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Hingham High School’s Outer Limits 20132

Hingham High School’s Outer Limits 2013 3

Welcometo the 2013 edition of The Outer Limits, Hingham High School’s creativemagazine. Over the years The Outer Limits has evolved from a magazinereplete with poems to an eclectic mix of poems, stories, sketches, andphotography. I would like to thank Julie Nickerson for gently proddingfriends and students into submitting their work so that I could gatherenough material for this year’s edition. Also, several English teachers,especially Ms. Roth, encouraged students to share work. Finally, artteachers Ms. Papuga and Mr. Eschauzier both encouraged their studentsto submit work and allowed The Outer Limits to display work from theirstudents’ amazing online portfolios. What talent we have here! I hopethe students nudged into publishing their work this year, either fromgentle encouragement or for the reward of extra credit, enjoy readingthe pages and consider joining the staff next year. It is these very typesof publications that one looks back on years after high school andremembers with fondness.

~Ms. FennellyCover art by Meaghann Lahiff, class of 2013Cover art by Meaghann Lahiff, class of 2013Cover art by Meaghann Lahiff, class of 2013Cover art by Meaghann Lahiff, class of 2013Cover art by Meaghann Lahiff, class of 2013

Table of ContentsPart I. PoetryPart I. PoetryPart I. PoetryPart I. PoetryPart I. Poetry

No Room for Interaction.................5By Caroline RandallArtwork by Ashland Stansbury

If Only..............................................5By Alex Duprex

Pop into Presidency........................6By Maddie StimsonArtwork by Ali Weaver

Taliban Point of View on ShootingMalala..............................................6By Laura Lynch

Lessons................................................7By Bailey Hull

The Future........................................7By Tori BaldassiniArtwork by Meaghann Lahiff

A Gift from the Heart.......................8By Lea Concannon

The Necklace...................................8By Kristine McLellanArtwork by Brian Thomas

In the Darkness.................................9By Josh SlawsbyArtwork by Kayla Gould

Winter’s Battlefield...........................9By Bryan Dettman

The Voltage......................................10By Jessica Passaretti

Fire...................................................10By Capucine MegardArtwork by Greg Williamson

Duty..................................................11By Griffin Power MoriartyArtwork by John Branagan


Grandfather.....................................11By John Stanley

The Little Shed................................12By Scott Whitney

Twenty Thirteen.............................12By Emily Arcese

Haiku...............................................12By Scott WhitneyArtwork by Scott Whitney

The Scrapbook.................................13By Haley GrayArtwork by Christina Doggett

Crossroads........................................14By Dan Kylander

The River..........................................14By Christine RobinsonArtwork by Dan Kylander

Ten....................................................15By Bailey HullArtwork by Nicholas Nielsen

Was She Always True?......................16By Alex DuprexArtwork by Ali Weaver

Melancholy Times...........................16By Sarah Calnan

The White Butterfly.........................17By Julie NickersonArtwork by Kaleigh Lumnah

A “Perfect” Person...........................18By Dan KylanderArtwork by Rafael Sogomonian

The End of Something.....................18By Annmarie Fennelly

Part II. ProsePart II. ProsePart II. ProsePart II. ProsePart II. Prose

Tidal Respiration......................19-20By Emma HollandArtwork by Rafael Sogomonian

Aging Eyes..................................20-21By Alli HumphreyArtwork by Matt Park

Tom’s Cafe..................................22-24By Ben WileyArtwork by Sam Mildrum

Four Deceptively Deep................24-27Quotes From The Hitchhiker’sGuide to the GalaxyBy Luke MaynardArtwork by Alex Duprex

The Burden of Guilt...................27-28By Cody CliffordArtwork by Ryder Nelson

Silent Assurance..............................29By Davis Goode

Noah’s Apple................................29-30By Danielle VanzuraArtwork by Grace Beyerl

Yin and Tang.............................31-32By Caroline RandallArtwork by Matt Park

One Day in the life....................32-33of Henry RedwardBy AnonymousArtwork by Alex Duprex

Table of Contents


Artwork by Ashland StansburyGrade 11

No Room for InteractionsBy Caroline RandallGrade 12

Hectic. Bursting at the seams.Energy runs rampant in these streets:Crowded beings and machinesMoving, standing still; ignoring, observing;All in unity, but parting.Numerous are the bright colorsWith their dark shadows.

Looking down,Making eyes with the ground,Always moving forward.No time to turn backOr even look up.

Despite the rush of people,And the endless energy,Loneliness residesIn every corner,On every street.No words to say,No time to say them.

If OnlyBy Alex Duprex

Grade10

If only you were still here,If only you could know.

I could tell you,Tell you not to.

You could know the truth,Understand the facts,

Realize how much you’re worth.There were many before,

And many afterWho will follow in your path.

A path that has led toDestruction, emptiness, despair.

You shared with the world your wish,Wish? A deathly wish.But now you’re gone,

And nothing,Nothing can be done

to bring you back.

Part I. Poetry


Pop into PresidencyBy Maddie StimsonGrade 10

A pop star turned president.Poor Haiti, suffering from the consequences.The meager resources, wasted.Protestors fight for their natural rights.Michel Martely resign!Michel Martely resign!The promised fresh start-never achieved.The cost of living is too high.Poverty is everywhere.Michel Martely must resign!Michel Martely must resign!The earthquake ruined lives; this man can’t fix them.Peacekeeper size drastically cut.Cholera epidemic takes numerous lives.New president, equal as a democracy, needed.

Taliban point of view on the shooting of MalalaBy Laura Lynch

Grade 10

By what are we scared?Innocence? Courage?

Must our dark hands oppressA shimmering spirit?

HopeShot in the head with a bullet,

PassionSliced in the neck,

Destroy what we are meant to love,Choke the voice inspiring a nation.

A blooming flower in a meadow of shadows;Too afraid to open their buds,

Too afraid to fight for light.A frail rose finds a way-if she can, can’t they all?

Will a hillside bloom, afterPetals are crushed in our hands?

Can a nation rise to their feet?A girl opened her mouth,

Shouting,Shouting for her country, struggling against our chains

Shouting for her home, locked with our keys of confinementShouting to God, I am here!

I am here when I am needed.She was there when she was wanted

By the quivering hands of our fear.

Artwork by Ali WeaverGrade 10


LessonsBy Bailey HullGrade 10

We are toldthat a few small black letterson a piece of paperdetermine our worthour intelligenceour successour goodness as people.They are our lifeline,the only thing that matters.

We are toldthat we must fit perfectlyinto a mold.Triangles, squares, rectangles,forced into a circle-shaped opening,the perfect ideal.And when you can’t fityou’re stupidlowernot rightfor being somethingother than yourself.

We are not toldhow to solveour future problemsor how to pay taxesor how to comprehendthe propaganda thrown at us.But we are toldthe quadratic formula,and that’s the keyto true success and valueof a person.Right?

The FutureBy Tori Baldassini

Grade 10

He sits in the noisy classroom,filled with the chatter of his peers,

with the florescent lights shining on his young face,contorted with thought,

concentrated on the open book laid in front of him,with his elbow resting on the desk,

holding his chin in his hand,He reads,

He understands,And he learns.

He sits with crossed legs,and below his desk lies a pile of textbooks,

containing chapters he has not yet read.He longs for the day he can finally close the textbooks,

the day his education ends and his life begins,the day when he can leave the noisy classroom,

and enter the real world.But for now-

He sits in the noisy classroom,filled with the chatter of his peers,

with the florescent lights shining on his young face,contorted with thought,

concentrated on the open book laid in front of him,with his elbow resting on the desk,

holding his chin in his hand,He reads,

He understands,And he learns.

