleeping, but she is not now. Her eyes fly open, for where the boy’s hands touch, where they make her baby move, there is indescribable pain. Her mouth opens in a scream, her hands grabbing at her abdomen, going right through the boy’s. He holds still, letting his cold seep right through her. The child within her goes still as him, its heart fading out into a silence only the boy can bring. He pulls his hand away from the mother, sighing as she continues to scream. He leaves out the window, just before the nurses come streaming in. Next, he goes to a school. This one, he knows, will make the news. There is a man in the school. A man who should not be there. A man with a gun. The teachers and children run from him, shrieking for help, but if the boy has learned anything over the ages, it’s that there’s nothing more dangerous than an aching soul and a gun. The boy finds who he’s looking for rather fast. She is six years old, curled up on the ground, blood pouring from her stomach like water from a tap. She is six years old, just old enough to read and write. Just old enough to adore her baby brother at home, to recognize the scent of her father (coffee and cologne) when he hugs her, and the sound of her mother’s voice lulling her to sleep. She is six years old, and has barely lived, and yet her time is up. She cannot see the boy, but she feels his chill. He wraps his arms around her in a hug, his eyes looking into hers as they lie side by side on the tiled linoleum. She does not know it, but the boy is making sure she does not die alone. She is six years old, and she deserves one last hug. Her breath stutters out, and the boy is gone once again.

He travels very far for the next one. It is night where he is next, and it is raining. The roads are slick as the girl’s blood on the school floor, and it makes the red sedan coming down the street seem as if it’s flying. The boy watches its headlights grow closer, never slowing down. Not until it swings off the road and runs into a nearby tree, the metal folding up on itself like origami. The boy touches his hands to all four of the passengers’ chests, and each one takes a final breath. They are all teenagers. They would be graduating next year. The one in the front is the only one who does not smell like alcohol, but sobriety could not save him, or his passengers, from the slick roads or the darkness ahead. In the mind of most people, the driver deserves to live for not drinking and driving, for being smart enough not to. But death doesn’t discriminate between the stupid and the smart. On his next stop, the person he is visiting is very alone. He is an old man, sitting in a rocking chair in his living room, the cup of tea beside him gone cold. He is looking at a photo album, filled with pictures of his daughter and son, and their daughters and sons. They have not come to see him for over two years, and he attributes the pain in his chest to the lonesomeness of missing them. The boy looks at the pictures for a while, watching the tears roll down the man’s wrinkled face. The boy may not be alive, but he feels some of the worst things of being alive. He certainly feels this man’s lonesomeness. Especially when he reaches his hand out, clenching it around the old man’s heart until the photo album drops to the floor and he falls back in his chair, the life gone from his eyes. The boy’s days go on like this. A dark alleyway, a junkie shaking, surrounded by needles. A blazing fire, twin boys trapped inside their bedroom, screaming for help till smoke fills their lungs. Atop a mountain, where a woman has been lost for days, and the water in her bottle has finally run out. All the same. An icy touch, a final breath, and then stillness. The boy feels great remorse most times, even sadness occasionally. But it is not until February twenty-third of that same year that he feels something more. At nine o’clock, he arrives in London. He is at a flat, on the top floor of the building, and only one person is home. And strangely enough, she is waiting for him. She is perched on her bedroom windowsill when he arrives. The window is wide open, her feet hanging down, swinging carelessly above the traffic honking far below. It is late, but neither her or the city is sleeping. Her fingertips curl gently around the windowsill, as if she’s ready to push herself forward, to lift herself out of the window and fly. The truth is, though, she does not plan to fly. She plans to fall. She shivers as he comes closer, as everyone always does. The boy still cannot see her face, but he can feel her heart. Its pulse beats in his ears, and he is caught off guard by the lack of fear in it. The human body tends to sense when he’s coming, and when it does, it fills with fear. This girl, though; she is filled with resignation, and even something like determination.

