Spring 2014

The DrumlinDexTer SouThfielD School

DEXTER SOUTHFIELD SCHOOLMAGAZINE OF THE ARTS

THE DRUMLINSPRING 2014

VOLUME FOUR

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EDITORSGeorge BaldiniColby Chase

Kayla GhantousMichael Rabinovich

Olivia Stenger

FACULTY ADVISERSMr. Matthew Dimock

Mr. Laird Kopp Ms. Erin Peterson

Adobe InDesign CS6Belmont Printing

WORDS

5 Rocher Bleu Grace Moore (9)7 Beneath the Snow Madeleine Bomberg (10)8 In the Sky, Still Colby Chase (10)11 Just Married Olivia Stenger (12) 16 The Pen Adonis Doganis (11)18 Annabeth Kayla Ghantous (12)26 To Watch or Not to Watch Alexa Barros (12) 29 Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Chair Daniel Camiolo (11)31 Dessert Desert Alannah Bulger (10)32 Thirteen Ways of Looking at the Ocean Austin O’Malley (11)35 The Wave Michael Thorpe (9)36 The Summer of My Youth Benjamin Ginsberg (9)38 The Sapphire Hue Edward Hou (12)41 Graduation Kevin Monahan (10)45 I Don’t Want You Jonathan St. Clair (9) 46 Sierra Andrew Bradshaw (9) 48 Sleep Nicole Iannella (10)50 The Devil’s Mistress Emily Kimball (10)53 Thirteen Ways of Looking at War Jake Shore (11)56 The Spear Charlie Naylor (9)57 To Be a Survivor Harrison Tuttle (9)58 Untitled Callousness Shannon McGurty (10)61 Bliss Sarah Ingram (10)62 Portrait Edward Hou (12)65 Arisia Madeleine Bomberg (10)73 What I’ve Learned Shawna Dyer (10) 74 The Departure Isabel Lord (11) 77 Beats Tatianna Auguste (12)79 Blue Eyes Ashley Costa (10)83 My Wooden Heart Shawna Dyer (10) 84 Looming Destruction Laurel Wain (9) 87 Fire and Ice Catherine Thorpe (10) 96 Geico Adam Miller (9)97 The Voice Cole Weiner (9)98 Hands Caitlin Southwick (10)

99 Tom at Work Brendan Ng (9)101 A Lesson for Them Young Ones George Baldini (11)103 Waiting Catherine Thorpe (10) 104 The Lake Alivia Kinney (10)107 King of the Sea Colby Chase (10)

IMAGES

Front Cover: Big Acrylic Head Elizabeth Riva (12)6 Blossoms Christine Finneran (10)10 September 1, 1947 Olivia Stenger (12) 15 Still Life Danielle Kozelian (11) 25 Fran & Co. Kayla Ghantous (12) 28 The Blue Chair Paul Clarke (9)34 Sunset in Negril Barbara Woodall (11) 37 San Juan Nicole Iannella (10) 40 Gazebo Green Nicole Iannella (10)47 Cat Nap Elizabeth Tamburello (11) 49 Still Life Rachel Kelly (11)51 Blind Elizabeth Riva (12) 52 Death of War Mahlon Hanifin (11)55 The Angry Side Zachary Blais (12) 59 Winter Chill Edward Hou (12) 60 Winter at the Observatory Sophia Kelly (11) 63 Archi[texture] Edward Hou (12) 64 Diamonds Naushon Galbraith (11) 72 Six Willows from the Silo Colby Chase (10)78 Digital Collage Matthew Tuchler (10)82 Burning Flower Mahlon Hanifin (11)86 Umbagog Bonfire Laurel Wain (9)94 Sunset Panorama Rachel Kelly (11)100 The Old Venetian George Baldini (11)102 Metropolitan Ave. Hayley Houston (12) 105 Weld Pond George Baldini (11)106 Deep Sea Elizabeth Riva (12)Back Cover: Snake Flowers Kayla Ghantous (12)

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Grace MooreGrade 9

Rocher Bleu

The icicles play in harmony –drip drop onto the snow –and we, bundled cozily,oblivious to the show.

We scrape and shoveland clear awaythe fallen snowof yesterdays

until the iceis crystal clean.We, red-cheekedand pride unseen,

breath puffedlike dragonsyet to be slain.

Moments such are few and fleeting,caught on filmlike butterflieswhisked in nets from gray-blue skies.

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Christine FinneranGrade 10

Blossoms

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Madeleine BombergGrade 10

Beneath the Snow

She walks across the crest of the hillwith a pale pink flower in her hand.Her black boots crunch through the snow.As she twirls the green stem,the petals fall slowly one by oneto the smooth, white earth below.Behind her stands a large, black dogshivering in the snow and cold.As fog rolls in, she looks back at the shadowstanding at the edge of the woods like a protector,then continues on into the haze.Eventually she disappears from view,and the dog turns to go homewithout so much as a backward glance,leaving the petals lying on the grounduntil they are forgotten beneath the snow.The only evidence: two sets of foot printsmoving in opposite directions.

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Colby ChaseGrade 10

In the Sky, Still

I lie on my back resting in the cold,

pure and white,alone –

no civilization, just me, snow, and sky.

Darkness surrounding, I am overcomewith the brilliance

of stars.

While I lie there, the memories of yesterdayare bright.

The farther back they go, the dimmer they get.

They pull me near, then let me go.

I am with the ones of the past. They fade,

replaced with older memories. In the cold snow,

I feel warm and loved.

Desperately, I reach out to the past.

Pulling back, I come up empty –the past and memories

speeding away,clustering together.

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I am cold again;the stars are distant

but still bright.

Rosie breathes, warm,

loving breath,crunching her four paws near my cold bed.

I look up for the last time,never with you again –

in the sky, still.

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Olivia StengerGrade 12

September 1, 1947Photo credit: Ann Margaret Photography

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Olivia StengerGrade 12

Just Married

In loving memory of Alice FerroAugust 27, 1925 - May 12, 2014

Bananas. He had peeled so many bananas in the past week that he caught himself absentmindedly and empty-handedly repeating the motion with his hands in the same way that the other men would drum their fingers or crack their knuckles. His hands started to smell like bananas – he caught the scent when he splashed his face with cold water or rubbed his sleep-deprived eyes. The first time he ate a banana on the ship, he gratefully, even eagerly, accepted it. He had heard horrible stories about what some Navy SEALs had succumbed to eat during war aboard a ship, and, to him, the ripe banana seemed like a shining beacon of familiarity. But three weeks later, when he had eaten nothing but bananas for almost every meal, he approached each mealtime with reluctance and a churning stomach; he would peel them slowly, no longer anticipating the taste because his mouth had naturally begun to secrete a banana flavor so that he tasted them every time he swallowed the dry air of the stuffy ship. Each bite sat on his tongue heavily before he forced himself to chew; what he once considered a tropical delicacy had taken on the texture of a thick, slimy slab of paste. Each bite seemed to weigh more than the one before. Each bite tasted like he had eaten enough bananas to last him a lifetime. It had gotten to the point when he chose to decline the opportunity to eat dinner with the rest of his bunkmates one night. Morning would be different, maybe, but tonight, right now, the thought of eating another banana stirred a heaving in the pit of his stomach. So he lay on his bunk with his hands folded across his chest, his calloused thumbs occasionally rubbing the rough skin of his knuckles, and his eyes boring into the metal railings of the top bunk inches from his face. He began to drift in and out of sleep; however, he jolted awake when the sensation of the skin on his hands momentarily was replaced by the feeling of the skin on a banana in

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a horrible, jostling dream. Shaking his head in disbelief over his new and apparently intimate relationship with bananas, he sat up with his elbows on his knees and his head in his palms. Three weeks. It had been three weeks and he was already losing it. He couldn’t believe this. Of all the terrible things that were happening during the war, he was going crazy over some bananas. Looking around the nearly empty sleeping quarters, he became suddenly aware of how very alone he was. This, of course, was not true at all, but it is what he felt at that moment, so it is what he believed. Perhaps it was because such a feeling was more foreign to him than anything else from this experience. Having grown up with eleven siblings, he had never felt this before – this strange silence, the noises that appear when no one is speaking. He had begun to pick up on sounds that disturbed and comforted him at the same time. The ticking of a clock reminded him of how much time he was spending away, how much time was passing by, but it also reminded him that for another second, then another minute, then another hour, he was alive, healthy, and probably happy. It never occurred to him that his own breathing, the inhaling and exhaling of his chest (particularly captivating to watch while lying down on his bunk without any pillows so that his head lay flat against the mattress, and he had a perfect view of the way the filling of his lungs never failed to follow the collapse) could be so interesting. When he would begin to feel himself overthink, he made it a hobby to lull his mind and simply watch himself breathe – watch his body keep itself alive. Fascinating. But now was not the time for that. He rolled again onto his back, instead placing his hands folded behind his head and crossing his ankles. What a dreamer I must look like right now, he thought to himself. As soon as he contemplated the words, he saw a face inside his mind. He didn’t mean to think of her; her face just popped into his head. It really wasn’t his fault. But now that she was there, he might as well think of her some more. He might as well think about the way she walked down his street that day looking at each house as if she were thinking about the family that lived in it, and whether or not they had children, and why they had decided to paint the house that color. He had been loading equipment for the dairy onto his truck when he caught sight of her; he had seen her around before, and of course their families knew each other, but he had

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not seen her like this – so enveloped in her own thoughts that she didn’t notice him staring as she passed by. He knew that he was five years older than she and that it was still the forties and that he really, really shouldn’t, and yet – “Hello,” he tried to sound as casual as he possibly could, slinging the last bit of equipment onto the truck. He wiped the sweat from his brow and leaned against his pickup in a way that he hoped would seem nonchalant. She turned around abruptly, her curly hair bouncing off her shoulders and framing her wide, innocent eyes and slightly parted lips. She could have been thinking any number of things at that moment, but she also had the kind of face that hinted at a number of possibilities but gave away nothing. “Hi,” she answered shyly, bringing her hands up to her face to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She smiled nervously. “How are you today?” he asked in an attempt to be casual. He tried to imitate her in not giving anything away, but he was too open for that. He awaited her response eagerly. “I’m fine, thank you,” she replied. She was impossible to read. Was she flattered? Confused? Repulsed? Interested? He desperately searched the soft grooves of her face for a hint, a sign, anything to know what she was thinking. “I would like to get to know you better sometime,” he told her. There, better to say what he wanted flat out. One of them would have to do it, anyway. Her perfect mouth broke into a playful smile. “Hmm,” she said contemplatively, but surely warmly. “I’m not so sure about that. My mother doesn’t let me go out with boys,” she stated simply, but it seemed as though she was saying something that she was not speaking out loud. She held his gaze as she turned around on her heel slowly and began to walk back up the street. There was something different about her gait now. She was no longer thinking about the lives of the people inside the houses, but of her own. Not even aware of the fact that he had just been called a boy by someone years younger than him, he straightened up quickly. She can’t be leaving. But there she is, walking away from him. How did the time

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from when she stopped speaking until now pass so quickly? Her frame became smaller and smaller. “Wait!” he called out desperately. “Wait!” She turned around to face him for the second time. The wide stare and open-mouthed gape had been replaced by a dimpled grin and coy eyes. She was still careful not to give anything away. “Yes?” she answered. “What’s your name?” he shouted. He had to know her name. How could he have not thought of this before? Her mouth formed a name, but it was blocked out by the loud engine of a car driving by at the most inopportune moment. She turned her back to him for the second time and continued walking. “What?” he cried out again, this time more desperately. For a horrid second, he thought that he would not learn her name. What would have become of those two if he had never learned her name that day? This time, she turned only her head towards him, so that all he saw was her face when she shouted back, “Alice!” Alice. Her name was Alice. He thought about Alice as he was lying in his bunk on that ship. And he’s been thinking about her for sixty-seven years.