Artwork by Meaghann LahiffGrade 12


A Gift from the HeartBy Lea ConcannonGrade 9

The shining plates will not fade over timeThe intricate details show the design; memories will be made, forever mine. The light makes the glossy plates brightly shine.A gift from my Nona, straight from the heart,waiting for one day to return to home.The set keeps us together, not apart.The set comes out on special times to roam, Three birds softly sleep right on the front lawn,mountains rest peacefully in the background.The love between us will never be gone,the set passed down, the circle goes around.The deep flaws slowly form on perfect plates-The force of time acts on the set, as weights.

The NecklaceBy Kristine McLellan

Grade 9

The cold of metal’s touch is quite distinct,The necklace soon is warm in feeling; calm.

Great-grandma’s personality is linkedHere, being tentative then dazzling.

Blue eyes beamed through at seer’s second sight,Like the gem pasted on the cross necklace,

With which the pendant laughed with bright delight,Creating brilliance in the night starless.

Yet with such glowing personality,She liked to be a simple pawn in life,

An ornament for some perhaps to see,A tiny chain embellishing a wife.

Each time the necklace stops and stares at me,I know there’s more than normal eyes can see.

Artwork by Brian ThomasGrade 10


In the DarknessBy Josh SlawsbyGrade11

In the darkness of the nightI do hear an unfamiliar melody,A song of not many a bird but a lone one,constant never ceases.As I lie in bed the night creeps over methe noise neither soothes nor comforts me.Here, the solo of the chirping bird joinsthe rhythm of a cricket but only for a while.Until, the cricket joins no morethe mismatched song that was.I wait for the hum of the cricketbut it has not returned,lost in the night time?Though, soon to be replacedby something equal.

Winter’s Battlefield By Bryan Dettman

Grade 9

The sharp cold crispness of wintering morn, soaking up the previous warmth once felt,

constrained for the purpose of prized adorning, a feud opposing most things that warmth has dealt. Sparse cliffs of mounts all scrape remote horizon,

like fingers struggling toward vast skies, signs of great beings in battle, wizen

from lasting struggles in attempts to rise. Icebound green trees line mountains like vast hordes,

each tree a soldier blanketed by snow, standing within eternal sentry towards elusive dawn that shall never display.

I look upon this struggle and I reckon, that winter’s battlefield to me beckons.

Artwork by Kayla GouldGrade 12


FireBy Capucine Megard

Grade 12

White flames lick the wood,As I sit in front,

It is the one place I can take off my hood.Rangers begin to grunt

As I slowly escape their clutches,For I am a fugitive, an escapee.

One who tried to kill the duchess.My face will be remembered,

Like that of Antonio in Illyria,And if I am caught and dismembered,I will no longer be able to sing Gloria.

But I am safe for the time being,No one can complain,

As the flames in front of me are dying,I feel as if I am unable to be contained.

The VoltageBy Jessica PassarettiGrade 10

The voltage buildsAs power sweptFrom trailing edgeTo some front they creptAs the earth turnsThey fail to keep upIn moisture churnsThey gather abruptAs raindrops fallThe water collectsOxygen worldsAmong their own chestsThe valance orbitsOf the extreme moonsGravity weakenedAs disgusted woundsPressure overwhelmsMicro universeExternal planetsNew systems converse.

Artwork by Greg WilliamsonGrade 10


DutyBy Griffin Power MoriartyGrade 10

Be strong when others are weakBe brave when others tremble in fearWork when others restTake action when others waitDefend when others attackAnd attack when necessary with enough forceto get the job doneProtect others who need protectingThere is no glory in duty, just prideAsk not for recognition but respectOperate with honor, courage, and devotionAnd always for love of country

GrandfatherBy John Stanley

Grade 9

A weakened man lays bed-ridden for now,But with minutes he’ll drift into darkness.

It’s Robert Muse. Ol’ Grandfather. Somehow,There’s time that he can use to reminisce.

It’s Okinawa, and kamikazesFall down to take out those who lay below.

But there’s then contact, he shoots and he seesA young wingman that did not have to go.

He learned the price of life too much that dayAnd how he got to go live it fully,

So Muse does not have fear due to his fade,But rather, eases the melancholy.

So quiver as he takes his final breath,He’s strong in eyes and grasp of lurking.

.

Artwork by John BranaganGrade 12


The Little ShedBy Scott WhitneyGrade 9

There is a little, tired shed at my grandparent’s house in Michigan.

But it was more than a shed.It was a whole new world-A world with monster trucks and robots and planesAnd superheroes and villains.

And while I was engrossed in this world,Minutes became hours,And I was oblivious to the real world.

But I went back into that imaginary world this summerAnd I was devastated.I could no longer escapeinto my little shed because I was too tall.And after climbing in through a window,The shed turned out to be unbearably hotAnd the toys antique and boring.

Twenty ThirteenBy Emily Arcese

Grade 12

Year draws to a closeA yearning to leave evokes

Blissfulness from all.

HaikuBy Scott Whitney

Grade 9

The water glistens,The sweet shy sun smoothly sails

Off the crashing waves.

Artwork by Scott WhitneyGrade 9


The ScrapbookBy Haley GrayGrade 9

Inside this scrapbook, musty and oldare hundreds of stories begging

to be told.A treasure trove of memories galore,Of many great times enjoyed before.There lies the happiness and romanceof a woman and man who

met by chance.There are photographs of a wedding that

seemed like a dreamwith ladies outfitted in lace and gowns

colored cream.Here lie memories of sunset strolls

beside the shoreand the audience cheering loudly

“Encore! Encore!”Depictions of a belly growing in size,followed soon by whimpering,

an infant’s cries.A fragile porcelain-like body swaddled

in clothand nights survived with cups of coffee

topped with froth.Inside this album time ticks awaywrinkles set and youth’s edges begin

to fray.

Artwork by Christina DoggettGrade 11

Here is excitement, for snowflakes swirl to the groundAnd presents scattered are all arounda heavily embellished evergreenwhich displays coziness in the ornaments’ sheen.Upstairs is a furry canine with a wet nosewhose ears have been adorned with a little girl’s bows.This scrapbook holds a large yellow bus pulling away,the tears of a small schoolgirl on her first day.And tea parties with dolls and stuffed bearssecrets shared with giggles and braided hair.Beaming photos of family adventuresa glass containing grandpa’s dentures.A humming violin sings out from withinFrom the sixth grade production of “Huckleberry Finn.”Within this album is a teenaged girlnot resembling at all the young toddler with golden curls.

There are neighborhood barbecuesand a big celebration

For now that infant who was once so tinyHas her high school graduation.

The pages glow with pride and laughter.And although this album ends here,

the girl will create her own soon after.


CrossroadsBy Dan KylanderGrade 9

You arrive at a crossroad.You don’t know what to do.You start down one way,but realize you have gone down the wrong road.so you head back...Now you ponder which way to go.You are lost and never foundYou finally decide which way suits you,But eventually you remember what you’veleft behind.

The RiverBy Christine Robinson

Grade 11

The river long andFilled with uncertainty, Huck

And Jim journey down.

Artwork by Dan KylanderGrade 9


Ten strangers siton an inbound train.

Ten stories, trailsof vivacity and love,of hurt and hatred.Passions, feelings, quirks,some preferring cold showers,some always pouringtoo much milkinto their morning cerealand all are looking,waiting,for something to happen.