He stops a foot away from her, and she turns to look over her shoulder. She is fifteen, but unlike the boy, she can remember being other ages than that. She can remember being four, and walking along the beach, hand in hand with her parents. She can remember being eight, and crying at her mother’s funeral. She can remember an hour before, when her father struck her across the face, leaving the bruise the boy now sees below her right eye. She smells like freshly cut roses. Her hair is blonde and curly, hanging just above her shoulders. Her eyes are a dark mahogany, and the rest of her facial features are soft. She reminds the boy of a doll. He is so caught up in this thought that he almost stumbles back when she speaks. “Have you come to help me down?” She asks simply. When the boy does not answer, she gestures to the open window, and at the busy street ten flights down. “You can see me?” He asks in a rasp. It is such a stereotypical thing to ask, but the only words he can conjure all the same. “Of course. I’ve seen you before, though. I dreamt of you.” The boy and girl do not speak anymore that night. She stays still, until her father comes home, yelling for her to shut the window and stop letting the heat out. She clambers back into her room, her back to the boy as pulls the glass down. The boy leaves before she turns back around. But he’s back the next night, and this time, he’s prepared to talk. She’s on the windowsill again, and she smiles when she sees him. “Have you come to help me down?” “What is your name?” He replies. “Ainsley. And yours?” “I don’t have one.” “I guessed as much, but it would be rude to not at least ask.” She smiles. “You’re here to kill me, aren’t you?” “I thought so, but I’m not quite sure,” the boy says nervously. “I do hope you are. I’m not up on this windowsill for nothing.” “You want to die?” She laughs, and it sounds like wind chimes. “I thought you might be a bit more knowledgeable, all things considered. I mean, if I’m hanging out a window, ten floors up, and you’re here, I’d assume yes, I want to die.” “May I ask why?” She looks out at the city, smiling even wider. “Because Death seems so lovely.” The boy comes back every night after that. The conversations between him and the girl shift to be more one sided; she tells him of how she sings in her school’s choir, how her favourite color is yellow, how she collects vinyl records and

seashells. Mostly the boy stays quiet, listening, but sometimes he cannot stand to be silent. Sometimes, his urge to know her overflows from his unbeating heart and past his lips. And eventually she asks questions back. It is the first time the boy has ever been able to tell anyone who he is. She takes to calling him Vito, because she believes everyone deserves a name. She wants to hear the stories of the places he’s been, even if they always avoid talking about what he’s done there. He babbles often, describing all the cities he’s seen at night and all the natural wonders he’s witnessed. And of course, he talks about all of the people he’s passed by during his travels. “Do you ever get lonely?” She asks him at one point. “All the time,” he admits. “More so since I met you.” At this point, if he could blush, he would. She beams, “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” One night, when the boy appears, Ainsley is crying. He lifts himself up beside her on the windowsill, desperately wanting to reach out to comfort her, to wipe her tears away. But his touch can bring only pain, and they both know it. “I think it’s time for you to help me down,” she says after a few minutes of silent crying. She keeps her eyes on her lap as she speaks, the tears dripping down onto her floral nightgown. “I don’t want to.” She looks up, eyes flashing. “Why not?” “Because you have so much to live for.” “Really? Tell me, what is life when you feel nothing? When you’re ten floors up, but really you’re far below the ground?” She inhales deeply. “I’ve been dead for months now, Vito. A beating heart doesn’t equal a life.” “Ainsley,” he pleads with her. “Not tonight, okay? Give it a little more time. You have so much time.” She sighs. She is too tired to argue with him. Too tired for anything anymore. A week later, they sit in silence on the windowsill. They are nearly touching, but every time she moves closer to him, the boy moves farther away. Eventually she gives up on trying to close the space between them, and resorts to words instead. “No one’s ever listened to me like you do, you know,” she says simply. “No one’s ever heard me.” The boy smiles, “No one’s ever even seen me before you, so the feeling is mutual.” She turns to face him then. “Do you love me, Vito?” He’s startled. He’s had centuries to think on it, but for all his pensive thoughts, he’s always avoided settling on the idea of love for too long. Love is the blood of life, or so he’s heard, and he’s so far from life that he’s seen no point

