Staff

Editor-in-Chief Emily Greffenius

Art Directors Brigitte Farah

Cailin Harrington

Senior Editors Elizabeth James

Julia Marcantonio Samantha Parlato

Radhika Rangarajan

Junior Editors Elizabeth Casavant

Samie Griffin Delaney Griffiths

Briana Heaney Lily Murray

Marissa Walsh

Cover Design by Brianna Winn

The Diamond

The sun slips down under the trees, the sky appears to glow,

the grass beneath the endless sky, dried out, has ceased to grow.

The trees reach out to touch the sky,

protecting the dry field, the summer sun, is nearly done

Fall’s season soon to yield.

The old bronze fence is rusting quickly, as if it’s giving in,

the broken gate no longer swings, it’s life is hanging thin.

Among the field is a thin bench,

Aging as fine as wine, its battered features still are seen,

in shape it is just fine.

Home plate stands idle among the dirt, as sturdy as can be,

scratches sheath the sturdy plate, unharmed by nothing is he

The balls clang off the ailing screen,

groaning with every hit, the children don’t seem to care,

they want to hit the mit.

Not even Zeus could stop their playing, to them the field is home,

they play and play upon the field, for hours they do roam.

The loving field, is yet to shield,

the hot sun’s brutal rays, however old, the field is gold,

for it gives happy days.

The diamond is a place of hope, where children come to play,

on this field lessons I did learn, It’s value I cannot say.

Eamon Doherty, Class of 2020

Where I Belong Ever since I was a little kid I loved playing outside, playing sports and being active whether it was soccer, lacrosse, basketball, snowboarding, running, or skateboarding. It was something that always felt natural to me, and I was good at it, because it gave me the confidence to work hard at other things that I was not as naturally good at. I am a twin and because of this, I had a built-in playmate. From my earliest memories, my sister and I played from the time we got up in the morning until we had to go to bed at night. Even when my sister would decide to relax and sit down to do an activity like drawing, coloring, playing cards and board-games, or watching a movie. I could only join her for so long before I felt compelled to get up and go outside to start playing again. My parents, active people themselves, often tell the scooter story. As a three-year-old they found me outside riding down our dead end street on a plastic scooter wearing high heel dress up shoes and a princess dress. I did not fall. From that point on I rode up and down the street on my scooter. I could keep my balance the whole time and never fall. They said that they were always amazed at the balance and agility I had as such a small child; therefore, they believe that this is what lead to my love for participating in athletic and outdoor activities. My place of belonging is my backyard: a small but wide open grassy area surrounded on two sides with white plastic fencing, another side with tall trees and bushes and the last side is the back of my house. The sun shines bright through the branches of the tall trees. The green glossy glass rubs against my ankles as I run, dodge, and shoot. My backyard is where I practice lacrosse on a continual basis. My environment is like the New England Seasons, constantly changing with the time of day, time of year, weather conditions, and temperature. Some days I am outside when it’s scorchingly hot and sunny in short sleeves. While other days I am out there bundled up in a big winter coat, hat, and gloves and it could be raining or even snowing. My backyard is my practice area. When I go out to practice I usually have a particular area that I am working on in my game to improve my skills. I walk down the old broken steps of my deck and on to the dew covered back lawn ready to work. Certain days I will practice my throwing and catching skills by utilizing my lax wall or pitch back. I will do sets of one hundred throws with my right hand and one hundred throws with my left. Then one hundred throws alternating between my left and right hands. Other times I ask my sister or one of my parents to pass with me. Sometimes I ask my dad to be goalkeeper and since he is much bigger than most of the goalies I play against he is a very formidable opponent. Other mornings or afternoons I will go out and put a shooting target on the front of my net which allows me to practice placing my shots to specific areas of the goal. My net is located in the right-hand corner of my backyard. There is a blue shooting target on the front of it with eight small holes; this allows me to practice the accuracy of my shots. There is also a back-up net behind my net that drapes over the branches of the trees and falls down over the dirt and grass in the corner of the yard. This catches the balls that are shot wide or even too high, over and to the side of the net. My backyard is the area where I practice the sport that I love very much which is lacrosse. My humble dominion in my backyard is where I feel at home, and it’s where I feel a great sense of belonging. This place has sharpened and shaped my lacrosse skills and abilities. I have worked very hard and long to improve my game since I started

playing lacrosse in third grade. This is what has allowed me to play in a very competitive lacrosse program. I really feel a sense of solidarity and a sense of belonging within the lacrosse program I am a part of. I have great coaches and great teammates that I love to play with. This has taught me a lot about competition, teamwork, friendships, family, hard work, discipline, and about how to handle winning and losing. Playing lacrosse has allowed me to make many new friends throughout my years. I really enjoy playing at such a competitive level against some of the best teams in the state. I would not be able to compete at such a high level if I had not have had such great coaches to push me harder. Another big key to my success is the effort and time I put into practicing lacrosse in my backyard. My goal is to play Division One lacrosse in college and the only way I will be able to achieve this goal is I keep practicing and getting better. I need to push myself because there is always better competition out there and if I am not working to become better someone else is. Alex Finn, Class of 2019

Emily Keith, Class of 2016

sunrise Life revolves around the sunrise: It’s too bad for the sun, A shame it can’t see itself. The sun catches glimpses of its appearance on the fragmented surface of the water,

As its smile crashes on the coast. Like a shattered mirror, We don’t see our own reflection perfectly, but rather in bits and pieces. And isn’t it a shame, darling, you can’t see beauty in yourself? And isn’t it a tragedy, The sun can’t watch itself ignite the earth? Cast its brilliant shadow on the trees,

Illuminate the atmosphere, With vibrance, bright as the flash of a polaroid.

People wake up early to see the sun, At its most spectacular moment, At its sunrise: When the sun rises to fight stronger, To melt away winter’s snow, And fight the clouds off the horizon,

With all of the same strength ...you have. The strength to melt away the clouds in your horizon. So as the sun glows, Wake up and see the sunrise Because it’s so much more beautiful, and stronger than ever. Kathleen McKinnon, Class of 2016

The Journey of Life I: The Beginning In The Beginning we are born, We are sent to this life, And we are placed on a path, It begins at The Beginning, And ends at The End, The path is all we are, It is all we will ever be. For the path ahead is the path of life. From this moment onward, We begin the journey of our lives. As a trail through the woods bends, So does the path we take, We cannot see ahead into the future, We are uncertain of what lies ahead. However, as all rivers flow to the sea, All paths of life converge at The End. We may know our destination, But we cannot know how or when we will arrive. It is for us to discover At the end of our journey through life. II: The Awakening As we walk the path we grow wiser, We acknowledge the fact That as we travel through life, The next world approaches ever closer, Our time is limited, Our time is brief. Just as a river cannot flow upstream, We cannot turn back on our journey. We can only look forward, We can never go back. We are awakened, When these truths are revealed.

Once we acknowledge life’s truths, We must prepare, We must progress. We must become focused on the journey, In isolation we must evaluate The things that matter to us, The things we want to fulfill, The people we must become. III: The Pilgrim After we are awakened, The journey becomes meaningful. We begin to marvel the wonders That lay ahead of us We admire the path, The Earth, And the land. We become pilgrims, We travel through life to discover ourselves, To bring meaning to the journey. The more we learn about life, The more we appreciate our own. We grow in strength and spirit, And we at last become ourselves, The people that we aspired to become. IV: The End As the path dwindles toward the sea The light of the sun melts into the horizon, The land is bathed in crimson, And we set foot onto the shores Of the next world. Our journey has ended, And as we witness the end of our time, We begin to see

That all we have done has passed. All we will be has been, The only thing we have is The meaning of our journey, Our journey through life. It is then that we realize, That the journey had no meaning, Unless we created meaning from it. We see that journey of life It is not about our origin Or our destination,

But rather discovering what the journey meant, What we meant, Why we lived through the journey at all. At the moment of our passing We recognize what the world had meant, What we had meant. And as the sun’s light fades And twilight stains the heavens, We fade from this world, In The End we are nothing, Save what we meant to ourselves.

Bill Kimball, Class of 2016

Michael Tian, Class of 2016

No Refunds

“Sir? Excuse me sir, you are going to have to either put that in the overhead bin or under your seat before takeoff.” the flight attendant requested. The old man looked up at her with his pale blue eyes, slowly fading in color, like a pair of jeans that have been in the wash too long. He replied with a bitter and heartbroken crackle of a voice.

“My wife will stay with me. I am not going to squeeze her into a sweaty overhead bin, and I’m not going to place her under the seat where there’s some spilled soda and a littered pretzel wrapper.”

The flight attendant recognized the object the man was holding ever so delicately to be an urn with gorgeous decals in silver, spiraling up from the base. Flushed, she turned her head forward and walked back up the aisle to her jump seat for takeoff. The old man grunted and pressed his temple against the cool Plexiglas window, peering out along the horizon. He studied the plane accelerate and catch the air, generating lift that leaned him back against his seat. He shut his eyes.

