Teacher Advisor:
Carolyn Rousseau
Student Staff:
Amelia Altenhof , Lili Allard, Declan Carroll, and Maria LamberenaTanaka
Thank you to all who contributed. This would not be possible without you!!
Cover Art: Arianna Claveria - Senior
TheStorm
Clouds darken the sky
Day becoming like the night Thunder booms outside TheLeaf
Little leaves falling Spiraling towards the ground Land in the piles
Clouds
Cotton Candy sheep
Flying across the vast sky Soon will drift away
ANodtoSpring
Flowers resume growth The bleak forests gain color Life begins anew
But even when we’re singing The rain will still stay
Whiteout
Snow falls and clusters
Creates piles on the road
Becomes a whiteout
Ayre Joseph Nesbitt
Sometimes I feel invisible like a ghost in the wind
Like a man on the street
I wonder whos sees me and am I noticed But life catches up a blow me back I feel like a dead man whom died of sadness I can feel the tears fall down and off my ghostly face
And no one notices me I feel like a crack on the sidewalk or on the street
With just more weeds growing up out of me
Sometimes I feel invisible like a ghost in the wind Or maybe that's just me And people do see The man on the street Or perhaps the ghostly face And take care of the weeds that grow up out of me
That crack on the sidewalk or maybe the street
(This poem was inspired by a sad time in my life)
Anvita Guda
Why did letters always bother me?
Why does that big letter at the top of my paper in red pen always concern me? How was it that a letter could change my mood? Change my day.
No matter which letter A,B,C,D or everything else in between They all had impact They all meant nothing.
Everyone worried about that letter. No matter if it was on my report card or my most recent quiz
Everyone was worried. Myself,parents,friends,siblings,teachers Everyone.
Everyone cared for it
Everyone wanted to make it grow Everyone nurtured it
Everyone wanted to make it the best it could be
But why?
I would only seem to notice the small amount of red x’s on my paper They would dance in my mind, teasing me I would only stare at them
Not the check marks, not the smiley faces Just them
They mattered the most They affected that letter at the top
So, why did letters always bother me?
by Luisa Carvalho
I love my friends. Oh, how I do. I mean, obviously I can’t forget about Sofia from first grade or Pedro who said he is in love with me and was always trying to kiss me in second grade, but I guess he was my friend too. Nor can I forget about Aieska and Ana Beatriz, as well as Gustavo or Davi. But I’m talking about my true friends, the friends I’ve known since third grade but feels like I’ve known them since I was born. Alice, Isaac, and Pedro. Another Pedro. Him especially though– he’s my best friend and my brother. We were so close back in third grade, we vowed to be each other’s sibling, and even though we don’t talk about it anymore, I still feel the bond that connects us and makes us understand each other when no one else does. Even though I come from Ipatinga and he’s from Coronel Fabriciano, we still happened to go to the same school together and found each other. I’m glad.
I loved my times together with all my friends. We hung out on the playground, played dodgeball, tag, hide and seek tag, high tag, or any other kind of tag with different rules to it, and we laughed, and then laughed some more. We created stories, pretended to be superheroes, played with slime, sold paper origamis with little faces for 1 real each. Wow, you’re so good at drawing, Luísa. As carinhas são muito fofas. Everyone will want to buy our origamis now! Ian had told me. He is also a treasured friend, even though we’re not super close anymore. We held pretend marriages, to which I was always the priest for some reason. But it doesn’t matter, I loved it anyway. We played dolls, made up stories, talked about our homes, played Roblox, argued with each other. There was a day when Isaac took my glasses off and let them fall to the ground, almost stepping on them. I was mad. I pushed him and slapped him and told him to never do that again. I told him I didn’t want to talk to him anymore for the rest of the day. My other friends joined us in running around together a few minutes later.
We stuck together even after some of us were separated into different classes the next year. We stuck together even after I went away.
My class held me a surprise party. My friend kept me outside for a long time after I went to the bathroom, and when I came back everyone congratulated me for being able to go to the United States. A shame Pedro was in another class though, because he couldn’t be a part of the party. There were letters from everyone in the classroom taped to the wall next to my seat. We had cake and soda in secret because it was against the school rules. I sat down in a chair in the middle of the classroom while everyone hugged me and gave me presents. I cried. I liked everyone in the class, and was friends with everyone, but it was my true friends that made everything better. Alice clung to me the entire time, saying please don’t go, I love you, please stay. Isaac started to cry, we held each other until we couldn’t and had to move on. I was scared to go, I was scared I would never talk to them again, I was scared the good times I had would suddenly end and I would be forgotten. Yet I flew far, far away, and continued to laugh with them. I continued to cry with them. I continued to live with them. Together, as it has always been.