dwelling on a thing that he can’t have. But looking at Ainsley, with her face like a doll, and conjuring a thought of her laugh, which sounds like wind chimes, and thinking about how he could talk to her for hours, he thinks that yes, he loves her. “I think so,” he says at last. She smiles sadly, “Then help me down.” He doesn’t want to. It feels selfish. He would be taking her away from a future she hasn’t even stopped to dream of yet. He’d be ripping the chance off a real love, one that can touch her, away from her. She is a flame, one that can grow into a wildfire, if his wind doesn’t blow her out. “It’s what I want,” she begs. “I’ve always been alone, Vito. Until you. Please, don’t let me jump alone.” He gulps. He swings his feet out into the open air. She moves right next to him, her fingers hovering above his. He stares at her like she’s the moon, the stars, the city lights. She looks at him like he’s some kind of hero. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispers to her, his voice one with the wind. She smiles. “I’m not. I never was.” They leap, hand in hand. The girl feels her heart flutter; she is finally flying. The world is hers, stretched out before her, the boy’s hand clutched in hers. She can taste life at last, and oh, how sweet it is. The ground rises up to meet them. They were flying, and now they’re crashing, and the boy is feeling more remorse than he’s ever known. And on the ground, Ainsley lies still, a porcelain doll fallen to pieces. The boy leans over her. She looks at him through partially closed eyes, the pain begging her to go to sleep. She looks at him, and the sky full of stars above. He leans down, breathing in her scent of roses, and presses his lips to hers in a final goodbye. You’d never expect a kiss from death to be so warm. The boy and girl, are first and foremost, travelers. They have stepped foot on every continent. They have seen every city, every small town, every hamlet in existence. They have watched as they’ve fallen like cards built into the shape of a house, a life, that cannot withstand the wind. The boy and girl, they are that wind. When they come, hand in hand, there is the smell of smoke and blood. But when they leave, there is almost the faint aroma of roses.

Metro by Harland Pusey-Nazzaro, Grade 11 Lincoln Academy, Newcastle Photo courtesy of Nina Sylvia

Iris by Mya Bessey, Grade 7 Great Salt Bay School, Damariscotta In the wind, an iris is a dancer, It spins round, and round, The petals are like a dress, cloaking the stem, The iris sways back, and forth, gracefully. It twists and turns, Performing in front of an invisible audience.

Yellow by Mya Bessey Yellow is like the smell of daffodils sprouting out through the snow. Yellow is like the taste of crunchy pears freshly picked. Yellow is like the feel of velvety iris petals in spring. Yellow is like the sound of a dragonfly buzzing its wings.

Rabbit by Mya Bessey Rabbit. Jumping high, Nervous and shy, Cottontails twitch, Hide in the ditch.

Leaping away from bears, And eating in pairs. Rabbit.

by Noah Henry, Grade 8 Medomak Middle School, Waldoboro Photo courtesy of Libbie Winslow

by Nancy Thibodeau, Grade 8 Medomak Middle School, Waldoboro Photo courtesy of Libbie Winslow

The Knife and the Fire by Gavin Clark, Grade 8 Medomak Middle School, Waldoboro I woke up this morning With a goal on mind To get a big deer On my hunting grind I walk in the woods Cracking some branches Hoping to get a deer But what are the chances I already got one But that’s not all I’m about to get the biggest deer of them all The howling wind While I’m sitting up high A deer in the bushes With only one eye He walks out silently And my adrenaline jumps I squeezed on the trigger And he hit the dump Because I just dropped A big deer with a pump I look for the deer But he’s out of sight I look for the blood But it’s turning night I find the deer Collapsed dead and lifeless With nothing to fear But the Knife And the Fire

Santa: The Truth Revealed by Connor Parson, Grade 7 Great Salt Bay School, Damariscotta “Okay Argus, fetch me a quantum gear,” I told my hunchback. “Yes, Master Zivo,” Argus replied. I continued to work on my project to find out the truth about Santa Claus! When he returned he brought me a 64 oz cup of coffee and my quantum gear. The caffeine hit helped a lot. Every scientist should have a hunchback. I put the gear in my machine, the Santa-Searcher 9000, and had my bacon pizza. It BUZZED and BINGED, which gave me the feeling it worked. “Yes! Yes! After countless months and thirty-five minutes of work, I’ll be able to learn all about Santa Claus!” I manically yelled. I took a breather and admired its awesomeness. The polished gears, the sparkling electrodes, the lustrous twin-turbo industrial engine. “Okay back to mad scientist mode. Argus turn on the Santa-Searcher 9000!” I yelled. “Yes master,” he replied. When he ran over to the switch, I yelled to him, “No! Not the self-destruct switch! The activation lever!” “This one?” he asked. “Yes,” I said annoyed, “just pull it already.” He pulled the switch and a spectrum of neon light shot out of the machine. I was at a loss for words. My machine functioned just like it needed to. It was designed to search for Santa Claus, elves, or anything else Christmassy, for that matter. Once the light locates something, it sends a giant beacon of light which prepares for the next step. Although I had to sort out the kinks so it wouldn’t search for pine trees or presents. DING! It locked on to Santa? I asked myself in disbelief. I hit the button that released my light sensor drone. It followed the light and flew to the Bahamas!?