His connecting flight ticket ink smudged in his tight, sweaty grip as he weaved in and out of the mass of humanity that crowded the airport. Distant sounds of static voices and baby screams set on an endless loop. The old man, joints tight, calves burning, paused. Human traffic buzzed past him full speed, occasionally checking his shoulder with theirs, too busy for a simple apology. The old man looked at the world and the world looked back at him with harsh, lightless eyes. He blinked, and continued to the gate. Ruth had died last month, leaving the old man alone in a modern world that was now unfamiliar. Over the last sixty years he knew nothing about being alone. Life was now pointless at his age: no children, no grandchildren. He was alone and old, one of the scariest situations possible in life.

Two months before Ruth was diagnosed they had planned on doing one last vacation together. They wanted fruitful memories that would be a sort of nightcap before the end of their lives. The old man invested the majority of what he had left in his savings for a luxurious vacation package to the Bahamas. After Ruth was diagnosed, he made phone call after phone call, wearing out his voice speaking to representative after representative, the distasteful hold music poisoning him with headaches. He tried everything to get his money back so he could give Ruth the best treatment as possible. Every representative he spoke to gave him their heart-shattering policy: NO REFUNDS. Now he was taking the luxurious vacation package on his own; he would not be able to live with himself if he knew that all the money he spent, rather than on the treatment, went to waste. He went to leave Ruth there, spread her ashes among the sand and and saltwater. Someplace warm. Ruth deserved that.

He breathed in the thick, tropical air as he walked out of the airport rolling his vintage suitcase in one hand and clutching the urn in the other. A limo driver, bowtie with no jacket, stood outside holding a sign that read:

Mr. & Mrs. The old man saw this coming, yet still, he was in complete disgust and anguish at

the sight of it. He picked up the pace of his walk, dropping the full height of the curb with his suitcase in one loud jump. He rushed in a fury toward the limo driver, snatching the sign out of his hands and whipping it underneath his arm as he got into the open back door in one swift movement. The driver attended to his bag without a word. The old man held the urn between his knees as he looked at the sign in front of him. He lightly pressed his palm over their name and then clenched his fist furiously, ripping and tearing with his sweaty hands until the sign was heap of pulp. He slammed his eyes shut.

At sunset, he kicked his way through the revolving door of the resort hotel, repeatedly smashing his foot against the glass quarter-turn by quarter-turn. He stumbled to the counter, a fragmented hot mess. The woman behind the front desk looked like she was wearing a costume instead of a work uniform; she greeted with a bright, white smile.

“Ah, you must be our six o’clock check in. We have your two key cards and your wife’s exclusive spa pass. Does she need help with her bag?”

A flashback hit the old man like an uppercut to the jaw. He and Ruth sit on their tightly made bed, bath water running in the background. A large present with wrapping that glinted in the light held between her legs as they sat. A note addressed to her overflowing with penned in connected and unintentionally disconnected hearts. Ruth delicately folds the wrapping back, slow rip by slow rip. A sturdy woven purple suitcase lay beneath. A stitched in note reads Oh the places we'll go.

The man exhaled, tears swelled in his eyes. He grew bright red in the face. “That is enough!” “Excuse me sir?” The old man turned around and left the desk, left his luggage, only taking the urn

in his hands. He moved to the fire escape stairway, violently pulling the door open. The stairs looked endless from the bottom, twisting in a spiral eight stories high. He began to climb, destroying his knees and shins step by step, slowly deteriorating his body, holding the urn like a newborn baby. He was pulling muscles that were too old to do their job, yet finally reached the rooftop of the hotel. He stumbled to the very edge of the gravel roof and carefully placed his footing so his toes dangled off. He took a deep break holding the urn very tight against his body. The old man twisted the top of the urn off and stuck his hand in, holding what was left of his wife. He took a handful and held it out over the edge and realized that this was the moment he must let go. He closed his eyes as released the ashes, watching them accelerate into the wind and catch air, generating lift that made him arch his head to the stars. He now had to now make the most challenging decision in his life: Do I step forward or do I step back? Wes Diaz, Class of 2016

Cailin Harrington, Class of 2016

Reality The future seemed bright filled with vibrant violets and fantastic fuchsias easily manipulated never intractable the birds sung with consonance the sun shined with confidence the breeze was filled with optimism all things were tangible time passes by slowly one is always blithe, always successful the mountains were small and the valleys were vast this was my dream The past seemed dark filled with regret time dragged on every struggle seemed like an endless battle the losses overshadowed the victories society weighed me down until my legs became anchors hope for the future kept me sane blame was my weapon that somehow relieved the pressure but later intensified the pain that was my nightmare this is reality I lie in between both worlds waiting to make my decision I want to strive towards the light but darkness suffocates me this my internal battle however the middle reveals the beauty in both the ability to strive for greatness and learn from the past therefore the middle is where I’ll stay this is my reality Peter Firmin, Class of 2016

Identity is Dynamic Life is an unknown thing Last minute happened, now is now and the next second is unknown Anything can happen at any moment, life can change in an instant What you have now is what you have now That can be taken away from you at any moment The world offers us so much The world gives us so many opportunities The world provides us with a path Each person is different in their own way Each person takes different offers Each person takes different opportunities Each person takes a different path We discover where those offers take us We discover where those opportunities take us And we discover where those paths take us Who we are now, is who we are now 5 years later we can be somewhat different 10 years later we can be unrecognizably different Finding your identity is impossible Being the same is impossible Identity is constantly changing The different people we are with The different places we visit The different jobs we encounter in our lives All shape our changing identities Kevin Deeb, Class of 2016

The Bay

I felt a slight tug on my line and then a stronger one, and I jerked to slack the string a little bit to give the fish a feeling of being free. I then slammed the lever down and started reeling as fast as I could, my dad started to quickly notice. I yelled, “Get the net!” My dad quickly came over to the sandbar which looks like a small island off of the formidable rock border that we call the Jetties. My dad brought up the 12 lb. bass with his net, my first catch; this is what I have been waiting all day for.

I first came to the beach near the bay at around two years old: it was where I took my first steps and walked quickly but reluctantly to the calmly rolling ocean. Right next to the beach lies a nice, little shack named the Marina that sells the most scrumptious blueberry scones and all sorts of little pastries; I have been eating there since I was six. At around two o’clock a sandbar appears out of the powerful ocean within the dominion of the bay best suited for fishing. This is placed right next to a rock walkway that goes all the way out into the bay keeping the boats in line and away from swimmers. Almost always on nice warm days the bright pink and yellow sun will perch right on the border line for twenty minutes of the crystal clear water of the bay. The fishing boats are returning before dark as if the the sun is saying it’s time to go home now, but I wouldn’t leave. I would go up to the shore of the bay in my rolled up jeans in the dark of the night. The water glowed with the light of a million plankton, a very small fish that humpback whales eat, as they would come to the shore around night time and glow to fend off other predators. The soft light glows on your face and makes you feel like you’re in a movie. After all the business is done and gone, the beauty of the water will still leave you in awe.

All the big boats, the yachts and the cigarette boats, are all stationed at the top of the bay which was bought by a company named Northside Marina. The owners of the company make you pay extra for the slips, and the smaller boats are positioned at the back of the bay away from the slips and bigger boats. There is a no-swim zone in the bay; however my cousins and I would always swim down into this drop off, look for unique, swirly, hermit crab shells that looked like Garrie’s from spongebob, and whoever found the most would win. We would then dry off and eat creamy clam chowder that melts as it hits your tongue and rolls down your throat as our parents looked on our disarming smiles with scorn. We would then return to our respective homes, watch monster marathons all night, and wake up early in the morning to get fresh donuts. My father and I usually traveled back up to the bay on the weekends to catch up with each other while we ate huge stacks of maple syrup covered pancakes. The calm of the bay, the glistening heat of the sun, and the lingering cool of the water made times like those the best of my life with my family.