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Danielle KozelianGrade 11

Still Life

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Adonis DoganisGrade 11

The Pen

IThe object of the pen is a notable yet seemingly insignificant one.

In my mind I hold it as the physical manifestation of almost infinite versatility.

IIDepending on its intricacy and elaborateness, the pen,

ranging from a pliable and chewable plastic to the finer of materials, can tell much

of the user’s class.

IIIIt can sign the documents freeing the wrongly accused, indefinitely

changing the course of his destiny.

IVIt can sign the proclamation of war against a country

whose fault is questionable.

VIt can write an emotional love letter to whomever the writer chooses,

regardless of the approval or conceptions of others.

VIIt can be used to stab a person.

VIIIt can relay the message of adoration to one’s long-missed connections

when seeing them is not an option.

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VIIIIt is the last resort for him whose technology has failed him.

IXIt is mightier than the sword, but can be snapped by the quick

movement of one’s hands.

XTo those whose minds wander, it serves to record brief instances

of soon-forgotten genius.

XIIt is the tool for scribbling an illegible document, which, to the creator,

serves as the epitome of his creative work.

XIIIt can be used to sketch an elaborate drawing or deface those of others.

XIIIIt can be used to write a poem.

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Kayla GhantousGrade 12

Annabeth

The incident had numbered their days. Almost immediately after it happened, an unavoidable silence emerged, and their playful conversation was soon replaced with soundless nights. Annabeth often hoped that the sound of the kettle would mask her faint sniffles as they ate dinner in silence; and nights, perhaps weeks, passed when Jonathan wouldn’t look at her at all. But what seemed to be mere speculation was confirmed by his departure three months later in 1917. “The draft,” he said. “I’ll be back in nine months, Annabeth,” he spoke softly, hesitating before pressing his lips to her temple and brushing her hair back with the rough palms of his hands. She doubted his words, knowing, somehow, that he had volunteered in order to escape the silence between them – he had given better goodbye kisses. She watched him as he walked down the single dirt road, barely a yard wide and surrounded by the ocean of grass, like he was parting a green sea. With a rush of longing, she pressed her face up against the glass until he disappeared against the horizon. Nine months passed like nine years, and he was not back. She couldn’t hear the moth’s wings in the evening any more, and the memory of his smile faded. Eleven months, and Annabeth had grown pale and angular. Her skin, sagging, stretching, sinking with her hope, blanched in the morning light, and whatever food was left seemed an utter waste – she couldn’t hold it down anymore. As she laid awake on the left side of the bed, she left space for her husband, left space for the times when they would lie together, happy and alive – times before she settled among the sheep for company. There was a happy time – after they married. That was the most wonderful kind of terrible. They had nearly nothing and absolutely everything all at once. He moved into her old parent’s house and worked at the grocer’s two miles down the single dirt road; though, she always thought that he was too brilliant for that. He had been schooled, well raised, capable and quick-witted. For all that, some days they barely ate, but the sound of their smiles would mask the growling of their stomachs.

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His voice, deep and gravelly, would fill the room as he threw his head back and roared with laughter. His hand would grasp hers, swinging her about the room as he hummed, completely tone-deaf, to a made-up wedding song, and she twirled and twirled, barefoot, as she tried to run from his grasp. He’d hold her tighter still and spin her about the room, whispering a single word against her neck over and over: “stay, stay, stay…” and she could do nothing but comply, giggling – a soft, melodious, ringing sound that fluctuated against the air with his, warming the room and leaving both of them breathless, laughing, dancing, elated for absolutely nothing at all. She remembered this for a second, and in a second it was gone. The sheep would sit with her now, still and soft, as she drifted to sleep. The air was heavy with the weight of a broken moment. Jonathan sat in a wooden chair in the far corner of the room and hid his head in his hands. The calloused, sweating skin was rough against his young face, and he didn’t look up. The two sat on opposite sides. And, because she knew, and so did he, that this was an end, he moved his fingers from over his face. From the corner of one half-open eye, he saw her. His heavy breathing had nearly masked the sound of her muffled sobs, spilt into the fine cloth of her dress, but she rocked, almost imperceptibly, back and forth, as she laid herself on the dust floor. He didn’t move from his spot in the opposite corner. A bundle of silent red-stained blankets, still as death, lay beside her. He came home minutes short of just in time. She didn’t blame him, though. They thought they had weeks. It seemed that as soon as she birthed the child, he knew, and she did not; he’d been waiting for it: the tell-tale sound of the baby’s cry, some wonderful noise that meant the arrival of something new, extraordinary, filled with blood, breath – life. After a moment of quiet that confirmed his doubt and sparked her own, it was clear between the two of them. But that was over a year ago.

When she woke the next morning, it was to a cold sweat, one palm clutching her stomach, the other gripping the soaked sheets, which were twisted around her legs and bunched near the end of the cot. It was a dream, a memory, to be repeated.

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Rather later, she would try to determine how much time had passed before she opened the cottage door and lingered in the doorway. She stood on the threshold for a while, one foot on the cold floor and another on the dirt pathway. She swayed a bit, putting pressure on one foot, then the other, testing the weight there, before balancing. She wanted to feel it, the intangible place between here and there that she knew must’ve existed – she’d dreamt about it. But as she stood there, watching the last stalk of wheat fall from her position in the doorway, nothing. She felt nothing, knew nothing. There had been no difference. She took the road that parted the green sea, the same road that her husband had taken nearly a year ago. She walked until she reached the grocer’s – Jonathan’s store – and, after reading the welcome sign, swung the door open freely. The man at the cashier desk nodded his head and smiled at her in a way that she thought was extraordinarily comforting. He had the kind of smile that made her wonder how anyone could be so content and the kind of green eyes that made her breath quicken and the heat rise in her face. She smiled back, but she only felt the corners of her lips quirk up a bit. She felt his eyes on her, not in an odd way – like he was observing a painting. It made her giddy and nervous and acutely conscious of her presence. She carried a loaf of bread to the counter slowly. She could feel the coins burning in her dress pockets. “How are you this evening, lovely. I haven’t seen you ‘round here much.” He looked away from her. “Or at all, I reckon.” “I’ve never been in here before, actually.” She spoke properly, and she did not know why. Her voice, scratchy against the cool air, hurt her throat and her ears, and she, too, looked away. “I swear I’ve seen your face somehow, though.” “Do you know Jonathan?” “Jonathan! Of course, what a fellow. He left a while back though. Sad to see him go; he had a way with the customers –” “He’s my husband,” she interrupted. Is? Was? She wasn’t sure if he knew. “He… er… that is – ” “I understand. Sorry to bring it up, really.” “S’fine.” It became oddly quiet then, as if he had noticed her

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discomfort, had felt the air heavy with the sound of her breathing, and had decided not to push her further. “He talked about you, you know,” he spoke suddenly. “That’s where I’ve seen you. Had your picture in his pocket. Wouldn’t shut up about it when he first married you.” “Oh, well…” she blushed. He nodded, but she wondered why Jonathan never told her about his coworker, as well. All his time at the store, and he had never come home with a story. “I’m Jim, by the way.” “Annabeth.” “I know. Lovely name.” “Thank you.” He was being awfully friendly, she thought. What was really a terribly awkward conversation between two near strangers seemed to her warm and enjoyable. She hadn’t talked to anyone like this since her wedding, and she realized that she really didn’t know how. She left soon after to walk home, but she lay awake that night. The thought of the cashier’s voice rang in her ears. The ring of his words wouldn’t stop – a bit annoying in its echoing, and yet, so incredibly wonderful because she hadn’t heard a voice that comforting in ages. And his smiling eyes were in her sleep that night, the eyes that seemed to genuinely care, that seemed sincere in his smile and nod and compliment of her name, and his voice replayed in her head in time with the wind and moths and crickets as the air blew between the leaves of the green sea. So she made habit of it. She would come to him. Nearly every day, she’d visit Jim. “Morning, Annabeth,” he would say, once she stepped inside. “Jim.” She smiled brightly. And then they would talk. Or, rather, Jim would talk mostly, and she would listen simply because of his voice. She would sit at the counter and wait as he served a customer, and they would continue their conversation when the customer left. Sometimes he would talk about Jonathan, but after some time, Jim realized that she didn’t want him – his name – in the room with them. He would give the loaf to her no charge, and after they were drunk with laughter, she would leave and walk home alone. A little over a month since they’d met, they sat in silence as he

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tended to the store. “Annabeth.’” He sighed the name. “Reminds me of the sea.” Her heart beat faster as she tried to hide her blush. He was different from Jonathan, she thought. Not in a bad way at all, just different – not that she was comparing the two. He wasn’t looking at her, but she stared at him softly – his hazel eyes, the messy hair that covered his head and dusted his cheeks and jawline, his straight nose and round ears, his pink mouth, the way he rolled his sleeves up his forearms. Years after, when she replayed the events of the past month, she would conclude that it happened no later than after he’d spoken those lovely words. There was no time after that she did not love him. She didn’t love him the way she loved Jonathan. She loved him in whatever way he’d have her, as long as he would. She liked something about him – what it was, she wasn’t sure, but he talked to her in a way that Jonathan had stopped long ago. Jim hadn’t tired of her yet; of this much she was certain. She liked the way they talked and the way he liked her name, and she liked the way he didn’t care that Jonathan was his friend, and she thought that she didn’t care either. She arrived one morning and saw him behind the counter, his back to her and his arms sweeping over the shelves to right the contents. “Annalee,” he greeted her over his shoulder with his smiling eyes and slow nod. She stared at him for a long moment, even after he’d turned around again. Her feet seemed cemented to their place in the doorway. Had she heard him correctly? She replayed the moment in her head again and waited for his voice. After a few seconds and with a rush of dread, she was regretfully certain. “How are you?” She had been waiting for his correction, excuse, apology, but he hadn’t realized his mistake, and the second time he spoke only confirmed the thought. “Fine.” Her voice immediately wavered. A loud shattering filled her ears. Surely a shelf had collapsed and crashed against the tile floor somewhere in the far corner of the store. She felt a wave of sorrow rise in her stomach and into her throat; her hands trembled, her face turned an ashen pale, the heat vanished from her. The warmth that his voice usually spread through her body was drained by his last words, replaced with a