Sometimes I thought, why do you still talk to me? why do you still like me? I’ve been gone for years, aren’t you mad?
But it doesn’t matter now. I sit and talk to them through phone calls, living life as if nothing has changed, patiently waiting for the day when we can truly be together again.
by Susana Punderson
“Susana, we’re going! Don’t forget to say bye to Maggie!”
I run down the stairs and make sure to give her a big hug before leaving the house. The sound of her tags hitting her neck slow day after day, and they finally stop as she sits on the stairs. She gives me a lick on the cheek, which takes me off guard as she’s never done that before. Our embrace is surrounded by the gurgling of the IV attached to her leg, stealing the silence. I hug her close before trotting along to the car, unaware of what’s to come.
During lunch, we’re all chatting about our days, what we got for answers on the quiz, what special is next. All of the sudden my friend pipes up, “Wouldn’t it be really funny if you went home and your dog died?” The table gets silent for all of two minutes before laughter erupts like a volcano. I giggle, “That wouldn’t happen!” “Tilly’s safe at home!” “So is Frankie!” “So is Maggie!”
“Susana, Maggie went to heaven!”
It’s said so innocently by my sister, it doesn’t register in my head. “Mom, why is Jane saying that?”, I asked. My mom’s face was so blank, and I finally realized that the IV gave back the silence.
“She was lying comfortably laying in my arms when it happened pumpkin, you don’t have to worry. She loved you so much.”
I never knew how much it shook me when I heard any keys jangle after Maggie left, the feeling of despair I felt looking at the dog crate with no dog to occupy it, the lonely tennis ball without an owner, the smell of untouched dog food.
My friend was wrong, it wasn’t funny at all to go home without a dog to greet.
---
Ishani Saha
Looking ahead, it seemed like the road would never end. It stretched as far off into the distance as the eye could see, the terrain flat and dusty. A constantly morphing tan cloud followed the jeep, swirling as it stirred up the dry dirt of the road, which would then resettle as new debris were flung through the air. The sun shone gently upon the land, not unbearable, but just enough to coax an uncomfortable sweat from the pores of my skin. The distant hum of some unidentifiable insect accompanied the sound of the tires moving beneath us. Paired with the snoring of one of my brothers, the soundscape matched the scene with its vibe of suspension; there were only regular, repetitive elements in my surroundings, but also no quietness, and no peace. It was as if the entire world was waiting for something. It was the moment as you hang on to someone, waiting for them to pull you up or for your grip to slip. A battle to conquer my senses commenced between alertness and relaxation.
The conflicting feelings interacted and expanded and my mind grew tired from trying to accommodate the opposites in their intensities. I was nervous and scared of something unknown. Perpetual anxiety… and yet I stayed unnervingly calm. The atmosphere continued to change only in its monotonous and rhythmic manner. I turned back to the road, and sure enough, the path showed no signs of wavering– it went straight ahead: no forks in the road, no intersections, nothing. The only thing I could see changing was the slight quivering of the land over the horizon, as if the world was a fragile mirage that would collapse at the slightest movement. I did not dare interrupt the unsettlingly serene moment, despite the growing desire to stretch my cramping legs.
I lifted my head to the sky as slowly and naturally as I could, and observed the soft patterns of the world above. The clouds formed a gradient– welcoming and friendly with a likeness to fluffy rabbits directly in line with me and my brothers, and foreboding darkness lingering off in the distance. Those shadier clouds concealed the horizon, and having traveled from that direction, I knew there were nothing more than mountains standing behind them, but for some inexplicable reason, a chill ran up my spine, the same that accompanies eyes on your back. I imagined, instead, a gargantuan behemoth hiding in the haze of mist and rain clouds settled along the distant edge of the world. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I registered a low incessant roar, as familiar as the buzz of tires on the road. The sound was akin to the ticking of a clock: ominous when it was heard, ordinary when it was not, but always there.
The monstrous presentation of the imaginary creature was false. This was a gentle being, or neutral, at least, said my gut. It would not harm me, nor my family, at least not in the present moment. It, too, could recognize the contradictory balance the moment had created. It, too, was mesmerized by the many actions of the universe required to still the world without utter destruction. It, too, was an admirer of that present. It, too, was a victim of that present. We were adversaries that understood each other. Opponents who could not fight. No, that’s not right.
My hands stung; soap had creeped into the many cuts on my arm. My cat, soaked, was sitting sadly, head down, in the bathtub. There were large white clumps of “Dawn Platinum Dish Soap, now with more foam!” hovering in the air. I still had to clean off his butt and tail—where most of the fleas were. I’d be sure to shower him in treats after, so hopefully, he wouldn’t hate me.