I still go to the Cape and to the bay every single day of the summer and still do fish off that same sandbar waiting for another bass to come by and hook off of my bait. Sometimes I meet my grandpa up there; my grandpa looks almost exactly like my dad but don’t let that fool you. They are completely different people. My Grandpa is a fisherman and always is going to be, he picked up the habit after he divorced my Grandma a long time ago. We have a fundamental routine as well; we get breakfast, go fishing until 1 P.M, and then get lunch. I look upon this place as a second home because my heart will always rest here. I can never wait until summer to go down to the docks and eat clam chowder and have great times with my cousins that we’ll talk about for the rest of our

lives. I will show my children the harbor and my children’s children, because I would want them to have as much fun as I did with my family and for them to have as much fun with theirs. Mark Giroux, Class of 2018

Emily Keith, Class of 2016

I am Uniquely Beautiful I am uniquely beautiful I float like a butterfly and sting like a bee I’m also as sweet as can be I’m an animal lover especially for cats I’m also very cheap and end up putting a lot of stuff back I believe the color of my skin partly defines me The people in the past worked hard to save me I’m young, black and quick on my feet I’m also known to be pretty on fleek I cry when I’m frustrated and angry I also don’t like tangy I love to eat my feelings French fries help me with healing I’m 17 years old but i've lived a lifetime Sometimes I wish i could just hit rewind My mom is my bestie Because of everything she now does to help me I'm a very confident young lady I just sometimes wish my waist was twenty I love to have fun and be goofy But at the same time i’m serious when I need to be Music is one of my favorite passing times honest T-swift and Lorde are my favorite artist Basketball is a fav sport of mine My defence on the court makes me shine I’m a little kid at heart When I see a cute animal or baby I just fall apart I’m trying to figure out life God and my mom helps me with my strife My life was and is very difficult I am here today doing all I can to change it I lived most of my life in Pennsylvania Where all my friends were there we cried as they said see ya I’m not a mourning person I also don’t like my food touching I am uniquely beautiful Saniece Auguste, Class of 2016

Complete You must leave You can run You can walk You cannot stay here You must go there Control is not here Pain is here Resolution is no here You must go there Bring pain with you Pain will stagger your strut Pain will hunch your back Pain will crush you once you stop Keep going You must go there Bring pain with you Look around and see See that many people follow your tracks See them crushed by their pain Don’t ask questions Keep going You must go there Bring pain with you You’re there now! Look around and see Control is not there Pain is there Resolution is not there There is here Just no stagger And no hunch Jarris Henderson-Brown, Class of 2016

Music: Something You Can Share

I was sitting in the courtyard of the hotel; the weather began to change from the nice morning breeze to the scalding heat from the sun that shines down on New Orleans. During this time, my Mom had already left to wander around the French Quarter. She used to live here, and she loves this place. As I sat in the courtyard, the trees stood high above me and curved a bit, while the eccentric flowers blossomed in the sun rays; the water fountain poured water loudly, yet quietly at the same time. I gazed off in the distance, wondering what was so interesting about this place that gets my mom all energetic in the mornings. After a while, I stumbled back to my hotel room, and sank into the bed. As I lay there, I still wondered about this place’s importance in my Mom’s heart. Then my question was answered.

I heard music: Jazz music from streets, different from any other music I have ever heard, and I liked it. The music was calling for me, to seek the truth behind it. I got up from the bed, walked slowly, quietly, and curiously back into the courtyard of the hotel, in order to continue hearing it. I felt the hot sun, making my skin (damp with sweat) feel like water. After walking a couple steps from the hotel, I saw the beautiful Jackson Square, a small historical park that people walk through to admire the natural feeling it conveys, at the center of the French Quarter. I turn to the other direction, and there was the Saint Louis Cathedral, that stood high and mighty in the French Quarter, showing its great connection with the people of New Orleans. And in between the two, I saw my answer. A large group of street musicians were playing all together, making this wonderful, toe-tapping, jazz music that roared through the air saying that the town was awake and alive.

I thought this music was incredible, like an open view on how to live your life. I could feel energy of excitement and happiness crawling throughout my body. The sound drew in more people as they played, gaining the attention of almost everybody around the square. The musicians showed that their hearts were crammed with the spirit of New Orleans, and they loved sharing it with others. A little girl near me began dancing to the music, and even a full-grown man boldly danced to the energetic beat. For me, I allowed my mind to do the dancing; my mind was imagining things as fast as wildfire about what this music expressed.

After about five minutes of being unable to look away, my mom appeared out of nowhere, standing right next to me. She looked at me and smiled, and I looked at her and through her eyes I saw her connection to this place: a land that has never lost its spirit, a kingdom that has never given up in hard times. I realized that my interest in unusual creativity wasn’t that unusual, for my mom had similar interests. I learned that a place isn’t just interesting because of facts, but also by the senses that express towards you; For me, it was hearing the jazz of New Orleans, teaching me that people here have high spirits and love to express it. Wyatt Ritchey, Class of 2018

The Legacy of the Tree Trunk He was the one who held the family together; He was the life of the party. He was always the one helping the rest of the family; He was the tree trunk while we were the leaves. He was the one giving back to the community. He was the one always thinking about others. He was the one who called Martin Luther King friend. He was the one who advocated for civil rights. He was a teddy bear: Loving, caring, charismatic. Always put others before himself; Never a selfish thought. But now.. Where have his sunshine and bright rays gone? They will never return to this earth. How am I able to make the dead tree trunk come back to life? I ask myself this each and everyday, I want to continue the legacy, And be the live tree trunk that has always existed, Despite the fact that it has now disappeared. Now my family is a jigsaw puzzle. So I ask myself how will I be able to put the pieces together to create a beautiful picture? How can I make the dead tree trunk come back to life? I know it will never be the same, but it’s worth a shot.

Piece by piece things start to come together: The toy drive for the hospital was a success, Organizing a team for the breast cancer walk...check, Raising money for charities...done. Just as a pebble causes ripples in the water, The leaf needed to influence other leaves, It never thought about itself, It went with the flow constantly changing colors just as other leaves did. Just as the leaves fall and come back, So does the trend of civil action continue in the family, So does the idea of putting others first. Nature is what makes the leaves brighter, And makes the earth less dull. Nature helps make the world become a beautiful place, Helping others is natural. The leaf is no longer existent, The leaf has grown into a much bigger part. The leaf is now a tree trunk, The tree trunk only has one thing left to do, Expand and spread its roots to other leaves. Hanna Scher, Class of 2016

Where I Belong Where I belong, the place I long, I seek what I will be. The busy hall, the endless wall, It’s where I feel I’m free. The metal door, the bustling room, I enter through the gate. The metal smells, the chatter’s loud, I know I cannot wait. I see the tools, the tables the stools, The parts are all to rust. Blades are feared, floors adhered, The wood and piles of dust. Fresh hot pizza, excites my tongue, Straight from the nearby store. Ice cold soda, bubbles and sweet, I am waiting for more. Students building, keyboards clicking, Trying to finish soon. Teachers teaching, robots running, Hope it will not go boom.

It roars like lions, its strong power, Like dogs it has become. The arms they reach, the wheels they spin, But it is not yet done. The smart mentors, the engineers, All building the robot. The programmers, the designers, All building the robot. Energy runs, wires connect, The battery to the brain. Sensors are here, motors are there, From gyro to drivetrain. The hours of code, the lines of bugs, Struggling for completion. Hours are ticking, time is bleeding, We’re in desperation. But finally, we now are done, We have worked for so long. The project lab, I find my place, This is where I belong. Lawrence Tseng, Class of 2019

“Andre”

Where was He that Sunday? Things went down that weren’t supposed to that Sunday and He was nowhere to be found. And I wish I could just stop remembering that Sunday, but I can’t. I wish I could just wipe it out of my 8 gig memory like the picture I took with the team last summer at the Y, but I can’t. It’s not that simple trying to undo what’s already been done. The memory, of what I’ve done. It won’t go away and I feel as if I’m dangling from its elevated grip, clawing ferociously at my own neck in futile attempts for air. I’ve started counting down to when I will eventually lose the will to continue the struggle for mercy. Mercy from a God, who had decided to take a break that Sunday.

*** Today is my birthday. It’s 6:06 in the P.M. right now. I’m a bit tipsy. And I’m

walking down the inner-city streets of Dorchester, head down, hoodie up, suffocating in the flood of memories from that Sunday, as I make my way home under the forthcoming darkness of the evening. Codman Square’s busier than usual: Ms. Johnson’s out there soliciting passersby for money for her granddaughter. (Who knows what she could actually want it for?)

Johnny’s out there too, as usual, leaning against the red and brown brick outsides of the fast food chain across the street. He’s smoking his cigarette to dust and polluting the gray air with the foul stench of black and burning smoke. He spits into the street as I walk past him, flashing stained teeth.

The farmer’s market will close soon. It’s getting to the late evening, a time of the day to be cautious here on the intersection between Washington and Talbot Ave. I’m headed to Franklin Fields, where I live. It’s a two mile walk from Ashmont and to say the least, you can see a great deal of things on this route home as the day comes to an end.

But despite the hustle of the streets around me, the events of that godless Sunday continue, on and on, to rewind and play again in the tainted film rolls of my riled mind. I see Andre’s hard face over and over again: his dark eyes, his curved lips, his brown skin and golden chain that peeks from the collar of his work shirt. Andre. He worked at Save-a-Lot on the weekend and gave my mother discounts on groceries. Andre. I can still see him waiting for the 21 to Ashmont. I remember now. He’s the one with a sister at Dorchester High who knows my sister.

If only I could stop seeing Andre. I see him getting off at Ashmont. I see him waiting for the 23 to get home, I think

to Four Corners, where he lives with his mom and sister. I can see Andre, the one that everyone thought would be the one to make it, Andre. (Not anymore.)

Another final image of Andre invades my mind. I sat next to him on the bus once. He was scrolling through the messages on his phone. Notification from Mom. She’s asking him to pick up some milk. He sends her a quick ‘K’, followed by a ‘20 minutes away.’ His mom sends his a red heart.

