The Marble Collection: Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts Spring 2016

SPRING 2016

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MASSACHUSETTS HIGH SCHOOL MAGAZINE OF THE ARTS themarblecollection.org

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• 125-seat Studio Theatre • Art 125-seat Theatre •Exhibition GalleryStudio and performance oppor Art Gallery •• Ceramics and sculpture labs study abroad; museum •internships; and and costume designlabs shops • Scenic Ceramics sculpture •trips; choral rehearsal roomsartists • Instrument Scenicguest andand costume design shops lecturers and •• Dance and performance labs Instrument and choral rehearsal rooms •• Drawing, painting & digitallabs design labs Dance and performance SPACES • Printmaking and papermaking labs

EXPERIENCES Exhibition and performance opportunities; internships; study abroad; museum field trips; guest lecturers and artists painting & digital design labs •• Drawing, 400-seat Concert Hall • Printmaking and papermaking labs

• 254-seat Proscenium Theatre SPACES 125-seat Studio Theatre • 400-seat Concert •Hall • Art Gallery • 254-seat Proscenium Theatre • Ceramics and sculpture labs • 125-seat Studio Theatre • Scenic and costume design shops • Instrument and choral rehearsal • Art Gallery • Dancelabs and performance labs • Ceramics and sculpture • Drawing, painting & digital desig Applications are being accepted for fall 2016; • Massachusetts Scenicresidents. and costume design shops tuition discounts for • Printmaking and papermaking l www.easternct.edu/arts (860) 465-5286 . www.easternct.edu/admissions • Instrument and choral rehearsal rooms Applications are being accepted for fall 2016; ;6102 llaf rof detpecca gnieb era snoitacilppA tuition discounts for Massachusetts residents.

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TMC: ABOUT US W H AT I S T H E M A R B L E C O L L E C T I O N ?

The Marble Collection, Inc. [TMC], a 501 (c)(3) nonprofit organization, publishes The Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts, a juried, professionalquality publication, and the only statewide print and online magazine of the arts featuring artwork, photography, poetry, and creative writing by teens in grades 8 to 12. TMC’s commitment to teen writers and artists does not end when they are selected for publication. We offer them one-to-one online and in-person Mentoring for Publication Workshops, in which they are paired with college-level mentors, who guide their work to publication for real-world audiences.

M I S S I O N S TAT E M E N T TMC cultivates creativity and excellence in the arts by engaging teen artists and writers in a publication process that affirms their voices and deepens their learning.

TMC: PARTNERS At a time when budget cuts and an emphasis on standardized testing mean that fewer teens in Massachusetts have access to the arts, TMC collaborates with 200 Massachusetts schools and community groups to publish and mentor 100 teen writers and artists each school year. To make its programs more accessible to underserved teens, TMC collaborates with 11 Massachusetts organizations, including Artists for Humanity, ArtWorks, Big Brothers Big Sisters of Massachusetts Bay, Boston Children’s Theatre, Grub Street, Inc., Institute of Contemporary Art, Boston, Massmouth, Press Pass TV, RAW, Sociedad Latina, and UMass Boston’s Urban Scholars. In 2013, TMC was awarded the prestigious Arts|Learning “Outstanding Community Arts Education Collaborative Award” for developing a model arts education collaborative between school and community cultural resources.

To become a partner at no cost, please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/about/participate

TMC: SUBSCRIBE CLASSROOM BUNDLE

(25 copies per edition)

ONE-YEAR SINGLE COPY

$275.00 $27.00 $13.50

To subscribe or purchase single copies, please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/subscribe

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TMC: STAFF EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR WEBMASTER

Deanna Elliot Andrew Rakauskas

TMC: INTERNS & VOLUNTEERS EDITORS & ART JURORS

STUDENT ADVISORY BOARD CHAIRS

ACCOUNTING MANAGER COMMUNICATIONS EXECUTIVE COMMUNITY RELATIONS MANAGER

Devon Fitzgibbons Michelle Kubilis Edym McKelvey K a t r i n a Ta y l o r Va l e r i e Va r g a s Anna Xie Dana Hortman Anna Xie D m i t r i y To k a r e v Huyen Le Theresa Kniaz

TMC: LEADERSHIP BOARD OF DIRECTORS

ADVISORY COMMITTEE

STUDENT ADVISORY BOARD

Meryl Loonin, Chair Chelsea Revelle, Secretary R o s s K l o s t e r m a n , Tr e a s u r e r Melody Forbes Kathryn Lee Donna Neal John Sadoff Leanne Scott Thomas Bentley Jack Curtis Susan Denison Melanie McCarthy Nakia Navarro Allan Reeder Jamie Ross Jazna Stannard Annalisa Flynn Tiancheng Lyu Julie Suh

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TMC: ADVERTISE With its diverse print and digital circulation, and distinct presence inside and outside the classroom, TMC is a one-of-a-kind recruitment tool. Reach your target audience and showcase the unique programs your educational institution has to offer with TMC! NEXT EDITION / WINTER 2017 Closing Date for Reservations: Copy Date: Pu b l i c a t i o n D a t e :

No v e m b e r 1 8 , 2 0 1 6 No v e m b e r 2 5 , 2 0 1 6 December 15, 2016 (approximate)

To learn more, please review TMC Media Kit at: www.themarblecollection.org/advertise

TMC: DONATE With a gift of $275 or more, we’ll list your name on the Patrons page of the magazine. All donations include a complimentary subscription to the Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts.

GIVING LEVELS All donations are 100% tax-deductible.

• $1,000: Supports 10 teen artists in TMC’s e-Gallery, an online exhibit to showcase and sell teen artwork.

• $500: Supports TMC’s annual teen art exhibition and magazine release gala, Spring into Art. • $275: Supplies an under-resourced school with a Classroom Bundle Subscription (25 copies) to the semiannual Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts.

• $100: Supports the development of the online, semiannual Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts.

• $50: Supplies 2 under-resourced schools with a TMC Starter Kit, equipped with a tutorial slideshow and educational materials.

To donate online please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/donate *** T M C PAT R O N S Richard & Liz Allen, Priscilla & Ramon Chura, Michael Conkey, Kevin Fachetti, Susan Hammond, Bob Kustka, Scott Lombard, Mathew & Barbara Loonin, Neil Fisher & Meryl Loonin, Chelsea Revelle, Jen & Mike Vogelzang THANK YOU. 4

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TMC: SPONSOR TMC’s programs and events provide businesses and individuals with standard or customized sponsorship opportunities that boast significant marketing benefits.

SPONSORSHIP LEVELS All sponsorships are 100% tax-deductible.

• $25,000: Underwrites our semiannual Mentoring for Publication Workshop, a 6-week one-to-one workshop for 100 published teen artists and writers.

• $10,000: Underwrites 20 workshops in under-resourced schools, community organizations, and public libraries to educate teens about the publication process.

• $7,500: Supports training sessions for our college student interns for one year.

• $5,000: Sponsors 2 semester-long internship positions for college students.

• $2,500: Supports the production of the semiannual Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts and distribution to 100 under-resourced school libraries.

To become a sponsor, please visit: www.themarblecollection.org/sponsor

TMC: SUPPORTERS Brimmer and May School Chestnut Hill, MA / brimmerandmay.org

The Llewellyn Foundation Cambridge, MA / lewellynfoundation.org

Fieldstone Foundation Boston, MA

The RMR Group Newton, MA / rmrgroup.com

MullenLowe U.S. Boston, MA / us.mullenlowe.com

Walmart Foundation Boston, MA / giving.walmart.com

Rhyme & Reason Family Fund Boston, MA / tdf.com

University of Massachusetts Boston, MA / umb.edu

TMC is also supported in part by grants from the below local cultural councils, local agencies which are supported by the Massachusetts Cultural Council, a state agency.

Abington, Amherst, Arlington, Attleboro, Auburn, Ayer, Bridgewater, Brockton, Brookline, Burlington, Charlton, Dedham, Easton, Fairhaven, Fall River, Falmouth, Fitchburg, Groton, Hadley, Haverhill, Hopkinton, Lexington, Lowell, Malden, Medway, Middleborough, New Salem, North Attleboro, Peabody, Pembroke, Rochester, Springfield, Stoughton, Sturbridge, Sutton, Wayland, Webster, Whitman THANK YOU. TMC Spring 2016

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TMC: CONTENTS 8

On The Edge (Poetry) Amanda Li / Westford Academy

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Inverted (Art) Ellan Suder / Newton South High School

10 Journey (Fiction) Dylan LaVallee / Natick High School

16 Owl (Art) Gwen Morris / Chelmsford High School

17 Self-Portrait (Art) Shailyn Farmer / Chelmsford High School

18 Chess and Phá»&#x; (Nonfiction) Jonathan Lang / Minnechaug Regional High School

21 Zentangled Elephant (Art) Kayla Gallo / Chelmsford High School

22 Fall Queen (Art) Kaitlyn DeViller / Tewksbury Memorial High School

23 Apples and Pears (Art) Katherine Ye / Lexington High School

24 Pinay (Poetry) Claudette Ramos / Groton School

26 Train Wreck (Poetry) Ivy Gao / Lexington High School

27 Pixelated (Art)

31 River Bed In Light (Art) Alina Fischer / Brimmer and May School

32 Tempo (Fiction) Naqiya Motiwalla / Westford Academy

35 Fishing (Art) Katherine Ye / Lexington High School

36 Boy In Blue (Poetry) Andrew Chan / Milton Academy

37 Fall Transitions (Art) Ryan Frasier / Lynnfield High School

38 Falling Asleep (Poetry) Andrew Chan / Milton Academy

39 Mondegreen (Art) Alison Gill / Brimmer and May School

40 Mursi Girl (Art) Faith McGuire / Sturgis Charter Public School East

41 K1000 (Art) Vincent Barry / Oakmont Regional High School

42 A Funeral for the Flowers (Poetry) Owen Carpenter / Ayer-Shirley Regional High School

43 Antique Bouquet (Art) Meagan Cox / Chelmsford High School

44 Milestones (Poetry) Kassie Breest / Ayer-Shirley Regional High School

Chryssanthi Barris / Hopkinton High School

28 The Girl In The Street (Art) Rachel Volkin / North Attleboro High School

29 Hedera Helix (Art) Edgar Castro / Peabody Veterans Memorial High School

30 Fujian (Poetry) Emily Yin / Acton-Boxborough Regional High School

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45 Road Rage (Art) Andres Widhalm Peabody Veterans Memorial High School

46 Strictly Business (Fiction) Rebekah Aran / Burlington High School

50 Helianthus (Art) Jade Sweeney / Marshall Simonds Middle School

TMC: Spring 2016 51 Lobster Guy (Art) Kendall Tremblay / Marshall Simonds Middle School