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bitter heartache, regret, humiliation. Slowly, she turned back toward the open door – though, she had never fully entered – and closed it to stand outside. She realized, then, that he had never thought of her. While she had lain awake at night and listened to the echo of his voice resonate in her head, he had sat home, perhaps not alone, and had let his mind wander freely. The times that she had allowed herself to fashion her own idea of Jim, precisely as she wanted to see him, seemed completely ridiculous. He had felt no tie to her at all. She was a customer, nothing more or less, and she realized that his smile had been civil, his playful banter friendly, and the bread that he gave her free of charge was an act of pity – not flirtatious affection, but courteous obligation. Foolish and blinded by her longing, she had confused politeness with attraction, and she knew, now, repeating the last month in her head, that she had been silly in her love, naïve in her immediacy. Loneliness, dejection, inadequacy filled her, but, worst of all, the most terrible sort of embarrassment; she would never, couldn’t possibly, forget his name, and never would she have spoken anything but his name exactly – not John, James, Jonathan. But now she stood outside his door, and he had yet to realize his mistake. With her hands hiking her dress up her calves, and her necklace beating against her collarbones, and the wind pushing through her hair in knots, she ran down the single dirt road. Her feet didn’t travel lightly. They struck the dirt, angry and passionate, as the heat rose in her face. The wind stung her eyes and lips dry. She sprinted down the single path with a furious shame that wracked her senses. Her feet hit the ground harder now, pressing into the grass and softening it under her weight, until it lay flat against the dirt and the informal path darkened. The crisp wind had dried her tears against her cheeks, but her hair lay tangled against her back. Dirt covered the lower half of her legs. She shoved the cottage door open in a single motion. With her hand still on the knob, she froze in the doorway. And there he was. He stood in the far corner of the room, his hand on the kitchen counter, his back halfway to the door with his profile illuminated by the streaming sun through the ragged curtains of the sink window. Jonathan, a year older, stronger than before, was barely recognizable, in a battered soldier’s uniform, with cuts and bruises and

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dirt covering his face and neck – still beautiful, though. He stood in their home and removed his hat to run a bandaged hand through his hair, glancing at her face, her lips, her dress, until he met her eyes with a pained, almost relieved, half-smile. From his dry mouth he murmured a single word, nearly a whisper. “Annabeth.”

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Kayla GhantousGrade 12

Fran & Co.

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Alexa BarrosGrade 12

To Watch or Not to Watch

To watch or not to watch – that is the question:Whether it is more enjoyable for my mind To sit outside in the snow,Or to see characters and scenes of my favorite show,And, by staying warm, to avoid the cold. To shiver, to watch – No more – by shivering to endureThe sting of cold air in my faceFrom which the weather presents.It is an occurrence I hope I do not undergo.To shiver, to watch – To watch, a chance to smile. There is positivity,For in watching my favorite shows, what laughs may come, But when I have watched a show for too long, I must stop and press pauseBecause migrainesAre what makes watching too much TV unfortunate.But I really want to watch these shows all day to seeThe murders solved by Booth and Bones, The family that is modern,The adventures of the Doctor and Amy, The awkward relationship of Jess and Nick, The walkers that Rick and Daryl face, And the sarcastic comments of Chandler Bing That cold people do not experienceWhen they are outside, Or do they have Netflix on their iPhones?Who would choose the cold, To shiver and complain trudging through the snow,But the fear of that consequence,

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The migraine that sears my head,The peacefulness you feel in your own headWhile I am feeling left out,Wishing I had come outsideRather than watch that extra episode of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air?So migraines do form regrets from all of us,And now the contentment of watching TVIs ruined by the idea of a throbbing pain,And the happiness of shows and charactersIs paused half way through,And I stop the episode in favor of a painless head.

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Paul ClarkeGrade 9

The Blue Chair

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Daniel Camiolo Grade 11

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Chair

You sit there, lonely,unaware you are about to be warm,but it’s only temporary,a fifty-five minute beauty.

I sit on my chair.It’s cold yet comfortable and can hold my weight,which is quite reasonable.

The chair is made of metal,but wood will also suffice,yet leather in the car is the closest to paradise.

A stool deserves love, too –lacks a backrest but still has a heart.

Massage chairs are the best.They are number one for comfort,but they will never be used in a school area; that hurts.

Chairs are strong and full of power,but an overweight man can sometimes sit on a chair and begin to devour.

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Chairs break and fall,but it is not always the end; they can become strong again with some help from a friend.

I don’t build a friendship with chairs because I could not fall for one,for all the other chairs I sit inwould make that chair sad.

Chairs do not discriminate.They only think for themselves;they are quiet to one another.

All chairs are created equal.This does not completely fly –the ranks of chairs are similar to Medieval times.

Chairs come and go,but sadly most are forgotten and thrown into a dump,never to be put together again.

We do not care enough;without chairs we would have difficulty. We should notice the little things that chairs give us in daily life.

Chairs are important;they help us with no reward,but maybe one day they will revolt and take over the whole world.

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Alannah BulgerGrade 10

Dessert Desert

I disappearedinto the milky white ocean,into the depths of the sea, crumbling. I am gone, and I can’t return to the surface –to stare at you.

I used to look at you as a child watches the stars,finding light in a chocolate sky.

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Austin O’MalleyGrade 11

Thirteen Ways of Looking at the Ocean

IAmong twenty boats,

the only things moving were the rough waves.

III watched with a keen eye,

like a seagullwho circles above.

IIIThe baitfish leaped out of the water

and into the summer air.It was an attempt to escape death from below.

IVA fish and the ocean

are one.A fish and the ocean and a seagull

are one.

VI do not know which to prefer,

the beauty of the oceanor the beauty of the creatures,

the leaping of the fish,or just after.

VIThe incoming storm filled the never-ending ocean

with white caps.The shadows of the dark clouds

swarmed over the boats. The mood, received

from the worsening weather, darkened.

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VIIO troubled fishermen,

why do you imagine a perfect day?Do you not see how the ocean

puts food on the tablesof families?

VIIII know of the biggest fish

and the calmest of all calm seas, but I know, too,

that the ocean is involvedin what I know.

IXWhen the storm grew out of sight,

it marked the appearance of many hiding species.

XAt the sight of the oceanon a calm, cloudless day, even the angry Scrooge

would be delighted.

XIHe rode over Cape Cod Bay

in a fiberglass sailboat.The ocean guided him and tested him

at its best and its worst.

XIIThe seagulls are flying;the fish are swimming;

the ocean is alive.

XIIIIt was sunny all afternoon.

It was hot,and it was going to be hot.

The ocean lay still,glistening in the sun’s rays.

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Barbara WoodallGrade 11

Sunset in Negril

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Michael ThorpeGrade 9

The Wave

Out of the moon and great waters of the ocean comes a wave.Each new part of a wave is uniquely formed.Faces can be shallow or they can be steep. Lips can break in front of the wave or with the wave.Each wave begins as a plain ridge of water.Wind determines the height and sand determines the shape.Some waves can be so tiny they are absorbed by other waves, and others so big that skyscrapers cannot even cause them to break.Some break left, some break right, some have perfect tubes, and some close out before their time, but each wave ends as just water in the sea.Some give pleasure, and some give pain.But unto the ocean they shall return.And unto dust you shall return.

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Benjamin GinsbergGrade 9

The Summer of My Youth

The sun had nearly gone to sleep on a summer day of smiles;white silk clouds danced across the sky for miles.Sand and sea grass tickled our feet as we stood, behind us hopeful fishermen’s boats, sea adventures carved in the wood.A day of family fun,exploring the islands of the Cape,brothers, cousins, family,end of summer in our wake.How the sweetest days are like youth,speeding by like a boat at full blast,sand blowing in our faces, camera recording all the traces –summer dripping awaylike water from a sand castlein which beach children play.

If only summer joycould go on forever,like the depthsof the deep sea.

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Nicole IannellaGrade 10

San Juan

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Edward HouGrade 12

The Sapphire Hue

Aloft a hundred arid deserts,the only fluid thing was a bead of water.I drank three glasses,like a drunkardwho indulged.The water melted in the winter sun. It was a small flake of ice.

A rock and a flameare one. A rock and a flame and water are one.I can not agree on the ideas, the sensation of timeor the sensation of life,the water dripping or another. Fog filled the leafless trees with titanic trunks. The blanket of water impressed it, gentle yet heavy. The perception left within the aira hazy direction.

O sailors of the sea, How do you conduct the ocean? Are you not knowing that the water

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cradles the boatas the boat cradles you?

I see the vivid beings and a myriad of colorful creatures,but I see, in truth, that water is the sustenance to what I see.

