STYLUS

STYLUS is Bedford High School’s magazine for creative writing and art. All members of the
school community -- students, teachers, and staff -- are encouraged to submit any relatively short
form of creative writing, including poems, stories, vignettes, a scene from a play, and so forth. All
are also encouraged to submit original art. Guidelines and more information about the submission process is available on the STYLUS website. The URL is:
http://mail.bedford.k12.ma.us/~larry_sheinfeld/stylus
You can also get there through the Extra-Curricular tab on the BHS website (go to Activities and
Clubs), or by navigating through the Art Dept. website and through Mr. Sheinfeld’s website. Or
scan our QR code just below, which will bring you right to our page. There, you’ll find an electronic and fully downloadable file of this issue of the magazine.
Submissions of writing should be emailed to:
stylus@bedford.k12.ma.us
Note: When sending writing from an iPad, please use the pdf file format.
Digitized art can be sent to the same email address. If you have non-digitized artwork you’d like
to submit, see Mr. Sheinfeld in A-108.
STYLUS Staff for 2014-15
Co-editors
Kierstin Brewton
Kristen Kuo
Andrea Ning
Staff
Laura Caron
Sarah Craven
Ruby Goldbaum
Joana Khatib
Caroline Ngooi
Ben Oleksinski
Zariful Shaikh
Gracie Smith
Kat Thonungai
Leslie Yan
Faculty advisor: Mr. Sheinfeld
Cover: Mostly by Jacob Bossi, based on original design work by Gus Wiedey
and with input from and tweaks by Mr. S.
Frontispiece: Photo by Natalie Huggins
Back cover: Photo by Nate Heitsch
“STYLUS,” “Art,” and “Writing” typographical treatments on frontispiece
and for table of contents: Mr. S. (recycled from late winter edition)
Spring 2015 Edition
Bedford High School
9 Mudge Way
Bedford, Massachusetts 01730
Bailey Dermarderosian
Gwen Orav
Nate Heitsch
Victor Chen
Michael Mahoney
Laura Caron
Cordy Houck
Lucas Ou
Erin Venuti
Gwen Orav
Alex Hendrickson
Victor Chen
Megan Fortune
Gus Wiedey
Jacqui Baer
Sophie Zacharakis
Sophie Zacharakis
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11
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21
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25
27
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31
31
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32
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Photograph
Photograph
Photograph
Photo-montage
Photograph
Drawing
Photograph
Photograph
Photograph
Photograph
Photograph
Photograph
Photograph
Photograph
Photograph
Photograph
Photograph
Mr. Berlino
Dana Shahar
Lexia Cicone
Michelle Kupershmidt
Michael Mahoney
Avery Kaplan
Dana Shahar
Valerie Yang-Schmidt
Natalie Knight
Lexia Cicone
Matthew Bridgeman
Valerie Yang-Schmidt
Zariful Shaikh
Kat Thonangi
Jacqui Baer
Leslie Yan
Anthony Rodriguez
Mr. Hebert
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9
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22
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An Ode to Demby
Heart Attack
Discover
Doubts
With Difficulty, Donna Dray
Dot the Ancient I’s and Cross the Sanskrit T’s
Why I Shaved My Head
Riddle Me a Riddle
Verge of Ambiguity
Lexia
From Sister to Sister
Exuding Darkness
Price to Pay
An Immodest Proposal
Her story is . . .
ABC
Where I’m From
White Skin
An Ode to Demby (or The Scourge of Gore)
Lashed to the gash,
defiant Demby dashed
through underbrush
from the scourge of Gore,
then hurled himself
headlong
into the stream,
to clean
his thrashed back.
Finding his feet
on the uncertain stream bed,
he raised his head clear of the current,
then slowly turned
to face his fate:
the grim gun of Gore,
who, from the shore,
ordered him out
by the count of three,
or the click and shot of his musket
would be Demby’s dirge.
Trembling with pain,
shaking in the stream,
teeth clenched, Demby
simply could not step forward.
He could not do it!
He held his ground:
proud; self-possessed;
innocent — and alone,
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facing oblivion
at the count of three —
no deus ex-machina
hidden in the rushes
to temper a villain’s spleen,
to clean up the scene.
Demby’s time now up —
was he able to register
the report of Gore’s gun
before his brains and blood
drained into the stream,
once pristine, now flowing red
to the sea?
Was this the price
for Demby’s
antebellum dream?
Defiant Demby died clean.