I never thought it would be such a nightmare. In all the videos I had watched, the kitties had sat patiently in the warm water, waiting for their bath to be over. But not mine. I picked him back up. At first, he thrashed around, but eventually, he went limp. I took more foam in my hands, and gently scrubbed his belly and tail. Red stains appeared quickly in the foam; fleas were dying. I scrubbed up and down, left and right, and all around his sad, shivering body. I ended by holding him gently under the faucet, washing off all the pain and discomfort.
Mackenzie O’Connor
Anthony van Dyck, oil on canvas, 1641. Reproduction with pencil.
"Self-Portrait as Icarus with Daedalus"
by Mackenzie O’Connor
Hate to Love you Anonymous
Alyssa Giugliano
My heart flutters as the light of our love dances across the ceiling
You say that I hate you, And oh how I wish I did. That would be far easier. I could yell at you and not feel bad. I could scream and cry and tell you about Everything you’ve done that’s caused me pain. I could put you in your place and feel better for it. But instead,
I love you, And I always will. No matter how many times you Break me down, Or ruin my night, Or bring me to tears… I’ll still love you through and through: My greatest strength, and deepest demise.
My name is Adyson. My mom got my name from a show called Grey's Anatomy. There is nothing special behind my name, no special meaning. Nothing reminds you of the name Adyson. It does not look pretty when I spell it out, I am not sure if I like it. My mom was watching the show and liked the name Addison, but she wanted to spell it in a different way, something to make me unique.
When someone asks me what my name is, hoping to get to know me, I say “Adyson,” and I assume their mind immediately goes to Addison. I sometimes like my name, and how it is different from the others, but I wish when teachers were taking attendance, they wouldn't pause before my name, trying to think of how to pronounce it. Or I wish my friends didn’t spell my name wrong whenever they write it, not even asking me if it is right. I look at their paper and I say, “no, it is spelled a-d-y-s-o-n”, and they make a weird face. I know they have never heard that before or seen it spelled like that ever before. Sometimes I just wish I was like every other “Addison” and not a “unique” one.
My mom loves my name just the way it is. She loves me just the way I am. My mom always tells me how pretty I am, or stares at me, admiring my smile and my eyes. But I never see myself the way she sees me. I look in the mirror and I see me, but trying to be someone else. I look in the mirror and see “Adyson,” wondering who that is. Sometimes I feel like I do not know myself, but at the same time I am looking to be anything but myself. Looking for a new thing that will change who I really am. But my name will always be the same, something I could change, but if I do, it will change everything about me. I cannot lose myself completely, even if I do not like my name all that much, it is still a part of me that I cannot separate from.
Questions with the artist by Declan Carroll
What is the thought process behind your artwork?
“When I make art I try to focus less on the thought of concept and more on the act of it. To me there are three phases of art: the intention, the action, and then the refinement. It's like I'm a farmer trying to make some money from growing plants; a seed of thought has gotta be sowed before I can do anything else. However, the intention and action are interchangeable; sometimes my best intentions are expressed through random actions”
Some Inspirations:
“ If I had to pick a handful, I think that I'm most inspired by Andrey Bogoslowsky, Francisco Goya, Van Gogh, Francis Bacon, and Da Vinci. To be specific, Da Vinci's anatomical sketches and Goyas later works.”
What is in the background to some of your pieces?
“It was originally part of another piece that ended up working as an easel. The lighting is also pretty good in the spot where it is”
What's your favorite medium?
“That's a can of worms… If I had to make a definitive choice about my favorite materials, I would pick oil pastels and cardboard. But generally I love any medium that's free and super available. Sometimes I have to use what’s around whether I like it or not.”
What’s your proudest work?
“It's an unfinished piece. I'm making a large-scale rendition of Michelangelo's Adam and God. It started out as a big anatomy study that quickly turned into a medium freestyle. I've had so much fun with it but right now it's in the refinement phase. It's now more of a chore than it is an experiment. There's still passion for it though ”
What do you see yourself doing with art in the future?
“I'm trying to work. I need money to get the ball rolling on things I've been scheming about. I wish to get a screen print going and make an insane amount of shirts and things like that. I mean other than that I'm just trying to farm. I've got a nice foundation for a food forest going and I couldn't be happier. The mycology I'm messing with will also be fruitful this upcoming year.”