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Nicole IannellaGrade 10

Gazebo Green

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Kevin MonahanGrade 10

Graduation

He held his head down as his son grabbed the diploma from the headmaster. Harvey’s academic achievements impressed all in attendance; well, almost all of them. “USC is no Harvard,” Harvey’s father thought. Harvey’s father, Winston Vanderbilt III, sat as Winston IV and the crowd gave Harvey, the future Trojan, a standing ovation. Winston III knew Harvey could easily see that his father remained seated next to Winston IV and an empty chair his father previously reserved. He stood out from the crowd in his green suit, pink pocket square, and many of his other baubles. “Look at this fool,” said Winston III as Harvey’s childhood friend Jonathan grabbed his diploma. “His parents should be ashamed to let their son’s hair grow out. He’ll never get a job in the medical field.” It was this cold dialogue that Winston forced Harvey to live with. He acted as if it was a normal occasion to constantly criticize others. While listening to his son speak with his head down, he noticed there was something wrong with him. There was a pause in Harvey’s speech. After a moment, Winston looked up at the valedictorian, and they made rare eye contact. For Winston it seemed that time froze. After this odd encounter, Winston noticed that Harvey’s tone changed. It seemed that the remainder of this speech was directed toward Winston. After the conclusion of the graduation, Winston did not bother to congratulate his son, but instead decided to quickly greet his two sons. As Winston III put his arms around his two sons, their shoulders had different feels to them. With his right arm around Winston IV, there was a warm and welcoming feel. But as he hesitantly put his arm around Harvey, it had a cold and uncomfortable feel. This was like a portal to when he was a young father raising his kids. He thought of Winston winning the spelling bees, Winston making the clutch shot, and Winston becoming class president. As he took his arms off of his sons, he came back to reality. “Let your brother drive you to the country club, Harvey,” said

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Winston III. “No,” said Harvey. “I’ll have one of my friends drive me there.” “Well, don’t be late,” said Winston III. “My assistant has been planning this party for months.” Harvey did not have a ride to the party. With the school year at its end, his “friends” no longer had any reasons to be around him. His family thought he was a popular kid in school, but as he and his friends got older, their interests changed. If Winston ever caught Harvey drinking, it would risk his college scholarship. Luckily, the country club was only a mile away from this prestigious high school. As he drove on the scenic route, sweating while other cars flew past him, he saw his son struggling on the side of the road. Instead of picking him up and driving him, he decided to let him finish the war he had started with him. “What made you so late?” said Winston III. “Doesn’t matter now that I’m here,” said Harvey. “You made me so stressed,” said his father, “that I had to fire two of my workers just to blow off some steam.” “Typical. I would hate to see how you are when you’re angry,” said Harvey in a sarcastic tone. “Can we just get this party finished?” “Yes, just amend your manners,” he said and paused. “And, well, you need to stand up straight. You’re slouching and need to be more –” Winston was interrupted by his son’s humming. He knew Harvey did not want to be sitting all day surrounded by old relatives and many of his father’s business partners. He figured he would let this one pass because he had a strange feeling. Of course that strange feeling was not having any anger. As soon as the party ended, Winston saw Harvey grab his gifts and run to his father’s Porsche and just sit in the back. He was waiting and thinking. “I can do it,” Harvey said. “Less than three more months, and I’ll be out of here.” It was no coincidence that he lived in the suburbs outside of Boston and would be living on the west coast for at least the next four years. “Did you thank your grandparents for the watch?” said Winston. Harvey did not answer. In the mirror Winston saw his son just

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sitting there thinking and mumbling after each question he asked. As Harvey dozed into a dream, he did not realize his father was trying to amend their ways. Even with his back to his son, Winston soon realized Harvey had fallen asleep. Winston continued to drive home. “I do not know if I can do it. Three months, and he’ll be out of here,” said Harvey’s father to himself. After he said it, he realized how embarrassing it would have been for his son to hear it. He quickly glanced over at the empty front seat and thought about how just four years ago this four-seat car used to be filled. The time had come. They had not been together in the car over the whole summer. It was the first time they had driven together since the night of Harvey’s graduation. Surprisingly, they had got along the whole car ride talking about the Red Sox. Winston realized this was odd and that Harvey was planning something. As they walked towards the terminal, Harvey broke the awkward silence. “I’ll go find a seat for us,” he said. “Would you mind getting me a drink?” “Yeah,” Winston said, “what do you want?” “I don’t really care,” he said. “Quickly, I’m about to board.” Winston ran to the nearest concession stand to buy a drink. As he rushed back to the terminal, he saw his son handing in his ticket to board the plane. Winston just stood there frozen as he dropped his son’s diversion to the ground. Though he was in the congested Logan airport, everything was silent. As he was bumped into by travelers, he felt paralyzed. He thought that this day was making their relationship stronger. Harvey would be gone for months before he came back for Christmas break. Being deserted by his son, he realized that this is how his son must have felt all these years. If only he had realized this before Harvey’s graduation, their goodbye may have ended differently. The day had come. Winston sat anxiously in his recliner. Only five more minutes until he would leave to pick up Harvey. Unable to wait, with a hop in his step he strolled confidently to the side door. As he entered the garage, he heard an unexpected noise. He heard the opening of the front door violently smash against the wall. As he peaked past the corner of the room, he saw a man about the same height as him with hair down to his shoulders.

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“Must be an intruder,” Winston whispered to himself, “but there has not been a crime in this part of town in months.” Something felt odd as if the intruder was not even an intruder at all. Winston did not feel threatened. The figure intrigued him, and he could not stop approaching the man. As he got closer, he oddly felt comfortable. A squeak in the freshly-mopped hardwood floor gave away Winston’s position, and the man turned around. Behind this hippy’s hair and makeup was a face that Winston knew well. Under all the unusual features Winston had never seen before, the Honor Roll student Harvey was disguised as a west coast hippy. Winston not only dropped his car keys in shock, but his heart dropped beneath his feet. “What have you done?” exclaimed Winston. “What have I done?”

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Jonathan St. ClairGrade 9

I Don’t Want You

When I was little, we crossed the Rio Grandebecause we thought our new life would be grand.My adopted uncle was a real tall man,but everyone called him Uncle Sam.He wore red, white, blue and pointed his finger at you,but because my name was Jose, he said, I don’t want you.I took any menial job with no paper for cashbecause my adopted Uncle Sam only talked trash.When my girlfriend wanted to split up,she dropped the dime to the INS to have me picked up.Now back on the farm in old Mexico,I think of Uncle Sam and how he let me go.

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Andrew BradshawGrade 9

Sierra

Two eyes staring into a camera –eyes of innocence,eyes of curiosity,

eyes of kindness –

all connected to a fur coat as black as the night sky, topped off with white pure fur,

clean as a glistening snowflake dancing in the wind,

with white, thin whiskers that project from the snout.The background filled with blurry trees and light brown rock –

she liked to play and run around that area, liked to smell the cold, frigid air in the winter.

In the summer, she would reside in our home and lie there next to the air conditioner, as if to tell the world it was too hot outside.She remained quiet during the day, but roared her loudest roar at night

as if she saw a monster creeping through the quiet February halls of our home.

All we went through for hermade us wonder if she truly loved us

or accepted us as a family.Did she, or did she not?

Will we ever know from this photograph that she thought of us as a whole?

What I know is what I see:her lying on the ground, eyes of innocence, eyes of curiosity, eyes of

kindness, staring happily.

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Elizabeth TamburelloGrade 11

Cat Nap

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Nicole IannellaGrade 10

Sleep

I love to sleep yet despise it so much,For the process is far from heaven.

I always know how it will go in suchA never-ending, dreadful progression.

When the clock hits a minute past eleven,That’s the moment I start to mumble;

So empty and unfed since seven,My stomach will soon start to grumble.

But somehow in the mighty jungleThe lions are known to sleep at night,

Yet I am only able to stumbleThrough the dark halls without a ray of light.

Not so soon enough I start to drift off,Only to be woken up by a cough.

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Rachel KellyGrade 11

Still Life

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Emily KimballGrade 10

The Devil’s Mistress

How can one describe the devil’s mistress?I can see in her eyes the evil sheIs devising with her twisted listlessManner; she is deaf to my desperate plea.

How can one express her inhuman deeds?Her ability to manipulate himGoes unmatched throughout all hell-born breeds.This poor man’s future is definitely grim.

Like a vulture, she swooped in and grabbed thatMan with her fury-like claws, from some ancientMyth, and scratched his heart like a jungle catViolent and crazed. I’ve lost all my patience.

I’m tired of this devil’s mistress; herTricks bore me, but are fun to her foolish monsieur.

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Elizabeth RivaGrade 12

Blind

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Mahlon HanifinGrade 11

Death of War

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Jake ShoreGrade 11

Thirteen Ways of Looking at War

IThe air was still across the plains,

the dust settled;only the turrets moved,

scanning.

III was of two minds,

like the generalswho played chess with men and machine.

IIITracks traversed,changing its gaze.

IVFive menare one;

five men and machineare one.

VI do not know which to prefer:

the focus of distressor the assurance of safety,the sound of drive wheels

or my lover’s call.

VISmoke filled the fighting cabin

with jet-black waves.The Tiger’s shadow

cast over it –the strength

emphasized by the sun,noble and demanding.

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VIIO thin school boys,

why do you imagine ease and joy?Do you not see the stones

above the headsof your fathers?

VIIII know of your view

of the games and movies alike,but I know too

that funerals will always be involved in what I do.

IXWhen the tracks turned no more,

it marked the endof many nations.

XAt the sight of Tigers

through the fog, even our strongestwould crumble beneath metal links.

XIHis son hit the baseball,metal bat on solid ball;again a fear pierced him

that he mistook for the ricochet of the Tiger’s 88.

XIIThe foliage was thick;

the Tigers must be waiting.

XIIIIn that afternoon

the wind was blowing,and it would blow with no end.

The Tiger slowed to a stop,rotating to examine its kill.

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Zachary BlaisGrade 12

The Angry Side

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Charlie Naylor Grade 9

The Spear

Achilles thrusts his spear into battle;Ripping, tearing, it glides between its foes,Darting into men as a bolt of lightening,Destroying men hotly, but without passion;Indulging in its nature, the spear strikes savagely,Once, ringing out with a crackling crash,Twice, bewilderment turning realization,Three times, his opponent now understands;Singed and shocked, the man finally breathes his last.

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Harrison Tuttle Grade 9

To Be a Survivor

All he doesis think about home,about his wife making food,about his daughter playing in the womb. He clutches his right pocket,fearful of the letter inside,hoping it won’t be opened; He hopes he can survive. He knows what he has to do: get in, get out,help his country in his mood,but ultimately help himself.

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Shannon McGurtyGrade 10

Untitled Callousness

These black, reprobate feelingsswirl in the depthsof my soul.But it’s of no bother to me.I use it all to my advantage:every word,every hair flip,every gesture;they’re all my grand design.All my scarsand rough edgesare of lessons learned.No use pointing any fingers;not even I know the direction from which they arrived –sudden and remorseless.I assumed that this way,only this way,would I be safe.If you appear heartless,then you cannot be broken.

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Edward HouGrade 12

Winter Chill

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Sophia KellyGrade 11

Winter at the Observatory

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Sarah IngramGrade 10

Bliss

You start in the storm,dancing with happiness born from naivety.

As time vanishes from your frail grasp,you wish it moved faster.

The clouds part from this understanding,letting loose fear and knowledge.

You soon see the bliss in blindness.You wait for the rainbow,

then the sun, then anything, then nothing.

Still wishing for the storm,you welcome the night.

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Edward HouGrade 12

Portrait

The sea of blue, a mirror, a parallelogram, a conglomeration of glass and steel, reaching towards the heavens, standing tall and erect, high above the red brick and cobblestone, shimmers in the distance, overlooking cars, people, dogs and cats, trees and bushes. Every motion, every shift in its surroundings, no matter how minute, this mass absorbs, like a chameleon, or a sponge, changing color, adapting, transforming, soaking in every little object in its path, yearning to blend in. Yet still, having an inner desire to un-conform, the beacon of light changes with each passing moment of time, changes with each appearance of a cloud blown by the wind, changes with each reflection of a child’s face or of an insignificant pin dropped just within its boundary. Painting and repainting, this edifice creates a living and breathing portrait of the metropolitan.