Bailey Dermarderosian
- Mr. Berlino
Note: This poem was inspired by a scene
from the fourth chapter of Narrative of
the Life of Frederic Douglass
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Heart Attack
Effrontery (noun): Shameless boldness.
My nameless state of untold homelessness-Do you know how much you mean to me?
You are the only thing that lets me breathe
When my lungs collapse
and everything wraps
me in a tight and shaky grip
That I fight until I flip
Out because so often everyone just floats
around me, gloats about it,
surviving the wave,
high-fiving the day,
While I’m still waving my arms,
My voice an alarm,
Crying for help as I shiver,
Swimming upriver,
Going backwards,
Shaking and cold,
my bold front now
Ripped and torn
As I’m flipped and worn,
But you are the exception,
Through self-deception
You are real.
Gwen Orav
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I can feel your heart in my heart
breathing and swelling,
My palm just dwelling
Over my chest,
the echoing chamber
Containing its rhythm,
rocking this victim
Ridden with cognizance,
A painful awareness
of eyes so open that
Sleep is still dribbled with
seeds of thought
Of the not-yet-sought,
Of the overlooked and never brought,
But you are the exception.
When you enter my mind
It hushes—
The whole day rushes
to a standstill
and a calm overtakes me
My palm and our heartbeat,
It slows
And then pauses,
And gently it causes
a restart,
But my weak young heart
Doesn’t fall apart,
It wakes up,
It makes up
for the moments too caught up
In the rush,
And its steady beating
Is rhythmically competing with my footsteps,
As I walk forward, not back,
Keep my strides on the path,
You always saving me from
Heart attack.
- Dana Shahar
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Discover
My childhood is a blur, like the continuous red glow of car taillights speeding past me.
My memories melding together into one uninterpretable blend. Dad was those taillights
blazing ahead. Always there, never here. The only evidence of what went on when he was
away were the little toys and goodies he would bring home. A race car, a My Little Pony,
keychains, Bratzdolls, a Barbie. His apology for missing so much. I could see the regretful
glisten in his eyes. The heartbreak in his voice. Each time he would return I’d dash into his
arms. Dad’s powerful, protective hug saying it all. But soon enough it was time for his flight
and the screaming tantrums would begin all over again. A continuous cycle of ups and downs.
As I got older the tantrums came with less and less force. The hurricanes dulling into a gentle
rain of disappointment. Yet each return came with new rewards. Not the tangible rewards
as when I was younger, but more valuable rewards. He gave me stories of other places. New
knowledge of what once was unknown. He would talk about new people he met and things that
I couldn’t begin to grasp. I would drown him in questions. Like a waterfall, an endless flow of
interrogation. I craved the thrill of his new experiences. I would lay awake wondering, thinking.
My mind would wander to distant places. What it would be like to travel far, far away like my
dad. That is what I want my future to hold. Not the guilt of a tantrum, but that thrill of curiosity
brought forth by wisdom.
Nate Heitsch
- Lexia Cicone
Victor Chen
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Doubts
Alright
Here I go
Nothing to it
Breathe
You’re fine
You’re ok
You can do this
Donna Dray
With difficulty, Donna Dray
Went missing from her life one day,
Vanishing while on her way
To work, went Ms. Donna Dray.
Unless
What if I fail?
What if they laugh?
What if it’s not what I wanted?
What if my Everything turns out be Nothing?
What if I get lost on a path I could trace on a map with my eyes closed?
What if everything I worked to build up crumbles to burning ash and rubble in front of me?
Stop. Laura Caron
Alright
Here I go
Nothing to it
Breathe
You’re fine
You’re ok
You can do this
But the truth is that Ms. Donna Dray
Turned up in New Orleans one day.
When asked why she left she was heard to say
She was tired of living as Ms. Dray.
“Because if anything about Ms. Donna Dray
Seemed amiss,” she was known to say,
“She was forced to make it just go away, And that’s not healthy,” said Donna Dray.
And she’s still in New Orleans today,
Trying to live in some new way
And shaking her head at those who say
“Hey, I know you-- you’re Donna Dray!”