Ten people converge,brought for different reasonsaboard this metal snake,

TenBy Bailey Hull

Grade10

burrowing into tunnels.Some to meet a lover,

some to end a love,one to see his childrenafter nearly a decade,some to get their lives

back togetherand some to see themselves

fall apart.

But they will never knowof these other tales,

worlds running parallelto their own,

since all they could possiblyever be

are ten strangers on a train.

Artwork by Nicholas NielsenGrade 12


Melancholy TimesBy Sarah Calnan

Grade 10

It was as if two hooks were attached to the corners of her mouth…And a puppeteer from far above, was trying desperately to lift the strings,

No matter how far north he pulled that wire, they went farther and farther south.That puppeteer’s arm grew sore and weary

And the girl’s head started to drop.Her cheeks turned pale, her eyes grew teary.

She had bourn this for too long.The puppeteer refused defeat; so he called on all his friends.

They shook him off and said “She’s okay,” but he knew something was wrong.He pulled the strings with all his might, hanging on for dear life.

He knew this girl, he knew her well, but lately she had changed.Suffering for a while now, she bore a silent strife.

She had someone there for her, just like we all do.She saw he cared and that he knew.

So who’s a puppeteer to you?

Was She Always True?By Alex DuprexGrade 10

A faithful, wise, and kind womanShe comforted young Juliet in her suffering.She was a good lady, but is she still?Her prayers were with the pretty fool,Or so the young one thought.At first she was seen as sympathetic,Yet her love for Juliet fell,It fell, weak and pale.Was it that she was vexed?Or did she think like that for many years?She protested against poor Juliet,Against poor Juliet’s will,She said “God forgive me,” but was that troth?Juliet will never forgive her,For the deathly deeds she did.Yet others do not seeThe way she caused Juliet to be.Was the woman doing it for her own good?Or was she wise, wise to fool Juliet?She fooled her into thinking that she was always there,But was she?

Artwork by Ali WeaverGrade 10


The White ButterflyBy Julie NickersonGrade 12

The days are so peaceful, down by the shore.The sun shines brightly on the ocean floor.You open your eyes wide and what is it you see-A large white butterfly hovering before thee.

The white butterfly floated, all along the shore.A child laughed and ran in pursuit, and soon there were four,But the one white butterfly, stuck out from all the rest,For he was unique, and he was the best.

The child reached out to grasp hold of his prey,Yet something stopped the silly child on this beautiful dayFrom killing one of God’s glorious creatures, for they are here to stay.

The child stood still, looking from afar.The butterfly, delicate as a newborn baby, shined like the northern star.It was quite a sight for all to see.It fluttered left; it fluttered right; it landed on a tree.

The child was calm and the butterfly meek.The child walked near it and the butterfly began to speak.Listen very closely child, for all will come to an end.Live your life to the fullest, for this you must apprehend.

As dawn turned to dusk and the moon stood high in the sky,The butterfly slept soundly as the night passed by.When the child returned to say hello, there was no reply. Artwork by Kaleigh Lumnah

Grade 10


A “Perfect” PersonBy Dan KylanderGrade 9

Grown up in a society,that allows nothing less than perfection,A child is born,Raised,Goes to school,Always is polite and kind,Gets A’s,Gets on Varsity football,Is friends with everyone,Never says “NO,”Has a great family.Nothing wrong, but then...He has nothing.The child has lost everything including his life,Grown up in a society, that allows nothing less than...Perfection.

The End of SomethingBy Annmarie Fennelly

The Outer Limits Advisor

“Sign here.” I look as the mail carriermarks an “X” on a line. A point

of fact-a proven existence.I feel the envelope in my hands-

smooth but dry, an official- looking stampon the front. I wait until he turns the corner

before I hold it up to the light,hoping the rays will penetrate the paper and

write the words in the sky-a flaming premonitionof what’s to come. I unseal the envelope and carefully

slide the document out. The paper feels oldin my hands, like a sacred scroll or a tear-

dried valentine. I read the words.Definitive,

Unremarkable,Irreversible.

No fusion of poetry and prose,just facts on file, words that cut

and remove what can neverbe whole again.

Artwork by Rafael SogomonianGrade 9


Part II. ProseTidal RespirationBy Emma HollandGrade 12

On the drowningdays, I get the stickyclosed throat feeling. Like my breath is Too Big for my ribcage and slips out in bubbles that are Too Small. On the drowningdays, where my chest feels like agraphite smudge of an erased pencil, I go to my room.

Where the walls are green, pretending to be white.Where the windows love the outside so much, they let it blow through on stormy days.Where the harbor is blue, pretending to be white.I push the piles of clothes and books away from the center of the floor because the pencilsmudge

stickyclosed throat feeling pushes me into the center of the floor. I roll out the yellow yoga mat along thebig open. The yellow yoga mat is a long pat of butter on toast.

I always start by putting on the calm-down playlist, the one with the cool ocean feelings and thechanting chanting chanting that beats with the pulse in my thumbs. First is lying on my back and already theToo Big breath gets less Too Big and the stickyclosed throat feeling is soothed. Yoga asks you to havebigbreath, and we call it “Ujjayi Breath.”

Ocean breath.Inhale, Exhale.Tidal respiration.We call it

ocean breath becauseI sound like thewaves, crashing outand siftinglllooonnnggg back insteady, steady, steady.You can’t start movinguntil your ocean breathis full enough to pushthe tides ofpencilsmudge out.

I curl in like aroly poly and spreadout in a morning yawn.I twist and release andthe space starts to come through my bones like the wind in the windows. Rock, Roll.

I stand in Mountain pose, Kilimanjaro among low grubby hills of sweatshirts and jeans. My roomis a glass oasis. The windows embrace the empty horizon and the water pretending to be white. Theyshow me the sidewalk of the sparkly girls in twos and threes, the neon women jogging in all alones, andthe pastel ladies shuffling with all the company they need. The male population must be in the noiselesscars smiling in the light and swimming down the street. Coming, Going.

I low into vinyasuf, which are the autopilot poses followed by some Make It Your Own toppings.

continues next page

Artwork by Rafael SogomonianGrade 9


Aging EyesBy Alli HumphreyGrade 12

The winter shifts at Linden Ponds somehow feel longer. Light disappears more quickly throughthe great glass windows lining the back wall of the restaurant. Stale, dry heat pumped through the wallsleaves hands and lips cracked. The smell of mass produced food permeate stiff once yellow, now beigeuniforms and static, electrified hair.

The sky is grey upon entering and black upon leaving.Students linger in the break-room, florescent bulbs casting an unflattering pallor to each pale face.

Each waiting until the last possible minute to go up to The Floor to be put on display for the elderly likethe candy bars that have sat untouched in the break-room vending machine for years.

Alli swishes her ID badge through the grey box, letting her presence be known through a twotoned beep. To her side she hears the familiar flow of Haitian dishwashers speaking to each other inCreole. They laugh and joke, but only in dishwashing room. They don’t go on The Floor.

Alli joins the semi-circle of students out on The Floor-her boss Jennifer sits at the opening of theU-shape and looks for Tight Bun, Clean Nails, 3rd Button. Alli isn’t Tight Bun, Clean Nails, 3rd Button,and she shrinks back from Jennifer’s critical eye. Jennifer is like a 2nd Generation Resident. The Resi-dents replace the grandchildren they don’t see with the students. Jennifer replaces the kids she doesn’tsee with the students. Just for someone to listen to her talk, for someone to tell what to do, for someoneto give advice to. The students don’t listen. Alli goes to inspect her tables, picking up each glass andholding it to the light. Minerals left over from hard, stale water leave ghostly shapes on the glass, and Allihopes that aging eyes won’t notice.