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Edward HouGrade 12

[Archi]texture

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Naushon GalbraithGrade 11

Diamonds

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Madeleine BombergGrade 10

Arisia

Third day of August Moon 2345 – Third day of August Moon 2346. I looked down at the slip of paper in my lap. My jeans made a perfect border around that terrible thing that told the entirety of my cousin’s life on it since the day he was born. An entire life lived in that line in between two dates. A life lived and died within a year to remind others of things that even the eldest among us do not remember, to remind us of something no currently living person was ever alive to experience. I looked at the sliver of paper that was sitting in my lap. It looked so small and insignificant sitting there perfectly centered on the dark denim. I realized that there was no turning back, no going home. I laid myself back against the trunk of the tree with a sigh and went to sleep clutching the small piece of paper in my hands like a life line. When I woke up, the sky was obstructed by the branches of the trees. I could see the light filtering through the leaves and hitting small spots on the ground in perfectly outlined shapes. I looked down at the slip of paper in my hands. The paper was worn, but the printing was still entirely intact. Over the past weeks and months I had tried everything, from erasing to burning, to change that date. Nothing I did was working, and I was starting to doubt my ability to save my cousin. I left my house, my family, and my security to find a place to think, to find a place to try and understand how to stop the perish date. Nothing I did was working, and I didn’t have any way to figure out a better idea to go about changing things. I jumped up and started packing my bag. First, I laid down my extra set of clothes, then my perish-date-countdown pad, which still showed 54 years and 75 days left to the end, and finally the little slip of paper with my cousin’s perish date on it. I flipped over the paper and made one tiny little mark next to all of the other tiny little marks. I silently counted the lines and worried as they crept closer and closer to his perish date. There was so little time to save the chosen child. Just five months before, I remember sitting in my house watching

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the news cast as they proclaimed that the chosen child of the generation was born. Everyone around me cheered. They all cheered because a child would die early and that child’s death was supposed save them. In that moment I began to feel something that had been growing ever since – disconnection. My family cheered and then listened in shock after it was announced that the chosen child was Gabriel FitzGerald. There was only one FitzGerald family in our community, and that was my family. The family went crazy. Having a chosen child in the family was a great honor. All I could think about was the poor child who would never know that his death was celebrated, not mourned like everybody else’s, and that the lives that we lived depended on his ending. I looked at that tiny, insignificant slip of paper. I heard the rustle of leaves behind me. I was off the ground before you could say danger. I was running through the woods at a breakneck pace. The trees seemed to swirl together in a confusion of color and texture. I was jumping over logs and ducking under branches, my body seeming to move independently of my brain. I let my mind wander to the small child I had left at home, the small child whose life depended on my escaping those people I heard behind me. After what seemed like years of running, I finally lost them, and looking around, I realized that I had lost myself. All that was left of my pack of supplies was the tiny shard of paper that I slipped into my pocket before rocketing myself into the woods. I didn’t even have the sliver of graphite that I used to keep track of the days left for the small child in this world. After staring at the piece of paper in my hands, I turned around and started walking in the general direction I remembered coming from, using the broken branches as a way to judge the path. By the time night came, I was as lost as before. I was still following my trail of broken branches, but now I realized that they were moving in odd serpentine patterns. I decided to wait until morning and use the sun to properly judge my position. The worst part about losing my backpack was that I no longer had my perish-date-countdown pad; that pad was what I relied on for a map and a flashlight. Now that I thought about it, the currents of the pad that showed me my location could be reversed to show the elders my location. In the morning I stood up and bent myself this way and that way to get the ache out of my bones. As I was twisting around, I smelled

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something burning. I crept over a log and ducked down to see that just below me there was a steep drop and then a circle of boys crowded around a fire. I slowly walked down to the bottom of the hill when my feet slipped out from under me. I tumbled, very unceremoniously, into the tallest boy in the circle. He turned with a startled expression on his face. The other three boys in the circle turned to where the bigger boy was looking. All four of the boys stood up together. That was when I noticed that they weren’t wearing the normal clothes of my community, nor had I ever seen them. All four of them looked like they were my age, but I didn’t recall seeing any of them amongst the twenty five boys in my year. I jumped up and looked at the biggest boy. “Oh my gosh,” I said covering my mouth, “I didn’t mean to knock into you. I’m so sorry. You’re just the first people I have seen in days. I just was coming to see who you were, and then I fell down the hill, and now I’m rambling. I’ll just shut up now.” “Hey, it’s not like we care that you just intruded on our secret meeting. Not that it’s all that secret ’cause you know everyone in town knows that it’s happening.” The one I knocked into said, “I’m Luke by the way.” He stuck out his hand in a gesture I later learned was a polite way to greet people in their society. Ignoring the hand, I turned to include the other boys in our conversation. “Hey, everyone.” I gave a short wave of my hand to the group at large. “My name is Annabel. I’m kinda hungry. Do you guys have any food?” Luke stepped in between me and the food piled around the fire. “No food until you have been initiated into the band of brotherhood.” I looked at them quizzically. “Isn’t that name kinda redundant?” “Well, yeah, but that was the best we could come up with on such short notice. We were kinda just discussing it when you rolled in. Well, if you’re going to join, we can’t be a brotherhood.” “Well, introduce me to everyone, and then we can work on a name.” “Well, everyone, this is Annabel. There, is that good enough?” “No, I don’t know anyone else’s name.” “Fine, fine, fine, these are the guys. That one’s Tom. That one’s

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John, and that one? Well, his real name is Edward, but he goes by pretty much anything but that.” He pointed to each boy in turn. Each of them nodded acknowledgment and then returned to his breakfast. “Hey,” said the one named Edward. “So as Luke has told you, I go by pretty much anything, but I prefer Ed. As long as you yell it, I’ll yell back. So why have you come to our lovely woods at such an odd time in the morning?” “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize that these were your woods,” I said, suddenly very worried. “No,” Luke said to me, laughing slightly, “he’s just kidding. These aren’t really our woods. But why have you come into the woods?” “This is why,” I said as I handed him the paper with Gabriel’s dates on it. Luke took one look at the paper with the dates on it. He looked up at me and then back at the paper and then back up at me. Finally he opened his mouth. “This date,” he said pointing to the first date on the paper, “was five months ago. This date,” he pointed to the second date on the paper, “is in seven months. What is this, and how do you know that it is going to happen?” “This,” I said taking back the piece of paper back from him, “is my cousin’s life. The whole thing.” Realizing the implications of the fact that Luke didn’t know what a perish date was, I looked around. “Have you ever heard of a perish date?” The boys shook their heads. So I began my story. “Hundreds of years ago there was one great evil in the world: the early and unplanned death. Children were dying of diseases and accidents all of the time. The elders saw the misery that the death of a child brought to a family. To end the suffering, the elders implemented a piece called the perish date. This told the date at which a person would die and was given to them on the day of their birth. They found a way to annihilate any way to die suddenly: disease, something called a car accident, and other things like that. But the elders could not fully eradicate the early death, so they decided that the best way to control it would be to stop it from being sudden. That is how we ended up with the Chosen Child. Once a generation a child is born who will only live to the age of one. This child will alternate between a boy and a girl, and they will live until exactly their first birthday. My cousin is that child. I am trying to save

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him.” “Well...” Luke looked at me and blinked really quickly a couple of times. “I guess that we could find a way to help you.” “Really?” I asked as I jumped up onto my toes to hug him. I realized that what I was doing might get him to change his mind about helping me, so I quickly released him and took a step back with my hands clasped behind my back. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. That was rude.” “Now we know. No hugging around you.” Ed came up behind me as he said this. “Since when has hugging people been rude?” “Um, always. Wait, it’s fine for you guys to hug other people? Oh God.” I held my forehead as if I could indirectly hold my brain together. Luke looked at me and then started to laugh. He chuckled into his hand at first, and then, reexamining my pained expression, he began to laugh outright. “Let’s just go get your cousin.” So we set off. I was right; it was easier to find your way in the woods in the sunlight. Somehow in my daze I had broken the twigs from branches in a path that was easy enough to follow. As we neared my original hiding spot, I slowed the boys down. “Now you can’t just all walk into my house because, A: I’m in trouble for leaving, and B: No one has come into the community since before the perish date was enacted.” “How are we going to get the kid out if we can’t get in? Ideas anyone?” “Got one,” said Tom. “What if we get someone on the inside to revolt, and then we slip into the community, and we save the small child; then we enact our revenge on those who thought that it was okay to kill an innocent child. Oh wait, that’s not my idea; that is the plot of the newest Arable book. Never mind, ignore me; don’t listen to anything else I have to say.” “After that great show in why guys don’t come up with rescue missions, we will continue on in some other direction, any other direction actually. Any more ideas?” I looked around me at the three other boys, at the boys who were the one hope for my cousin. I remember the bag that I had dropped somewhere in the woods when I had taken off the night before. I turned around and started to run in the general direction of my bag. Finally I came upon the tree that I had been hiding behind when I

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took off. There was my bag nestled in the roots on the side of the tree. I plucked the bag from the roots and began to search for the thing that I had hoped was still in it. My hand closed on something smooth and cool, and I dislodged it from the rest of my things in the bag and pulled it out. I held my perish-date-countdown pad on the tips of my fingers and watched as the numbers ticked, counting the loss of another day in my life and in my cousin’s life. By the time I had turned around, the boys had all made it to where I was and were standing there panting. When I turned around with the pad carefully resting on my hands, they all looked up. Luke stepped forward and was the first to speak as he inspected the new object. “What the heck is that?” he asked. “This… this is my perish-date-countdown pad. It monitors the amount of time I have left, you know, before I, um... you know. This thing can call people. If I call the right person, they can bring my cousin to us. Now back away while I call.” The boys all disappeared into the woods, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Eventually I picked up the pad and dialed the number. When someone finally picked up on the other line, I heard a sharp intake of breath. “Annabel?” a frail voice asked. “Is that really you?” “Hi, Grandma,” I said. “I know that when I left I should have left a note, but I was worried someone would see it before you did. I need your help with something. I found these boys in the woods, and they and I are friends now, and they are going to help me take care of Gabriel if you can help me get him out of the Community. Do you think that you could do that? I don’t want to get you into any trouble.” “I will bring you the child, but you, my child, must promise me that no harm will come to him. As for getting into trouble, how much trouble can they get me in in one day? I knew that one day the perish date would save someone; I just never knew that it would save my grandson. I will meet you at the edge of the woods in an hour.” “Bye, Grandma. I will never forget what you have done for me. Thank you.” I went looking through the woods and found the boys sitting on the roots of a tree. They looked up as I walked in on them talking. Luke stood up first, followed by the rest of his gang. “So, he isn’t coming?”