52 For Seventy-Eight Years a Heart Beats (Poetry) Madelyn Mitrano / Ayer-Shirley Regional High School

53 Kaleidoscope (Art) Chryssanthi Barris / Hopkinton High School

54 Grand Canyon (Poetry) Ivy Gao / Lexington High School

55 Lime (Art) Alina Fischer / Brimmer and May School

56 Stars (Fiction) Chloe Schiller / Brockton High School

59 All Eyes On You (Art) Jade Sweeney / Marshall Simonds Middle School

65 Multitasking (Art) Albert Kim / Lexington High School

66 Why The Essay (Nonfiction) Gabriel Dix / Minnechaug Regional High School

68 Sixteen (Poetry) Sydney Kim / Concord Academy

69 Going Again (Art) Jack Devlin / Whitman-Hanson Regional High School

70 Lonely Bike (Art) Sarah Owens / Marshall Simonds Middle School

70 Autumn (Art) Jack Devlin / Whitman-Hanson Regional High School

71 Up Above the Big Apple (Art) Shreeya Chandra / Lexington High School

71 Lucky Duckling (Art) Sam Kielar / Lexington High School

60 Girl in the Window (Art) Sydney Nagahiro / Concord Academy

60 Cow Lick (Art) Ethan Labi / Berkshire School

61 Lightning in Bad Reichenhall, Germany (Art) Eliot Zaeder / Phillips Academy

61 Dissolving Into Thin Air (Art) Eliot Zaeder / Phillips Academy

62 Bliss (Poetry) Emily Spagnuolo / North Quincy High School

63 Acadia Scene (Art) Sam Kielar / Lexington High School

64 Let’s Play Spin The Bottle (Poetry) Julie Suh / Lexington High School

72 How To Be Popular (Fiction) Allie Reed / Milton Academy

74 Our Coats (Fiction) Lily Crandall-Oral / Lexington High School

77 Tell-Tale Heart (Art) Dakota Gleason / Auburn High School

78 The Things She Carried (Nonfiction) Macy Lipkin / Groton School

80 Donut Eat My Donuts (Art) Sydney Nekoroski / Lynnfield High School

81 The Adventures of Apollo and Caesar (Art) Elizabeth Milner / Chelmsford High School

82 Amen (Art) Yang Hyun Cho / Groton School

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P O E T R Y Westford Academy / Class of 2017

Amanda Li

On The Edge Like birds’ wings Steel beams spread above her head Skeleton of a giant beast Below, the bay teems with plastic bags And tiny fish that blow clear bubbles Too small to see The wind snaps her hair in fiery whips around her face The clouds overhead whisper urgently of rain As droplets begin to pepper her cheeks The cars roar past in a deafening blur Of brake lights and windshield wipers Swish, swish She stands on the support beam Unhindered by the railing against her back Unbothered by the life rushing on behind her She faces the sea The open unknown of giant whales and ancient myths Extends her arms Inches her toes so they hang above The mournful grey waves While overhead, the clouds weep And when the ambulances and squad cars Screech to a halt They are just part of the noise The unending drone of those who never breathe Who never sleep The ones who rush everywhere and go Nowhere She feels sorry because they don’t know How to stop And when the policeman approaches Slowly Hands outstretched Asks what she is doing She pities him Because he cannot see the obvious She is breathing in life 8

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A R T Newton South High School / Class of 2018

E l l a n

S u d e r

Inverted

d r a w i n g

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F I C T I O N Natick High School / Class of 2017

D y l a n

L a V a l l e e

Journey

The inside of a commercial airliner looks a lot like the inside of a prison.

The walls are drenched in a hastened cream color, as if the painters were inmates themselves. The floor, an industrial interpretation of carpeting, is worn from years of pacing jailbirds shuffling their way to their cells. The chairs are expresso brown and lifeless. Temporary cells of flyers that seem, in their very existence, discontent to be bolted to the tired carpet. Dull lights flicker above heads hung in submission; their bulbs keeping an erratic rhythm, infuriating those below. A stewardess rushes up and down the narrow aisle, imitating the plight of a police officer charged with chasing an impetuous fugitive. Her face stern and unrelenting, the stewardess offers no solace to the condemned 48 who reside in the cells on either side of her. The prisoners offer nothing back, nor do they try to offer anything. Their agitated, perturbed faces show a forced acceptance of the sentence before them. With a not so gentle lurch, the iron propeller penitentiary rises into the air, and with it fall the hopes of all aboard.

Forlorn prisoners gaze through the only sliver of salvation on board; a portal into the world of freedom below: the window. A smudged sheet of ice that, if taken away, can siphon someone away from even the mightiest of prisons.

It is one of these ice-like portals that my face presses against on this gray September night. It is a night much like all the others I have witnessed. A gentle gray that eventually shifts into a reluctant white as the day dawns. Everything hangs in pristine balance, wondering which season it is, wondering whether the long days and tall shadows of summer are over, and preparing for the long nights and short shadows of fall. I realize that, in many ways, the passengers on board model September’s predicament. The shadow of change looms over us, but the light of experience is there to guide us. Balance on the brink of chaos. The plane enters a veil of fog and my observations of the gloomy evening are interrupted. I reluctantly remove my scarlet cheek from the window and turn my blank stare to the posterior of the chair in front of me. My mind wanders aimlessly, trying to unearth some entertainment to help me endure the long ride ahead. I inspect the cabin, trying to find anything interesting, anything at all. I come up empty. I feel like an inmate stripped of his harmonica; a musician with no passion; a preacher devoid of faith. Everything is missing. It suddenly dawns on me that what lies ahead is worth a few hours of imprisonment.

The destination ahead is the only form of solace I can latch on to throughout the course my sentence. I look forward to the good times, to retelling stories of old, to seeing them all again. I sit back in my chair, content with the sentence at hand; I let my eyes wander out of the window once more.

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F I C T I O N •••

The steel door opens and finally we are liberated. We shuffle out, single file, squinting as the industrial lights greet our tired eyes. I find my way out of the carpeted tunnel that leads to the terminal and end up in the middle of a bustling bundle of freedom. People of all walks of life inch by me: hopeful children, anxious parents, calm connoisseurs of business. Each of them as free as can be. I wander through the palatial terminal, brushing past people I’ll never meet, trying to locate the exit sign. I arch my neck like a giraffe and, after nearly squashing a stroller, see it. I take off, slipping between streams of people, and with every step the exit inches closer and closer, with every step freedom inches closer and closer. I reach the destination and force the double doors open, revealing the outside world. Few buses rush by; the wee hours of morning have a way of eliminating motivation and drive from even the hardest of workers. Birds sleep, palm trees sway in a gentle breeze, and the moist air offers my chapped lips an escape from their discomfort. I look around, trying to pinpoint a sign containing the words SANTA FE. I find nothing. I grab hold of my backpack straps and look some more. Again, I find nothing. Concerned, I rock back and forth on my heels and crane my neck in a feeble attempt to find a sign. I turn around and glance up, trying to make out the name of the airport. After some effort, I am able to make it out. The flowing cursive reads: St. Petersburg-Clearwater International Airport. I take a step back and squint at the sign, as if focusing more would make the desired words appear. I run my hands through my hair perplexed, and let out a laborious sigh. One thing is certain; St. Petersburg, Florida is not Santa Fe, New Mexico. I lower myself to the curb and bury my face in my calloused hands.

A soft giggle escapes my lips. I can’t help but chuckle at the hilarity of the situation.

Here I am, no family, no friends, and 2,000 miles from where I need to be, with no ties to anything. The watch on my left wrist releases a shrill beep: 5:30 AM. The first feeble rays of sunshine begin to make their way through the cracks between my fingers. I don’t care to look up. The sunlight gains confidence and eventually, my attempt at sheltering myself from the breaking dawn becomes futile. I look up wearily, and suddenly my breath is taken away. Florida sunshine cascades like beams of light through stained glass down the empty street. Thousands of individual rays strike my body like machine gun fire, casting an eerie shadow on the wall behind me. As a new dawn blossoms, a new idea blossoms within me. A wide smile stretches the length of my face as my reluctant mind grants my eager body permission to carry out the puerile task laid before it. Guitar case in hand, backpack on board, I start walking.

Where to? There’s not a clue in my mind. After all these years, I finally have my chance. No ties. No limitations. Nothing to slow me down. I am free. Just free.

And damn it feels good.

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F I C T I O N TREADMILLS

As I walk, it occurs to me that Florida is a treadmill. Flat and unrelenting, the tireless landscape stretches on and on, stopping only when the traveler gives up.

Gentle inclines appear, as if to say, “It can’t all be that easy”. I hug the west coast, passing alongside white-sand beaches and lazy bungalows. Life seems to move slower in Florida, as if the treadmill is constantly set to walking speed. I walk for what feels like years, just me and Florida alone together. In those hours of solitary freedom I learn a lot about the land I walk on, and I like to think that it learned a lot about me.

At about 2:30 I stop to rest my weary legs. I find myself at the edge of a small collection of small houses, each built with the ocean in mind. The weathered shingles and inviting doorways of Horseshoe Beach welcome my worn spirit with open arms. I walk to the edge of town and lie down, face first like a starfish, in a warm, comforting mattress of white sand. The clement waves fall into a soothing, monotonous pattern broken only by the sound of guitar strings being plucked by a sure hand. I glance up, my cheeks and forehead coated in a layer of fine sand, to look for the source of the soporific melody. After putting an enormous amount of strain on my alreadysunburned neck, I find it. Reluctantly, I flip over onto my back like a turtle and push my fatigued body to a standing position. I meander over to the guitarists’ dune and plop myself down in front of him. He is a little more than average height for his age (he can’t be more than 16), and his long brown hair seems to flow endlessly in one direction, like a relentless riptide. His gentle, handsome jawline and friendly eyes assure me of his good character. He is wearing simple khaki shorts, sandals, and a powder blue shirt with Fender emblazoned across its’ surface. He finishes his calming ukulele rendition of “Somewhere over the Rainbow” and I clap appreciatively.

“Hey.” My awkward attempt at a greeting.

“Hey.” His awkward attempt at a response. He fiddles with his ukulele, picking the tune a nervous person picks when they are around a stranger.

“That song was awesome, you’re good.” I smile shyly and extend my sandcovered hand, “Grant”.

“Adam” He shakes it confidently, not minding the thin film of sand that’s transferred between us. “That yours?” He asks, pointing behind me in the direction of my guitar case.

“Yeah, want me to go get it?” I eye him hopefully.

“If you want to.” He replies, shrugging his shoulders. I scurry across the tepid sand like a fiddler crab, trying to find the sand angel I had made earlier. I find it soon enough and brush the sand off my leather guitar case before bringing it back to Adam.

“Here we go.” I set the guitar case down with a grunt, unlatch the bindings, and open the shell to reveal the pearl inside.

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F I C T I O N

“Oh nice, what is that...a Gibson?” Adam’s teenage posture corrects itself immediately, all focus on the simple instrument in front of him. I too inspect the guitar diligently, having never looked at it quite like this. The afternoon light reflects off the enameled oakwood surface of the guitar body. In it, all that can be seen is the tireless ebb and flow of the ocean behind me. My eyes travel up the rosewood fret board and mahogany neck. The deep, robust colors of both dark woods stand in stark contrast to the brightness all around.

“Yup, she is a Gibson.” I can feel my face turning red, and it’s not from the Florida sunshine. I curse at myself internally for letting that tiny pronoun escape my lips.

“She?” Adam’s face shifts into a mix of disbelief and amusement. I clutch the guitar tighter, embarrassment filling every fiber of my being.

“Yeah...her name’s Chorda. See, it’s funny because there’s chord in it...” My voice trails off at the end and I look at Adam helplessly. Adam stares at me for a moment; the soft breeze refusing to ruffle his flowing hair, his open mouth widening into a grin as he begins to laugh. It’s not a cynical laugh, it’s not a demeaning laugh, it is a genuine “That’s funny” laugh. I start to laugh as well. I double over and bury my face in my hands, trying to conceal my widening grin. In the middle of this uncontrollable fit of laughter I find that, sometimes, laughter is the funniest thing of all. After some time, the pain in my abdomen ceases and my short gasps become full breaths once again. Adam and I release a collective sigh as the euphoric world of laughter fades to the backdrop and the real world reaches the forefront. There is a moment of awkward silence and nothing but the seagulls and waves can be heard.

“Wait...So you said your name is Grant right?” Adam asks, sitting up in the sand.

“Yep, and you’re Adam.” I answer calmly, eyeing him sheepishly.