Mr. Cating brings in his wife. Mrs. Cating was in The Gardens, but tonight she’s home. Resi-dents moved to the Gardens when they were too sick or old to take care of themselves. Mrs. Cating ishome tonight, but most people in The Gardens become the people No Longer With Us.

Each Resident has a No Longer With Us. They all wear it differently. Mrs. Perelli wears it in agold ring on a chain around her neck. Mr. Milling wears it when he asks each night for a table for two,and then he remembers.

continues next page

My vinyasuf-low is forwardfold, flatback, downward-dog, chaturanga, cobra, downward-dog again.Original flavor frozen yogurt yoga poses. My limbs accordion out long, long, long, and sssiiiggghhh backTogether Again. Contract, Extend.

Today my toppings will be the warriors. Facing forward, my legs lunge and my arms become thehorizon. I squish my toes down like a beach day in summer and I lllliiiffft my back leg ever so slowly intoWarrior Three- one leg a tree trunk, the rest of me flatlands. Hands at my Heart Center. Though my eyesfocus on a dark whirl in the toastbrown wood floor, my thoughts swirl to melodyharmony of the calm-down playlist. The pulse of my ocean breath keeps a middle stillness. With Control, my horizon body tilts,head down foot up. My arms low around my hair and my crown rests into the butteryellow yoga mat.Both legs grow up- I’m an hourglass, flipped over. My timesand thoughts spill onto the ground, empty outthe worms of worry. Horizontal, Vertical.

I continue like this, lowing from pose to pose with a crispwarm feeling and a longpulling feeling. Istrain so hard just to hold calmstill, my jewelry grows- sweat tiara, sweat necklace, sweat trampstamp.Princess Prana-vayu. Face so red, it’s not even pretending to be white. Vinyasuf-low, vinyasuf-high.

Eventually I settle down, snuggling along the yellow yoga mat and let myself float. In my musclesand mind is the pleasant buzz of a newclean nothingness. Eyes closed, senses open. Not Too Big or TooLittle, but Just Right. My yoga practice lets me swim even on the drowningdays.


An aid brings Quiet Fran to Alli’s table. The two Frans come in each night. Quiet Fran andConfused Fran. Quiet Fran had a stroke some years ago and can’t speak anymore. She feebly feedsherself, but most of it lands on a cloth tied around her neck, crusting and drying there. Glasses getknocked over, ruining meals and staining clothing, while other Residents say not-quiet-enough “oh pleasenot with her.” But Quiet Fran doesn’t belong in The Gardens. She hears everything; she understandseverything still- she just can’t respond. Quiet Fran used to run companies, used to be in charge ofpeople. Now she gets pitied looks and not-quiet-enough remarks. When Alli started working, ConfusedFran came in every night too. But then she was Drunk Fran. Now Alli isn’t allowed to serve ConfusedFran wine, and she has to have a “special friend” sit with her to keep her calm.

Mrs. Wheeler used to sit with Confused Fran every night, but now she comes in whenever shesees fit. Each night she wears every drop of exquisite jewelry she owns and blue eye shadow justmissing her eyelids. The jewelry may be tarnished, and the eye shadow might not make her eyessparkle, but she wants everyone to remember that it once did. Alli leads her to a table with Mr.Goldstern. Unless the hostess finds someone to sit with Mr. Goldstern, he eats alone. He’s lived atLinden Ponds for years now, but he never made friends. When he came in he didn’t need to, his son atewith him every night. But now his son is No Longer With Us, and he’s too tired to make new friends.

Inside the waitstation students curse where the Residents can’t hear them. They fill the crampedspace wall to wall flinging soup back, leaving stains of dressing and soda and whoknowswhat on thecounters. Every now and then a glass crashes to the floor, causing the pandemonium to clear momen-tarily, like the eye of the storm. Girls snicker behind each others backs, Boys try and impress each otherby appearing to care the least and a thoughtful favor can make them fall in love. Hidden behind twobeige walls from the prying weak eyes of the Residents.

Alli moves through the motions of the night, greeting tables, The Girl With the Smile. She’s stillThe Girl With the Smile when she complains too softly for hearing aids to pick up. She’s still the GirlWith the Smile when she’s called Emily, Alex, and Gina, because all the brown-haired girls are the same.She scrubs away the gummy coffee blobs on the false-wood of the tables and sprays away the crustedblemished of soup and whoknowswhat from the stainless steel counters, until each mess is reversed, andthe waitstation looks pristine again.

Artwork by Matt ParkGrade 11


Tom’s CaféBy Ben WileyGrade 9

He has a single white ash on the left side of his moustache and he smells like the inside of mycousin’s Subaru. His left not mine. He could be the end of me, at least the end of my teenage years. Hisnametag reads Officer Reynolds and he repeats that he has taken me in for questioning regarding myDisturbance of the Peace. I cannot stop looking at his badge; it is shiny but not remarkably so. My heartis beating like a pair of sneakers in a washing machine. This is not a good situation.

The Officer from the front of the station brings him a file that appears to be empty. I barely noticeher. He opens the folder, which I know now is not empty and says, “Alright kid let’s get to it. Says hereyour name is Andrew Newhouse. Is that true?” I nod “yes”. My movements are fragile and he notices.Like any good predator who smells weakness, he puts on a little more pressure. “Good, we’re gettingsomewhere,” he said as he flashed a terrifying toothy smile. Leaning forward, he added, “This will befun,” the last syllable drawn out and thin, receding into nothing. He slaps his hands on the desk andpushes himself up. This is becoming like CSI, but he is not good looking enough for television. “Shepard,I’m sorry Officer Shepard, found a Black Trapper Keeper with your name on it abandoned on FoundryLane three blocks from the Fair.” He’s pacing now.

“Would you mind explaining how that got there?”I nod “yes” again and open my mouth slowly. My lips are dry as Steven Wright’s sense of humor.

Very dry. “I dropped it there for you, uhh the force well any officer really…to read” this is not going well.“Let’s take a look, shall we?” Officer Reynolds carefully selected the sheets of loose-leaf paper

from his folder and started to read. After around five minutes of seemingly light skimming he looked upand said the single-most ambiguous word he could have summoned up. “Huh”. It was not quizzical or inrealization of some previously unknown fact. It was just “Huh”. “Now I’m going to read the entirety ofyour little ‘letter’ back and you can tell me how much is true.” He put “little” in air-quotes.

And so he read:I was on my Dad’s red ten-speed, fleeing the festivities of today’s 64th Annual Brattle Heights

Blueberry Fair when I saw her running by the side stairs going to her porch. She sat down on the grasscracked concrete path going to her father’s famous blueberry patch. Big business. She started to cry, thekind of crying that you wouldn’t want people to see, and sitting there at the end of her driveway with mytoes firmly planted on the ground, I felt guilty looking at her. Her small, possibly soft hands, wrapped inthe sleeves of her blue Hollister hoodie were covering her eyes. I don’t think she saw me.