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Luke asked me. “No, he’s coming. Why would you think that?” “Well, you’re crying. Why are you crying?” “My grandmother is bringing Gabriel in an hour. She was the first one that I thought of because the elders can’t do much harm to her in one day. I was crying because I was so wrapped up in my world that I didn’t realize that my grandmother was dying tomorrow.” We sat there among the roots for what felt like days. At the end of the hour, we gathered at the edge of the woods in the shadows and waited for my grandmother to arrive. She appeared on the road, holding a bundle in one arm and a slightly larger bundle in the other. As she walked closer, I stepped out of the shadows so that she could see me, and the boys stepped out just a few moments after me. My grandmother took that baby and the bundle and laid both of them gently in my arms. “Take care of him,” she whispered as she set him down. “Always,” I replied.

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Colby ChaseGrade 10

Six Willows from the Silo

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Shawna DyerGrade 10

What I’ve Learned

The peak hours in the nightreveal the best untold secretsof a lonesome heart by letting their walls downand whom they truly love shine through. The most beautiful thingsdo not come from complexity but simplicity.Even though it may be harder to communicate complexity,simple ideas are not dull.

Yet, I lack the knowledge to understand why the sun rises so early, or why forever doesn’t mean forever when it comes to love,or how the seemingly most important people can walk out of your life,or why the saddest songs can mean so much to the most beautiful people.But maybe those are things that are not meant to be comprehended,and eventually I will be okay with that.

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Isabel LordGrade 11

The Departure

The room in which we stand is devoid of life, save for a tiny mouse that has been crawling over it since the sun began to shine through the window that hasn’t been cleaned for over a decade. Outside it is fall, but inside it could be summer; a dry humidity, if you will, characterizes the air that is contained between the old wooden walls. The mouse is the creator of the only sounds in the room, making a sort of pitter-patter as it jumps from the dusty leather armchair to the dusty marble fireplace to the dusty bookshelves of an unknown wood, and begins sniffing at the worn bindings that tie together the loose-leaf papers of Civil Disobedience and Francis Bacon’s Essays. It continues weaving on and around the books until it eventually leaves the room through a hole chewed in the wall behind one of the hundreds of books that hasn’t been touched since he left. The sun continues to rise, fading the light blue satin curtains that frame the window until they no longer retain the beauty that had driven their purchasers to spend hundreds. There is a table, set in front of the bookcase, that hasn’t moved for so long that if it were to move, a dip in the floor where each of the legs has been resting would serve as a time marker similar to how one can tell age by the rings found on a freshly cut tree stump. On this table rests a collection of sun-aged papers, blueprints, and books open to pages random to the untrained eye but which had been of much importance to their purchaser, the only person who would ever grace their pages with his eyes. Two hand-drawn maps, each at different stages of completion, outline the figure of the Bahamian island Mayaguana, which so few people lived on at the time the self-interested cartographer left that calling it “populated” could be seen as an overstatement; the maps lie tossed on top of a handbook titled How To Survive When All Seems Lost, the Complete Manual and the panic-inducing novel War of the Worlds. A crossword puzzle, jaggedly torn from the back of a newspaper and tossed into the sunlight’s debilitating path, is shaded in so that the only words remaining are “youth” and “fountain”; together the words fill in the gaps

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belonging to questions 13 Across and 2 Down, the last three numbers of a privately chartered flight that vanished off the coast of Florida fifteen years ago. A newspaper, presumably missing its crossword section, dated April 17, 1985, flaunts latitudes and longitudes scribbled on its margins and seems to look up in defiance at the room’s adjacent portrait-covered walls, the most notable of which is the far wall and features a painting of a graying man sporting an untamed beard and an equally untamed mass of curly hair that can only be described as silver. His hair sprouts out in all directions, matted down where a pair of chemist’s goggles was pulled taut across his cranium, and his spectacles and corresponding pocket watch, dangling precariously on the worn breast-pocket of the navy blue blazer he is dressed in, gives him a refined air that contradicts his original mad-scientist demeanor. In an action conflicting with the classical portraits that dominated whatever portion of the art world they occupied, the man, named Theodore “Crazy Ted” Horatio Vossmitten III on the bronze plaque beneath, is smiling. Painted in the background is the same room in which we find ourselves, but littered with suitcases and pulleys and other “science machines,” as his neighbors called them before he left over a decade ago. He has become a source of rumor in the past few years, the small town’s claim to fame. Apparently, he had left in a hurry after going on a month – or four depending on whom you ask – of being cooped up in that house on the hill of his. His neighbor to the right, Miss Susie as everyone calls her, claims that in that one month span she never could sleep, “what with all the bangin’ that was goin’ on ovah there,” but his neighbor to the left claims he never heard a peep. Some say Crazy Ted ran out of the house, yelling about the airport and that, “he had finally got it now,” but never mentioned what “it” was. Others claim they saw him leave in the middle of the night, a figure seen in the first and last rain of the spring of 1985. Despite the obvious divisiveness of the topic of Crazy Ted, there remains one characteristic of the story on which the neighbors can still agree: Crazy Ted had done it. Everyone knows he had, though for some reason they prefer not to talk about the one thing on which they collectively, and silently, concur. Although no one knows what it was exactly he had done, be it found buried treasure or proved the existence of mermaids (both of which were tasks he had been working on before

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the “departure,” as everyone so dramatically calls it), Crazy Ted had done it, and that was without question. After preparing and investigating for a month, he had packed up and left in a day, and not returned, and the room in which we creep has not been touched since he left. We have stood watch for ten years, you and I, and we have done so without attracting attention to ourselves, without disclosing the truth behind Crazy Ted, and I think we deserve props for that. You do realize what happened, don’t you? How his story ended? It never really did, but of course I’ll tell you (because it seems you have forgotten), if you promise not to tell anyone. It can be our little secret, you know? Alright, I’ll start at the beginning, so you can get the gist of it. He –

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Tatianna AugusteGrade 12

Beats

Personally, I love the sound of rain on a cold Sunday afternoon because of how it calms me; because the steady beat of raindrops on the pavement forces me to listen; because it can overpower the noise that is Boston; because without rainy days there would be no time to ponder; because singing in the rain is fun; because it makes my bed feel that much more cozy; because it is like a song; because it is an excuse to have a lazy day; because it slows down the speed of the world; because it diminishes all sadness; because it washes away the mess of the last drought; because it makes me feel at peace; because it lacks the intensity of heat and the bitterness of wintry nights; because it can ruin a moment entirely, or make it much more special; because jumping in puddles will never get old; because it is like getting another chance; because it cleans the slate; because a rainbow usually follows. I love the rain because with every free-falling drop of water, a part of the earth is reborn.

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Matthew TuchlerGrade 10

Digital Collage

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Ashley CostaGrade 10

Blue Eyes

“Is everything okay?” I said, hoping that something wasn’t wrong and that I was overthinking things. He looked over my head right behind me, and his eyes grew larger. He then looked back at me and reached into his pocket. He pulled out an oval black piece of plastic, or at least that’s what I made of it. He pressed a little silver button on the side, and suddenly there was a click, and what looked like a flat silver piece of metal slid out. I stood up quickly but couldn’t move because of the shock I was in. He came closer, and I could feel a pounding from the back of my head. I saw a hand reach toward me as I slowly started to lose my sight. Everything was just black and white shadows in the distance moving in circles around me. I felt myself falling backwards until I could feel no more. Everything was still blurry as I tried to open my eyes. The brightness of something was blinding me, and I felt like I had been spinning in circles and this was the aftermath. Once I could start to make out the objects in front of me, I tried to look for him – for Nate. I scared myself at the thought of him and jumped up, but something pulled me back down. I couldn’t move my ankles or my hands. It only took me a second to realize I was tied up. The wood on the brown stained chair I was sitting on was starting to leave little splinters in my legs. The room was dark and had a single light bulb in the middle of the low ceiling. My chair was placed right below the bulb. The light would sometimes dim on its own, and it reminded me of days on the farm, working long hard days in the sun, and how fast they would go when I was getting my work done. The black painted door across from my chair started to open slowly, and I managed to pick my head up to see him. Once he opened the door a quarter of the way, he stuck his body through and abruptly shut the door behind him causing the light and the string, which shut it on and off, to shake. He seemed angry. He gently pulled off the duct tape that was placed over my mouth, rested both hands on either sides of the armrests of my chair, and

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leaned over so close to me that I could feel his breath on my face. “They’re looking for you now.” “What are you talking about?” I could feel the tears streaming down my already sweat-drenched face as I struggled to break free from the rope that tied my hands. I was doing whatever I could not to make eye contact with him. “You couldn’t stay there; they were going to hurt you. That’s the only reason I was at that stupid party. I was there to save you.” Every word coming out of his mouth made my head pound even harder. This wasn’t making any sense. Why was he telling me that he was saving me when clearly he just knocked me on my head and tied me up? I kept tugging and pulling to try and free myself, but it only hurt me more. He just stood there, inches away from my face, watching me struggle, and I didn’t even know why. “You don’t understand, do you?” He looked at me waiting for a reply so that he didn’t have to explain himself. He finally let go of his locked eye contact with me, released the arms of my chair, and started to stroll around the small room. His face started to turn uncontrollably red, and his eyes looked as glossy as pearls. “I don’t know what I can say or do to make you believe me, but just know that I’m not here to hurt you. I’m not the one behind this, and you just have to understand that.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “I wasn’t the one who knocked you out; there are people who are after you and your family. It’s hard to explain it all now, and I don’t expect you to just believe me, but in order to save yourself and your family, you’re going to have to try.” My head began to spin, and the room became fuzzy. My eyes poured out tears, reminding myself that I might not be able to see my family ever again. This time I had nothing left to say to him. I just gave up hoping that my parents would burst through that door and save me. “I don’t know why they do what they do, Colins, but I do know that they are dangerous.” Suddenly I began to think of my family and if they were even searching for me. Should I even believe him? I looked up from the floor and right into his eyes. “Where is my family?” My stomach dropped, and I could feel my heart get heavy. “We don’t have enough time to explain the story.” He walked

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over to me and untied my wrists and then went for my ankles. “We have to go save your family now.” He gave me a light smile for an apology and helped me up. I let him walk me towards the door, and once I opened the black-painted door to walk out, I quickly shut it behind me before Nate could follow. The hallway was pretty dark, and it was hard to make out which direction to walk. There were pictures of happy families all over the coffee-colored walls. At the end of the hall, there were two other halls going in separate directions. I sprinted to the end, and then the door opened. “Colins, please. I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t care about you or your family. If you want them back, then you need to stay. If you want to risk everything and put your life and your family’s lives on the edge, then leave. Your choice.” He slowly came out of the door, letting light in the hall for me to see. Looking at him seemed so assuring, like he really cared, like he really meant all that he was saying. We both knew that he was the only way to ever finding my family again. Part of me still wanted to run out and find them myself, but my gut was telling me to stay. I tucked my hair behind my ears and turned myself so that I was facing in his direction. I stood there for a while, unsure of what to say or what to do. Nate also didn’t move at all; he just stood there looking at me with his glossy blue eyes.