My skull feels like a hot, broiling oven of flashing, insignificant memories of Andre. I keep seeing a once living Andre, that just happened to be at the wrong place, at the wrong time that godless Sunday.

***

I didn’t know him like that. No, Andre wasn’t a part of my inner circle. We weren’t close. We never once had a full conversation with one another. Since the time that I had dropped out and regressed to dope dealing and gangbanging, I hadn’t seen Andre in about a year and maybe two months. Till one Tuesday, when I was headed to the crib to kick it with a few friends of mine. I was coming back from doing unspeakable businesses at the Y and on the way home, I had detoured onto Warren St to get to the Save a Lot, in search of a Sprite and some Cheetos. I came across Andre working the counter. I recognized him.

I said, “Hey, man. It’s been a minute since I seen you. Where you been, man? You working this joint now?” It took a short second, but he answered back, “Andre? Yeah, man. You ain’t the only one hustlin’ in these streets. I’m chillin, you know.” “Cool, cool. You gon’ hook me up wit’ a discount, then?” “Nah, man,” he chuckled, “You trippin. I still gotta get paid.” I laughed too and pulled out three dollars from my back pocket. “All right, man. That’s it. Say hi to your mom and Lekisha for me.” I walked out the door and didn’t bother to get the change back. I heard him say something back to me as I left the building, but it was too loud to hear. That was the last time we’d exchanged words.

I saw him at the Y sometimes after that, or at the bus station. I could tell from the way that he carried himself that he was confident about himself, though not too confident. If we saw each other, we’d nod in one another’s directions, but that was it. He was always alone, minding his own business, just another familiar face in the street. He had a routine that he followed everyday, just like the rest of us, and he stayed out of trouble. But Andre’s dead now. And it wasn’t until that godless Sunday that Andre started to stick to me. Just another familiar face when he was alive, Andre is now dead. Now, he is the only face that I see in my dreams, in my thoughts, on the bus, at the Y. I can’t shake him off, and it is dead Andre that is driving me off the wall with an unfathomable guilt.

*** Andre died because of me. And that is all that I can say about Andre for now.

Andre was on the wrong end of a nameless bullet that left my careless gun. If I were to retell the events of that godless Sunday with you now, I would not be able to go on. And the feelings that I now harvest because of that Sunday are enough to understand the unavoidable result of trying to be God, on a seemingly godless Sunday.

*** It turned out that that Sunday, like several other Sundays, was a Sunday during

which lost and aimless boys, like me at the time, had tried to be men. Men with power equivalent to that of God. They were young boys scheming for the money and things and validation that came along with truancy and civil disobedience. Young boys with no goals but to gain the glory of running the streets, young boys making money off of teens, that got high for fun, and adults, that got high to leave the reality of their own lives. Young boys that hid behind the gun. They were young boys that lacked respect for the higher being that watched over them at all times, even at the times when they thought He wasn’t. And now, I’m a man on my 18th birthday, who has to live with the guilt of killing a young boy that didn’t bother doing any of those things, but just was trying to be a young boy.

Olivia Okeke, Class of 2016

(Untitled) It’s your Alma Mater sprawled across her chest and how it feel’s like we’re back to pulling pigtails “We’re just not being fair to each other.” and she’s kicking sand in your eye. Your sister's name in her mouth is like swallowing pop rocks “Marg lives close enough, you can stay with her.” her brother’s bills in your back pocket are breaking your back. The truth is Baby came in with the riots, the sharpened lead of a new beginning and the product of avoiding a creepy roommate “I feel like we’re just roommates.” like our shoes haven’t spent a lifetime lined up next to each other by the front door; of dorms, of that first crackpot apartment, of this second crackpot apartment, of your mama’s house on christmas and her grandma’s condo on easter. The truth is you know exactly who she is “It’s not that I don’t love you.” like she hasn’t whispered over pillows fresh from Target with the scent of drying paint stuck in your noses, over the center console driving, over the doormat on the third night, over the doormat on the fourth night, over the doormat on the fifth night, over the doormat on the sixth night, The truth is “We both knew this was coming.” The truth is your Alma Mater is miles away, but you thought you were closer. Brianna Winn, Class of 2016

“Unbroken”

May 27, 1943 B-24 double engine failure,

47 days at sea, 2 survivors.

“If you can take it you can make it.”

Enemy abduction, Execution island,

Starved and abused, Perseverance and courage.

“Never give up no matter what.”

Resilience through captivity, Mutsuhiro Watanabe,

dehumanizing and sadistic, injustice and deprivation.

“A moment of pain is worth a lifetime of glory.”

Unaware of national status, Thousands dead, few determined,

Truman and Pear Harbor, Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

“I was raised to face any challenge.”

May 8, 1945 American victory, 713 days in prison,

4,418 survivors. Louis Zamperini

Jackie Vancura, Class of 2016

Lauren Reisfelder, Class of 2016

The War to End All Wars

The buildings of Man stood tall and sure as monuments to the achievements of the apex species, permanently stamped into the earth. As the sun set, each towering structure cast a shadow upon the lattice of streets that sprawled across the landscape. The shadowy tendrils stretched from the looming buildings, creeping ever so slowly towards the opposing horizon, running from the sun as it sank below the hills in the distance. The sun set, the shadows melded together, and the world of Man was thrust into darkness. Man went about his work, collectively building and expanding, stretching further into the world. Out of the mountains, monuments were carved, hills and valleys were flattened and made suitable for settlement. Nature was tamed, brought down from its crude form and twisted into something more perfect. None existed who could question the position of Man, for he had the monuments, the towers, the history of conquest that proved his greatness. He had conquered the land, the seas, the air, even the heavens. Man scoffed at nature from his metallic spires and never once questioned the possibility of death. Yet despite all of his brilliance, Man, the product of billions of years of evolution, was wrenched from his throne and cast into the wind. It was the doing of none other but himself, making him all the more deserving of his ill fated end. He fought amongst himself in the final war, brother pitted against brother, and toyed with viral experiments in an attempt to snuff out his opposition. He won, and lost. Brilliance came at a cost —a horrifically inescapable mistake whose gravity even he, with all of his brilliance, could not reverse. Riots erupted in the cities, fires engulfed the monuments, and the intricate streets, the bindings of the civilization of Man, became littered with debris. All at once, Man fell from grace, turning on himself as all of civilization rotted from within. As the cities and towns burned black in the fires, Man succumbed to the viruses. Within but a year, Man breathed his last breath: the apex species had died off. In the years following the extinction of Man, the ecosystems of the planet drifted slowly back into the land that was once taken from them. The plants grew recklessly. Ungroomed and unkempt, they spread into every crevice, any bare spot of soil. Vines crept upward, weaving themselves along the outsides of buildings and stretching upwards to catch as much sunlight as possible. Pests of all kinds proliferated, carving out monumental nests in the abandoned buildings and feeding on the storehouses of what Man had left behind. Predatory birds nested on the highest ledges of the towers, completely at home in the open spaces and looming structures. Packs of coyotes and feral canines roamed freely in the streets with a new sense of confidence, hunting the deer that fed on the scattered vegetation. No order existed in the world but the natural order. Every second of existence was fought for with ferocity. After countless centuries, the grand monuments, blackened by the fires of riots, crumbled and fell just as Man had. His wooden structures rotted quickly as fungi, molds, and insects seized entire houses. Building floors sagged, only to crack and give out under tension. Walls collapsed after years of wear from the wind and rain. The buildings leveled themselves over time and the new inhabitants of the cities relocated themselves, finding shelter and food in the forests that crept over the land. Bridges sank into the water beneath them after shattering under tension. Steel rebar, concrete, and synthetic materials lay scattered across the roads. Time wore the cities, towns, and roads down until they

were mere piles of incoherent debris. Even these piles, the only remnants of what was the world of Man, were broken down with time, rusted and pulverized only to be washed away into the soil in the torrents of rain. So it was that Man, and all that he had left on the planet, was wiped away for good, never to return again. Innumerable millennia came and went in the timeless, evolving state of the Earth. Colossal thunderstorms swept across the face of the planet, sparking forest fires, flooding the land, and eroding soil. Earthquakes tore up the earth and shook the seas, sending waves crashing into the mainland. In the midst of the devastation, nature shifted and adapted to the changing of the world, going about its business and evolving. Life on the planet had returned to what it was before, it had regressed into the past with just a memory of what was the era of Man and all that he had been. The world existed in a stagnant state of ruin as weather wore upon the land with brutal impartiality as it had before Man had come to power. It was as it had always been.

The sun rose as it did each morning, spilling its golden rays across plains that stretched to the tree-lined horizons. Great and majestic horned beasts roamed the plains in stampeding hordes. Songbirds flitted gleefully about from tree to scattered tree, filling the air with their beautiful calls. Insects built intricate latticework hives beneath the soil. Sunlight filtered through the trees and scattered in the dewdrops caught by woven spider-webs. The grass swayed in ripples across the plain as cool breezes swept over the landscape. The air was alive and warm, the clouds stretched upwards in great plumes of vapor. Everything was peaceful. It was as it had always been.