Forced Memory
Samik Shah
It is not a typical Sunday. Today was THE day. The championship basketball game. The entire season led up to this. All the Saturday practices and Sunday games that we poured our hearts into. I woke up and showered, then put on my blue jersey and blue reversible shorts. The jersey read SHREWSBURY in big gold letters with my number 32 underneath. SHAH, my last name, was printed out on the back. I sprinted downstairs and devoured a Cinnamon Crunch Bagel from Panera Bread. My LeBron 11 Gamma Blues were waiting for me, so I laced them up and sat in my car. After a 21 minute drive which felt like an eternity, even with my Airpods in listening to my favorite album, we arrived. As it was a playoff game, we played in a neutral setting to make the game as fair as possible. While walking towards the door, I couldn’t help but notice the exponentially growing sound of the game from inside. I walked in and sat with my team on the farthest back bleachers waiting for the game before ours to finish. I sat and waited. My brain started to calm down. The game before ours finished after much anticipation and we took the court to warm up. Win or lose, at least I can say I was here and on time.
Me and my team started off warmups with two layup lines. In one line you catch the ball, then go full speed and try to make a shot close to the basket. In the other, you get the opposing lines rebound and pass the ball back to the first line. Between reps, I looked around me and took in the massive crowd and blasting music. I realized all the people around me were here to watch us. They were here to support their loved ones' passion. The other team, Marlborough, was also warming up behind us. Almost immediately, one of my teammates noticed a 6 foot 5 kid on the Marlborough team getting handed a jersey from the coach. This was surprising because we played this same team earlier in the season, but that player wasn’t there so he joined the team recently. But this didn’t make us complain. Instead, my coach told us to focus on ourselves and take the game into our own hands. This recruitment lightened a fire within us that was clear when the game started. But The Star-Spangled Banner had to come first. Everyone stood up and faced the flag. Following the anthem, both teams huddled up separately to discuss any last minute questions and preparations. Then it was time. The buzzer rang. I trotted to my spot. The ref threw up the ball and the game started around me.
Walk ‘Em Down
My team started with the ball and our ball handler and facilitator Saurav called for a pick and roll with me. I quickly ran over and gave him a screen to get him open and give myself an opportunity to score. However, in the heat of the moment and fast pace, I couldn’t convert the opportunity to a made basket. Despite the miss, the energy and momentum shifted with Joey blocking one of Marlborough's open looks. This momentum carried over to our offense as we struck first when I zipped a pass over to Dylan, resulting in a 3 pointer. On the next possession, Saurav delivered a pass to Joey who made a layup. They responded with a layup of their own, but we didn’t let that stop our momentum, we just had to switch up our strategy. Instead of going fast, Saurav slowed the pace of the game down and walked 'em down. He methodically set up our offense for success. And success we got. Dylan scored again. This time with a layup after he caught his defender sleeping like a cat in the sun. This slow pace continued for the rest of the time until the buzzer rang for halftime. Score: Marlborough 34, Shrewsbury 46.
The buzzer sounded for the start of the second half. If we built upon our first half, this would be an easy 24 point victory. Sadly, they were the ones coming out on fire this time. They went on an uncontested 9 to 0 run, cutting the lead to a thin 3 point game. This was done by beating us in every aspect. They wanted the win more than us. They were hustling and shooting like there was no tomorrow. Their defense was stifling, leading to 4 terrible offensive possessions for us. With Saurav on the bench catching his breath and getting his energy back, there was nobody to slow us down and keep us in control. Our offense became as stagnant as a frozen pond. But an opportunity arose from our defense. Dylan caught the ball after a sluggish pass. We pushed the ball on to the offensive side, creating a 4v3 advantage for us. However, this opportunity stalled out after I caught the ball in the corner on the 3 point line. I froze up. The moment and the pace caught up to me. My brain was throwing ideas at me like I was listening to BabyTron. I stood there with the ball in my hands like I was in a trance. Should I shoot it? Should I get closer for a layup? Should I pass it to my teammate for a better shot? After we lost the advantage with the players coming back, I snapped out of it and passed to Joey. I wasted an opportunity for my team to raise the lead to 5. My coach called a timeout to talk things over. He put Saurav in for me to give me a rest for the rest of the third quarter. Score: Marlborough 67, Shrewsbury
With 3 minutes left in the 4th quarter, my coach called a timeout with the score being 77-80. We mainly discussed how we should encourage the other team into shooting low percentage far distance shots. This was soon exposed when their 6 foot 5 giant nailed a long distance 3 pointer while fading away from the basket on me. I was right in his face making the shot as difficult as possible. The crowd went from the loudest of the game to silent in seconds as if your favorite celebrity walked in. The remaining 2 minutes was for all the money, so the tensions were high. But Saurav kept us in check. He slowed us down methodically and set up our offense. I set up a pick and roll for him and it worked to perfection. I got the ball right underneath the basket and scored, taking the lead back. We took control off the game again after a defensive stop and a Dylan 3 pointer, the result of a Joey pass. We were feeling comfortable, but they didn’t want to go away that easily. They answered with a three of their own cutting the lead to a single basket. But it was too late. At this point there were only 32 seconds left so they had to intentionally foul us in a hope of getting the ball back on offense if we missed our free throws. But calm under pressure, Saurav hit both free throws. In a last ditch effort, they made a three pointer, but time was over. We won despite all the adversity. Score: Marlborough 88, Shrewsbury 90.