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Mahlon HanifinGrade 11

Burning Flower

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Shawna DyerGrade 10

My Wooden Heart

I met someone who sparked my wooden heart that ended up igniting my soul.

A fiery fury of overwhelming passion, blazing emotion.

But when a fire is not rekindled and the flame begins to dwindle,the raging fire will turn to ash.

The same inferno will never blaze againbecause the wood used the first timeis burned and scorched.

In the beginning, the wood enjoyed being eaten alive by the forbidden and ultimately devastating passion.

The playful way fiery affection danced and lit up in the most beautiful reds and oranges.

But the more it burned, the greater it grewuntil it could not go on any longer.

Everything crackled and faded to black and white.The existence of the blaze was forgotten.

My charred wooden heart.

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Laurel WainGrade 9

Looming Destruction

She cried, but it was more than that;she balled tears of fire.

They inflicted wholehearted,insurmountable terror in the souls of people living with her –

and to decimate, destroy, demolishwas her only fate.To wreak havoc –her only purpose

gushing from her eye,down her face,sliding, gliding, ridinginto day.

She dominated the coast,and when her tears, poolingby her sides,reached the waterline,all were dead.

No one could have stopped her.No one could have avoided her.No one could have changed her outcome.But mostly, no one knew her power.

And when she wailed,the ground shook.

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But when she wailed,the rest of the world kept turning.

It was 79 AD.She was a sight to see.She cried, but it was more than that;she balled tears of fire.

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Laurel WainGrade 9

Umbagog Bonfire

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Catherine ThorpeGrade 10

Fire and Ice

This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. I stared out over the scene in front of me: the dog had jumped up on the table, pulling the tablecloth out from underneath him. The pot catapulted towards me. Time slowed to a stop. My heart thudded in my ears as my limbs turned to lead. But even as I sat frozen there, gripping the handles of the chair for dear life, I felt as if I were merely observing the whole scene from a safe place far away. I distantly heard the clang of the pot hitting the floor and saw the boiling water from the pot levitated and spread out into a million tiny droplets. My mother and father turned and looked at me with surprise, which soon morphed into fear and then disgust. I strained against my leaden limbs and forced myself up, pushing towards the staircase behind me. It was almost as if I were underwater: the light slowly faded as I fell deeper and deeper into the blue void, the heat draining from my body until I was cold, old, numb, and drowning in an ice bath. From a distance I heard my dog bark at the pot, and then it was silence. “Now, Bennett. We can talk about this,” my father said, slowly moving towards me. “N-no! You’re going to report me!” “Of course we are, honey. It’s our civic duty to report mutants like you. You know that. Now they won’t hurt you where you’re going. So why don’t you be a good girl and go pack a bag.” Our kitchen was silent again. Mother and Father stared at me as if they were trying to find out what could have possibly caused me to turn from the cute little girl they had raised to this. I nodded and slowly walked up the stairs. Mother calmly walked over to the phone and dialed the number for mutant collection. How could I have been so careless? I thought, as I put clothes in a bag, along with a few random keepsakes from my room. I put on a sweatshirt and headed over towards the door, ready to leave. I turned around to take a good look at the room I’d be leaving behind, and then I remembered. It was two years ago. The school had brought us to one of the

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facilities where the mutants were kept. We were there to learn about how humanely the mutants were treated, as all children in year ten do. While we were walking around the facility, I saw one of the inmates attached to a strange looking machine that seemed to be draining the life from his old, hunched body. The inmate yelled, “Don’t believe them! They’re killing us! Long live the District! Together we are strong! Toget–” The inmate was tackled by a man in a gray suit; red lights began to flash, followed by the blaring of several loud sirens. My class was ushered off the premises; the day was never to be spoken of again. I locked the door and turned back to my room; I threw more clothes into the bag. My parents had no idea they would be sending me to my death. If I went willingly, my life would be over. I put an old picture of them in my pocket, walked over to the window, and took in a deep breath. What I was about to do would seal my fate. Downstairs our doorbell rang. I heard my father walk up the stairs. He knocked on the door. “Bennett, it’s time to go.” I didn’t respond. He attempted to open the door, only to find it locked. He shook the doorknob and banged on the door. “Bennett!” “I love you, Dad,” I whispered, lifting the window. I stepped out of the window and carefully walked to the edge of the roof. I heard a gunshot and a loud thud. Panicked, I turned around, and then I heard another gunshot, this time sounding much closer to my little, locked door. “Dad?” I called out, hoping for the best even though the sinking feeling in my stomach made me realize otherwise. The door creaked with another loud thud, and then, with a sickening crack, splintered as the men in gray suits entered the room. I screamed, ran towards the edge of the roof, and hurled myself off of it. I need to hide; they can’t find me, I thought, as I sprinted through the quickly-narrowing streets. A siren blared in the distance. I turned my head back to look at the road I had already covered. A searchlight from a helicopter circled around my old house. Just great, I thought, pushing myself to run faster. I ran into a small alley, hid behind a large green dumpster, and sat down on the damp asphalt. Taking shallow breaths, I pulled my knees closer to my chest in an effort to be small and quiet

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enough that the army trucks, filled with the men in gray suits, rolling down the street, wouldn’t notice me. After a few minutes of my nervous silence and repressed panic attacks, the sound of the tires faded enough for me to believe it to be safe. I took a deep breath and stood up on my shaky legs. “So, if those guys were after you, would it be safe to assume you are like me?” I jumped at the sound of the voice. I turned around and saw it come from a boy in a green military-issue jacket. He raised his eyebrows at me and took a drag from a slow-burning cigarette. As he ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair, he almost pushed his red bandana off of his head. He readjusted the bandana and winked at me. His eyes! I thought. His once-hazel eyes were now golden amber. He smiled and snapped his fingers. Once I was able to detach my eyes from his, I looked down at his outstretched palm. There, in his palm, was a small flame. “I’m Samuel, a Fire Bender and the protector of the… less fortunate,” he said, giving me a small nod. “Like you, my dear. Now, according to common courtesy, it is your turn, so I ask you: what’s your curse?” He blew out the flame and raised his eyebrows, looking at me expectantly. “I’m Bennett Jackson. I am a Water Bender. My parents – they reported me and –” My voice broke. “And now they’re dead, and it’s all my fault.” My eyes screwed shut at the memory. The gunshots. The thud. The blood I tried not to notice staining the white of the broken door. “Oh no. Don’t start crying!” he said, sounding panicked. “I hate it when they cry! Okay, come here,” he pulled me in for a hug, and I rested my head on his shoulder. His warmth enveloped me in a wonderful feeling of calm. He pulled back, held me at arm’s distance, and checked to see if I was okay. “Hey, it’s not wrong at all. Everything will be just fi–” “Over there!” A metallic voice from the other side of the alley interrupted him as the bright light from one of the trucks filled the alley. Samuel turned to me. “Well, Bennett. Looks like we are about to get a whole lot friendlier. Let’s go.” He dropped his cigarette and grabbed my hand, pulling me to a beat-up red truck parked just outside the alley. “Get in.” I quickly jumped in, buckling my seat belt as he put the truck in drive and sped off down the dirt road. I stared as he drove me farther

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and farther from the town I had grown up in; its many buildings became smaller as we continued – our only hope of getting out of this alive. While he was busy driving, I sat back into the worn seat of the old truck. Instinctively, I put my hand in my pocket. As I did, I remembered the picture. I pulled it out, smoothing the creases from it with my thumb. It was from eight years ago, about four months before I found out about my… predicament. My parents stood behind me, each with a hand on my shoulder, and I stood in between them. My blue eyes shone. I was wearing a white dress that my mother forced me to wear specifically for the occasion. I was never one to wear such a thing, but when my mother insisted, I couldn’t argue. I was holding a small stuffed bunny to my chest; wrapped around its neck was a pink ribbon. It was sunny that day. After my aunt took the picture, my dad ruffled my brown hair and spun me around. We laughed, and my mother came up to us, admonishing my father for endangering me. He told her to live a little and kissed her. That day felt like forever ago, and it was. It must be because now the two faces I loved most in the picture were gone forever, and I was alone in this world. I folded the picture and hid it back in my pocket. Leaning my head against the window, I was about to go to sleep when Samuel spoke. “Bennett,” Samuel said, and I looked up. He nodded his head backwards, and I turned. The helicopter’s searchlight was quickly approaching the tail of the truck. “Keep driving; I can handle this,” I said quickly to Samuel. After wiping my eyes, I rolled down the window and then leaned out of it. The night was foggy, but not quite foggy enough. “Do you have a water bottle?” I asked Samuel. “It’s in the glove box,” he said, not taking his eyes off of the helicopter in the rearview. I mumbled thanks, opened the glove box, and fumbled around for the water bottle. I took a quick breath and concentrated on calming myself. I poured the water out, and it immediately became suspended in a large bubble above my hand. Carefully leaning out of the window, I tried to get a location on the helicopter. Even though the fog was thick, the searchlight allowed me to get a good view of my target, and the glow of the light gun that was beginning to charge beneath it. Focus, I thought. I stared into the water; frost started to spiral its way around the water and began to turn it into a dagger-like piece of ice. I forced the water

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forward, and as it rocketed through the air, it froze completely, piercing the windshield with deadly accuracy. The helicopter spiraled down, crashing into the forest on the side of the road in an inferno of twisted metal and burning wood. I said a silent prayer for the pilot of the helicopter as I climbed back into the passenger seat. Samuel gave me a quick nod of approval and then turned his attention to the fire via the rearview mirror. His eyes glowed amber, and the flames rose higher and higher until they reached nearly above the tree line. “Quit bending it, Samuel! The others will see the smoke.” He shook his head, as if to clear it, and the fire extinguished itself. He turned back to me and gave me a small smile. His eyes had returned to their usual hazel. All was quiet in the truck as we continued on our trek to the unknown. “So I guess it’s just us then,” I said, looking out at the empty road ahead of us. A streetlight flickered on and off. “I guess it is.”