Off in the distance, beyond the horizon, a creature crawled out into the open, breathing in the new morning. It smiled upon the sight of the forest stretching onward, the canopy reflecting a luscious, healthy green. Lifting itself up, it stood upright and walked to a fallen tree close by, charred from storms of the previous night. Glowing embers still resided in the hollow of the tree.

The creature stood mere steps from where Man once was. The two stood together, so close in space, yet separated almost indefinitely by the eons. With destinies soon converging, they both cast their gaze upon the same fallen tree, the same ember sparkled in their eyes, the same potential lay ahead of them in time. Man toyed with the embers, brought fire to life, turned his back to nature, and quickly illuminated darknesses too grave to comprehend or forget. In a separate time, the new creature, unlike Man before him, turned his back on the embers. Without so much as a thought He avoided the hatred, the viruses, the blackening fires: the burden of brilliance. He joined nature, forever admiring its complex beauty. In this time, the time after Man, nature was one, perfectly and eternally unified. Jon Peterson, Class of 2016

But She Can She cannot grow, But she can grow up She is meant to be looked at, But can never look up She looks in the mirror, But her reflection does not reflect her power, She shouts and is silenced, He shouts and they say “speak louder” She is told to act, But cannot be

She cannot be strong, But cannot be weak. She squints at her future And she knows it’s bright The beautiful night has shown no plight She walks through valleys, But her valleys are green She knows one day she will reach her blue peak. Deborah Getachew, Class of 2017

Elese Gaydos, Class of 2016

Like a Girl

I play like a girl, I hit like a girl You say I throw like a girl,

And, when I run -- I run like a girl! All that plus more

Who and what I want, comes from being strong

Classy and sophisticated, I'm female empowering

I've been told, cut to normal size A world dark and gray, when life becomes a bully

Take cover when I speak my mind, I am tough, outstanding and beautiful

I am a caregiver, a female who won't give up the fight

I remain strong and believe all women have equal rights I walk and talk like a girl

And wear heels, clacking on the glass floor

I stand tall like the Statue of Liberty I am Hillary overwhelmed with determination

I am a leader, the Goddess of Strength I am Janaris, with a heart big and great

You imagine I am weak, not strong enough, brave enough,

You call me different! My Self confidence comes from who I am deep down

At the end of the day, I have one other thing to say

The next time you ask me to cook and clean Because you think, I belong in the kitchen

You better believe I'm doing it my way Like a girl

Janairis Torres, Class of 2016

A Child’s Paradise

My childhood summers were filled with bright and mellow days, ones spent racing down the darkly paved streets with dirty knees beside the neighborhood children whom I have known since my earliest memories. Hours of these timeless days were spent bathing in the summer’s heat, and so our most comfortable home came to be the shady strip of woods lining the outskirts of my backyard. We found refuge from the rest of the world in this small shred of land we claimed as our own, and it became our personal paradise that we had the privilege of watching over and exploring. These woods, our prized possession, is the place in which I grew up. As a child, the thin cluster of trees was seen as remarkable beauty in my inexperienced eyes, and it taught me to appreciate the simple but hidden beauty of the world. This place of freedom was the blank canvas in which we found ourselves, developing a sense of belonging to the simple place in which I turned to not only for gratification, but for security as well. This small patch of woods has come to be one of my most beautiful encounters with nature. The trees that lurk on the edge of the grove perch themselves in the fecund soil of my mother’s garden, hovering over and casting arching shadows across the coarse grass. Sunshine seeps through the dangling leaves, pouring itself through the branches lined with crisp bark and dripping sunlight into glazing puddles that splotch the earthy ground. An opening gapes in the front of the woods, exposing a dirt path that weaves between the trees and slowly widens to reveal a clearing. Here, the low branches that swing and lace together like entwining fingers dim the summer’s heat and emit soft green shadows that bounce off the surrounding trunks. Leaves, crisp and curling at the edges, scatter the edges of the glade, compressed in damp clumps due to winter’s ruthless pounding of snow. When I breathe in deeply, the taste of the sweet June air lingers on my tongue, sending a rushing flavor of clarity. Gusts of wind fill the leaves that brush the clouds, bending the trees’ lengthy structures and whistling softly the placid sound of rustling treetops, the woods’ deep exhale into the great abyss of a sky. In the center of the clearing, a single stump rests idly. When I run my fingers along its bark, I find it’s once sharply cut rim now to be smooth and rounded to the touch, worn down by years of children sitting to unwind and take in the elegance and protection of the small canopy. The scent of pines needles and sap wafts through the air, and along with the familiar smell of bark these fragrances fill my lungs with the refreshing sensation of spring. Ancient, but alive, this small place was ideal for such young and impressionable children to inhabit on such lazy summer days. One day in particular significantly influenced my outlook on life and molded the person who I am today. Years ago, late into a summer’s evening, my friends and I were playing in the woods, darting around and kicking up puffs of dust as our blackened feet skidded across the dirt clearing. Laughing and beaming, we twisted among the trees, pushing each other playfully while throwing the bony sticks we called spears. Gradually, the sound of pounding feet lightened as the energy among the group started to fade: one by one, each child came to rest at the feet of an old oak tree. Immense in size, we craned our necks to follow the formidable figure that stretched far into the sky. Many of the children shuffled their feet uncomfortably, tense in front of such an impressive structure; although, as I gazed upon its size, I came to only view it as a challenge. I had climbed many trees, trees worth admiring, and I was particularly known for climbing such

massive ones in the neighborhood. With a title to live up to and pure curiosity of my skill, a sudden determination surged from deep inside my chest. Confidently grasping the first sturdy branch in my reach, I lifted my body into the tree and started my ascend upward. Branch after branch, with my knees practically hugging the bough, I scaled further, and soon the once thick limbs became thin and brittle branches. Panicked warnings were shouted from far below, too far to hear, but it did not matter anyway. The top was in view, and nothing could stop the steady rhythm of my arms reaching and pulling to push my body further into the sky. The now narrow tree swayed dangerously as I finally sat myself on the very last branch, locking my legs around the frail arm to secure my position. Finally comfortable, I looked out from the tree and gasped. Outstretched before me was a vast sky, stained with countless shades of orange and red. I could look over our small clearing shielded by a thin layer of trees, a small but beautiful paradise in comparison to the cracked school parking lot and the network of houses that surrounded it. I was struck by its wonderful beauty, and alone at the top of the tree I felt pure. I was my true self, for I was so high above everything that nothing seemed mattered. There were no concerns, no worries, and no titles to prove. All I had was what was in front of me, for I was alone with only my admiration of the nature, the great world that I now saw in a different light. I was incorporated into the stillness of the scene, the simplicity of it, and I felt truly connected with the world.

Climbing down from the tree, I realized that this little place in the woods was not only a retreat from the real world and its burdening responsibilities, but it was also an escape to witness something beautiful. My breathtaking view from tree unveiled the sense of belonging I possess within this grove. Here, I spent my long summer days unbound from the stress of the world and encountering the taste of pure freedom, but it is not simply where my childhood blossomed. It is also the place that gave me a more sophisticated appreciation for the natural world, an appreciation that impacts my life even today. I still find myself going to this small clearing to experience the stillness that makes me feel truly myself, allowing its simple beauty help me discover even more about my identity and the world around me. Bridget Rodig, Class of 2019

Reflect

React. Retreat. Repeat. Who is that looking back at me?

Retrace. Respond. Reflect. It’s a little girl that I see

Her eyes are green, Her clothes are pink,

She looks a lot like me, I think.

Retest. Retry. Repeat. So many different things to do

Redo. React. Reflect. As I become I don’t know who

She loves to draw, She likes her toys,

She makes an awful lot of noise.

Rekick. Reshoot. Replay. I run so fast, I jump so high

Rebound. Retry. Reflect. With my team I’m no longer shy.

She loves her teacher, She likes her school,

She thinks her friends are pretty cool.

React. Retreat. Repeat. A bigger school, a lot of friends

Retry. Review. Relearn. I pay attention to the trends.

She goes to class, She reads her books,

She starts to grow into her looks.

Research. Rewrite. Redo. I work, I play, I make my art.

Restart. Reverse. Reflect. In the end, I’m pretty smart.

She has a car, She learns to drive,

And through it all she starts to thrive.

Relive. Remember. Reflect. Through the days, weeks and years

Restart. Remake. Reflect. There’s been laughter, smiles and tears.

But as she looks Most of all the things I see

Are the things that make up me.