- Michelle Kupershmidt
Michael Mahoney
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No sign was found of Donna Dray,
(Much to her family’s dismay-When the news asked what they’d want to say,
There were only tears from Mr. Dray)
“No, I’m not,” says Donna Dray,
“At least, that is, not for today,
As for tomorrow, who can say
Who I’ll be?” says Donna Dray. - Michael Mahoney
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Dot the Ancient I’s and Cross the Sanskrit T’s
by Avery Kaplan
Auggie looked down at the new bikini top she was wearing, it was deceivingly big and reminded her
of all the times she had opened a bag of chips only to find that its contents were mostly air, with a little bit of
goods at the bottom. In one hand, her bitter drink vibrated with every downbeat of the speakers on the opposite
end of the backyard, and with the other she was anxiously twirling the bronze stud in her ear. That, and the silver
star in her opposite ear, were the only things she was wearing that were remnants of her old life.
She had pierced her ears herself with ice cubes and a sewing needle when she was eleven, and wore
earrings now, not as a fashion statement, but to preserve her accomplishment of five years previous. That was all
before public school and the new baby brother, and her mom starting her Writing-Poetry-Isn’t-Enough-to-Paythe-Bills-Anymore-so-I’m-Selling-Out-to-Go-Work-at- Barnes-and-Noble job.
This pool party was another new experience for Auggie, and one she likely would have avoided if Max
hadn’t asked her to go. More and more often these days, Auggie was finding it difficult to say no to Max,
especially when he wore that one green shirt, that one that made his eyes look like river stones. She was halflistening to the giggling conversation in front of her and half-listening to the song lyrics battering her eardrums.
She thought absently about how exhausting it would be, “Partying ‘til the sun come up, hey!” every night,
and was about to share this with the girls around her, but thought better of it, seeing as the conversation had
inevitably turned to boys.
“Ohmygod, Augs, Todd is totally into you.”
“Yea! You and him would be, like, so perf together. Definitely kiss him tonight.”
“Guys, did you hear how Stacy lost her bra in the woods after the baseba--”
Auggie wasn’t particularly interested one way or the other about the current location of Stacy’s bra, so
she excused herself to refill her drink. Her head was unpleasantly fuzzy and she found that she had lost track of
Max. Less gracefully than usual, she jumped in the pool to cool off.
Leaning against the wall in the low end, she became aware of that boy (Tuck was it? Or Tom? She
settled on Timberland) sliding into the pool next to her. He started talking to her, leaning incrementally closer
as Auggie nodded occasionally. Then he was kissing her, and it took Auggie a few beats to realize she was
probably supposed to close her eyes. But she opened them again a moment later because his tongue felt like the
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tofu breakfast sausages her dad had recently started buying. She pushed him aside despite his indignant noises,
and pulled herself out of the pool to go find Max.
Eventually, she found Max across the lawn, facing away from her on a deck swing. As she got closer, she
saw that he was sitting shoulder to shoulder with a boy whom Auggie vaguely recognized from the grade above
them. Climbing the steps of the deck, she began to wave, but stopped when she realized Max wasn’t turning
around to look at her, but to whisper something in the other boy’s ear. Utterly confused now, Auggie watched
as Max brought his hand up to rest on the base of the other boy’s neck. The boy turned, silhouetted against the
porch light, nose to nose with Max.
Auggie’s heart dropped into her stomach as she jumped from the deck onto the grass. Pushing her way
through the bathing-suit-clad crowd, she felt the same as when she was younger and would underestimate the
distance of a free fall after jumping from a tree branch. Except now there was firm ground beneath her feet and
she didn’t know when the plummet would end.
After a quick search, Auggie pulled on her t-shirt and shorts. Then she was on her bike, legs pumping
the pedals until they burned, the thrumming of the party fading fast behind her.
Auggie barely missed a pair of headlights as she turned onto the main road. Her brain felt like it was
floating in sludge, and every time she blinked she saw the look on Max’s face as if it was tattooed on her eyelids.
It was a look of utter softness, it was a tiny smile and it was eyes like half melted chocolate. And although she
didn’t want to admit it, she knew Max would never have that same look for her.
The cloudy sky spread out over the streetlights, and Auggie saw snippets of a blurry moon every once
in a while through the tall oaks ringing the road. She kept on biking, for how long she soon lost track, taking
turn after turn as the clouds thinned above her and less cars congested the roads. She passed the grocery store
and it dawned on her that she was two towns over, in a touristy spot by the boardwalk. Without really making
a decision one way or the other, Auggie biked along side streets and wound her way to a seafood shack she had
once eaten at with her family.