Weird place to have his operation, I thought to myself. It flew all around the complex until it landed in his meeting room. “Camera mode activated,” it crackled. There he was: Santa Claus, sitting in the center all big and bold. He had his red robe and his size twenty-two shoes. Obviously, he was waiting for something. Maybe for a meeting with the reindeer, or maybe to discuss the Naughty List with the coal producers. Suddenly, four people entered the room and sat down. They looked almost exactly like Santa, except they had a slightly smaller build. “Okay men, it’s Christmas eve, so where will everyone go tonight?” the person, who was most likely Santa, asked. “San, I shall take Africa,” the person sitting in the far right said. Wait a second, his name is San!? I scrutinized internally. “Excellent, Ta. What about you Cl?” San questioned. “I’ll take Antarctica and Europe,” Cl explained. “Perfect. As usual, I’ll take Asia and Aus will take North and South America.” After that ordeal was over, everyone turned and looked at the person in the back. “Just like every other year, Phil will do Oceania and Australia.” He didn’t say anything, but Phil looked dismayed as San said, “Okay everyone, pack your stuff. We leave tonight.” Then all the “Santas” left the room. I don’t believe it Santa Claus is really five people together. That against all the things people think about Santa, I told myself as I started to pass out, both from shock and caffeine crash.

Photo courtesy of Nina Sylvia

Lincoln Academy, Newcastle

by Deanna Dupuis, Grade 12

From Death Comes Life

Secret Critics of a Forbidden Gallery by Isaac Russell, Grade 10 Lincoln Academy, Newcastle “Look at the swirls,” Yohan said admiringly, tracing them in the air with his finger. “And the contrast of color too,” replied Joseph, his pointer and thumb around his chin. He didn’t just mean within the piece itself. He also meant it’s contrast to its surroundings. A splotch of brilliant color within a grey cement building. There was graffiti here and there of course, but it paled in comparison to the brilliance of the work they were looking at. “Oh I know. Dinkleman really is master.” “Do you think that’s his real name?” asked Joseph. “I don’t see how it couldn’t be. Who would name themselves Dinkleman?” “True, but it seems rather foolish to use your real name in this business.” Both men were dressed in layers to ward off the cold, night air that flowed through the open walls. One wearing all blacks and navy blues, the other showing off a flamboyant collection of bright coats and accessories. Joseph considered this rather foolish as stealth was somewhat required in what they were doing. Yohan’s yellow and green scarf had gotten caught on the chain link fence when they were getting in earlier and it had been quite a delay to get it off. Yohan was still grumbling about a pulled thread. “I heard they caught The Circle last week. Alias didn’t do him much good.” “Way I heard it he took pictures of his work and some girl he had over found them.” “Oh how foolish. And quite against the spirit of it all too. These pieces should be seen and then gone, only to be remembered in the mind.” “Poetic.” Joseph always liked to be in and out of wherever the newest piece had been left, present just long enough to enjoy the art. Yohan however, would always like to stay just too long so he could really remember the intricacies