“I have a feeling that we are gonna be friends.” Adam sifts through the sand with his hands, creating patterns only he could think of. I instantly start to sing We’re Going to be Friends by the White Stripes, prompting a small chuckle from him. I begin to understand that, for me, what separates friend and stranger is whether or not I can sing in front of them. “Want to take a walk? I’ll show you the beach...”

“YES!” I set Chorda down gently back into the leather case, whispering reassuring words, and jump to my feet.

“Alright, we’ll start here.” He motions to the beach, his hand painting a line across the horizon. “Come on,” he jumps up, still cradling his guitar carefully in his calloused hands, and starts shuffling through the sand. I follow, stumbling a little before breaking into a trot. We walk the length of the beach; Adam tells stories while I listen. He tells me that his mother’s side of the family has ties to the mafia, and about that time when he met Paul McCartney, and when he and his friend spent a weekend on Cape Cod. And then we’re playing songs for the beachgoers as we walk TMC Spring 2016

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F I C T I O N by, singing songs we both know. And then we’re exploring the tide pools, looking for the biggest crabs. And then we’re running for some reason, I don’t really recall why.

I take it all in, racing along beside him as the sun sets over the vast Florida horizon.

Before I know it we’re back to where we started, except this time we’re under the stars. The Florida stars, when you’re away from Disney, Universal, and Seaworld, are actually quite nice. There is a certain clarity about them. Perhaps, I wonder, because they have no mountains to inhibit their glow.

“You probably need to go home...right?” I ask, as we lie on our backs on the sand.

“What about you? Where do you live?” He asks, ignoring the question posed to him.

“I... don’t know.” I answer slowly, reluctantly, honestly. It’s the only answer that I could think of at the time.

“You don’t...know? What do you mean you don’t know?” Adam sits up in the sand, looking directly at me, his blue eyes reflecting the starlight.

“It’s a long story. The gist of it is that I got on the wrong flight and ended up in Florida instead. Then I just said, ‘screw it’ and started walking. That’s how I ended up here.” I look at him calmly, watching his expression change from concern to surprise.

“That’s a joke, isn’t it.” The tone of his voice doesn’t change, suggesting no question as he stares me into the sand.

“No, it’s the truth. Honest.” I return his gaze, my hazel eyes staring directly into his.

“Wow.” Adam lies back in the sand once again, gazing into the sky.

“I know, it’s crazy. But it’s something that I need to do.” I too lie back and set my focus on the stars.

“Crazy? I wish I could be you. Dude, you’re lucky.” He pauses and furrows his brow, thinking about what to say next, “I think everyone wants to get away but no one knows how to do it. Life just handed you a chance, you should take it.”

“Wow, that was deep. Just like th-” He cuts me off.

“Just like the ocean!!!” He yells. We both laugh at the shared innocent stupidity of our minds. He raises his hand in the air, I gladly lean over and high-five it.

“Dude, you should be getting home.” I check my watch, “It’s late. Your parents are gonna wonder where you are.” The watch glows on my bony wrist, it’s 2 AM. “Yeah you’re probably right...but since when did I start listening to you?” He smiles a cheeky smile, looking completely satisfied with himself.

“Funny. But seriously man, I don’t want to get you in trouble.” I smile back, this time with an edge of seriousness.

“Stop worrying about me. I’m not the crazy homeless guy who has no idea where the hell he’s going or why the hell he’s going at all.” He doesn’t look at me this time, and shades of doubt creep into my mind. Sarcasm, jokes, humor in general has never been my strong suit.

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F I C T I O N “True. You make a good point sir.” I answer calmly, warranting a confused smile from my counterpart. “So, we’re just gonna sleep here then?” I ask slowly, a slight wariness in my voice.

“Yup.” Adam moves a few feet away and then curls over into the fetal position while I lay on my back. The sand doesn’t feel as comfortable now. Sleep has a way of demanding perfection; if the conditions aren’t aligned correctly, it can never be achieved. “So I never asked before...what’s your story?” Adam saves me from the dreadful prospect of a night spent on a sandy beach that might as well have been concrete to me.

I tell, for about an hour, as much as you can tell a friend on your first day together. I talk about growing up, funny family adventures, my best friends at home, camp, crushes, embarrassments, everything. He sits quietly and listens; his face reads nothing but genuine interest as the waves crash against the sandy shore.

••• I sleep for a total of 0 hours, 1 minute, and 14 seconds that night. The gentle light of the morning sun floods the beach, its cascading arc starting behind us and eventually reaching the waves in front of us. The sea, like glass, intensifies the gentle light and sends rays of it directly at my tired eyes. I curl over with a groan and glance in the direction of the sandy foxhole Adam had dug for himself the night before. He’s still wrapped in the warm blanket of sleep, unaware of the world around him. With great effort, I flop over into a prone position and push myself off the sand, stretching my arms to the sky. I contemplate waking Adam up, but then think better of it. Instead, I scrawl out an almost indiscernible message in the tawny sand next to him.

THANKS FOR EVERYTHING BUDDY

-Grant

And with that my short stay in Horseshoe Beach, Florida is over. I stumble over to my guitar case and pick it up, my lanky limbs not quite as awake as my mind.

I contemplate taking a swim, but my grumbling stomach convinces me otherwise.

Taking one last look at Adam’s tranquil figure, I begin to move on. The Florida treadmill starts once more.

TMC Spring 2016

15

A R T Chelmsford High School / Class of 2017

G w e n

M o r r i s

Owl

s c r a t c h b o a r d

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A R T Chelmsford High School / Class of 2017

S h a i l y n

F a r m e r

Self-Portrait

d r a w i n g

TMC Spring 2016

17

N O N F I C T I O N Minnechaug Regional High School / Class of 2016

Jonathan Lang

Chess and Phở

Every time I visit my grandfather I greet him with an incorrectly pronounced, “Chào ông,” meaning “Hello, grandfather.” In Vietnamese culture, it is essential that young people address adults this way. If not, it appears to be extremely disrespectful.

Those two Vietnamese words that I was raised to say are one of the few things that I know. I was raised to speak English and I cannot speak Vietnamese. My grandfather on the other hand, speaks the entire language perfectly. After forty years of living in this country though, his English is still barely existent. As a young child, I thought that the thick language barrier between us was an obstacle that would be forever in the way of the relationship I wanted. I wanted one that would tell me stories about his past, one that would take me on surprise trips away from my parents, one where I was spoiled like some other kids at my school. I never experienced this, any of it, but now I know that the relationship I have with my grandfather is strong; it is a relationship built on the teaching of character and culture. My young mind didn’t recognize that the language barrier did not handicap the relationship between two people, especially family.

My grandfather taught me how to play chess. I was in fourth grade, doing my extremely hard math homework, sitting in the living room of my grandfather’s house as I would everyday. The ink that printed the multiplication problem mocked me, for I was usually able to do all the homework alone but that one problem was still blank. My grandfather, who consistently wore a scruffy black and white sweater that was mustered in the scent of cigarettes, ambled over behind me. He looked over my shoulder, stole my pencil, scribbled down a few numbers, and had the correct answer. For some reason, I was flabbergasted. My idiotic perspective was that because he couldn’t speak English, he couldn’t help me with my math homework. I thanked him while putting away my work and he smiled while striding over to the corner where all the board games and toys were piled. His rigid, cracked hands reached for a box and pulled it out from the mess and asked, “Play?”

The tattered, washed out black and white box that was held with duct tape read the word, “Chess.” I replied, “I don’t know.”

He laughed and shortly answered back, “It’s easy.”

After he set up the board, he moved a pawn two spaces and I did the same; he moved a different pawn another two and I tried to move the one I already had two more. “No, move two, then one,” he said. I understood, and the next three hours were like that.

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N O N F I C T I O N I loved it. Not many words were said but it was the most fun I had in that living room, even though I didn’t win any games. I spent the most time I have ever spent with him that day, just the two of us. My grandfather was finally playing with me and teaching me something I had never learned before; he was teaching me. By teaching me the game of chess, my grandfather taught me the importance of practice.

If I wanted to beat him, or come close to it, I would have to practice and play the game over and over again. He never went easy on me and absolutely never lost on purpose.

It might seem cliché but practice does make perfect and I didn’t realize it until he showed me. The longer I spent playing with him, the closer I felt to him. Even though not many words were said, the expressions he made when something happened, even better, the expression he made when I took his queen—the most powerful piece—was warming. The type of experience that my young self craved to have with my grandfather existed on that dusty, washed out black and white board.

My grandfather also taught me how to eat Vietnamese food. Almost weekly, he would take me to one of his favorite restaurant, Bamboo House, where all they served was the Vietnamese food that he was familiar with. I’ve been to this place many times with my dad and when walking into it, I would always smell the heavy grease in the air, hear the banging of pots and pans and the incomprehensible Vietnamese words shouted in the back. My grandfather was good friends with everyone there and they knew exactly what he wanted before he even placed his order. For me, he always ordered a bowl of phở, a traditional meal in Vietnamese culture. It was a simple meal, consisting of rice noodles smothered in broth, with herbs sprinkled over and meat hidden underneath the steam. I loved it. Spoon in left and fork in right; I would plunge into the bowl immediately with the only goal of filling my small stomach. The first time my grandfather ever took me there, he saw me do this and tapped me on the shoulder with two unused chopsticks. He uttered, “Use,” and I took the two wooden utensils, not knowing what to do. I observed his grip and tried to mimic it, though every attempt at shearing noodles into my mouth resulted in them falling back down to earth and into the bowl. He smirked and for the next fifteen minutes he taught me how to use chopsticks. Finally getting used to it, I skillfully swooped into the bowl and swiped the noodles into my mouth.

My grandfather ate differently. He had different accessories items that he would rotate and combine with this singular bowl of phở. Vegetables, sauces, spices, herbs scattered the glass table. He saw me looking at them and moved some of the dishes my way. I shook my head because I didn’t want to ruin my perfectly good bowl, but he took his chopsticks and put everything in my bowl at once. Unsure of the change, I tried it and my new favorite food was born. The different flavors and textures that sunk into my mouth were ones that I had never experienced; it was as if I had discovered a new color.

TMC Spring 2016

19

N O N F I C T I O N Through the countless bowls of phở we ate, my grandfather taught me about cultural pride. I felt smarter than the rest of the customers in the restaurant who ate their bowls like I had at first. I felt proud to taste the vivid combinations of flavor and know that this is part of who I am, my background. I felt I had better knowledge of what being Vietnamese is. He would teach me all the names of the types of foods laid out in front of me in Vietnamese. I would pronounce them wrong and he would give a small chuckle and keep repeating it until I got it somewhat right. We also watched the Vietnamese dramas displayed on the big screen across our table and the English subtitles helped me understand. At the funny parts we would laugh, the intense parts be mesmerized, and at the sad parts feel sorrow. We did all of this together.

Today, my grandfather and I do not engage in games of chess or bowls of phở. Instead, I regularly visit him at Wingate, where he is surrounded by people who can’t understand him. He can’t eat his favorite meal anymore due to his health, and he can barely play chess due to his trembling fingers, but I can and through that, he lives through me. The barrier that existed since the day I was born is still there, but I never notice it anymore. I only see a wide open room, where we are together, and we are sharing a bowl of phở over an intense game of chess.