It was dark out, and the breeze was blowing the way it only does after midnight. Leaning her bike
against a bench, she wished briefly she hadn’t forgotten her lock, and began walking around to the backyard
of the restaurant where picnic tables overlooked the bay. She sat down at the farthest table, and listened to the
water in the bay lapping against the rocky shore fifty yards away. The water was illuminated by lights from a
boathouse down the beach. There was activity down there, a gaggle of people older than Auggie shouted and
giggled as they drunkenly tried to prepare a big motorboat for launch.
Looking around, Auggie realized for the first time that she wasn’t alone at the picnic tables. An old
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man with a gray beard was sitting on a bench closer down to the shore. At first Auggie ignored him, but then
times. Strapping the life jacket on, Auggie followed the person in front of her and climbed over the edge of the
she realized that wasn’t what she would have done a year ago. A year ago Auggie would have still been home-
dock and into the rubbery interior of the boat.
schooled, still been an only child, still spent her Saturday nights reading Auden and Yeats instead of going to
parties with Max. Old Auggie would have seen the gray beard as a reassuring sign, a hint of Merlin, Gandalf,
go. Sea spray stung her eyes, and a sharp turn threw them all against one side of the boat. Most of them too
or Dumbledore type wisdom. So before she could think better of it, Auggie got up and walked down to the old
drunk to get up from where they had fallen, the adults roared with laughter. Someone’s liquor had spilled down
man, and took a seat on the opposite end of the bench.
Auggie’s front and to escape the din she pushed to the back of the boat. She stood on the edge of the boat, one
“Hi,” she said.
foot on the top of the motor and one foot on the stern. They cut the gas suddenly and Auggie threw her arms
The old man turned his head toward Auggie and mumbled under his breath, he didn’t have many teeth.
out for balance, but she over-extended and tumbled off the end into the freezing water of the bay.
Auggie wasn’t sure if he was talking to himself or to her, or perhaps just practicing the words of wisdom he was
The water went over her head and rushed into her ears, the change in temperature crushing the oxygen
surely about to impart on her.
out of her lungs. The life jacket dug into her armpits and brought her back to the surface, but by the time she
“It’s a very pretty night tonight,” she tried again.
could yell it was too late, no one had seen and the boat was already zipping off toward the other end of the bay.
“Very pretty,” he said, his grubby chin wobbling. “You’re pretty.” With surprising agility, he reached out a
She tried fleetingly to swim after the it, but the wake it left behind caught her up and crashed over her head.
wrinkled hand and grabbed Auggie’s knee. “Very... pretty girly.”
Auggie yelped as if she’d been burned and jumped to her feet. She ran away as fast as she could, feeling
She stopped, and floated there, bobbing in the middle of the dark green bay.
The clouds in the sky had finally disappeared and the constellations were out now. This far into the bay,
as if a rash was spreading up her leg and across her body. She slowed down at the boathouse and stumbled onto
there was less light pollution, and every pinprick of star was reflected on the rippling surface. Auggie leaned back
the dock where, the drunken party had just successfully untied the motorboat.
and floated, looking up at the bottomless night sky. She felt like maybe this was it, this was the poetry she had
been waiting for, this was the moment when someone from on high would hand over the blueprints and explain
Wringing her shaking hands she walked up to the nearest women in a bathing suit who was guffawing
loudly at another’s joke. “Uh, excuse me,” Auggie said, out of breath, “Excuse me, there’s a man on a bench over
step-by-step: “This is how everything is supposed to fit together.” But all Auggie could think was how goddamn
there and--”
cold she was and how goddamn tiny she was, a girl in the middle of a bay, millions of miles below the balls of
“Who are you?” The woman turned and faced Auggie with unfocused eyes.
light burning out above her.
“Um, Auggie Lamb, I’m sixteen... a man over there...he touched my leg, and--” To Auggie’s dismay the
Auggie could feel a familiar tug beginning to pull at every fiber of her being as the shore seemed to
woman started laughing, and called to her friends.
shrink, like a wall in the distance. She couldn’t help it, the desperate wish welling up inside her for something,
“Did you hear that Bob, this kid just met Slippery Cal.” The dock rang with drunken laughter.
anything to happen. So badly, she wanted her own half-giant to knock down her front door and say, “Yer a
“He’s been haunting this place since Vietnam!” Someone, presumably Bob, called. “Get this girl a drink!”
wizard Auggie.” She wanted her own genetic mutation, X Men style. She wanted her own terminal illness to
“No, um, I told you, I’m sixteen--” Auggie’s terror was receding into agitation. make her teenage memory immortal, her own discovery, her own world to save. She had wished and willed these
Again, the party laughed at her. “Get her a drink and a life jacket!” said Bob, slurring the last few words.