I kept riding. I figured if she needed help from a stranger there were plenty who would be betterequipped for the job. That’s not entirely true. I am only somewhat of a stranger to her. Even if I am a fulland legitimate stranger to her, she is most definitely not a stranger to me. She’s two years older than I am,a junior, and she is easily the prettiest girl I have ever seen. Easily. That fact is my opinion and is not trulyimportant to the story. Not to wax poetic, but I believe her face has graced the walls of cathedrals andother such religious structures across the world. There is a likeness of her at the Broad Street MemorialChurch right here in the Heights. Go look. That was also an opinion. Anyway, the girl I saw earlier todaywas Brooke Avers and her brother, Marc, is my best friend. If, or more appropriately when, you find meI want you to know he was not involved in anything that happened. Hopefully my writing this can circum-vent that situation altogether.

It started, as many days do, when I woke up. My sister was in the bathroom putting on hermake-up; as many sisters do, so I went downstairs to relieve myself. This was around eleven. I ate a

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hearty breakfast of blueberry pancakes, bacon, plain old blueberries, orange juice, and a piece of blue-berry pie my father insisted I eat. Alas, my father, as many judges of the Fair’s Pie Contest know, is notone of the bakers or pastry-makers Brattle Heights is renowned for. My Mom spends a lot of time atTom’s Café, Home of the Worlds Finest Pastries, downtown; she’s trying to find out his secret recipe. Inconcurrence with the rest of the family, including my grandmother, I suspect it is the juice from GrannySmith apples but behind closed doors I think it’s just a hell of a lot of sugar. After breakfast I went toMarc’s. We found the green flyer with the map of the fairgrounds and started to trace a route. First weplanned on going to the cobbler stands to get them while they were still fresh. Then we would head to themain pavilion at 2:45 for the Pie Contest, early enough to get good seats and finally over to the stepsacross from Brattle Height Savings to listen to the Old Wheels play their terrible, wheezy Grateful Deadcovers while hopefully eating some purchased blueberry goods.

But before going to Marc’s I stopped at the pharmacy down the street to get a Coke. Just so youknow. I have the receipt.

Marc and I arrived at the grounds slightly behind schedule as we ran into his uncle Stephen as wewere biking past the gas station. The one next to the bait shop. I think it’s a Shell. I just want whoever isreading this to know I’m no Billy Pilgrim. I am a reliable narrator and I am giving you facts. His uncleStephen was with his new girlfriend. He wasn’t ever married and as Marc’s mother said ominously everytime one of the “bimbos” joined them for dinner, “It’s high time he start looking for someone…moresuitable” and many variations on the theme. I digress.

We arrived at the fairgrounds at 1 pm. We were not too upset about being late. Why would webe when the cobblers were that good? And everything went according to the plan I had with Marc, but Ialso had another plan. This is where the criminal activities would have begun. My father enters the PieContest every year and finishes dead last every year. He says he’s only ever in it for the fun. We all respectthat. But my mother wanted a win. She’s lived in Brattle Heights her whole life and not that she is vain,only a little vain perhaps, but she just wanted to see her name in the paper. Just once. And that’s why shewas going to Tom’s to find out the secret recipe. I had tasted my father’s pie that morning for breakfast

and I knew it wasn’t going to cut it and that it wasn’tgetting any better through trial and error, so I deviseda plan to “break” into Tom’s Café and find the recipebook. It was the perfectopportunity; everyonewould be at the Fair.The Café would beempty. I would use theblueberry recipe nextyear, slowly drippingsecret ingredient ideasto my father for the nexttwelve months. So yes Iconsidered breakinginto the Café, but Inever went through withit. I am not a criminal. Iwrote that to inform thereader that I am not a

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Artwork by Sam MildrumGrade 11


Note: This essay was written in response to a class assignment in the senior seminar Satire, Irony and Humor. Thisassignment asked students to choose quotes from their reading of Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to theGalaxy and discuss how each passage was personally meaningful for them.

1.) Now it is such a bizarrely improbable coincidence that anything so mind-bogglingly usefulcould have evolved purely by chance that some thinkers have chosen to see it as a final andclinching proof of the non-existence of God.

The argument goes something like this: ‘I refuse to prove that I exist,’ says God, ‘for proofdenies faith, and without faith I am nothing.’

‘But,’ says Man, ‘the Babel fish is a dead giveaway, isn’t it? It could not have evolved bychance. It proves you exist, and so therefore, by your own argument, you don’t. QED.’ (59)

Religion. Your opinion on the subject is almost entirely certain to be completely different from my

Four Deceptively Deep Quotes From The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the GalaxyBy Luke MaynardGrade 12

criminal. I also knew my Mom was hard at work trying to find it out through more legal methods. Tobe honest, I never seriously considered the heist. Only in passing thought.

The Fair was going perfectly status quo until I saw Mom kiss Tom. Yeah, the Tom from Tom’sCafé, Home of the World’s Finest Pastries. This was around 2:15 and Marc was in the bathroom atRita Stiller’s Cameras and Cards. Needless to say, I was shocked. And incredibly angry, definitely thattoo. If I had to make an estimate I was 10% shocked and 90% angry. It all made perfect sense. Theywere behind the modified freezer-trailer Tom’s Bakery brought to all these events. No one could seebut me. I hope. I was sitting on the bench behind Rita’s waiting for Marc. I was right there. Not eventhirty feet away. This is where the serious criminal activities began. I walked up to his modified freezer-trailer and twisted a relatively large red nozzle attached to some pressurized tanks.

My Mom started to scream. She noticed me. I had found her out and I didn’t even want tohave. Tom turned around and asked me “What the hell do you think you’re doing, punk?” He pushedme away and turned the nozzle back. My Mom was crying. “That’s my son.” she barely got it out,pausing between each word. I was furious. This is the part of the cartoon where my head explodes andsteam comes out. I was a train whistle, a pyramid sized teakettle made expressly for the near deaf. I ranto the stand. The back of the blonde girl working the Tom’s Café stand was to me. I pushed her aside.I was becoming hulk. My extremities were warming up at an alarming rate. And that’s when I flippedthe stand right over. Pies went everywhere. And then I yelled the word that I’m sure everyone heard. Iwanted them to hear it. It was a heavy stand but I was unstoppable. I do not know if that was a normalreaction. The crowd was in a freeze frame. I looked up at them for a moment in disbelief at what I wasseeing. And then I ran. I ran to my bike and rode. I stopped in the graveyard behind the Shell stationwhere I was stopped by Marc’s uncle Stephen and wrote this note. I hope you understand, I’m in thetree house at the St. Peter’s Elementary playground.

Officer Reynolds stopped reading. He dropped the papers and they floated to the table like afeather in a pillow. He looked at me with a slight furrow in his brow. He opened his mouth and closed itafter a pause while letting out a long, tired breath. The Officer who brought the folder to OfficerReynolds opened the door to the left and in front of me. She gestured for him to come into the hall.Reynolds stood up and left. He came back in and in a hushed tone, a polar opposite of the menace hestarted with, said, “Your parents are here. You can go to them.”

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own, which in turn differs in at least five ways from the unique opinions of everybody else I have ever met.Such is the nature of God and His presumed (or entirely denied) role in the creation and continued mainte-nance of the Universe. In fact, the core of the God argument that has occupied so many theologians,religious figures, scientists, philosophers, and other completely uncertified yet devoutly opinionated indi-viduals is an impassible obstacle. There exists a solid barrier at the heart of the issue for the followingreason: When an atheist tells a religious person that his God is a fantasy, or when a priest chastises anatheist for his impiety, the altercation will inevitably make very little constructive progress. About as muchprogress, in fact, as a similar argument in which one child, upon learning that the favorite color of a secondchild is green, shouts, “WRONG,” and then proceeds to spend his life writing books and giving speechesin order to explain why yellow, as a matter of fact, is the proper favorite color.