of each piece. Perhaps the thrill of taking that risk was also part of it for him, but Joseph liked to play it safe. “I’ve been thinking of making a piece myself you know.” “Really?” “Yes. Here’s what I’m thinking. Older man, mustache would be good but I can put a fake one on him if I need. Then I’ll dress him in shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, give him a real touristy look. Then I’ll replace his eyeballs with camera lenses and draw little pictures all over him like a bunch of Polaroids, but in each will be some grizzly scene. Then I’ll pour gasoline on his feet and spray some sand on them so you really get that beach bum effect. Except the feet aren’t wet from water. And just for fun I think I’ll switch his finger and toenails so his fingernails are in his toes and his toenails in his fingers. I have a nice pair of pliers set aside.” “Not bad. Where do you plan to get this sight seer?” “Oh I might steal him from an old folks home. Someone too out of it to resist that no one will miss, you know. Plus seniors do enjoy their tropical holidays.” “Yes. I suppose they do. Shall we go?” asked Joseph, ready to depart from the damp and dingy place. As always Yohan insisted on staying to observe the mutilated body just a little longer. He was quite obsessed with the blood smears and their contrast to the cadaver’s light green hoodie. It was around one in the morning when they finally agreed to leave the abandoned construction sight, anticipating word to come down their social grapevine about Dinkleman or some other artist’s next piece.

Waterfall by Maren Cooper, Grade 8 Center for Teaching and Learning, Edgecomb I saunter though the forest behind my house and capture the music of water trickling through the rocks of the streambed. As I wander deeper into the woods the trickle turns to a roar, and I pause to marvel at the beauty of streams of water that gleam in the sunlight. I trace my fingers over the smooth rocks and gaze at the water droplets as they cascade into the depth below. Each one chases the last— none of them dare break free of the pattern set by their ancestors. Crisp, colorful leaves swirl through the rushing water, and my eyes follow each one until it disappears from view. The thunder of the falls drowns out all other sounds; I close my eyes and imagine them washing my worries downstream.

As I enjoy the peace, I wonder why I’ve never stopped here before. I pass by almost every day, but I never take the time to appreciate it: I’m too focused on what comes next to notice what comes now. A nearby twig snaps— catapulting me out of my thoughts, into reality.

Water Pitcher by Harry Yi, Grade 12 Lincoln Academy, Newcastle Photo courtesy of Nina Sylvia

Cold Day by Leon Wang, Grade 12 Lincoln Academy, Newcastle Photo courtesy of Nina Sylvia

Courage by Quinn Overlock, Grade 8 Medomak Middle School, Waldoboro

Wish Quinn Overlock, Grade 8 Medomak Middle School, Waldoboro

Trisect by Sequoia Patten, Grade 12 Lincoln Academy, Newcastle Photo courtesy of Nina Sylvia

Grayscale by Alexa Barstow, Grade 10 Oceanside High School, Rockland

They never told me why I was brought here. They pulled me from my house in the dead of night. My parents watched from the living room, my father’s arm around my mother’s waist as she wiped a single tear from her face. She did not look sad, though; instead, something like relief twinkled in her eyes. They watched me go: kicking, screaming, begging. They stayed still the whole time. I don’t remember the space between here and there. One moment, I was in my driveway, with the big oak tree and the unstill tire swing I’d had since I was eight, the cold night air burning my skin and freezing my tears to my cheeks. The next, I was on the floor of this all white room, my head pounding relentlessly. My throat was raw the first few days. I screamed for hours on end, scratching at every wall, trying to find the door. Trying to find the way out. After all, there had to be one, right? I had gotten in somehow, and been left behind by those who had taken me. Every room has a door. I haven’t found this one yet. My food comes from a different place each day. A different area in the walls open up, and a white tray comes through. All the food is white. So are the clothes I woke up in. My skin grows paler each day. They even wrenched the colour from my hair. I think I’ve forgotten what colour looks like. Before, I would wait each day for my meal, and attempt to keep the delivery slot open. One day, I managed it. A second of victory, before it slammed down on my arm and wouldn’t let go. Physical pain was another thing I had forgotten. The red of my blood felt like a gift, a moment of freedom from my achromatic life. The more red there was, the more alive I felt. At the same time,

though, everything began to blur. The world went black quickly, and when I woke up, the blood was gone. I cling to its memory most days. Eventually, I peeled the wallpaper away. My fingernails dug for what had to be weeks, in desperate search for that hidden door. One day, the paper finally gave way. There was another shade of white beneath, slightly darker. Barely noticeable to those who werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t desperate for change. I havenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stopped digging since. Over time, it has faded to a dark grey. I am convinced that when I find the black, I will find the door, the way out. Or I will dig myself one. My fingernails are nothing but nubs now. I am surrounded by ripped paper of nearly every shade on the grayscale. I do not know when is day and when is night. I sleep only when my body collapses. I do not dream, only remember; my parents stillness and watching eyes, the swing in my front yard that never goes still, my blood puddling on the white floor. Is this the essence of the human mind? I do not know why I was brought here.