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A R T Chelmsford High School / Class of 2016

K a y l a

G a l l o

Zentangled Elephant

s c r a t c h b o a r d

TMC Spring 2016

21

A R T Tewksbury Memorial High School / Class of 2016

K a i t l y n

D e V i l l e r

Fa l l Q u e e n

d r a w i n g

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A R T Lexington High School / Class of 2016

K a t h e r i n e

Y e

Apples and Pears

p a i n t i n g

TMC Spring 2016

23

P O E T R Y Groton School / Class of 2016

Claudette Ramos

Pinay

if you take a moment to really examine the shape, assuming you know where it is on a map (no sweetie not japan) you’d find there really is no shape at all, and that, in fact the body looks rather shattered like someone took a sledgehammer to the very middle of a full length mirror (i guess the waters reflect like that) and never bothered to shuck the shards.

everywhere the history books say we struggled to find a national identity since for centuries all we had known was spanish then english, (benevolent assimilation am i right?) and even before that we were divided, almost destroyed by our hundred different dialects. now officially it’s tagalog and at home the sounds slide off my parents’ tongues and into my ears like syrup i can taste and savor while my own lips, when they open crack dry (i’ll teach you, anak, she tells me).

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P O E T R Y but broken up in the center sounds pretty perfect for so much of our skin scattered across this round earth (oh, tito lives in dubai?) and sometimes the distance makes my head hurt, pulled taut with the strings of yearning. twelve years is a long time gone, the clamor of memories echoing fierce within my bones, (hi tita.) kiss her cheek. (mano po.) kiss her hand. (i’m good and school is fine), so next time you find a map, look carefully. try to find me somewhere in those island dots, sifting with searching fingers through the sand of pinay beaches, picking up the pieces of my own fragmented heart (maghintay ka).

TMC Spring 2016

25

P O E T R Y Lexington High School / Class of 2017

Ivy Gao

T r a i n Wr e c k God— is this the end? I feel everything spiraling out of control— the tremulous seats beside me, the yellow light bouncing like a moth on the ceiling, the shriek of the wheels as they throw themselves off the tracks.

No, this can’t be.

Outside the window of my empty compartment, night speeding past darkness suddenly tilted like the magazine on the seat next to mine, falling open to the literary page where William Carlos Williams’ poem “Thursday” flips shut with another jolt— And I can see it, blood on the walls, my head in one corner, right hand and heart in another before I blink and—

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A R T Hopkinton High School / Class of 2016

C h r y s s a n t h i

B a r r i s

Pixelated

p a i n t i n g

TMC Spring 2016

27

A R T North Attleboro High School / Class of 2017

R a c h e l

V o l k i n

The Girl In The Str eet

p h o t o g r a p h y

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A R T Peabody Veterans Memorial High School / Class of 2016

E d g a r

C a s t r o

Hedera Helix

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Spring 2016

29

P O E T R Y Acton-Boxborough Regional High School / Class of 2017

Emily Yin

Fujian I dream of Fujian, of the sea, of widows unspooling dark streams of hair and feeding hoary veils to the evening tide.

By sunset they are new once more, for twelve hours free, until the waves spit up a sandy phlegm, and their black burdens appear again.

I dream of the place where lies the margins of my heart, of ridges hitching on horizon’s brow. In Fujian, last bastion of my childhood, dawn is a kind of libation: I drink the bloody tears of heaven as the sun hikes up her kilt.

I dream of drowning, of swampy ecstasy.

How swiftly the tide can pull out to sea a dancer pirouetting in the deep— a hapless dancer turned by the sea’s soft hands and weaned on brine.

How swiftly the tide can make a skeptic pray: “Don’t let me die this way.”

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A R T Brimmer and May School / Class of 2016

A l i n a

F i s c h e r

River Bed In Light

p a i n t i n g

TMC Spring 2016

31

F I C T I O N Westford Academy / Class of 2017

N a q i y a

M o t i w a l l a

Tempo

It’s the heat, the heavy air, the dripping wall - that’s why I can’t get up. The only window is open. Balmy air filters through the screen, filling the room with the stench of a sickly summer: fresh blossoms, leaking faucets cascading beneath my skin, flies trapped in the corners.

What would happen if someone were to take off all of my skin and spread it out on the grass. How much of the ground would be covered? Would it all come back?

I stretch my legs wide open and wonder if anyone would sit between them; will they tap out rhythms on my stomach? Probably not. I’m ugly. The proportions are all wrong. My wide eyes don’t fit against the bridge of my squash nose, my mouth too wide, the tautness of my cheeks.

Maybe that’s why I feel so odd in this body. This acid in my stomach is burning through layers of flesh; finding chained up muscles and chewed up bones too mangled to work properly.

But it’s alright; no one will have to know about the sharpness in my chest because no one comes into my room. They all know I have to be alone. If I’m not I might start screaming. I might pound the bed so that the beats would scare them off.

I might kick; the drumming of my legs would sound different compared to the inside of my forearms, and maybe that difference could scare them off.

I’m trying to figure out what will get me out of bed today. Yesterday it was the rough feel of cheap sheets rubbing against my bare back. I used to find comfort in the sadness that stuck to my skin like dandelion seeds. But there is only so much grey I can put into my body before I find myself empty.

Someone knocks on the door.

It could be my mother – do I still have a mother? – or it could be no one because sometimes I like to imagine the sound of a beat on hard surfaces, the nice rap of knuckles, the curt cadence of hands. I bite down on my tongue and there is blood, maybe saliva, gushing into my mouth.

A nice bridge of high notes, the door squeaks open. I close my eyes in admiration of the cacophony. How would it split up? In tiny little slices, individual slips, a squ-sque-squee-eak?

“Penelope?” Whose voice is that? There are so many voices it’s hard to keep track, like the number of pennies in the bottom of your purse, the mental list of to-dos tacked up against the back wall of your brain.

“My name,” I murmur, “is Pennsylvania.”

My grandfather named me after a state. A state of control. Where is my control?

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F I C T I O N “This is a nickname then,” the voice says gently. It has gotten closer. A deep trombone of words. A man. Or a boy. A boy with the voice of a hardened veteran. I can’t help but feel jealous because I’m still fighting and I don’t know where to aim my gun. It’s just me and silence.

Silence is a pact we make with the air; we both agree to keep our mouths shut, and for a moment, it is empty.

I relish in his breath: in, out, i-in, out, in, o-out. It’s calming. I’d like to feel it on my skin, right in the dip of my breasts. I keep my neck still, keep my face to the ceiling because sometimes I can imagine the white is blue and that I’m outside.

I can’t break this concentration or else I’ll be back in my sizzling flesh, smelling cut grass and gasoline through a filtered window.

A hard clink. Glass on glass. I stretch out my right arm and hear the stickiness in my pits sigh. It slips out fully from the covers and dangles off the edge. The air outside my blankets is more conditioned than this air trapped beneath. My hand slaps against the mattress. I let my palm bump it twice, once, pause, twice, pause, once. A pulse of my own Morse code: thank you.

But I’m not thirsty. I want to sit up. I want to get out of these flimsy sheets that do little to protect me from this heat.

“Make sure to drink some.” says the voice.

“Who are you?” I don’t know why I ask. I’ll probably forget. I’m trapped in my conceited world of wanting to move, wanting to push back these beautiful chains that rot with my skin, wanting to feel the dirt dig into my toes.

“Your brother, Brian.” Ah. No longer a maybe. It’s beautiful: his voice.

White roses on the brink of deterioration and sour oranges mixing with mint still hanging onto teeth. Rustic, as if someone with long nails had ripped open his throat with pliers and made lines upon the inside of his flesh before sewing it back together with copper wires.

I don’t bother with the art of remembering so it is surprising to suddenly have a brother. I want to look at him, but the blue of my sky is too important. Is he older or younger? Is his face lined with the scars of his own nails? Could he hear all the noises in small dosages, tappings and clangs?

How did he get out of his bed so quickly?

“Huh.” My voice resembles the likening of a heavy drum: thick and full of spit that dribbles down my throat and into the highway of my collarbone. Sometimes I think my tongue is permanently stuck to the roof of my mouth because of all this summer sweat.

I move my ankle to the left. Cold. I sigh. The drone of the lawnmower clogs the air so I try to overcome it by saying his name.

“Brian.” If I chop that word up it could sound like Bry-an or maybe Breeanne. I try both out. They stick to the edges of my teeth like ice cream on the brisk of autumn.

“I’ll... go then. Bye Penelope.”

TMC Spring 2016

33

F I C T I O N “Pennsylvania!” I correct. The door shuts with a less defined squeak. The snap of the door leaves me panting with excitement. It would be nice to hear it on repeat. The sound of something fastening, joining, closing.

“Pe-pe-penn. Sss-yl-vaaaa-ni-nia.” I say to myself. The words bounce back at me and I smile. There is something comforting in knowing the outcome of your own name.

Then my right arm lifts, slowly, because the air is heavy and likes to push down on the weaker elements of life; but I am strong. My hand lands on the table with a loud slap. The coolness sinks into my freckles, travels up my arm into my shoulder, and traces a line to my forehead.

My arms are loose from the ropes tying me to this mattress. It’d be easy to just push back the sheets and then my legs will be out in the open for the world to see. And maybe the open air will release them too. Maybe I’ll get that drink.

The sky is just starting to rinse out the blue with darker tints of strawberries piled up in a basket, plum tinted candles carrying the scent of home, my laughter drifting behind the clouds. I can’t look away or everything will disappear. It’ll go back to before.

The sweat on my wrists has cooled into a sticky residue that lies in the thin valleys that had been dug into my skin with a dull knife.

The more I search, the more it’s just glass.

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A R T Lexington High School / Class of 2016

K a t h e r i n e

Fishing

Y e

m i x e d

m e d i a

TMC Spring 2016

35

P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Class of 2018

Andrew Chan

Boy In Blue A ciggie sleeps on the ground spitting out syrupy ash onto the same streets where the local boys thump thump swish and the marching line of cars shiver along.

A fish-netted girl lingers in scattered newspapers and broken glass, so many flies dizzy in the dark.

Smoke crawls down my throat leaves me shake shaking like the way old Red pumps his cup.

A boy-- stops to stare at Red not knowing the parking lot nights, the winter subway weeks, how Red had dazed through everywhere and nowhere.

How could he know? But he walks over, and a quarter chimes at the bottom.

His mom tugs him away.

I lean back onto the still wet street and see a balloon cutting through the sky.

And I’m thinking about this boy floating away from here, past the wheezy traffic lights, the boarded windows, the bent-over fire-escapes: He’d look down, see me in the jacket I stole from another man, pushing a grocery cart through the rotting skin of this city, possessed by the low croon of the night.

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A R T Lynnfield High School / Class of 2018

R y a n

F r a s i e r

Fall Transitions

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Spring 2016

37

P O E T R Y Milton Academy / Class of 2018

Andrew Chan

Fa l l i n g A s l e e p Blanketed in darkness, patient for the brush of the humming fan, I stare at the crack above the door where the light spills across the ceiling, like the way the sun washes over the sea’s blue belly, whose tall inhale and mighty heave hurls waves onto seashore.

My feet cling to the crags, head squeezed by a shrinking sky, as pale, brine-born gulls floating over. Below, salted trunks and summer soaked skin bathe in a bright buttered sun whose warmth is felt from afar. I am held by those honeyed strands, the creamy sway of hips skirted in whistling white.

Now I sink into her smile-like a sailor hurt for home, soggy head and rain-beaten bones, swallowed under a whispering night sky, drifts in cold, gazes quietly upon the slow winking light that lies just out of grasp.

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A R T Brimmer and May School / Class of 2016

A l i s o n

G i l l

Mondegr een

p a i n t i n g

TMC Spring 2016

39

A R T Sturgis Charter Public School East / Class of 2018

F a i t h

M c G u i r e

Mursi Girl

p a i n t i n g

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A R T Oakmont Regional High School / Class of 2016

V i n c e n t

B a r r y

K1000

m i x e d

m e d i a

TMC Spring 2016

41

P O E T R Y Ayer-Shirley Regional High School / Class of 2016

Owen Carpenter

A Funeral for the Flow ers A flower will wilt, Just like any day, Or any pain.