By Reagan Dion
Louisa Carvalho
I have seen all kinds of names. Maria, Renata, Idelfonso, Renyer, Charlotte, Sofia, Jaqueline, Joaquim, Heitor, Daniel, Allan. I could go on forever. It’s funny, the names. Not because they sound funny, but because they are part of someone’s personality. What’s your name? you are so kind, someone might ask. Daisy, the girl replies.
Ah, that’s why. It makes sense now, they say. Learn someone’s name and suddenly all their actions are normal and predictable. Suddenly it’s a puzzle piece that fits right next to the one of their face. You certainly look like your name. I’ve heard someone say.
How do names matter so much in defining someone? Do people grow and adapt to their name, to look like their name? Some mothers when they give birth and see their baby for the first time smile and say, of course, he should be named Michael. It’s like they know all about you already even though you can only cry, cry. Are names meant to be? Are they like destiny, a special present gently wrapped in silk ribbons and your favorite colors made just for you? But sometimes people disagree with destiny. My friend over there, had a name that sounds like a warm field in the spring with a magnificent tree living alongside a lake. Cecília, she had said. But she didn’t like that name. She didn’t feel as though it belonged to her. Changed her name to Ray, and even said she was a boy now. Yes, Ray sounds just like you, even though I prefer Cecília. I thought.
Sometimes I also think that my name does not belong to me. My name means renowned warrior. It means courage, it means resilience. Luísa. A pretty name. I don’t feel like a warrior though, nor courageous or resilient. When I sit back and think, all I see is a little girl who can’t say no to others and does whatever she is told to do. All I see is a water bottle, that everyone is free to drink from but no one ever refills. I went out with my father one day to Music & Arts to finish paying for my
violin, so it would be mine and not rented. I tied my hair back in a ponytail because it looked messy, and listened to songs throughout the ride in the front seat of the car. At one of the stoplights I turned to look at the rearview mirror outside, and saw a woman staring back at me. Her undercut hair made her look fierce. Her eyes were confident, as if she knew who she was and what her purpose was. She looked strong, unlike the girl who replaced her a few seconds later after the woman had disappeared. This girl looked uncertain, frail, and confused. What kind of warrior was she supposed to be? I sit back on my chair in my room and think.
Who am I?
You’re smart, Luísa. You should know that, many people have said. You’re so pretty, someone else had said.
You help me out so much, thank you for that. I appreciate it.
You’re amazing.
You are the reason I was able to do this.
I sit back and let these comments flow through my head, and close my eyes. I can be a warrior in my own way. I can keep going by being myself. I say, and smile.
By Reagan Dion
Hernando was captivated by the smoky reflection on the wall.
He’d been to Aunt Fran’s house for all kinds of reasons—birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas —but only now had he noticed the obsidian mirror hanging above the couch. It was sitting on a gray plate hanger; perhaps the back was flat and had nothing to hang the mirror from? Either way, the mirror was perfectly circular and on display for the whole room to see. It stood in stark contrast to the pearly white walls and cream couches.
It was beautiful. It was also supposed to be in his house.
Hernando could have sworn he’d seen that very mirror on his own living room wall. It was in nearly the same spot, though their plate mount was beside the TV instead. He could vividly remember climbing onto the coffee table at times so he could look at the darker reflection of his toys.
Aunt Fran’s mirror even had the scratches that came from knocking his action figures against the surface. This had to be the same mirror—but why was it at Aunt Fran’s house? Hernando’s parents had never said anything about giving it away, and he would have seen them taking it down.
Hernando was just about to step closer when a hand grabbed his shoulder. His older sister, Juanita, pulled him back until she was standing in between him and the couch. She looked him straight in the eye, then at the mirror, then back at him.
“What—”
She shook her head and silently pushed him towards the kitchen.
Hernando’s face scrunched up, but he acquiesced and let her drag him along. Well, if that wasn’t weird…
Juanita being quiet was normal—she rarely engaged with others if she could stick her nose into a book instead. Even if she tried to open her mouth, her voice would be so wobbly that it would take a few tries to understand what she was trying to say. By then she would just give up from embarrassment. That didn’t stop Juanita from raising her voice at her brother, though.