It had been several hours, and we pulled over to the side of the road. Sam had brought us to a small town. “Don’t go far. We’re only stopping for gas. It’s not safe here for us.” I nodded and looked back out the window. Sleep started to engulf me in its warm grip. My consciousness was fading in and out. I slowly began to let my body give in to sleep, and then I saw the eyes. On the brick wall of what I thought to be a hardware store was a poster. Fixated on it, I quietly exited the truck. The poster depicted a mug shot of a man with strangely familiar blue eyes. All I could see of the faded poster were the eyes and the word “WANTED” above them. I slowly backed up to the truck and got back in. After a while, Sam returned and filled the truck with a series of red canisters of gasoline. He then got back in the driver’s seat. “We need to go, quickly,” I deadpanned, still looking at the eyes on the poster. “Why?” he asked. “It’s not safe here,” I said. As I did, I saw that the blue-eyed man was not the only person pictured on the wall. He was only on the top. All around him were the eyes and faces of other people with red,

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green, and even white eyes. All of them were branded together by the word “WANTED.” I held back a shudder. When I turned my head, I glimpsed the blue eyes again, but this time in my own reflection. I drew my eyebrows together and ran my hand along the glass in order to cover the eyes that would mark me as an outcast until the end of time. “I know it isn’t safe,” Samuel said, putting the truck in drive and leaving the town. I turned to him, confused. “How could you know?” “That’s my father’s hardware store,” he nodded towards the building. He backed out of the alley. “He kicked me out years ago, back when things were different.” Samuel had a straight face on. I stared at him confused. For a second, it almost seemed like he had gotten over what his father had done to him. “He kicked you out? How could you possibly not hate him! And you seem almost alrig–” “I’m not alright with it!” he snapped, momentarily turning his head to glare at me. We were quiet for a second. He exhaled and turned his head to stare out over the road as he tried to calm down. “I just don’t blame him. It isn’t his fault he hates me. It’s not in his nature; it’s how he was raised. He was taught just as both you and I were: benders are evil and must be killed. I hate to say it, but if I were in his place, I would probably do the same.” The cab of the truck was filled with an uncomfortably tense silence. “But he did teach me some useful things,” he said. I turned to him, raising my eyebrows. “Well, he always told me that if something could happen, somewhere, somehow it will. Sometimes, that’s the only thing that keeps me going.” We were quiet for a moment. “Where are we even going?” I asked. “I heard a rumor about this place. From what I’ve been told, it seems to be the only place for people like us. A bunch of benders have taken up residence there and will do anything to keep the government out. I think that they allow it though. I mean, there really isn’t a way for something like this to survive otherwise.” “What’s it called?” I asked. “The District.”

Some time later we approached a town. I watched out the window

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as the trees began to thin out until they disappeared entirely. “I have a good feeling about this place. We are going to be safe here,” Samuel said, ever the optimist, flashing me a childish grin. We passed row after row of the simple houses. One looked remarkably similar to the one that I had grown up in. Street after street, everything was almost the same. All that was different was the name of each road. “It has to be different here,” Samuel said. He looked conflicted now, almost as if some part of him disagreed with his optimism. Suddenly, I was struck with a horrible idea. What if nowhere was safe? What if there was no District? What if no matter where we went, something would always go wrong, and we would be right back where we started? “Bennett?” Samuel said. I looked over at him. He appeared so lost. The boy had been running for years, yet he still kept on going. He was looking for the same thing I was: home. If what he had said earlier was right, then it must exist. There has to be someplace where we can be safe, at least for a little while. I looked out the window. A large, guarded barricade seemed to rise from the streets. I turned towards Samuel, confused. As we drove closer, I could see that the guards had familiar blue and amber eyes. Samuel took my hand in his and smiled at me; we slowly continued on. The street was blocked off except for a small, gated exit, barely big enough for one lane of traffic. “Yeah,” I said, “here it will be different.” We shared a smile. We drove to the gate, and the guard with the blue eyes looked in the car and smiled at us. He raised the barrier, and the two of us drove over the threshold.

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Sunset Panorama

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Rachel KellyGrade 11

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Adam MillerGrade 9

Geico

Can 15 minutes really save you 15% or more?

Why does that even matter because nobody ever calls anyway.

I just want to go and work with Flo over at Progressive! For God’s sake, I do not even

look like any one of my coworkers. I am green and small unlike State Farm where their employees

wear khakis. I just want to be “on your side” like Nationwide. I am now stuck here

promoting a company I do not even care for. Lastly, the cheesy and non-comical commercials are not helping

our cause. I want to be a part of Flo’s commercials and be in those Allstate commercials with

Dennis Haysbert and his amazing voice.

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Cole WeinerGrade 9

The Voice

The voice that you hear coming from the mask of the Finnish goaltenderhas the accent of my grandmother.She was born in Swedenand moved to the United States of America when she was in her teens.The voice that you hear coming from the iceis a rich, deep voice that has passion for the game.No one person born in the United States can have that accent.It is not a Boston, New York, or Texasaccent but a more fine,antique voice.

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Caitlin SouthwickGrade 10

Hands

I would sit in the studio for hours just to watch them work. They weren’t pretty, though I suppose they never had been. The joints were swollen and large from years of manual labor. The fingers were long and tapered, verging on grotesque. The bottoms were ripped and callused. Miniscule bits of skin, too small to be torn away, hung from the palms, and the small crevasses they created were frequently filled with clay. Always clay. Those hands absolutely refused to cooperate with any other medium. I would marvel at the way they worked. Like a spider spinning its web, they would swing and stick, press and move, be lost in a great mound of clay only to resurface in a moment, having pulled beauty from its depths. Never resting, those long digits would glide gracefully over the surface of the clay, pulling things up then smashing them back in and restarting from scratch. Thin dark hair grew along and behind the knuckles. It would become matted with clay when wet, then slowly harden as the clay lost its viscosity and cemented, at which point a washing was desperately needed. Washing would reveal the thin white scars tracing the back of the hands, quiet reminders of failed attempts at other occupations. The fingernails were dirty and torn, occasionally bloody, as they were never valued enough to be properly cut. Washing was always a short process, very poorly done, and rarely involved soap. Bits of clay, now harder than ever, still clung to the skin and hair as the fingers returned to their frenzied work. They continued to create their masterpiece, moving unceasingly in increasingly slow patterns. Moving them must have been incredibly painful. I could never understand why they didn’t stop. Why they would trace the clay in their deliberate, patient fashion, only to lash out with remarkable speed and bring up a new creation. Why they worked on the same piece of clay over and over, creating a work of genius only to crush it again in an instant. Why they could never be satisfied. Why they continued to pursue perfection when they had found it so long ago. Why they would continue to tolerate such abuse. They were never cared for, never properly cleaned. They would cry out in agony with every motion, become redder with every touch. They never stopped, moving with a suicidal tension and obsessive determination. Forever imprisoned in their own quest for something that they had already found and continued to find time and time again but continued to destroy. And I would sit in the studio for hours and watch.

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Brendan NgGrade 9

Tom at Work

Tom’s eyes burst open at first light – no need for sleep;he alone bounced out of bed, the others without a peep.No time for rest; no time for play; he had work this Saturday;He had been rewarded with this great job just yesterday.Aunt Polly always appreciated his playful pranks and jokes;he danced around her when she tried to give him pokes.His mind and heart raced as he planned the task at hand;the joy of whitewashing the fence was his alone to stand.Too bad the fence was so short – the job would be done too soon;he ran out of whitewash, or they would paint in the light of the moon.Friends had come by and forced him to give up the brush;when Aunt Polly came out to inspect, they all had to hush.Then Tom resumed accepting their meager bribes and treasures;the work turned to play and gave all, even Tom, great pleasure.

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George BaldiniGrade 11

The Old Venetian

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George BaldiniGrade 11

A Lesson for Them Young Ones

I was once like all them kids –runnin’ around the courtyards, screamin’, jumpin’, laughin’,

without a care in the world.But then too much runnin’ and too much jumpin’ broke this leg. Now

I’m sittin’ here wheelin’ my poor self ’round in this ol’ chair.

I was once like all them boys –flirtin’ with the girls and makin’ good fun of each other to impress ’em.

But then too much makin’ fun of and one too many jokes scared all them girls

away from me. Now I don’t make jokes no more.

I was once like all them men –holdin’ their wives in their arms and kissin’ ’em on the cheek.

But then too much holdin’ and too much kissin’ led my wife far away from me.

I was once like all them granddads –carin’ for mine own children and supportin’ their families.

But then too much drinkin’ and too much sleepin’ on the streets scared my children far away from me.

So listen here, youngins, enjoy yourselves, but you kids best be safe.My boys, enjoy your friends and all your girlfriends, but treat ’em right.

All you men, love your wives and take care of ’em, but make sure they treat you right, too.

And finally, all you ol’ men like me, look after your family and put ’em first.

But remember, they look up to you. Be their hero.

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Hayley HoustonGrade 12

Metropolitan Ave.

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Catherine ThorpeGrade 10

Waiting

You kept me waiting here as the hot huesof summer turned from green to the homely

embers of the fall. My heart fell with youand the harvest moon into the lonely

desert, but my dreams did not. They rose withthe quiet winds to join the shining stars

in the infinite and the timeless myths.In my thoughts I could have what was once ours:

an open heart full of dreams and hope fora future, undetermined by old Fate,

unspoiled by actions of a boy ora girl, trusting until it was too late.

With lonely winters comes understandingof how to live through false summer’s ending.

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Alivia KinneyGrade 10

The Lake

The long drive down with music on the wayto the place so filled with memories and love.Your body goes in water with a shoveby hands to get you wet on a hot day.The joy of family, elders that sayto be kind and thankful for the ones above.Sunsets that shine and cause me to think ofmy life in a sort of marvelous way.The place where parts of my summers take placeand childhood joys will forever remain.No new area could ever replacethe home of my da, in sun or in rain.Some may not care for lakes, but in this case,a lake taught me, and I cannot complain.

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George BaldiniGrade 11

Weld Pond

106

Elizabeth RivaGrade 12

Deep Sea

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Colby ChaseGrade 10

King of the Sea

Windblown, haggard, carrying an aurora of pleasure

as you peer through a wall of windows and pull the throttle back,you smell like the riches of the sea and spray

and look like a satisfied captain.

You are finishing this game, this occupation.It is difficult, much like life,yet rewarding like heaven.

You have been called by the low, gentle voice of the foghorn;she has been calling you ever since you laid eyes on land.

Now the gulls, dirty white and loud, are reeling you to shorethrough the enveloping jetties.The noise and busyness of life,

silences like the quiet of your neutral engine.

You are in your haven, your harbor,your heaven,

that shelters you from the difficulties of the sea.The current eases you through the jetties,

through the white gates.

The gulls lead you to your resting place like a king.Your lines, brined yet strong, are in place,

starboard side like always.You swing your bow ’round and put it in reverse,

not too long before you are back in neutral.She is stern in, bow out, for the final time.

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The lines are tied and coiled on the dock.

You hear the fog horn summoning you again.

You have completed the trip,this game,

as difficult as the ocean.

Now you are resting.

The gulls leave their faithful ship, never accompanying another entrance;

even without those dirty angels, you still feel like a king.Somehow you are still

king of the sea.