The silence of a flower Is matched only By the curtains of another day.

The pedicel will falter, Just like you will falter‌ Just like we will falter.

Pistil...

Upon Pistil...

Upon Pistil...

The darkness Is overthrown By the ovary of time.

Abloom with the life of another moment, Our repose comes to an end.

Our expiration, Expires.

The filament of life Is the fact, That we all wake up from sleep.

And once again, We depart from the departed, In a beautiful reawakening.

Like the solitary flower, On the return, Of the day so warm.

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A R T Chelmsford High School / Class of 2016

M e a g a n

C o x

Antique Bouquet

p a i n t i n g

TMC Spring 2016

43

P O E T R Y Ayer-Shirley Regional High School / Class of 2016

Kassie Breest

Milestones I can distinctly remember taking in as much as I could through the windshield with my eyes as blue as the sky itself, but each time I opened them up, you took that chance to add in whatever you wanted to. Every time I’ve heard the stir of the transmission changing gears, it’s been paired with something that takes my breath away.

The amount of times I’ve let tears roll onto the leather seats over dead relatives and dead pets could match the number of mile markers on the way to the funeral home.

You always felt like the steady spin of the tires was the best way to break the news, maybe cause it used to sooth me to sleep when I was small enough to fit into those booster seats.

But I steady my heart with the hum of the engine, until it’s my turn to start the ignition with shaky hands that won’t be warmed by the time I get to school. I had hopes to break tradition, take the wheel with a new approach, but the worn black paint taints my memory like old food rotting in the refrigerator.

The headlights uncover another lump in my throat up head, the thought of telling you something I’ve had balled up for months makes my seat belt tighten.

Short breaths you take, fog up the passenger side window that could shatter with the statement I will deliver next.

So I speed up, reaching a dead end sign.

These torn seats carry me past milestone after milestone of new scenes and faces, but the same old feeling seeps through the wet carpets.

I find comfort in stretching over to see the makeup streaking my face in the rear view mirror, and the spinning wheels caress every speed bump to ease the blow, and the old familiar hum of the engine steadies the beat inside my chest.

I’ve worn down this masterpiece like old tread on the tires that brush over forget-­me-­nots on the side of the freeway with their gusts of wind. My destination still remains unclear, but I’ll find amenities in between the axles.

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A R T Peabody Veterans Memorial High School / Class of 2016

A n d r e s

W i d h a l m

Road Rage

d r a w i n g

TMC Spring 2016

45

F I C T I O N Burlington High School / Class of 2016

R e b e k a h

A r a n

Strictly Business A man, crisp suit and fastened tie, can be seen anxious, checking his watch for the third time on a puddled street corner. He stuffs the watch deeper into his pockets, and grips his faux leather briefcase a little bit harder than he had been previously. This forehead, becoming larger with every birthday spent at a lonely bar, was home to miniscule glints of sweat. Soon enough, a boy approaches the man, in stark contrast. He is probably twenty, with sandy hair, not short but not long, by any means. He is not dressed as formal as his counterpart, but khakis and a polo, the man decides, are not the most embarrassing thing the boy could be wearing. The Suit straightens, greeting him with a formal handshake. He seems almost annoyed with the newcomer, evident in his raised eyebrows and emerging purple neck vein. They appear to be in a tense conversation, lacking eye contact. It seems to be that they are trying to speak in a way that moves their lips the least amount possible, as if they are talking through gritted teeth.

“I can’t say that I’m too impressed with your punctuality...” The Suit says, still suffocating the case’s handle. He tugs a bit at the collar of his white pressed shirt, and it is obvious that he is becoming heated. “I don’t think you understand what I had to do to be here right now.” Noticing The Suit’s reddening, the boy nods with little to no change to his expression except for the addition of pursed lips.

“Yes, sir.”

“At least you know your place. Nobody has the respect to call anyone ‘sir’ anymore.” His eyebrows remained raised, multiplying the array or wrinkles on his face. The boy, who is tapping his foot in almost a nervous way, visibly irritates the man. “Everything that you need for tonight is in here,” The Suit says, reluctant to release his hard grip on the briefcase, but doing it anyway. “Including as much money as you need. I assume you know where you’re going tonight?”

“Yes, thank you.”

So The Suit handed him the case, straightening his collar, departing without another word to the boy. His long strides powered by his own self-determined importance paid no mind to the puddles or the boy in which he left without a goodbye. He seemed lesser without a briefcase by his side. ***

“Alicia, do you know what you’d like to eat yet?” Lou says, a smile playing at his lips across an intricate, decorated glass table. There were soft looking flowers in the center of the piece, with candles and a lace cloth underneath that had petals dropped over it. Flickering light dances in their eyes, pretty sparkles against their dark irises. He reaches out to her, taking her delicate hand from its resting place on the table, and makes note of the cool softness of her skin.

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“Not yet, my dear.” She beams. Alicia’s dress is long and beaded, falling light on the floor with a slight click whenever she walked. The beads, framing and elongating her neck and chest, made her seem older than she was. Her hair was loose and tied in an up-do that could be shaken out easily if she wanted it to be but could last hours if it needed to. Her eyes glinted with affection as she looked at him, the apples of her cheeks glowing pink from the warm intimacy of the restaurant. She holds his hand in loving desperation, and makes note of the warmth that radiates from him.

The restaurant was lost in the side streets of the city but it was one of the nicest, tucked away for lovers and anybody looking for the closeness that it offered.

The inside glows white and gold from strung lights along the ceiling, allowing an intimacy to be created between all guests; couples and friends. Alicia stirs her champagne, noticing how the bubbles float up, as if they are racing to their freedom at the rim of her lipstick-stained glass. She raises her eyes to meet her partner’s, whose gaze hadn’t left her since she looked down to examine the competing beads of air. They had finished their food, both ordering the same thing out of both love and similar taste. Lou has long since let go of her hand, and she examines hers where his once was. She imagines how nice it would be to have a ring on her finger, picked out especially for her. Her thoughts are splintered by the sound of his voice.

“I think that the Foie Gras was a good choice, don’t you think so?” He tilts his head, again with his half smile, and taps his glass with his pointer finger. She nods with enthusiasm, faux gold leaf earrings swinging back and forth like pendulums keeping time against the skin in which she hoped he’d kiss later that night.

“Oh yes. Just the way that it is cooked... That’s why I come here. That’s why this place is my favorite” grinning, head tilted in his fashion and setting her seductive gaze on him she says, “Is it time for dessert? I would love something sweet right about now.”

Lou leans forward in his pristine white cushioned seat. “What do you say about picking up a slice of Tiramisu from La Patisserie, and we can go back to my apartment and I’ll pour you a glass of red wine. I’ll put the fireplace on and everything.” Alicia knew that Lou had a gas fireplace that would provide them warmth in the increasing coolness of the night.

“That’s perfect, Lou.” As if he knew that they planned on leaving, the waiter approached the table with a smile that a friend would give, questioning them on their thoughts on the meal, and trying to persuade them to stay for longer with a slice of the “World’s Best” chocolate cake. With his bright white shirt and professional smile, dark skin and buzzed hair, you could tell that he has convinced many customers to stay for their dessert.

“No thank you sir, I think we are alright with getting the check now.” Lou replied to the man, nodding at Alicia to confirm. When the man left to receive the bill, the soft-spoken Alicia excused herself to the restroom.

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F I C T I O N When the waiter came back for the second time with the receipt for their meal, he wished Lou a good night with genuine ease. With Alicia away for the moment, Lou beckoned the waiter closer, sharing his excitement with the stranger, as he could hardly contain it himself. “Tonight’s the night!” He said, his smile expanding wide for the other man to see. The waiter slapped his hand on Lou’s back and gave him an enthusiastic ‘congratulations!’ That was when Alicia returned, unaware of the excitement. Lou handed the waiter a ten dollar bill as a tip and ushered Alicia out of the restaurant. ***

She held the bag from the Italian pastry shop in her hand and he kissed her lips and forehead before opening the door to his apartment. The door swung open to reveal his clean furniture and open layout. The kitchen was off to the left when they walked in, and the couch against the wall on the right with the fireplace in front of it. The apartment was one of the more expensive ones, with a large bedroom and two bathrooms and real hardwood floors. Her dress did the clicking on the floor, and Lou turned the lights on only to turn on the gas fireplace, turning the lights off again once Alicia had settled on the couch.

He went to the kitchen to pour the wine meant to compliment the tiramisu that they had purchased. She sat, waiting on him to bring her the drink, with her legs crossed in very ladylike fashion. She had kicked off her heels at the edge of the rug that was placed between the couch and the fireplace, and while she was waiting she tried to massage the feeling back into them.

The kitchen was less than twenty feet away from Alicia, and so as he poured the maroon liquid he looked up to see her face turned, illuminated by his imitation fire. He had placed two glasses side by side, and they had clinked on their way to the counter. He tilted the darkened bottle of the wine so that the sweet liquid bubbled out in spurts, for a moment staining the clear, spotless glass.

When both were halfway full, he retrieved a small plastic bag out of his pocket, one manufactured for the holding of spare buttons, and sprinkled the powdery insides over the left glass. The contents were light and they disappeared in an instant.

They smiled at each other as he came with drinks in hand, placing them on the floor next to the fluffy white rug. He left once again, returning with the plate full of airy, sugary dessert. Lou sat on the floor, legs spread on the rug, and leaned his back against the couch, beckoning for her to sit next to him. Giggling like a child, she slid off of the couch, body slithering into position next to him. She looked at him, almost as if to suggest skipping dessert, in the light of the faux fireplace, and took the glass that Lou offered with his left hand.

He raised his wine. “To,” he hesitates, thinking of the correct word that the situation demanded. Finding it, he said, “New beginnings.” He smiled his sly smile and they clink their glasses, each taking deep sips as if to become part of the drink. Her lips stain purple, and wrap around the fork he places into her mouth, slowly taking it out as she revels in the melting softness on her tongue. He kisses her neck, brushing aside the pendulums to rest his burning lips on her smooth skin.

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Minutes later, Alicia moaned, “Lou, I’m exhausted,” pouting yet still leaning into his kiss. The light from the fireplace glints off of her empty wine glass; the glinting of a suspicious eye. She lied down, dress doing the clicking on where the carpet met the hardwood floor. Lou finds the shining zipper on the side of her garment, exposing her upper body. The firelight bathed her smooth porcelain skin in marigold glow.

There was no struggle from Alicia. Her breathing became heavier than bricks, forcing her chest up and down with each breath that she took. Lou extended his arm under the couch to drag a briefcase above her head, forcing it open with the slightest ease. He retrieved the smallest of the many knives that were lined against the blue velvet inside.

Her skin became his personal canvas. He carves lines into her, trees, flowers.

Scenes with lovers. He takes his time, as she whimpers with tears streaming from her closed eyes. She cannot move, she cannot struggle. The drug that he has provided is too strong for her chemically virgin body. The blood from his portraits stained the white rug; Lou used it as a cloth to clean his knife during his long, painful, grueling artistic process. Lou replaces his carving knife, wiping it swift on the already ruined carpet to clean it for the last time during the night. Leaning over her, he grabs now the largest of the many. Lowering himself to her face, he whispers to her. “This is how I will always remember you, Alicia. You in these minutes. You are one of my best, Alicia. So pretty, and with the loveliest skin a man could imagine. You will always stay with me because of that. Thank you for this moment.”