Even if in public, she wouldn’t hesitate to snap at Hernando for poking her arm or making fun of her. If he was bothering her, she had no qualms with letting everyone around them know about it. She could go from stuttering to shouting with just a bit of his prodding.
So it completely threw him off when she just… shook her head. It being a family gathering wouldn’t have stopped her from shoving him out of the room. What was he even doing that set her off? All he did was stare at a mirror.
It was nothing compared to that time Hernando had stolen her phone just a few days ago. Despite being three years older, Juanita was a few inches shorter than him. It made waving her phone over her head laughably easy. She had been screeching the entire time while they packed up to leave the swimming pool.
Maybe he was overthinking it? She hadn’t raised her voice or anything, so it probably wasn’t a big deal. But something about the way her eyes narrowed and she looked so exasperated— Hernando yelped when someone lightly smacked the top of his head.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Dad said, holding out a plastic cup with soda inside. Hernando took it without a second thought. “Don’t hurt yourself. Leave the pondering to your sister.”
Hernando huffed. “Haha, very funny.” He jerked backward when Dad suddenly poked the middle of his forehead.
“What’s wrong? If you keep frowning like that, you’ll get wrinkles.”
Hernando swatted his hand away, earning a chuckle from his father. If Hernando was the bane of Juanita’s existence, then his father was Hernando’s. The man took every opportunity to mess around with his son, then turned right around to dote all over his daughter. Nothing Dad did ever fazed Juanita, but it sure bothered Hernando. And yet not a single other person was able to get under his skin quite like Dad could.
“Nothing happened, Juanita just did something weird.”
“Hmm?”
“I was just staring at that black mirror,” Hernando gestured to the door. “And she told me to get out. She didn’t even scream or anything, though. Just kinda stared at me.”
“Did she, now?” Dad paused, his lips pressing together to suppress a smile. “Not even a single word? Must be your lucky day.”
Hernando side-eyed him as Dad was pulled away by Aunt Fran. Oh, he absolutely knew something. The question was, what was it? And how was Hernando going to pry it out of him?
The prying was unnecessary; he soon found his answers just days later. While Hernando was browsing for shows to watch, Dad’s phone began to ring. He left the living room for a few minutes and returned with a huge grin. When asked what happened, he simply pointed at the spot on the wall next to the TV.
Upon the wooden plate mount was the living room reflected through a dark sheen.
What.
As soon as she saw it, Juanita groaned loudly and stormed out of the room. Dad’s grin only grew wider, while Mom shook her head with a smile. Hernando was too busy blinking at the obsidian mirror that had definitely not been there two days ago
He couldn’t get that stupid mirror off his mind, thanks to Juanita. The first thing he had done when returning from Aunt Fran’s house was check the living room. The plate mount was in the right spot, but it was empty—so the mirror at Aunt Fran’s house had been the same one he remembered.
So why on earth was it now in their living room?
“Just got off the phone with Francisca.” Dad held his phone up, which was still on Aunt Fran’s contact. “She finally noticed and did her part.”
“You stole the mirror?”
“Yep.”
“But why?”
“Because she stole it from us.”
“Oh.” Hernando sat back onto the couch. That would explain why it was missing, but he remembered using it. “Why’d they steal it from us?”
“Because we stole it from them.”
For goodness’ sake.
Hernando scowled at his parents, who snickered. “Why?”
“Ah, is it finally time?” Mom shuffled the papers on her lap together. “I was beginning to wonder when you would notice the mirror changing hands.”
“How long has this been going on, exactly?” Hernando crossed his arms and tried to look stern, but his fourteen-year-old face wasn’t cutting it based on Dad covering his mouth with his hand. Mom smiled at him and left to do whatever paperwork was left.
“It’s practically a family tradition now. It started when you were small, I can’t blame you for not noticing.” Dad slumped onto the couch with a sigh. “You know, obsidian mirrors were originally used by the Aztecs. I have no idea how my dad got his hands on one.”
“So it was grandpa’s mirror, then.”
Hernando hadn’t been alive when his grandfather died; he didn’t know much about him. He did know that dividing the man’s property between his three children had been hectic. Aunt Fran had eventually gotten his house while Dad and Aunt Bia got other items.
“Yep. Once Columbia got angry at Francisca so she took it home over Christmas.”
“Did they make up?”