Emily Keith, Class of 2016

Isabelle Xu, Class of 2016

“Thud”

Three days of walking and still no sign of any civilization, he thought to himself. The man couldn’t remember how he’d arrived in this densely packed jungle, or frankly how long he’d been lost in it. The only reasonable idea he had left was to keep walking. Just as night fell, the man’s perseverance began to decline drastically. There’s no way I’ll survive in this godforsaken place, he kept repeating over in his mind like a broken record player. Right before the man lost all hope, he came to a clearing in the jungle. Fifty yards away the man spotted an old monastery. The eroding limestone and immense amount of vines crawling up the sides made it seem as if the place had been abandoned long ago. What an odd place to have a monastery, the man pondered. At first he was quite skeptical, but what other choice did he have so he entered.

As he opened the tattered door and peered inside, he was astounded about how well kept it was. Candles were lit around the room and a beautiful stained glass picture was illuminated by the setting sun. As he took his first step into the structure, he was greeted by a welcoming monk who looked as if he had been living there for quite a long time. The man explained his predicament and the monk offered the man food, water, and a bed to sleep in for as long as he needed.

“You’re very kind,” the man said. “But if you don’t mind, I’m going to get some rest, I’ve gotten little sleep.”

The monk nodded in compliance and led him to his room. As soon as the man’s head hit the pillow, he was out cold. A few hours later, the man awoke by a banging in the room next to him. He tried ignoring it, but all he could hear was a repeating “thud” from that room. What could that be? the man thought. Is it some animal locked up? Or something worse? After a long night with little sleep, the sun finally arose. At breakfast, the man questioned the monk,

“What was that banging last night?” the man asked, The monk replied, “I can’t tell you, you’re not a monk.” “Fair enough,” the man said, thinking not much of it.

The next night, the man heard the “thud” again and couldn’t shut the noise out. It was as if someone was wailing on a drum inside his head. The morning after, the man questioned the monk again and the monk replied with the same answer, “I can’t tell you, you’re not a monk.” After the third night the man had had enough. He couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t relax, he couldn’t stop thinking about that noise. The man asked one more time, “What is that noise! I’m losing my mind?” “I can’t tell you, you’re not a monk,” the monk said calmly. “Then how do I become a monk?” the man said in frustration. “I need to know what is making this vile sound.” “Very well,” the monk answered. “First, you must bring me a flower from the top of Mt. Everest, next you must retrieve an icicle from the North Pole, and finally, you must bring me a cactus from the center of the Sahara Desert.” “Fine I will do as you ask,” the man agreed, not realizing the severity of his task. Fifteen years passed until the man finally completed his journey. Everyday that he was gone, the man could still hear the “thud” from that room in the monastery.

The man returned to the monastery and found the monk again, who looked as if he didn’t age a day. “Here” the man said in exhaustion. “I got everything you asked for, the flower, the icicle, and the cactus. Can I please find out what’s making that sound?” “Very well, follow me,” the monk said softly. The monk led the man down the corridor and stopped in front of a big wooden door. “Through this door, you will find what you seek” the monk said and handed the man a ring a keys, each of different shapes and sizes. The man nodded and inserted the key into the keyhole. He turned the lock slowly and pulled open the heavy oak wood door. In front of him was to his surprise yet another door, only this time it was made out of pure steel. He opened that door as well only to find another door made out of bronze. What’s up with all these doors? the man thought why is the source of the sound such a big secret? He opened the bronze door as well, only to find yet again another door, this one made out of ruby. Okay this is getting very weird, the man questioned. He could hear the thud getting louder and louder as he opened a door made out of silver, and then gold. Finally he arrived to the final door. This door was different. It was twice the size of any door so far and made purely out of diamond. The “thud” was louder than it had ever been before, to the point where it was painful hear. The man hesitated before he opened it. Do I really want to know what this sound is? he questioned. Whatever it is, it must not be very safe if it has to be kept behind so many doors. Is finding out this sound really worth my safety? Finally, the man couldn’t take it anymore. The shear sound of it was driving him insane. He threw open the door looking for a way to end this insufferable noise. He gazed down only to find a… I’m sorry, I can’t tell you, you’re not a monk. Luke McIntyre, Class of 2016

Michael Tian, Class of 2016

The Twists and Turns of a Maze

If you can hold your head up When others are preparing you to jump

Words can hurt, Just one word that someone blurts.

If you can trust yourself, believe in yourself When no one else does

Listen: life is not always perfect

Life is like a maze First a left then a right

Here’s the start, where’s the end? You never know where the finish line is But in one moment our lives could crash

One way you’ll be flying

One way you’ll be dreaming Stop signs are as common as decision-making

Some might have more stops than others The twists and turns we make

Which way is right, which way is wrong?

Make a mistaken move there must be a dead end Mazes have multiple ends

Ends are like limits, the limits of life Every exit, advances to an entrance

Just another puzzle That everyone has to juggle

Little bit of advice?

Just remember this quote: “With every beginning, There must be an end”

We have our own bodies to control us

Tell us when to go left when to go right Our beautiful bodies let us speak Even sometimes when their weak

Let’s stand up for ourselves

What we decide, What actions we take

What attitudes we display All represent the ways of life,

The maze.

Lauren Prifti, Class of 2016

I’ll Just Watch

I’ll stand next to you, while you get the award,

I’ll watch and clap, and wait for you to get bored.

You can take as long as you please, because I wouldn’t leave without you,

in fear of unease.

I’ll watch them come to you, and I’ll wait for you next door.

I’ll smile like a statue, and maybe then, they’ll see more.

I can stand in the shadow of you,

at least I know that will keep me safe, because without you,

there really isn’t much of me to take.

I’d rather have it the other way, but it’s hard to judge from what I’ve

seen. Walking like a bunch of sticks,

people can be so naive.

You could have all day to wait, and I’d wait the whole time too,

and if I didn’t, I wouldn’t really know what else to do.

I don’t want to start something,

that I know I can’t end, but by having you in front of me first, at least I can pretend like I can fend.

It’s scary to think,

of a world all on my own, with no one to pick the healthy foods,

and be the one, to throw the stone.

I can wait,

for as long as it takes, without wanting to get involved,

to avoid any mistakes.

You can be the one to get the big award, I can be the one to watch,

and pretend like I’m the one that scored.

Leah Nocera, Class of 2016

Isabelle Xu, Class of 2016

Minot Beach

Crisp salty air engulfs my lungs Sandy streets, seagulls eat

the squawking seagulls all soar high powerful, beaming heat

A surge of warmth runs down my spine

Soft sand flies, on my face The beams of light oversee me

just a marvelous place

I run towards the calling water. The wind whirls everywhere

Leaping through the mouth of a wave not a thing can compare

I float on top of the crisp blue,

Weightless upon the sea, as numerous fish swim below

placidness engulfs me

The everlasting waves roar deep Free from gravity here

as the waves become ominous all my thoughts disappear

The tiny lighthouse in the distance

rings loud as boats draw near Waves roaring as loud as lions

the wondrous crystal clear

A quaint ice cream truck comes along distinct coldness in reach

deliciousness melts down my throat only on Minot Beach

Painting a picture of colors

lowering sun sinks deep the breathtaking view surrounds me

the sun begins to sleep

Pinks, purples, oranges and blues All that’s seen is tie-dye

filled with happiness and joy is my family and I

Nora Lally, Class of 2019

Dowses Beach

The waves are things that never change their rhythm always stays the same

back and forth they gently sway as they protect the rocky bay

The small waves tumble on the shore

Crashing with a foamy roar The ocean’s edge laps at the sand

Bumping into newfound land

The rolling sea is infinite The horizon endless, curved and crisp

The bitter salt makes muddy murk A home for crabs and fish to lurk

The buoys merrily bob about

For they keep boats upon their routes They swiftly slice across the waves

And carelessly let cold sea spray

The sky is blue, without a cloud the powerful sun up high beats down

A glowing bronze disc perfectly round with rays of warmth aimed at the ground

The grass is vast and crispy green and swishing happily in the breeze

Full of blooms bright gold and cream and bordering every edge and crease

The breeze is calm and salty sweet

Its briny air wafts from the sea It lifts the sand up gracefully

And flows across the powdered beach

The sand holds all its precious gems The shells a gift the ocean sends

And painted with bright sunset hues The rocks a smooth and shiny blue

The seagulls kings of sky and land They own the tourists on the sand They circle high and trumpet out Patrol for food, but keep a scout

The waves are things that never change

their rhythm always stays the same back and forth they gently sway

as they protect the rocky bay

Hannah Shaby, Class of 2019

“Pumping Gas”

“Get out of the car.” I shoot a confused look at my sister. Why exactly should I be getting out of the

car in the freezing cold? “Hurry up and fill the tank, we’re going to be late,” she orders.

Various objections immediately flood into my head – but the look on Erin’s face makes it clear that this is one argument I won’t win. She hands me twenty dollars, and I reluctantly exit the car.

I have no idea what to do. This is not a problem I should already have to deal with. Nobody has ever told me

anything about this and how it works. I walk into the shop and approach a cashier with disheveled hair and a nametag that says Reggie. I wonder when Reggie learned how to pump gas.