Lou reached above her to her face and took a fistful of her hair in his sticky hand, cutting it off, stuffing what he did take into her gaping mouth. Her breathing intensifies, wet, gleaming, drowsy eyes wild with adrenaline were theaters to her body’s battle in defeating the drugs. He took the knife he had, and had with expert speed sliced her neck so that there were two hanging flaps of skin exposing her jugular. In that moment, blood had erupted on his face, the rug, the couch, the hardwood floor, and the glass against the fireplace. He returned the knife back into the case, and pulled out an old Polaroid, one that was crusted with dried blood. When Lou was done taking his pictures, he placed them back into the case, closing it rough and quick. He wraps Alicia in the rug, and washes his hands in the kitchen. Cold water mixes with hot blood, each becoming one in the swirl at the bottom of the sink.

Lou returned to the couch that once held two living souls but now only held one.

He reached down, picking up the plate of the dessert that he had fed to the girl. He scraped off the top of the cake that had some slight drippings of blood on it. Lou sat there, smiling, entranced by the glow of the fire, until he finished the cake. When he was finished, he got up to pour himself a new glass of wine, and had continued drinking it until the entire bottle was finished.

When he was done indulging in the night’s offerings, he had gone into the adjacent restroom, and taken a quick cool shower, ridding the blood from his hair, eyebrows, and ears.

Clean and changed, Lou grabbed the briefcase that he had wiped down. He made his way to the door, turning toward Alicia in the rolled up carpet on the wall. He grinned, turning toward the exit. There, he met his future; another town, a new name, another job, a new aggressive boss in suit, and another six months of gaining trust before his next art piece. He positively could not wait. Convincing was half the fun.

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A R T Marshall Simonds Middle School / Class of 2020

J a d e

S w e e n e y

Helianthus

p h o t o g r a p h y

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A R T Marshall Simonds Middle School / Class of 2020

K e n d a l l

T r e m b l a y

Lobster Guy

p h o t o g r a p h y

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P O E T R Y Ayer-Shirley Regional High School / Class of 2016

M a d e l y n

M i t r a n o

For Seventy-Eight Years a Heart Beats For seventy-eight years a heart beats.

The first alarming cry of a newborn advances us into the world, triggering a countdown of time remaining.

Each measure creates a personal frequency that repeats.

For seventy-eight years a heart beats.

For six hundred thousand rotations of an hour hand the wheels of a bike turn.

Each stroke operating further into life further into time.

Entering the face of a world with no set plan.

For six hundred thousand rotations of an hour hand.

Forty million precious minutes- each accounted for.

No workdays can be skipped.

No meetings can be missed.

A baseball game, a dance recital- both counting on your presence An itinerary that’s waning as we drop to the floor.

We only have forty million precious minutes- each accounted for.

Billions of consuming seconds lapse, and not until our battery nears an end, do we notice their silent passing.

Half tics.

Half tocs.

Seconds that seemed ceaseless, slip to the bottom of the hour glass.

Billions of seconds- gone- can no longer lapse.

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A R T Hopkinton High School / Class of 2016

C h r y s s a n t h i

B a r r i s

Kaleidoscope

p a i n t i n g

TMC Spring 2016

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P O E T R Y Lexington High School / Class of 2017

I v y

G a o

Grand Canyon These days, it feels like I’m stuck on one side of the Grand Canyon, and you’re on the other.

You are a tiny dot against the muscle of brown rock, and I can barely see you wave with sun in my eyes.

This bowl of blue above our heads is beautiful, I remark, squinting toward the cerulean stretch ahead, but I know it would take more than a 25-cent telephone call for you to hear those words. I know you’re doing fine, because of the postcards you’ve sent—I read one just this morning, as I was lacing up my hiking boots.

Kinda funny, since we’re both at 36.055 N, 112.121 W, but we each use half an hour a day on letters. You should know I would never want to bankrupt you, my friend. I just cannot help but remember the strolls we took over this sunbeaten earth, and I cannot help the vertigo I get from looking down the cliffs to the white rapids. Who crossed that chasm?

It does not matter. I wave, you wave, and we grin our unseen smiles before we look to the horizon and continue our own way.

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A R T Brimmer and May School / Class of 2016

A l i n a

F i s c h e r

Lime

p a i n t i n g

TMC Spring 2016

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F I C T I O N Brockton High School / Class of 2019

C h l o e

S c h i l l e r

Stars

Our lives can be over in the blink of an eye. Every time you close your eyes, something disappears. A friend, a smile, a dream, a year. The more you blink, the more you miss. But sometimes, the more you miss, the more you happen to see.

I used to know a girl, named Lily. We weren’t friends, we didn’t even talk much. But her smile was brighter than the sun, and she had this infectious happiness about her. She loved everything, from sports to TV shows, even video games, but she loved nothing more than the stars. She drew pictures of space, and even had a mini telescope. She was always telling her friends about something she’d seen through it.

Lily looked like someone you’d see in a clothes catalog. We were only in elementary when I started having classes with her. She had the most beautiful long, dark hair.

She missed school nearly every week. Every time she came back, her hair got shorter and shorter. She still beamed as bright as she did when I first met her, but she always looked tired. I even asked her about it, but she brushed it off, and told me she’d stayed up half the night looking at the stars. I believed her.

Many of her old friends left her over time. She never seemed to have enough energy for them. You could see the bags under her eyes. But her smile was still there.

One time I found her at my table at lunch, drawing and humming to herself. I usually sat by myself, so this was weird to me. She didn’t look at me when I sat down, so we sat in a comfortable silence. I was halfway through eating my bologna sandwich when she put a picture in front of me.

“Do you like stars?” she asked. I didn’t like stars much. But I liked her, and she was a living star. So I smiled, and nodded.

She started inviting me over her house after school. Her room was covered in drawings and posters. It seemed like she was always collecting things. She even had a few hospital pamphlets on her desk. She was kind, and welcoming, and her parents and brother were the same. We drew pictures and played in her backyard for hours. She even let me try on a couple of her dresses. Since we were best friends at this point, we always shared things, and took things from each other in good fun. I Looked around her room and saw a small case shaped like hello kitty, and as I shook it, the sound of mints came from inside. I shoved it into my bag just as she came in, giggling as she tried to figure out why I was laughing. But the time I loved the most, was when the sun would go down, and the stars came out. Her smile was always the biggest then. She’d take out her telescope, and on Friday nights, we’d lay out a blanket and sleep under the stars. I’d never been happier.

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F I C T I O N I’d been friends with Lily for a few months, but I didn’t see her much anymore. Her parents said she was too tired to play, or that they were busy. I still brought her homework, and put it in a pile near the stairs. The pile just got bigger. I was dropping off another week’s worth of homework when her mom crouched in front of me and asked if I wanted to see Lily. Of course I did, so I nodded. She smiled, but it wasn’t a real one. Her eyes didn’t sparkle, not like Lily’s. She pointed to the backyard, and walked away.

When I went out, Lily was sprawled on a blanket, reading a book. She had her telescope beside her, and crayons and markers were scattered on a piece of poster paper. I sat down next to her and she smiled at me. I laid down. I knew she was waiting for the stars. We sat in comfortable silence, watching the clouds go by, warm wind sweeping across our faces, until the sky turned a brilliant crimson, and slowly merged with the darkness of the night. I went to go set up the telescope, but she pulled me down by the edge of my sleeve.

“Do you know what stars are?” She asked.

We’d learned it in school, but I shook my head no. I had a feeling that’s not what she meant.

“I think stars are the reflection of people. That for every person on earth, there’s a star. The sky’s like a mirror, but we can’t see our reflection because the sun’s too bright. So we can only see how bright we shine at night.” She turned her head to look at me. “I sound crazy, don’t I?” she said.

I shook my head, and she turned back to the sky.

“You see; it doesn’t matter how brightly a star burns compared to everyone else. It doesn’t matter if your smile isn’t as happy, or your grades aren’t as good.

Because when people look up at the sky, they see all the stars. Not just one. But everything the universe has to offer.” She pointed to two stars, side by side. “That’s us.” She said. I looked past her hand, and saw the brightest star I’ve ever seen, next to one that looked small and pale. I smiled, that was us in a nutshell. She slowly sat up, and reached over for her telescope. But instead of looking through it, she passed it to me. I looked through it, entranced by the stars that seemed to lay as a blanket on the sky. I went to pass it to her, but no matter what I said, she wouldn’t take it back. “It’s yours now,” she said. “I’m getting a new one for my birthday.” Her birthday wasn’t for months.

I heard her mom calling me into the house, apparently the car was here to take me home. Lily smiled, and as I got up and walked towards the door, I remembered something. I turned around, and she was still laying on the blanket, staring up at the stars.

“What happens when stars die?” I asked.

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F I C T I O N She didn’t look back at me, but I could tell from her voice she was smiling.

“Stars don’t die,” she said. “Even when they burn out. They just make room for other stars.” And with that, I walked inside.

The pain came in the form of a phone call. Her mom’s crying didn’t stop until long after the memory faded from her mind. Lily had died in her sleep that night.

I don’t remember much from those past few months. It felt as if time was going by slowly. Lily’s star had long ago disappeared, the pale light of it now gone from the sky.

I still have her telescope, set up on the balcony. Even looking at it causes the numb pain to come back. But every night of her birthday, I move it to the backyard, and lay beneath the stars. When my star disappears, I’m planning on passing down Lily’s telescope. As old and rusted as it is now, it still shows the beauty and the brilliance of the stars. Besides, Lily taught me that appearances aren’t as important as what it has to offer.

Some days when I look at the world, I wonder where all the time went. But that’s just the thing, I’ve seen it go by. And I try to spend it as best as I can, and cherish the moments I’ve had. But soon, everyone’s star burns out. But that doesn’t mean we’re truly forgotten. But now, you can only see us shining at night, showing you just how bright anyone can shine. Everyone has a star. Sometimes, you just need to look to the night sky to see it.

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A R T Marshall Simonds Middle School / Class of 2020

J a d e

S w e e n e y

All Eyes On You

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Spring 2016

59

A R T Concord Academy / Class of 2017

S y d n e y

Girl in the Window

N a g a h i r o

p h o t o g r a p h y

Cow Lick Berkshire School

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E t h a n

L a b i

A R T E l i o t

Z a e d e r

Phillips Academy

/ Class of 2017

Lightning in Bad Reichenhall, Germany

p h o t o g r a p h y

Dissolving Into Thin Air E l i o t

Z a e d e r

Phillips Academy

/ Class of 2017

TMC Spring 2015

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P O E T R Y North Quincy High School / Class of 2016

Emily Spagnuolo

Bliss

There are winding roads that lead nowhere except an open expanse of land where orange embers crack in to the night, and trees rain leaves that have lost their vigor.

Shivering, my eyes meet the sea of stars that shine in brilliance, dismissing darkness in every corner of the sky.

Never have I been to a place more peaceful and dull; a sanctuary made by the gods.

I let myself loose in the company of freedom, dancing in the moonlight.

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A R T Lexington High School / Class of 2017

S a m

K i e l a r

Acadia Scene

p h o t o g r a p h y

TMC Spring 2016

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P O E T R Y Lexington High School / Class of 2017

Julie Suh

Let’s Play Spin The Bottle My father’s anger is like a smoldering fire of indignation corked in a glass bottle.