World So Gray by Genevieve Cowan, Grade 9 Homeschooled, Friendship Heartless insults And blurry lines, Chaotic results Respond in kind. Black and white Have turned to gray No one’s right In what they say. There’s no reason In this fight Across the seasons No end in sight. Forgive, forget Is what they say; I’m all set Not if I may. The truth and lies Have been confused A world despised By all who knew. Angry voices Ever shout Of all the choices They left out. Harmful words And wounded trust, Losing friends, They’re left to rust.

Discrimination by Emily Leighton, Grade 11 Lincoln Academy, Newcastle Photo courtesy of Nina Sylvia

Blue by Gabbie Boord, Grade 12 Lincoln Academy, Newcastle Photo courtesy of Nina Sylvia

Mogao Cave1 96: Maitreya Enlightenment by Wenxin Liang, Grade 12 Lincoln Academy, Newcastle Above the golden stupa, who painted Apsaras Swirling to the sky in cyan ribbons? Beneath, the pure pigments—now faded, Shineth to the world of temporal Thy light of wisdom. Loess covered thy shrines, buried the faithful Who paused on the Silk Road— A pause for life, Only to engrave the Diamond Sutra2 Into the wall of eternity —Then, darkness in the Gobi Until the end of a weary dynasty. One thousand years later Where sunlight once shone on mottled walls, Flames flickered As Pious hands of Scholarly men Clutched torches To knock on the ancient treasures. “Thou shalt not mistreat the archaic—” Whispered Maitreya.3 Awed flames shivered, Yet men heard silence.

The Mogao Caves were built by Buddhist monks in Western China starting in 400 AD. 2 The Diamond Sutra is the world’s earliest complete Buddhist classic. 3 Maitreya is the Buddha who will come in the future. 1

The Real National Security Crisis: Gun Laws in the U.S. Vs. Japan by Liam Allen, Grade 8 Center for Teaching and Learning, Edgecomb Imagine the worst scenario for a parent in this modern world: you are told that your child’s school is the target of an active shooter. Your child’s life is in danger and, best case scenario, he will have trauma for the rest his life after seeing his friends slaughtered in front of him. Is there really a best case in this situation, when any outcome will bring pain and suffering? The question arises, what kind of country are we living in where this could happen any day and to anyone? We need common-sense gun control. I propose that we look across the world to Japan, a nation that has never had a mass shooting, to understand the impact of increased regulation. In Japan there is a four-month process to getting a gun. First you have to join a hunting or shooting club, then take a class and have an exam that you have to retake three times a year, get a doctor’s approval, apply for a permit, explain why you need a gun in a police interview, and pass a criminal history and relationship review. You must apply for a gunpowder permit, take a one-day training class and firing test, obtain a certificate from a gun dealer, buy a gun safe and ammunition locker, allow the police to inspect your home, and pass an additional background check. Then, after completing these steps, you may finally buy the gun. This system is not perfect as Japan still has an average of ten gunrelated deaths a year, but that number is almost nothing compared to our eleven thousand gun-related deaths annually in the United States. Some say that the minimal gun deaths in Japan are related to culture, not sensible gun control. The main reason is gun laws that make sense instead of our system that allows a child to possess a rifle or shotgun. Another opposing viewpoint believes that if we adopt gun control, next we will ban guns entirely. This is not the case. Guns are not the problem; irresponsible gun ownership and lack of regulations are. If we continue to allow everyone to purchase a gun and leave these loopholes for the mentally ill to purchase weapons designed to kill in large numbers, my generation will grow up for fear of our lives. On any day an armed attacker can enter our school and shoot us and our teachers. We live in an age of lockdown and active shooter drills, which have highly damaging effects on our nation’s children and actually aided the Parkland shooter. We need to stop this fooling around and adopt common sense gun safety and regulations. It is coming up on twenty years since Columbine began the era of mass shootings. What will change in the next two decades? We will either look back with shame and embarrassment or we will reflect on this time as relatively safe, for the country has become even more dangerous instead of less. It is your choice.