“Yeah, eventually. But then,” He grinned. “Your sister stole the mirror during a playdate with your cousin.” “Juanita? Stealing? No.” Juanita was an absolute goody-two-shoes who was too anxious to ever break a single rule. No wonder Juanita wanted Hernando as far away from that thing as possible; he would never let her live it down if he heard about the few moments where she made a mistake.
“At the ripe old age of seven,” Dad nodded. “She thought it was pretty. We only found out when Columbina yelled at me about it—Juanita had snuck the thing into her room before we noticed her.”
“Did she get in trouble?”
“We did have to punish her for stealing, of course. But I thought the whole situation was hilarious, so I put the mirror in the living room. Fran noticed during a birthday party and stole it back without anyone noticing. The rest is, as they say, history.”
“...Wait, but Aunt Fran yelled at you just now.” Hernando pointed out. “But she’s also stolen the mirror?”
Dad patted his knee. “It’s a part of the game. Pay a little closer attention over the next few days and see if you can guess what the rules are.”
Hernando spent the next few months diligently piecing together the rules of the mirror thief game. Or, well. As diligently as a fourteen year old could.
Rule one: the mirror must be displayed at all times and could not be hidden.
The plate mount had always stayed on the wall even while empty, so it wasn’t hard to presume that it was meant for the mirror and mirror only. Every time one family had the mirror, they displayed it in the same spot where everyone had a good view of it.
This seemed counterintuitive when the goal was to stop others from stealing it. But it was a badge of honor, of sorts, and it wasn’t completely disadvantageous. The only opportunity to steal the mirror was whenever someone was invited over, and more people around the mirror meant less chances to get away unnoticed.
If you were caught, you obviously had to put the mirror back; part of the fun is sneaking the thing out without being seen. Hernando was especially vigilant the next time a gathering was held—the Fourth of July—and managed to catch his uncle in the act. The taller man sheepishly put the mirror back on the stand and backed away.
But despite his efforts, Hernando couldn’t keep all his attention on the mirror. It was the Fourth of July, so he was busy sprinting around the backyard with all his cousins on his tail. Coupled with the fact that he also had to watch the little kids (since Juanita refused to step on the muddy ground), the mirror completely slipped his mind until the next day. It was already morning by the time he noticed the empty spot on the wall.
Rule two: if the mirror was stolen, one must angrily berate the thief as if they hadn’t also stolen the mirror several times in the past.
Hernando got a first-class listen to Mom’s scathing tirade as she chewed his uncle out. The older man had come back at a later time and confiscated the mirror just before driving off. Mom went on and on about how disappointed she was and how immature he was, and that he should think about his actions and setting an example for his kids. She burst out laughing as soon as she hung up.
Hearing the phone call did make Hernando feel a bit better. He had shouted out when he noticed the mirror was gone, much to Juanita’s delight. She tried to tease him about being obsessed over a dumb mirror that he didn’t even notice was gone most of the time. He responded by reminding her that she was the one who started the entire mess in the first place.
She turned beet red and angrily dug into her breakfast.
After the phone call, though, the issue of the mirror slipped Hernando’s mind. It wasn’t until months later, at a celebration for his cousin’s graduation, that he noticed the mirror in his uncle’s dining room. It was all the way on the other side of the room, right above the food table. There were too many people eating dinner at the time, but that didn’t stop Hernando from planning.
Rule three: do not get caught being a mirror thief.
In the spirit of Juanita’s excellent smuggling, one must not get caught stealing the mirror. No one could guard the mirror at all times, obviously, but if someone did catch sight of an attempt then they were obligated to stop it.
Hernando knew he had to be clever, but he also knew that everyone knew he would be thinking about the mirror. He was brand new to the game, after all, and eager to play.
The mirror wasn’t too far down on the wall. The problem was getting it out of the room at all. While the dining room had two large exits, they both led to parts of the house that people would linger in to chat. The only way to get to the front door was to sneak the mirror past all those people without anyone noticing something was wrong.
His t-shirt was too thin and he hadn’t brought a thick enough jacket. It was highly improbable that he would get it out by going through the house. Hernando needed a new way to get the mirror out of the house.
After dinner was eaten, the rest of the party spread out to talk while waiting for dessert to be served in the kitchen. The soda was still in the dining room, so Hernando grabbed an empty cup and headed towards one of the doors. He jumped out of view just before he entered—Juanita was loitering near the food table with a refilled plate, leaning right next to one of the windows on the wall.
The windows!
Hernando left the cup on a table and joined the little kids that were playing outside. A section of the backyard’s fence was hidden by the house itself, which no one could see when they were all the way at the other side of the yard. Hernando waited until their soccer game gravitated towards him, then kicked the ball as hard as he could to the other side. The kids chased after it gleefully while he hopped over the fence unnoticed.