The glass is thick, but glass is glass and is as transparent as the smile he gives when he’s struggling to mask his irritation, accompanied by a friendly rap to my head. But ultimately, the bottle doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to my mother who shoves it in her purse where it tumbles back and forth between coupons and credit cards or stores it in her drawer between her silver earrings and her tortoiseshell watch. All the while, the bottle glows brighter, mesmerizing the rest of the family into silent dread. And when the silence becomes loud enough to vibrate the air, the cork pops and its vessel shatters in my mother’s hands. It’s curious how much indignation can be crammed in such a small bottle, although it explains the explosive force of my father’s anger once it splinters its container into razor-sharp fragments and barrels into my mother with the slamming force of his favorite phrase: Why me? The words rage and spew my father’s unwavering belief that he is a tragic hero for putting up with her, besetting my unimpressed mother who says I’ve done nothing wrong. Their respective phrases then begin their endless dance, circling around and around the two until finally my mother’s door slams shut upstairs and cold fury quenches the burning house. The resulting silence is punctuated by bursts of self-righteous ire downstairs and the quiet skittering of glass as the pieces slowly pull themselves back together. Once the bottle has been fragilely reincarnated my father cheerily talks to me and my brother, but there is a telltale crease between his eyebrows. I tap the glass, marveling at its tinny sound. It’s clear that the bottle is not yet fully restored and is barely holding together, but I listen to my brother reciprocating my father’s loud laughter that says everything’s fine, everything’s okay because he prefers to ignore the cracks. But the cracks in this family are everywhere, as I well know, straining the family with my own eruptions of fury. Still my own righteousness simmers in the pit of my stomach because I hate that everything’s so fake; yet I nod back at my father with my own phony smiles because I want to believe that the bottle’s seamless too. I stare at the flickering bottle, turning it over in my hands until I catch my own face reflected in the glass. I hate this bottle but I hate my reflection even more, because it forces me to remember my own screaming matches with my mother. Then perhaps this bottle isn’t the only one my mother has hidden away. But I spin the bottle, letting its glass display a kaleidoscope of my father’s bitterness instead. I prefer it this way.

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A R T Lexington High School / Class of 2016

A l b e r t

K i m

Multitasking

d r a w i n g

TMC Spring 2016

65

N O N F I C T I O N Minnechaug Regional High School / Class of 2016

G a b r i e l

D i x

Why The Essay In Joan Didion’s “Why I Write”, she confesses she “stole the title” of the work from fellow essayist George Orwell, sire of the first essay bearing that name. She remarks on why she stole it, complimenting the succinct writing. If she thought on it, Didion would realize that it is almost impossible that Orwell was the first writer, even the first essayist to use the phrase as a title. This is because knowledge is less of a thing and more of a force; like wind or fire or all the sky’s stars, no one person can own it.

A quote from a particular fantasy game intrigues the pondering writer: “Riches can be divided, but real wealth can be shared.” (Garfield) Of course, the quote compares the standard image of riches (Lion’s Eye diamonds, gold totems glittering in the moonlight, coffers brimming with bundles of bills) to the wealth that is knowledge itself.

While these physical riches can be divvied so that everyone gets a fair amount, the treasure of knowledge can be easily shared in its ethereal form. Picking up a grade-A one-liner from some guy at the bar and using it with one’s own friends does not remove the memory of the joke from the man’s head, but rather lets the speaker share the joy it brought amongst his or her own companions. Like dandelions propagating on an unkempt lawn, knowledge spreads, duplicating across minds in a limitless number of reflections. And one of its most effective and respected vessels is the humble essay.

Friendlier than a novel or book, yet more intimate than the everyday news article, an essay may strive to do many things, but it always promotes the sharing of knowledge. The unread essay is the gift under the tree on a child’s seventh Christmas, wrapped painstakingly or not at all. Barring relevance or interest, its sole purpose is to spread its word to another audience. Like the lord God himself commanding his earthen brood, “multiply on the earth and increase upon it,” ideas are sprung from the author’s brain and entombed in ink or pixels, waiting to leap from their prisons and replicate. Didion describes this breeding of words as an “aggressive, even hostile act.”

(Didion 2) Truly though, as infectious as a convincing essay is, its content is always refutable. As with any gift, the receiver can always put it down and reject it. An essay is not a demand, but a request. Though sometimes disguised as a command, or a plea of great urgency, no essay can force the thoughts of another. Nearly every essayist wishes that their writing will make an impact with someone that comes across it, but this is always a hope, and never a promise.

This desire to spread knowledge is not always grand or even obvious; sometimes subtle nodules of information are tucked between the lines of essays written on personal memories or experiences. “Once More to the Lake” by E.B. White recounts his travel back, literally and mnemonically, to the lake he and his family used to vacation near many years ago. As the audience reads on things such as “damp moss covering the worms in the bait can” (White 2) and White’s “groin (feeling) the chill of death,” (White 4) invisible questions are asked, too. Is the essay about the well66

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N O N F I C T I O N ness that comes from tracing back our past, or about the insidious decay of time? Is White’s temporal dysphoria caused by an external event with his father or his own personal demons? Unlike more blatant essays, readers can spend hours examining the possible meanings to the puzzle.

If Knowledge is a force—swift and free—then the essay is an instrument to channel it. Like a harpist strumming notes and filling the air with sweet sounds, an essayist fills the mind of the reader with the forte of a strong thesis, the staccato of a solid argument, and the final crescendo of a long-lasting conclusion. The artistry involved in the essayist’s work is the finest part; not only should an author get her point across, she should do it in style. Life is too short to not include beauty in every aspect of work. The creative license that the writing of an essay gives provides an excellent canvas to not only present the knowledge one wishes to share, but to wrap it up in the best of colors and send it off shining.

To bond with the reader and successfully spread the knowledge the essayist seeks to cover is the ultimate victory, for humanity’s greatest treasure is the human mind itself, and to influence a human mind is the first important start to influencing the entire human race. It is not an easy task for the essayist. Change is difficult sometimes, and ideas may be hard to accept, but it has to be done. The spread of knowledge is the backbone of acceleration of humanity’s progress. And as daunting as it may seem, the beauty of a world in constant evolution evokes the greatest triumph of all. Revolution takes form in the essay, a spark of rebellion every essayist shares when they begin to share their work and offer the everyman a chance to read, to understand, and to change the world.

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P O E T R Y Concord Academy / Class of 2018

Sydney Kim

Sixteen i swallow growing pains like cough syrup. in that hospital of proficiency i am incurable, un-diagnosable– one by one the doctors shake their heads. their x-rays are grinning, singing of a fool’s disease with make-believe symptoms springing from the brain. today is yesterday’s impersonator; i move dimly through flat mornings, unsettled by the artificial lack of shadows in the hallways, mute when the slew of voices splash the walls in loud colors, overrun by the clicking of keys while my own fingernails frost over. i am the carbon copy of nobody in particular; there are fistfuls of sugary smoke in my lungs. and i suppose i have lived a chlorine pipe dream where the panacea must exist– perhaps i have lived the greatest deceit. i say, the world’s on sale but no one’s buying. another capsule couldn’t hurt– they form the column of my spine, the brittle sinew of my bones. the doctors say, there’s nothing there. i am ready for the operation– i am as healthy as can be.

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A R T Whitman-Hanson Regional High School / Class of 2016

J a c k

D e v l i n

Going Again

m i x e d

m e d i a

TMC Spring 2016

69

A R T Marshall Simonds Middle School

/ Class of 2019

Lonely Bike

S a r a h

O w e n s

p h o t o g r a p h y p h o t o g r a p h y

Autumn Whitman-Hanson Regional High School / Class of 2016

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J a c k

D e v l i n

A R T S h r e e y a

C h a n d r a

Lexington High School / Class of 2016

Up Above the Big Apple

p h o t o g r a p h y

Lucky Duckling

S a m

K i e l a r

Lexington High School / Class of 2017

TMC Spring 2015

71

F I C T I O N Milton Academy / Class of 2017

A l l i e

R e e d

How To Be Popular

Don’t pick your nose; nobody likes the nose picker. When the teacher says it’s naptime, stay awake. Make sure others know that you stayed awake. Refuse to sweep up your crumbs after lunch. Have a best friend. Pressure that friend to sweep up your crumbs after lunch. If you ever throw up in the classroom, you’re done. The kids will tease and you’ll be referred to as “the girl who puked” for the rest of your life. Have a crush on Manny. Although you don’t like Manny, everyone else does, so it doesn’t matter. Manny always carries Chap Stick, and you should like that. Never wear the same shirt twice in one week. Even if it’s washed and clean, don’t wear it again; the mean girls will smirk and say, “Didn’t you already wear that shirt this week?” and then you’ll say, “No” and tuck your chin to your neck but they always know. Accumulate a group of friends, and always sit with them at a full lunch table.

On some days you might just want to sit alone and read your book during lunch. You can’t. Giggle with your friends during class, and when the teacher says, “Girls, what are we giggling about?” giggle some more. Buy a trainer bra. Tell all of your friends.

When everyone else buys trainer bras, buy a bra with cups. Tell all of your friends.

Start dating Manny. Besides, you’ve grown to like him from pretending to like him.

Hold hands whenever possible. Beg your parents for a cell phone. Get a cell phone.

Place it under your desk between your legs, and text your best friend something mildly funny. She’ll crack up. Tell your friends whenever you’re on your period, and complain about how crampy you are, even if you’re not. Invite Manny to the Sadie Hawkins dance. Even though it might be awkward, slow dance with him. Put your arms on his shoulders and let your eyes drift. Never stand by yourself. Kiss Manny.

Ideally, you should be the first of your friends to kiss a boy. Tell them about the kiss, so they’ll circulate the story through the school. Make sure this kiss happens in middle school. If your first kiss is in high school, keep it to yourself. After the age of 15 they’ll make fun of you and say things like, “I just lost my virginity, and you still have virgin lips.” Don’t raise your hand in class. Hold your head up with the palm of your hand at all times to appear uninterested. If you show too much interest you’ll be called a nerd. You don’t want to be a nerd. Shop at Forever 21. Start straightening your hair. It’ll take away the frizz that makes people tell you to “go back to the circus.” Wear makeup, but don’t ever wear bright colored lipstick. Mascara and eyeliner will suffice. Go on a diet. Publicly check the calories of every piece of processed food you eat. Break up with Manny and tell your friends how clingy he was. You know he was really just in love with you, but they don’t need to. Get bad grades. You’re allowed to take honors classes, but you have to have at least one bad grade. Tell your friends you don’t care about it. Get grounded by your parents for it. Go to every dance. Wear short shorts, even if it’s cold out. Dance with multiple boys, letting them come up behind you and touch you however they’d like to. Let them place one hand on your 72

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F I C T I O N right hip and work the other up your shirt, while their bulges rub against places you don’t want them to. Never say no. If you tell them not to touch you, they’ll call you a prude and point at you and laugh and you’ll be known as the prude for the rest of your life. You have to be a slut because people like sluts and they flirt with sluts and flirtation is the gateway to popularity. Point out Manny to your friends. He’s standing all alone with his hands in his pockets. You may want to be with him and tell him that you’re sorry and that you love him. Laugh instead. Shop at Urban Outfitters. Don’t be caught dead shopping at Forever 21. Wear leggings multiple times a week. Reference Mean Girls wherever possible. Play a sport, and be good at it. People can’t wrap their brains around someone who simply doesn’t like to play sports. Go out every Friday night. If you ever want to stay in when everyone else is going out, say that you’re grounded. That’s the only excuse. Start drinking coffee-- you hate the taste, but you’ll get used to it. Go farther than anyone in your grade has gone with a guy. Next time, go even farther. Never say no. If you say no, you’ll forever be “the only girl who ever said no.” Leave Manny in the dust. Go out with your friends twice a month. Take pictures every time. If you didn’t post it on Facebook, it doesn’t count.

People won’t believe that you’re having fun unless they see a picture to prove it. Go to a party. Drink. If you don’t get drunk, pretend.

Oh. You’re not skinny?

Don’t bother.

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F I C T I O N Lexington High School / Class of 2018

L i l y

C r a n d a l l - O r a l

Our Coats

What a sight! All of Gettysburg is decked out for the occasion: men in suits, their top hats gleaming, and wives perched like birds upon their husbands’ arms.