The quoted argument surrounding the existence of the Babel fish being, of course, preposterous injust about every way, reflects Douglas Adams’s cynical understanding of the God issue. The fish, accord-ing to some, simply could not have existed without divine intervention, which led others to claim (ironicallyciting the word of God) that through this, God had disproved his own existence. Obviously, such a ridicu-lous argument could never make headway or reach any semblance of a conclusion without generousextrapolation and elastic interpretation by one or both sides of the conflict. Hold on… this is all beginningto sound familiar.

2.) “Space,” itsays, “is big. Reallybig. You just won’tbelieve how vastlyhugely mind-bogglingly big it is. Imean, you may thinkit’s a long way downthe road to the chem-ist, but that’s justpeanuts to space.Listen…”(76)

To someonewho unhappily strugglesto avoid asphyxiation inthe event that he iscalled upon to run inexcess of two miles andwould consider thedistancebetween himself and the nearestchemist altogether too great to be worth a journey, contemplating the vastness of the cosmos is rather aninteresting undertaking. To begin, the aforementioned individual is absolutely certain that he, like most (ifnot all) humans, is incapable of comprehending the true extent of what shall henceforth be referred to as“Everything.” This being the case, he is content to accept the immensely popular simplified version of theUniverse, which reads something like: “Everything is very big, and I am incomprehensibly small. But Idon’t care, because I’m far too busy thinking about me.”

Artwork by Alex DuprexGrade 10


Perspective is an interesting concept. In theory, it should explain why people bother travelling toexotic countries if, in terms of the universe, they might as well be standing still, or why various historicalmegalomaniacs like Adolf Hitler thought that conquering the world was such a big freaking deal. It shouldexplain why the Russians thought that the mundane, beeping ball of metal they launched into the Earth’sgravitational backyard was the greatest thing since sliced bread, and why sliced bread was ever consid-ered particularly noteworthy in the first place. If we can, for a moment, take a few big steps back andlook at all of this (to the best of our ability) from the perspective of Everything… Yes, it would seem thatthe collective activities of the human race are, and always have been, entirely pointless. Maybe that’s whyFord Prefect barely shrugged when the Earth suddenly ceased to be. I guess it’s a good thing we’veevolved the ability to ignore that perspective in order to maintain our illusion of purpose. Wouldn’t it bedepressing if Adams intended to convey something like that?

3.) “Come on,” he droned, “I’ve been ordered to take you down to the bridge. Here I am,brain the size of a planet and they ask me to take you down to the bridge. Call that job satisfac-tion? ‘Cos I don’t.” (95)

A bit of context here would serve to better introduce the admittedly depressing analysis that is tocome. If you are already having a bad day, feel free to skip to section four. If you are having a bad daybut would enjoy thinking about other people and automatons having worse ones, then enjoy.Although the android Marvin is not alive in the traditional sense, he has allegedly been programmed by hiscreators at the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation with a range of human emotions designed to simulate apersonality. Unfortunately for Marvin and everyone who must endure a conversation with him, however,severe depression is the only human trait he ever displays. Before proceeding, I would like to touch brieflyon the fact that Marvin was built. I could be wrong, but I’m nearly certain that programming a robot to behorrendously sad and hopeless for the duration of its existence ranks somewhere between war crimes andsoy bacon on the immorality scale. Presumably, this is the sort of thing that resulted in the employees ofthe Sirius Cybernetics Corporation being “the first against the wall when the revolution came”(93).

In addition to using Marvin and his moods as a dreary, pitiful source of humor, Douglas Adamsmakes frequent and detailed references to the high degree of intelligence possessed by the mechanicaldowner. According to Marvin, he’s thought about Everything to a far greater extent than a human iscapable of and come to the conclusion that it’s all hopeless. All of it. I am not one to say exactly what “allof it” includes, but given that Marvin has demonstrated the ability to analyze every molecule within oneparsec in a fraction of a second, I feel safe saying that he’s contemplated more than I’ve ever contem-plated contemplating. Furthermore, all his contemplating yielded a conclusion! I would feel better if saidconclusion was not “Don’t bother living; it’s not worth it,” but who am I to argue with the assessment of abrilliant depressed robot who was programmed by a presumably equally depressed individual living in auniverse of pointless triviality in a book about the utter nonsense that is life?

4.) This planet has—or rather had—a problem, which was this: most of the people living on itwere unhappy for pretty much most of the time. Many solutions were suggested for this problem,but most of these were largely concerned with the movements of small green pieces of paper, whichis odd because on the whole it wasn’t the small green pieces of paper that were unhappy. (1)

Fresh air! Now, this particular passage, easily overlooked as it sits in the book’s small preface,may seem like a further denouncement of humanity, consistent with the previous subjects of discussion. I

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The Burden of GuiltBy Cody CliffordGrade 12

Sitting at his squeaky clean desk, leaning forward pensively, squinting at another unfamiliar mathformula, Tommy quietly sighs and leans back in his chair negligently. The period blows by, and next thinghe knows, he is hastily passing forward his entirely blank exam. His math teacher, Mr. Williamson,makes a bitter, sarcastic comment toward Tommy as he glances at his blank exam and Tommy respondssaying “Love you too, Mr. Williamson.” Before Tommy can blend into the crowd of students walkingout the door, Mr. Williamson angrily pulls him aside to tell him that he is going to repeat the 10th grade ifhe keeps neglecting school from his life.

In an aggravated tone, Tommy rebuts by saying “well, I’m dropping out at the end of the yearanyway” and blasts out of the room slamming the door abruptly. Walking down the halls, Tommy beginsto plot revenge on Mr. Williamson for putting him through such “misery” for the past two years – yes,this is his second year in the 10th grade and he could not have enjoyed it any less.

Waking up the next morning to his bothersome yet expensive alarm clock with a rough four-hoursleep, Tommy rolls out of bed moaning while adjusting his eyes to the beaming bright light comingthrough his window. While walking downstairs, Tommy gets a perfect idea for his revenge. He scarfsdown a pop-tart, makes himself a cup of coffee and sprints for the door holding the keys to his Jaguarconvertible. Arriving a good forty-five minutes before startingtime, Tommy picks the lock to Mr. Williamson’s room and turns on the lights; rubbing his handstogether he grins impishly. Feeling ever so savvy, Tommy struts over to Mr. Williamson’s deskand plants some highly inappropriate stuff, along with that, he places a stash of money and theprincipal’s wedding ring which he stole a long while back as an act of vengeance. When startingtime came around, Tommy told the assistant principal that he has been noticing Mr. Williamsonsneaking things around his room in a shifty manner for quite some time now, and asked for thisobservation to be kept anonymous. Knowing of Tommy’s character, the assistant principal was a bitskeptical, but said that he would have someone search his room during his lunch break. At 12:30, theassistant principal and two janitors came to poke around the classroom and eventually uncovered

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see this, yes, but also an implied solution to our disease of insignificance. Adams may have diagnosed thehuman race with a severe case of pointlessness, but not without subtly hinting at a cure. As we know,this problem is not solely concerned with money, which is used in this passage as an example of one ofthe many tiny, insignificant things that we inexplicably and misguidedly attach value to. I am aware thatmy designation of money as “insignificant” may seem ridiculous and idealist from a practical point ofview, but not when observed from the perspective of Everything, which is the perspective I plan toadopt in the event that I find myself unemployed in the future.