He quickly jogged up to the dining room windows that were located on the same wall. Standing on the tips of his toes, he looked into the window and nearly pumped a fist. Juanita was still there, munching away at her food—oh, no, she was jerking backwards having caught sight of his face.
She set her plate down on the table and lifted the window. “What are you doing?!”
“Gimme the mirror,” he whispered back.
“What?!” Juanita glanced behind her at the wall, confirming the mirror was indeed on the wall. She then tried to shut the window on him. “No.”
Hernando caught the frame before she could crush his fingers. “Come on, Juanita, just this once? Quick, before someone comes in!”
“I’m not playing this stupid game,” she hissed.
Hernando sighed, leaned forward, and gave her the best puppy-dog eyes he could muster. “Please? Just this once?”
“I’m not falling for that, you—”
“I’ll steal an extra serving of dessert for you.”
Juanita grimaced, her hands shaking from holding the ledge so tightly. She then let out a huge sigh and turned around. After a few seconds she was carefully holding the mirror out of the window. Hernando quietly whooped as he took it into his hands, and his sister responded by shutting the window in his face. No matter. He had his prize! Making sure to stay out of view of the front windows, he made his way through the cars. He had used Dad’s key to unlock the car remotely, so all he had to do was open the back door and stick the mirror onto the floor of his seat. He then opened the front passenger door, clicked the lock button, closed the door again, and made his way back into the yard. He joined in on the soccer game until the kids were all called in for dessert.
After all the food and talking for the night was exhausted, people started filtering out to head home. Hernando’s family was one of the last to leave—Juanita was still eating the dessert serving he had stolen for her—and he was bone tired when they finally got in the car. He almost stepped on the mirror and gave himself away to his parents, which would have been catastrophic.
It wasn’t until they pulled into their driveway that Hernando asked for his parents’ attention. He smirked as he pulled the mirror up from the floor. Juanita put her face into her hands as their parents cheered.
An angry phone call had never felt so good to receive.
My house. That's my house, not yours or the person who owned it before but mine and my family’s. Before this house it used to be a house in Illinois in a connected and familiar neighborhood. And before that it used to be an apartment in Connecticut, small as a cardboard box. The house I have right now is like a much bigger cardboard box with many more important memories. First coming to MA I was halfway into 5th grade and entering a new environment with no friends. Although for a short time, I needed friends to survive and when I walked through the door coming home, the first thing I noticed was the emptiness of the hall. When I came back to school the next day though, I had met new people and therefore achieved my goal of getting new friends. When I came back home from school though, I noticed that there was a bright chandelier in the hall that had escaped my sight before.
To Catherine Kayla Cabral
My house is known as the “big blue house” on the corner. But not anymore.
Now my house is as ordinary as any other house on my street.
When I was younger
MY house was like a mansion that smelled like summertime and felt like a dreamland.
All day you could hear the birds chirping no matter the weather.
My house was my comfort place. And my house was my perfect home. But now that’s gone.
It looks like a bunch of empty rooms put together. It smells like nothing.
All you hear is arguing about keeping a clean room or taking the dog out.
THIS house is no longer my “big blue house” but instead it’s just like a copy of the other grey plain houses on my street.
Acadia Littlefield
by Ishana Saha
When light has fled the night the sounds of our ever-active world gone
Save for engines and electricity
When all is quiet–as they say night should be–And the banshee rising from your clothes-pile threatens you with its inaction
When the witching hour arrives
We are all victim– not to an evil being, Nor any occult happenings, But the daily traitor, thought. It, which stalks us our daily doings, It, which deconstructs our every move, It, which criticizes us when it can, It, which complicates familiar things.
At this late, lightless hour
It beats at our hearts’ gates and scratches up the walls
Murdering thief, it hisses.
Do nothing and yet still you are a despicable creature, A thing of cowardice and indecisiveness
Do something and you are irredeemable
The villain of children’s nightmares
But what power does it have than that which you give it?
What can do you from the inside without a key?
It must first find a broken window in your soul
Tear at the already open wounds
And make everything more than they are. It, which stalks our daily d It, which deconstructs our every move, t, which criticizes us when it can, It, which complicates familiar things.
At this late, lightless hour
It beats at our hearts’ gates and scratches up the walls
Murdering thief, it hisses.
Do nothing and yet still you are a despicable creature, A thing of cowardice and indecisiveness
Do something and you are irredeemable
The villain of children’s nightmares
But what power does it have than that which you give it?
What can do you from the inside without a key?
It must first find a broken window in your soul
Tear at the already open wounds
And make everything more than they are.