There are streamers and flowers and flags ––red, white, and blue–– fluttering in the summer breeze. I hear the cheers from the crowd and puff out my chest. My uniform, though made of coarse blue wool, is likened in my mind to the silken robes worn by the Queen of England. My rifled musket is polished and gleams to the smiles of my countrymen. It seems as though the entire town has come out to welcome us as we parade. This is the picture I’ve dreamt about ever since I joined the 3rd Company of the Massachusetts Regiment. Confidently, I catch a lady’s smile and wink at a toddler. Children here remind me of my younger brother Gabe. His disappointment at being too young to join the regiment had been replaced with excitement when he watched me unwrap my uniform. Before I left, he would strut around enveloped within the coat, pretending to be an honored Union soldier.

It is the last day of June, 1863. General Meade has called our company, along with other regiments, to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. Anticipating a battle, he has sent for reinforcements. I have never stood in the midst of fire before, but we’ve all been training in preparation. The Confederates better be ready! The exhilaration of today leaves me exhausted. Stretching out on my cot, I fold my arms beneath my head. The smells of campfire and coffee waft in with the wind. I stare at the canvas roof and think about our great president back in Washington. How we all want to make him proud, make our families proud. Our cause is just. Slavery must be abolished, and if we have to kill the Confederates in order to do so, then we must. I roll over and settle into a contented sleep.

*** “Davies, they’re a comin’, there’s gonna be a battle!”

“Huh?” I grumble as I blearily open an eye. The sky is still grey and my skin tingles from the cold.

“The Confederates, Davies! Corporal Dove just sent word. He’s been given warnin’ by two vedettes. They’re on the move Davies, there’s gonna be a battle!”

I rub my face with my palms and sit up, swinging my feet over the edge of the cot. As the sleep fog clears, I recognize Liam, who’s also infantry in the 3rd Massachusetts. We volunteered the same day, and being assigned to the same company, have been friends ever since. Liam’s gold curls and blue eyes add to his youthful appearance. Despite his naiveté, I find his pride and enthusiasm irresistible.

“Dove wants us to be dressed and report to duty in five minutes. Here,” he says, and passes me a pitcher of water, “wake up a little.”

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F I C T I O N The air is chilly and still, mist blanketing the quiet hills. We all have bags under our eyes and uncombed hair as we stand in form, awaiting the Corporal’s orders.

I catch Liam’s eye and wink. He’s never been in a battle either and is fidgeting with his gun straps, anxiety and excitement apparent. Dove tells us we will be marching to the south of Gettysburg and digging trenches along Cemetery Ridge. I hear some shots, but they are distant, and I wonder if I will spend the entire battle filling this trench with my sweat.

After endless digging, the light wanes. A cavalry officer orders us to pitch camp. Talk is a subdued murmur as sore feet are stretched lazily towards the fire.

Dove is speaking with some lieutenants. He smooths out a map while sipping brandy. I barely drift to sleep before I’m roused by the breathless barks of Corporal Dove, “Everyone get up. Longstreet’s division is closing in. Get your guns.”

I hurry outside to where the sun stains the morning sky an ominous scarlet.

The rays sear through yesterday’s mist and chill. Over the rise I see smoke, and realize with a thrill: today we become soldiers! We form lines and march onto the battlefield with the snare drum playing. Just before we reach the first stone wall, Dove halts. We crouch low–– guns on our shoulders, eyes alert. Liam fumbles with his ammunition and a frightened look crosses his face.

“On you mark...” The drummer rolls.

“Get set!” The flag is erected by one of the cavalry. “CHARGE!” The whole sky explodes with sound. I rush forward with the rest, and like a surging indigo flood we pour into battle. Ten yards away, blue-coated Union soldiers are locked in combat with grey Confederates. Shots are being fired from all directions and without warning the man in front of me stumbles. I stare as blood seeps through his jacket. The red spreading across blue wool reminds me of the sky earlier. I let out a yell, momentarily paralyzed with shock. Someone pushes me roughly from behind.

“Watch it there Davies. If you don’t want to be shot, get moving!” I jolt back to the brutal reality. Why did they kill this man? What had he done? I set my gun and shoot. Incensed, I load and shoot again, and again. Have I hit my mark, or did someone else down that Greycoat? The battle is vivid before me: green grass, cerulean sky, gold sun, and blue and grey uniforms. Now blood red seeps into the earth, marring the innocence of the morning. Sweat trickles down my neck, soaking my collar as I duck down behind a trench wall. Fear registers for the first time in my mind.

We reload our guns, moving out from safety. I notice Liam breathing heavily.

There is no water left in my canteen and my saliva has long since dried in the desert of my mouth. We duck as a volley of shots zings over our heads. One of us crumples; buckling knees send his blond head slumping forward. The drumbeat pounds in my chest, faster and faster until in a frenzy, I rush over to see Liam’s helpless form. His breath is ragged, blood flowing from nose and mouth, not to mention the spot just over his heart where the bullet penetrated. The sound around me diminuendos from fortissimo to pianissimo. I become aware of my rapid breath and the rhythm of my heart. The functioning of my body emphasises Liam’s life ebbing away, taking with it my fixed perception of war. He struggles to open his eyes–– to say something. His lids flicker and he runs his tongue across his cracked lips.

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F I C T I O N He croaks, and then, “Davies, I didn’t know it was gonna be like this. I didn’t know any of us were gonna die.” And his body relaxes.

In the beginning we were all so excited. Now I stand surrounded by fallen comrades. How could fighting for such a just cause have led to Liam’s death, to anybody’s death? Was fighting not the answer then? Until now, I had thought that the Confederates were in the wrong. But what if they equally believed their cause to be righteous? Bodies from both sides now lie in Gettysburg, their lives taken for the color of their coats. The same families who had proudly dressed their sons in blue or grey would soon be mourning alike.

I gently lay Liam’s body down. The battle has retreated across the field, fallen soldiers sprawled behind. My eyes must have misted over because as I look at the soldiers, Union and Confederate, the colors swim together and I cannot distinguish their coats. From this distance they look so similar.

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A R T Auburn High School / Class of 2017

D a k o t a

G l e a s o n

Te l l - Ta l e H e a r t

p a i n t i n g

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N O N F I C T I O N Groton School / Class of 2018

Macy Lipkin

The Things She Car ried

The things she carried powered her through her days: her banged-up water bottle and her cell phone in a waterproof case and her wristwatch which was constantly ticking. She carried her camera with an extra zoom lens because her feet could only carry her so far.

She carried the time of day and her habit of over-planning and a constant comparison of herself to her peers. She drew bad jokes from her quiver of puns in an attempt to make her friends’ burdens seem lighter, even if just for a fleeting second, but she knew that everyone else also struggled to lay down their best cards with the hand they’d been dealt.

Everywhere she went, she toted a journal and a mechanical pencil, knowing she would run down graphite before she ran out of words, and on her shoulders leaned a fear of forgetting the moments that made her heart beat fast and her lungs trip over themselves.

She carried memories and images of those closest to her: summer evenings reading in the nylon hammock on Cape Cod; her mother’s glassy brown eyes and thinning hair; sitting in the backseat while her older brother learns to drive. In the spring, as flowers started to bloom, she counted down the weeks until she could be laughing and making sarcastic side comments with her godmother through busy suburban parks on Sunday afternoons.

She couldn’t erase the fur left on her clothing by her cat and her dog, the little balls of fluff with whom she had shared the second half of her life. She grasped so hard onto old advice that her hands were sweaty and worn; she had a habit of re-living the past. Even as she loved every day at prep school, she missed moments at her old public school spent chatting with her favorite English teacher, whose advice she repeated when she began to doubt herself. She never wanted to be a disappointment, neither to others nor to herself.

She carried a tangled knot of hair on the crown of her head, which sometimes boosted her confidence but mostly just got in the way. She carried her head high even on the days she wasn’t sure she would like the sight of her unplucked unibrow, or the acne climbing up the sides of her face, or the baggy sweatshirt she wore to shield herself from her own judgement. She carried her backpack, over-prepared for what might come, monogrammed with her initials in the font she was always taught to use. Her shoulders felt the weight of her triple Ds and her bitterness of not having any natural athletic talent and her understanding that new clothes weren't worth the money, all of which she didn’t ask for but couldn’t escape.

As a kid she lived a sort of double life, throwing temper tantrums at home but walking into class the next morning mature and composed, at least for an eight-yearold. She switched off her immaturity at the sight of a teacher or even just her mother’s 78

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N O N F I C T I O N camera phone. Later she learned to take things easier, that there weren’t many things worth getting worked up over.

She grew up in a big town and then she grew out of it.

When she was hit with her first real dose of rejection, a thin envelope from the school that had enticed her with five amazing years, she tried not to let it break her down, but it did.

It took months until she finally built herself back up.

Eventually, she came to terms with the fact that she would have to stay home, and she realized maybe she’d never been good enough for anything more than the mystery meat, slamming lockers, and monotonous days of public school. But with time came opportunity and in the end it all worked out.

Not like she ever expected, but it worked out all the same.

She loved acoustic music and chatting with her friends and writing down words as she strung them together. She carried dreams of paying it forward, of seeing her name in print, and of proving her doubters wrong by making it big, rags-to-riches style. As she went for them, she made sure never to forget her pencil.

ell low ass um

Animation Foundations

Graphic Design Painting Photography Web Design

www.uml.edu/dept/art 978.934.3494 Work Ready, Life Ready, World Ready

AND

Sculpture

Bundle your BFA in Studio Art or Graphic Design at UML with a top tier US News &World Report ranked University Degree.

MAKING ART2016 WORK 79 TMC Spring

A R T Lynnfield High School / Class of 2016

S y d n e y

N e k o r o s k i

Donut Eat My Donuts

p a i n t i n g

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A R T Chelmsford High School / Class of 2016

E l i z a b e t h

M i l n e r

The Adventures of Apollo and Caesar

d r a w i n g

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A R T Groton School / Class of 2016

Y a n g

H y u n

C h o

Amen

p a i n t i n g 82

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SUBMIT TEEN ART & WRITING TO TMC MAGAZINE

The Marble Collection (TMC) publishes the Massachusetts High School Magazine of the Arts, the only statewide print and online magazine of the arts featuring artwork, creative writing, and spoken-work poetry videos by students in grades 8 to 12. We also offer our teens free one-to-one online or in-person Mentoring for Publication Workshops.

Submit your work for a chance at publication at no charge at: www.themarblecollection.org/submit

Participating with TMC is no-cost and hassle-free. It simply requires you to share TMC’s opportunities with your students. Sign-up to participate at absolutely no cost at: www.themarblecollection.org/about/participate TMC Spring 2016

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had an amazing year...

We partnered with the University of Massachusetts, Boston, allowing us to reach more urban teens.

We published 100 teen artists and writers in the Massachsuetts High School Magazine of the Arts.

We launched a free publication workshop to encourage teens to take part in our programs.

We guided our teens through publication with our 6-week one-to-one mentoring workshops.

Now, we need your help...

To raise $10,000 in 2016 to ensure that we can offer our free workshop in 10 under-resourced schools, reaching 250 more teen writers and artists.

Make a gift today to inspire teens across Massachusetts to share their creative voices and visions.

DONATE ONLINE:

themarblecollection.org/donate

#MyFirstChoice Outstanding undergraduate and graduate programs, extensive research opportunities, and a commitment to helping students discover their life’s passion – the University of Massachusetts Boston is the right choice.

Chancellor J. Keith Motley, PhD

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Turning Away No. 15

painting

Dakota Gleason

Auburn High School / Class of 2017

www.themarblecollection.org

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ISSN 2156-7298