“What pump?” He asks in a hollow voice. I freeze. What pump? I feel my face turn red. Reggie looks at me dully, and raises

an eyebrow. “I—uh, well I— I’m not really sure…I’ll go check.” I run outside and see our car

at Pump 6. I inform Reggie, who takes my money, unimpressed with my triumphant

discovery. I stand there, waiting for him to say something else. “Next.” My face begins to heat up again, and I awkwardly shuffle outside to Pump 6. I

look at the screen, which tells me to select my fuel type. Why are there three different types of fuel? What are the advantages and

disadvantages of each one? Shouldn’t there be some kind of informational diagram for this? I knock on my sister’s window. She rolls her eyes and mouths “regular”. Okay. I start to fill up the tank, shivering as I wait, and realize I don’t know when to stop. Fortunately, just as I begin to worry that the tank might overflow, the gas stops on its own. Thank god it is not going to overflow.

I did it. I return to the car and sit down, satisfied. “Did you turn the cap until it clicked?” Erin asks. Without a word, I jump out of

the car. I twist the gas cap until I hear a click. This time, I’m sure I did it. My sister doesn’t even acknowledge what I see as a great accomplishment and

drives out of the gas station. She sees this as a simple chore, and although it may seem meaningless, I’m proud of my accomplishment. I was always comfortable with the safety and simplicity of my life, the lack of accountability. Growing up has always been very scary for me, the idea of having new responsibilities and problems, of facing real consequences that could impact the rest of my life. Sometimes it became too much for me. And while I may have stumbled through this particular endeavor, I am confident that the next time I pump gas, it may not seem so formidable. Maybe everyone starts off as clueless as I am; it’s just a matter of trying. Maybe I don’t need an instruction guide for adulthood. After all, if I can fill up a gas tank on my own, who’s to say I can’t do more?

* * *

Over a year later, I can hardly believe that getting gas seemed so daunting - that it made my stomach drop, my heart race. So many things that I had associated with maturity and adulthood - pumping gas, having my own bank account, even scheduling my own dentist appointments - are suddenly agonizingly familiar, boring even. Even the things that I have yet to learn, like doing my taxes or grilling a steak, don’t seem so intimidating - because even if I struggle through the learning process, I know that failure does not have to be permanent.

I’m in the car with my younger sister. We are running late, as usual, because Julia’s hair needed to be perfectly straight, her make up just right, before we walked through the terrifying halls of Westwood High School. Unfortunately, we are dangerously close to an empty gas tank. My older sister, Erin, had promised to fill the tank before she returned to college, but obviously she had forgotten. I pull up next to a pump at the nearest gas station, and shudder at the thought of stepping out into the frozen January morning. I no longer think anything of pumping the gas, instead just hoping to avoid going outside. I look over at my sister – who, in turn, glares at me, groaning that she is going to be late – and in a moment of impulse, I reach across the seat and open her car door.

“Get out of the car.” John Clancy, Class of 2016

The Minuscule Little Treehouse

The tall towering oak trees, that bend over so far.

The emerald slide, that is so wide, the stairs that reach the stars.

The feel of the fresh breeze, that brushes past my ears.

A whoosh, from the howling wind, for only me to hear.

The lilac swings, a friend it brings,

for there is nothing to fear. The robins chirp, my brothers burp,

the summer breeze is near.

Small, little, and beaten down, welcoming me with a hug.

Full of memories big and small that is so very snug.

The chocolate brown tree house,

fragile as it holds. The harsh touch of the pecan wood,

crumbles because it’s old.

I taste the dry summer breeze, the spacious royal blue sky.

Where all the birds go to soar, that fly exceptionally high.

The jungle gym is full of joy, the treehouse is where I smile.

The monkey bars, where I would climb, and where I would play a while.

The buzzing of the bouncing bee

the aroma of the lawn. The bunnies hop, the leaves stop,

the sun is almost gone.

The small, little, miniature treehouse, standing in the midst.

The sun will soon start to finish, the treehouse will blow me a kiss.

Olivia Vella, Class of 2019

Isabelle Xu, Class of 2016

“The Champ” I remember having this book in my house called “Nate the Great” when I was younger. I actually never read it, but my parents, my siblings and I always called him Nate the Great. I mean, he surely is great. He’s probably the most remarkable person I’ve ever met in my entire life, and I’ve met so many people. A tall and good-looking kid, Nate is friends with everyone he’s ever met and never has had an enemy in his entire life. He’s the definition of endurance, kindness, hard work, leadership, intelligence and humor. Nate played baseball his whole life. His favorite place in the world was always on the mound earning K after K with a screaming two-seam fastball or a diving splitter (his index and middle finger on his right hand are even still overly spaced due to his pitches). I was never that good of a baseball player, but the few times I faced my brother at the plate when I played ended up with 3 consecutive strikes and a seat on the bench. You would walk up to the plate, see his piercing eyes just peeking under his low-set baseball cap and know you weren’t going to reach first base. Nate was probably the best pitcher I ever faced. Around the time I officially retired my baseball glove and picked up a lacrosse stick, Nate was in his prime. Playing for the Norwood Junior Legion baseball team, he lead his teammates to a state title. I picked to go to the games where Nate would be pitching. My favorite part of those games would be when they’d bring out Nate as the closing pitcher and seeing him walk to the mound with nothing but sheer determination, skill and raw athleticism. The rest of the game would end quickly because Nate would strike out almost every batter he faced. The most memorable of those games was when Nate pitched a shutout and had a special talk with the president of the Cape Cod Baseball League, one of the country’s premier leagues for major league prospects. I remember seeing 16 year old Nate being greeted by a random man who had been watching and seeing him walk away with an ear to ear smile. He told me who the man was and that he was interested in him playing in the league the next summer. I was in straight awe after hearing this. I always knew Nate was good, but not potential major leaguer good. But within a month, all of that changed. On September 12th, 2012, Nate suffered a career-ending stroke that ruined his movement in the right side of his body. That day, he had been at a practice for a fall baseball team and passed out after batting practice only to be revived through CPR by my dad. After this, he was rushed to Norwood hospital, but was in a state that the hospital couldn’t diagnose, so he was then moved to Children’s Hospital in Boston to be diagnosed with a stroke that came from a growing blood clot in the left side of his brain. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget that day. Nate had been 9 days into his first junior year at Westwood High School as a new student. The week prior, he had missed a few days of school due to heavy sickness. On the day of the stroke, he had his first practice for the fall team. My mom had advised him to stay home, but Nate was eager to get back on the field and practice for the upcoming season. I remember being in the living room and seeing my dad pull into my driveway to pick him up and stopping him at the door to say, “Go kick some ass out there, bud.” I had no idea that I would never lay my eyes on the same person who had been my mentor, my partner-in-crime and my best friend for 15 years.

When I heard about what happened, I wasn’t too worried about it because, like almost every one of Nate’s friends, I had no idea what a stroke really was. I thought it was just a minor setback for him and he’d be throwing baseballs over 80 mph again in a few weeks. It wasn’t until I walked into his room at Children’s where I’d see the damage a stroke can do to a person. I remember walking in 2 days after the incident and seeing a completely different person lying in a bed with eyes fully open staring into mine. Time froze. Those few seconds before I was shooed out by hospital staff and my mother (due to hospital protocol) felt like an hour. I felt like my world changed almost as much as his did. When I was out of the room, I was slipping into hysteria, frantically crying in the hallways with my dad next to me. When I settled myself and was allowed in the room, I walked in and saw Nate looking like he hadn’t eaten in months (the stroke itself made him lose around 30 lbs in those few days) and completely immobile and speechless, but in full conscience. I tried talking to him, only able to get an “ugh” as a response for things. When I started to choke up again, Nate moved his working hand in the motion of a hug and I fell on top of him wetting his robe with tears. You could tell by looking at him that he was crying on the inside, but couldn’t produce any emotion on the outside. I was eventually pulled off by my dad into his embrace, soaking in his tears into my shoulder. That was hands down the worst thing I ever had to go through. Within weeks, Nate had showed more movement and speech progression than any other victim of a stroke of that caliber. I would come every day after football practice to visit him and even noticed his progression by the day. He worked all day, every day as hard as he could to gain more dexterity in the right side of his body. He was put through intense physical, speech and mental therapy to try to bring himself back to the Nate we all knew and loved. The work ethic put in was phenomenal and there was nothing but steps in the right direction from then on, figuratively and literally. When Nate was able to walk on his own, he joined an adaptive program for rowing crew at a place in Newton where he’d go a few times a week. At first, he managed to row with one hand, but eventually gained the dexterity to be able to row properly. The more he rowed, the more he fell in love with it. Even though half of his body was barely working and he could speak only in broken sentences, he never wanted to step away from the rowing machine or get off the boat. Though Nate was never able to throw a baseball the way he used to, round the clock therapy and rowing brought him to a stable and almost perfectly normal condition. He put all of his time into getting his dexterity back and being able to beat his times on the rowing machine. Even when he was only a few weeks out of Spaulding (his rehabilitation center) and still had little rowing experience, he was invited to an adaptive event and finished first place amongst many other competitors in his division. Rowing had become his new pitching. Nate started school again a year after his stroke in September of 2013 at the school he left to go to Westwood High School as a second-year junior. He had been removed from the adaptive program and was placed on the premier team of the rowing academy he had been attending. Still doing nothing but work, Nate progressed to join an even better rowing team to row in international competitions with some of New England’s best rowers. His rowing times kept getting smaller and smaller at the same pace he had gotten his right side back with the work he put in.