So, money is an obstacle to happiness. Got it. But, what else? This is where the big picturecomes in. The people of Earth are entirely pointless, and nothing they do will really ever change that interms of Everything. However, we humans have a curious and ridiculous tendency to live out our point-less lives in a state of misery. People attach value where it does not belong and fail to value that whichdeserves valuing. Our actions have as much impact on the Universe as the sneeze of an individualphytoplankton, assuming that phytoplankton have respiratory muscle systems and reasons to sneeze,which they do not. For whatever reason, people waste their lives away sacrificing happiness and sim-plicity for the stress that comes with complexity, all in an effort to achieve things that will never matter ona universal scale. No use getting agitated over anything, so really… Don’t panic.


Tommy’s planted items; with a gasp of astonishment, the assistant principal paused for a moment, thenimmediately reported the findings to the main office. As Mr. Williamson heard his name get called overthe loudspeaker, he raised an eyebrow and took a final bite of his sandwich. On his way out of theteachers’ lounge, Mr. Williamson began to assume that his wife had just called asking to speak with himabout filing for a divorce – she had been having an affair for months until Mr. Williamson came across asuspicious voicemail that was unwisely left on the home phone. Upon arrival, Mr. Williamson heard thewords “you sicko, you should be ashamed of yourself.”

He replied by saying “…what do you mean, sicko?” Without mercy, the head principal fired himright then and there. Naïve to some extent, Mr. Williamson did not even suspect Tommy for the wrong-doings that got him fired. Spying through the window of the main office, Tommy’s face lit up as hewatched the poor teacher turn in his keys and ID so glumly that he could not even make eye contact withthe principal. Two of his few faithful students tried to make a stop to it, but their words were swattedaway. Sure, Mr. Williamson was not the nicest or friendliest of the teaching staff, but he took his jobmore seriously than any of them and he loved it to death.

Tommy felt so satisfied with his plan that he bought his whole lunch table a lunch for the nextweek. Sticking to his plans, Tommy dropped out at the end of the year feeling better than ever-being theson of a big shot CEO, he felt no need to ever push himself in school. From then on, Mr. Williamson felthopeless and meaningless. As Tommy’s happiness increased, Mr. Williamson’s happiness decreased,and just under a year after Mr. Williamson was ostracized. He found a way out of the emotional agony –a short and easy one. All of his former students and co-workers were informed via email. WhenTommy heard his mother say “Your perverted math teacher killed himself,” instantly, his heart sank andhe began feeling a deep aching pain in his stomach brought on solely by guilt; if only he had the courageto tell someone that this tragedy was triggered by him. Consequently, Tommy had to live the rest of hislife with that remorse, that remorse that one feels after they know there is no way of undoing their sin.Tommy became the victim of his own wrongdoing.

Artwork by Ryder NelsonGrade 12


Noah’s AppleBy Danielle VanzuraGrade 12

The pizza place on Royal Oak and Twelfth Street was nearly out of business. A wealthy familyhad opened the restaurant only a few months ago, but they neglected to keep it respectable. Strips ofbright red paint peeled off walls. Dead insects held meetings in corners. Heavy, muggy air engulfed eachroom, creating humidity to the effect of tropical rainforests.

And nobody did anything about it. Because the owners had Better Things to do.It was past closing. Noah scrubbed the checkered floor tiles with a wet sponge and thought of

faraway lands called Anywhere but Here. Noah’s fellow employees had fled the scene earlier. Likewanted criminals. Leaving him alone to endeavor the fruitless task of cleaning floors and tables. Theysaid they had Better Things to do.

Noah sighed deeply. He rose and grabbed a hand towel from a nearby table to wipe off hisforehead. Sweaty. Pimply. Reddish-pink.

He removed the rag from his face to discover that someone was standing right outside the frontdoor. A girl. Young. Looked cold. She knocked a few rappa-tap-taps on the glass.

The boy wasn’t supposed to unlock the door. But he did. In walked the stranger, who donnedhair mousy brown and eyes Granny-Smith green. Noah had never seen anyone with so many freckles.Sprinkled across her face like pepper.

“I’m very sorry,” she began. “I know you’re closed. But…is there any way I could havesomething to eat? Anything at all, really. I just…I’m really very hungry. And I just don’t want to go homeright this second…and nowhere else is open, either.” Her slender face pulled downward, into a slightfrown. Eyes tired. And a little sad.

On another occasion, Noah would have received the girl’s pleas with a swift eye-roll. He mighthave glared. Told her to leave him (and the pizza place) be. But he didn’t. “Sure,” he said. The wordhad escaped from his lips, like a runaway slave. “I could get you some breadsticks from the back, if

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Silent AssuranceBy Davis GoodeGrade 10

He was wisdom; he was life; he was a hero. Opportunity had bound him to my grandfather,through whom we met in the cradling of his loving grasp. His experiences mesmerized me. He hadmastered every part of life that I had yet to encounter. When around him, he exuded a silent assurance.I felt safe, accomplished, like his successes would assuage my adolescent growing pains. His intellectualprofundity gave me hope for the future. He had raised four girls, built a business, served our nation, andretired comfortably. He spoke with such passion that his stories were not short narratives. At age 86,his stories were deep epics that he could not finish without his beautiful emotions spilling over. I musthave seen him cry dozens of times. He was not embarrassed about his emotions, nor should he be.Experience gave him passion, failure gave him perspective, success gave him assurance, grandchildrengave him life. Yes, the man who accomplished more than most was given new life each time the phonerang with stories of our successes. And each time, even as he went through surgeries and illness in hisfinal days, he still managed to inquire as to how my sports endeavors were proceeding. I knew it wastime for him to go. We finished our conversation and we said our goodbyes. There was nothing leftunsaid. I knew he was at peace.


you’d like. I think they’re still warm.”A sudden smile appeared on the stranger’s face. “Thank you so much,” she said. “By the way,

my name is Apple. Not the fruit.”Apple. Not the Fruit. Noah returned that smile. Maybe even doubled it. “Nice to meet you,

Apple. I’m Noah,” he said. He turned to walk to the Room of Breadsticks.It wasn’t really a Room of Breadsticks. On the counters of this backroom were pizza boxes

made of cardboard, rolling pins made of wood, aAnd flour powder made of flour. But all Noah neededwere Breadsticks. He found Apple’s treasure on a low shelf.

Noah carried a filled paper bag back to the entrance of the restaurant. Still warm. She had beenwaiting for him. Patiently. With hands tucked in coat pockets.

“Oh, my goodness!” Apple exclaimed. Her freckles danced on her face when she offered Noaha crinkly smile. She cradled the bag of breadsticks in her left arm. With her right she reached forcrumpled dollar bills.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Noah. He looked into the eyes of Apple. Not the Fruit. They werevery grateful. But still a little sad. And Granny-Smith without a doubt.

“Are you sure?” asked Apple. “Besides, I feel bad for taking up your time.”“I’m really very sure. And anyway, I had Nothing Better to do.” Noah’s mouth curled into a half-

smile.Apple laughed softly and then glanced out the window. “Well, I had better get home soon, even

if I’d rather not. I’ll eat the breadsticks on the way,” she said. She turned to leave. When she got to thedoor, she faced Noah one last time.

“You know, you’re the only good thing that’s happened to me all day. Thanks again,”Apple said. Then she disappeared into the dark night outside. Just like that. Noah wondered if he’d eversee her again. Maybe. Maybe not.