by Sam Scheuzger, Grade 8 Medomak Middle School, Waldoboro Photo courtesy of Libbie Winslow

Mishaps of a Cutting Board by Ruth Burchstead, Grade 7 Center for Teaching and Learning, Edgecomb In a flash the water-soaked surface slips from my fingers. There is nothing I can do but watch as it falls to the dirty wood floor. SNAP. I watch as the days of rolling pie crust out on your honey-colored wood scarred with years of being used to cut veggies are split in half. I knew you were old and well used. But still I feel half of me longing for you to still be whole.

5 by Cat Robinson, Grade 8 Medomak Middle School, Waldoboro 5 days of school in a week 5 close friends 5 classes 5 million reasons to stay

Book of Wonders by Sophie Erickson, Grade 11 Lincoln Academy, Newcastle Photo courtesy of Nina Sylvia

by Aleah Sebrey, Grade 8 Medomak Middle School, Waldoboro Photo courtesy of Libbie Winslow

Farewell ode to Goggles by Aelia Russell, Grade 7 Center for Teaching and Learning, Edgecomb Dear Goggles, I once loved you. You let me languish where no one else could even imagine. With you, I dived deeper than my brother. I would cultivate garden beds of energetic seaweed, in tide pools deep enough to fall into, to hide in. Then I lost you. Stashed away in some abandoned swim bag, I was forced to face the waves alone. I was blind. Afraid to open my eyes without your foggy film, it was darker, deeper, stronger. I faced my fears. I saw the world I adored illuminated with vibrant colors, my own version of Aliceâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Wonderland. I cannot explain this to you, the second best, the duller vision. I have nothing against you. You helped me become brave, To discover, To take the fist step. But now, I have no qualms about diving in. I explore without you. Farewell, -Aelia

by Rebecca Johnson, Grade 7 Medomak Middle School, Waldoboro Photo courtesy of Libbie Winslow

River Run by Calla Ruff, Grade 8 Center for Teaching and Learning, Edgecomb The local branch of a world-wide water network mirrors my constant motion, repeated in a monotonus rhythm. It, too, soars unchained, living fully, though the wind shows us separate directions. Thump, thump. My heart taps a beat built from my body. Thump, thump. My blue sneakers follow suit. Thump, thump. The skyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lost tears respond with their own pulse. My muscles toy with my mind: first they begged for use; now they beg for rest. But still I fly, free, down the paved hill, no parameters, parallel to the sky.

GROWING WITH ME by Kate Mason, Grade 8 Center for Teaching and Learning, Edgecomb Summer: The air is fresh with hay as an olive-green tractor cuts through the tall grass. A small nest lies next to the pond, tangled in reeds, abandoned until next year. An Old Town canoe rests against the bank, and thin dew webs spreads across the wooden structure. Beautiful clouds are reflected in the dirt colored surface the seemingly lifeless water animated.

Autumn: Maroon, amber, and gold leaves drift into the browning field. Turkeys congregate to search for insects in the rich soil. Silver skies create a gloomy world, sheltering us from reality. One last goose remains soaking in the last of the warm weather before the first frost comes. Near by bushes sag in dread of cold weather.

Winter: A thin layer of ice blankets the surface. Crystals of snow dash the barren canvas. The Evergreens surrounding the meadow beg for relief as mounds of snow weigh down their tremendous boughs. The small body of water remains frozen, as though time and everything around it has come to a stand still. Nothing except the wind whipping through the empty field dares to budge.

Spring: The ultra-marine pond shows itself through translucent slush and burnt sienna mud seeps from the ground. Golden Cattails poke their proud heads out of the glistening pond. Canada Geese return from the south, and deer begin to graze on chartreuse grass. All the spring colors from a painterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s pallet. As I pass this pond everyday, I watch myself grow older. The pond has accompanied me in my journey.

Photo courtesy of Nina Sylvia

Lincoln Academy, Newcastle

by Addie Mullin, Grade 11

Enthusiasm & Uncertainty