Nate continued on to commit to Franklin and Marshall’s rowing team his senior year. He graduated with flying colors and is currently a freshman at F&M. This year, he has made the decision to redshirt so he will be able to row an extra year at Duke University, his dream school, when he goes to pursue his master’s degree. Nate’s comeback has always been a motivator in my life. I always think about what he went through whenever I’m going through a tough time and want to give up. He is by far the greatest athlete I’ve ever met and his story will always be an inspiration to so many people. Christian Cappuccino, Class of 2016

Isabelle Xu, Class of 2016

My Paradise

The trees that crawl out of the grove, They twist and twine their spines.

Their fingers grope the bright blue sky, And dip in sunlight’s shine.

These woods that perch upon the yard,

And bend and sway with ease, cast arching shades across the grass,

That dance along the breeze.

The sunlight seeps between the leaves, And slips right down its limbs,

It pools in glazing puddles bright, Igniting what once so dim.

The leaves that curl like cupping hands,

And splotch the glade’s dirt edge, Compress in clumps, now damp like paste,

Our grove’s own very hedge.

The gusts of wind that fill the leaves, unfold their lengths like sails,

The blades are laced with angel’s silk, Their beauty still prevails.

A stump’s old rim now worn to touch,

Its bark is smooth and dull, From sitting on the log’s snug seat

As children take a lull.

The waft of pine and sap unveils, When strolling through the glade.

It sends the scent of spring’s sweet air, A smell beginning to fade.

The woods becomes alive with life,

Birds chirp and flirt about, They flutter through entwining branches

And blossoms beginning to sprout.

The trees that cloak this living grove, And emit the soft green lights,

And like a dome it bounds this place, Enclosing a world so bright.

Bridget Rodig, Class of 2019

Printer

I tapped the printer with my pointer finger, praying for it to work. Once again, it sputtered and whirred as if it was going to spit something out, but nothing happened. I hated this old printer. I hated this old office. I tapped the machine again, slightly harder, with my pointer finger; a low grumble was all it got me. Everyone from the maintenance crew to the manager were ignoring my pages, those assholes. I was left to deal with this beige box, and the cacophony of sounds it produced by myself. I had been fiddling with the printer for an hour in vain - not that I had anything better to do. Maybe fill out a spreadsheet or answer a phone, but nothing really. Working here sucked the purpose out of life, why did I even take this job? That was ridiculous, I knew exactly why I took this job - I took it because she suggested it. The printer made another noise. I gave it a little bump with my fist, and to my dismay, it silenced without producing any result. I hated this office. I turned it off for what must have been the fifth time. I waited for all the little lights to turn out, and looked over to the cubicles. I stared blankly at the gray walls, which were as bleak and lifeless as the people who spent their days in them. The people who had long ago melted into the walls and ceiling tiles, becoming a piece of the office itself. After a minute, I hit the power button again. It grumbled like an animal waking up, but produced no result. I sighed and tried to think back to what she told me to do when the printer got like this, she turned it off and turned it on, exactly what I did. It had been my first day, and her perfectly manicured, slender hands had hit the same as I just did, except when she tried it, perfectly printed, colored copies had poured out. Even demonic, prehistoric technology loves her. She didn't even think anything of it as she handed me the copies I had tried to print in a neat pile. ¨It is so great to see a friendly face, I'm so glad you are here!¨ she had said with a smile brighter than the sun.

All I could do was smile. I was happy to be there too. I was happy to be able to see her face and smell her perfume and hear her voice. I was willing to give up all the other colors in my life to see her blue eyes, and pink cheeks, and flowered dresses. I just wanted to tell her, but I couldn´t. Why couldn't she just feel the same way? It killed me to see her, but I could not look away.

Anger built up inside me, and I hit the printer again. My foot swung back and kicked leg of the printer´s table. The leg snapped and the table lurched forwards, dumping its contents in every which way. The whirlwind of office supplies could only be compared to Niagara Falls. Paper spiraled like a tornado down the hallway. Thumbtacks and staples pelted the floor like hale, sticking into the gray carpet in some places. The three-hole punch and the stapler crashed to the ground like meteorites. The only thing that stayed was the printer, glued to it´s same location on the uneven surface. I looked at the mess I made, and looked up at the cubicle, I saw a slender figure in a flowered dress walking over. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders and shimmered down her back. A sprinkle of freckles dotted her nose. She walked like her feet didn't touch the ground. She was a beacon of light against the plain walls.

¨Oh my gosh, what happened?¨ She laughed, ¨You aren´t still here from when you went to get me my summary?¨

I looked up with her, ¨yeah,¨ I looked down at the mess, ¨maintenance was held up, I was waiting.¨ I felt her stare, and the pounding in my foot, and the thumping of my heart in my ears.

¨Are you all right?¨ her voice sang. ¨Yeah,¨ I said meeting her eyes, ¨I am absolutely fine.¨

Madie Mackey, Class of 2016

Emily Keith, Class of 2016

Children’s Hospital Children’s Hospital is not a hospital. It is a fear, a friend, a deathbed, hope, and a home to victims and heroes. I was born with a cleft lip and palate. I’ve encountered pain beyond belief, and sympathy towards myself and towards others, followed by tears of both sorrow and joy. To most people there is a sense of fear at the Hospital but to me it is a sense of home, because I feel as though I belong. I do not have to worry about what people think about me there because their own problems are far worse. It makes me both happy and crestfallen to know that I am not the only one in the world going through a tough time. Because in Westwood very few people are going through REALLY tough times. Where as at the hospital I am surrounded by people with one goal survive and get better. The hospital stands by these children until they are okay which is why when I see the hospital and see the “H” at the front of it I believe it stands for Hope. I was born with a cleft lip and palate. Maybe it was because my mom smoked when she was pregnant with me or maybe it was because god wanted me to have the most glorious gift known to man, empathy. Whenever I had a surgery people would often times come into my depressed hospital room where I would dwell for a few days or weeks and feel sorry for me. That was just ironic because I felt sorry for them. They were unable to open there eyes and see that I was going to be okay and realize that the child in the room next to mine very well could have been experiencing his final hours, while I was just unable to eat solid food. Nevermind that all the pain I was suffering through both mentally and physically was only going to help me. Kenji Miyazawa once said, “We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey.” These surgeries became a part of me so I just embraced my situation and learn from it. These countless visits to the hospital allowed me to appreciate what I had been so blessed to have.

I will not forget the doctors who helped me and my family through rough times like Dr. Malkin, who changed the whole surgery process around the world for cleft lips to allow children not only to eat but to live, he helped my family a lot when I was young. Dr. Licameli is a large reason that I am not deaf and can do things that are a part of everyday life like listen to the tranquil tone of birds and music. We now go on family vacations with the Licameli family as we discovered they live down the road from our house. These doctors are true heroes; they work towards saving things as precious as lives. The hospital always reminds me that everyone is either going through something or knows of someone else who has a problem sometimes even a battle against the insidious horrors of cancer. These children face formidable diseases and know they have an eminent chance to defeat their opponent with the help of this hospital and the doctors in it.

I remember when it was decided for me to have a surgery, which required a bone in my hip to be removed (as it would eventually heal) and placed on the front of my mouth where I was born without a bone. This meant I would be unable to walk, play, throw and catch, jog, and eat regular foods for two months. It was scheduled for the ending of June about a week after school got out. When I first heard this news in February of that year I stormed out of the room towards the lobby thinking about how I would be unable to play football and baseball for a whole two months. When I entered the lobby I saw a boy who could not ever play sports or eat food without the help of someone or even do anything without the help of someone he was in a wheelchair and

was very clearly confused by all of the energy surrounding him. He made me look around and realize I was the luckiest child in that lobby and it felt good. Later that day I went back to school just in time for recess to find two of my classmates arguing over who got to play with the kick ball, explaining that they would be so deprived of something if they did not get what they want; however this made me realize that the only thing that they were deprived of was indifference. That’s what made me realize my gift.

My gift was that I could see the good in bad situations. I was able to remember that someone else out in the world is in a worse situation than I was. Most people just focus on how tough their own hardships are. I have taken advantage of my gift by seeing the good in bad situations, having more patience for people who have trouble mentally, and I also do charity walks to both raise awareness and money for Foundations for Faces which helps children with cleft lips, but the most important thing I do with my gift is remember that some people can be going through a really tough time and I might not even know about it so it is best to treat everyone kindly. Children's Hospital made me feel welcome and at home so I want other kids to feel the same way and exit that building confidently. John McKinnon, Class of 2018

Emily Keith, Class of 2016