Hopefully. Artwork by Grace BeyerlGrade 9


Yin and YangBy Caroline RandallGrade 12

…it was a cloudgray day in March two thousand and thirteen. It was the kind of time in ateenager’s life when complete change looms in the horizon. Not yet changing, but soon. Cynthia hadstarted her senior year with a warm excitement, but that excitement started to dwindle on this cloudgrayday. March. Not yet changing, but soon. She listened to the few birds outside, clearly confused by theconstant snow this late in March. Having flown north already, they had nothing to do but wait for the earthto warm and the snow to melt. Nature doesn’t have to be consistent. Who knows when the sun will shineagain?

Lying in bed with her small black dog, Cynthia anxiously pulled out her iPad to find out her admis-sion decisions. Today was the day; she would hear back from two prestigious colleges. Tens of thousandsof applications had been received, the Screen told her. They regret that her application was not among thefew to be accepted. The smallblack dog nudged Cynthia’s foot, then returned to cleaning her paws. TheScreen assured her that her application had been handled and reviewed carefully. Thoroughly. Every yearis different, and a perfect candidate may be rejected merely because other applicants shined brighter.

Cynthia pressed lock. The screen reflected her window, turning cloudgray. She could hear hermother singing in the kitchen. This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine! Her light was sitting in bed in acloudgray room. With a dwindling excitement. Not wanting to share this news just yet. She knew her momwould be supportive, and her dad will only have positive things to say (when she goes to his house andtells him). She’d wait for a little while, but not too long.

The small white dog leaped up on Cynthia’s bed, and immediately lay down beside small blackdog. Their little dog bodies formed a perfect circle. Yin and Yang. We regret that we cannot offer youadmission at this time. Cynthia steadied her gaze at Yin and Yang, her eyes glazing over. What was she tofeel? The screen told her not to take it personally, that the admission process has no set rules. She was apromising candidate. It was just that others were more promising. Should she be sad? Happy? Her bureaucovered in letters and pamphlets from colleges that accepted her and clearly wanted her to attend. Threeacceptances. Two rejections. Cynthia felt something in her sinuses that could have led to tears, but didn’t.She was frozen in time. In her bed. In her cloudgray room.

The week before, Cynthia performed in her Last Talent Expo chorus concert. As she listened tothe fresh, young voice of the younger soloist, she couldn’t help but to feel a sort of sadness. The sort thatencompasses a longing for the past and a dwindling excitement about the future. Not yet changing, butsoon. She cried on her drive home. Happy for all of the progress that the chorus program has made; bitterthat she won’t be a part of it for much longer.

Cynthia got out of bed and made her way to the kitchen. This little light of mine, I’m gonna let itshine! Let it shine, Let it shine, Let it shine! Her mom was quick to embrace her and assure her that she isstill proud of her Little Light, and that Cynthia should be full of joy because she has already gotten intothree amazing schools. Two Rejections. Yin and Yang. Mom looked up into the eyes of her daughter andtold her that she should be at peace with herself, that she shouldn’t let any college make her second guessher worth. Cynthia knew that she was right, but she was not full of joy. She wasn’t sad, either; she realizedthat she will have amazing opportunities no matter where she goes.

A ray of sun cascaded through the windows and warmed Cynthia’s cheek. Her dwindling excite-ment had leveled off to a healthy amount of excitement, but not too much. She could see a few birds in thetrees outside. Busy getting ready to go somewhere, but not sure where yet. They need a stable home,perhaps that tall tree. Perhaps that average tree. All depending on what tree is willing to grant them accep-

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One Day in the Life of Henry RedwardAuthor Unknown

The year was 2943 A.D. and I had recently turned fourteen. I lived with my mother, father, andsister. My father was a carpenter and my mother a maid. Our family was like any other family in London.We barely had enough food to survive due the Great War. The Great War, which was a nuclear warbetween the ten world powers, resulted in the annihilation of millions, the destruction of billions of houses,thousands of cities, and seventy five percent of the world’s food production. The top ten world powerswere England, the US, China, Russia, Germany, India, Israel, Brazil, South Africa, and Australia. In orderto keep up the arms race, each country had created labor camps that collected the materials necessaryfor warfare. Every year, ten thousand men and boys were chosen to work at the camps. The corruptgovernment used propaganda to make the labor camps appealing, something you wanted to go to andthat you would be lucky if you could work at a labor camp. But the camps were a terrible place. I know,and this is my story.

December 31 came too quickly because that was the day when government officials came aroundand rounded up the “lucky” people, the people who were going to be sent to the labor camps. It wasaround nine o’clock in the morning when there was a loud knock at our door. My father peered throughthe peephole and in that moment, I knew who was there. The government workers read a long speech,

tance. They have time. Cynthia has time. Not yet changing, but soon.It was parent-day in kindergarten. Cynthia could not contain her excitement as it shone through

her wide smile. She couldn’t wait for her mom and dad to meet her teacher, whom she loved so much.Cynthia is a smart one, the teacher beamned. She learns so quickly and is so eager to help others! She’sHarvard material! Mom and Dad shared a proud glance, both holding hands with Cynthia who wasbetween them. So small, so promising. Yin and Yang.

Artwork by Matt ParkGrade 11

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but all I could remember was the last sentence which stated that I, Henry Redward, would have theopportunity of going to the labor camps and living there for the next 20 years. At the time, I was soexcited and the rest of my family was also extremely proud for me. Time flew by as I packed my belong-ings and said my goodbyes to my family. I remember going to the train station in a black shaded automo-bile and then being led into a triple decker train headed to the camps.

Hours passed, but finally the train stopped and we were there. I didn’t know what to expect;therefore I was ready for anything and everything. As I exited the train, my eyes caught sight of all thesigns on the buildings. They all said something different; some read Responsibility, Freedom, Love, TrueHappiness and so on. All of the newcomers, including me, were lead to a huge warehouse building thatcould supposedly hold ten thousand workers. Each individual had a little cabinet where they could puttheir personal belongings and everyone had a bed which was built like a coffin into the wall. The firstnight I had trouble sleeping because I had never been away from home alone and I was not used to it. Ilooked up at the low ceiling and kept staring at the concrete ceiling until I finally fell asleep.

I was woken up by the sound of a loud bell and checked my watch. It was quarter past six and itwas Monday. We lined up with bowls that we were handed and got our porridge. Already, I knew thateverything was not going to be as I expected, like the government officials had said it would be. The bellstruck eight o’clock and we were already in an elevator on our way down to the mines. The mines weredim, dusty, and very poorly ventilated. It was a long day with a little half an hour lunch break, and wewere not back at our quarters until six o’clock. At seven o’clock in the evening, we were served a smalldinner which consisted of a mix of a few vegetables, pasta, rice, corn, and mostly water all in one bigpot. We held out our bowls and were given half a bowl full of the soup-like substance, and off we wentto eat it on the hard ground. This was to become my daily routine, the beginning of a hard and mind-numbing life.

Escape was impossible, for the camp was a prison and there is no way to leave a prison. Weekspassed, months passed, years passed, but nothing changed. Every day we had three tiny meals, woke upat six fifteen, and the conditions of the mine were always the same. The only thing that did not stay thesame was me. I aged faster thananyone or anything. I had not seen ortalked to my family in ten years and Idid not know if they were still alive ornot; however I assumed the worst. Iguess it was the mines that finally justsucked the life out of me because whenI was thirty one years old I developedblack lung and just gave up. There nolonger seemed a point to living and 17years after I had arrived at the camp, Ileft.

Based off of Solzhenitsyn’s experiencesin a forced labor camp.

Artwork by Alex DuprexGrade 10

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