things to happen so many times before, because, louder now than ever, the small voice in the back of her head
Before she knew it, a life jacket and a cheap beer were pushed onto her chest. The group was loading into the
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And then they were off, zipping over the bay at a speed much faster than any boat was supposed to
was saying, “No one at home will notice you’re gone.”
boat now, and someone behind her jostled her forward. Auggie was suddenly reminded of Prince Caspian’s ship
To her horror, a lump rose in her throat, and the corners of her eyes pricked. She shook her head and
in the Chronicles of Narnia. Trying to clear her mind, and think like Old Auggie again, she thought of how the
turned around in the water, studying the stars above her. Even though Auggie knew constellations were only
children always made it to Narnia when they least expected it. Perhaps now, she rationalized, was one of those
named after the heroes of ancient times, she imagined she could see a skinny, brown haired girl depicted up
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there.
From her new position in the water, she could see the sparkling black bay going on for miles before
spilling over the horizon, and a smile began to spread across her face. She had had a sudden image of herself in
a toga fighting sea monsters and hell hounds like the heroes the stars remembered. Then she had another image
of Toga Auggie, this time etching her adventures into a slab of clay with a pointed stick, and eventually the clay
would dry and fossilize and be buried just under the soil for the rest of eternity.
Auggie turned around and began kicking back towards shore. She took her time, and couldn’t stop her
smile because she knew now that she was the one holding the pointed stick. She was the one documenting her
own adventures, of which she was sure there would be many more to come, and if no one else could read the
ancient sanskrit she chose to write in, well, she realized, that would be just alright.
Cordy Houck
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Why I Shaved My Head
My hair…
Had always been the grumpy, troublesome version of me.
I could wake up in the best of moods,
And it would still be in snarls.
I could buy it the loveliest barrettes
To try and circumscribe my wild baby hairs,
That went everywhere,
But they madly resisted,
And wildly twisted,
Pigtailing out the sides.
As a child, my hair was down to my bottom,
And it got me into handfuls of trouble.
When I was in second grade my hair got caught
In a wall vent,
And the janitors had to come and take everything apart while
The teacher held my ponytail firmly so it wouldn’t
Yank at my small, 7-year old head.
When I was ten,
I got some bubble gum caught in my hair.
Now, I didn’t yet know the infamous peanut-butter trick,
So I snuck to my room with a pair of scissors
And took care of it,
Swearing never to tell my mom. (Oops!)
When I was thirteen I got my first-ever (non-bubble-gum-related) haircut—
I cut off 2 inches,
The two inches that were the first two inches to
Ever grow on my skull as a baby.
When I was fifteen, my hair caught on fire
From a candle on the kitchen counter.
My mom hysterically grabbed the faucet head
And aimed it at me until I was put out.
My hair…
Had always been the grumpy, troublesome version of me.
But I loved it anyway.
And it became so much a part of me,
That when I thought of the idea to donate all of it,
I knew it would be the perfect challenge.
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It would be
Looking in the mirror
And my eyes
Meeting
my eyes,
Grazing
my lips,
Tracing
my jaw.
Seeing myself as if for the first time,
Redefined.
It would be
Cutting off a literal weight
That cut off a figurative weight,
The regrets that
Heavied my head,
That scarved my neck
In a noose of remorse.
The lightness that would come
Would let me look up again,
And let go of the split ends
Of my past.
It would be
Acting in solidarity
With the children who every three
Minutes are diagnosed with cancer.
Knowing I made the choice,
For those who didn’t get the choice.
It would be
Raising $1000 for cancer research.
It would be
Giving three feet of hair to make wigs for children,
Knowing a child somewhere
Was brushing my hair,
Feeling whole again.
It would be
Honoring the victims…and the survivors
In my life,
And it would be
Looking in the mirror
Every day,
Still feeling beautiful,
Feeling rewritten,
Retelling my story
Of why I
Shaved my head.
- Dana Shahar
Lucas Ou
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Riddle Me a Riddle
Lexia
Slippery and deceiving,
Ever consuming; merciless,
Unwavering and all-too-quick,
Forever present yet nonexistent,
So independent and intangible,
Yet I am the creator of everything real
What am I?
My name comes from my great grandfather, Alexander. His life was full of struggles yet
he took away only the beauty in it. He was unconventionally wise. Not like the books filling a
library. He couldn’t tell you the digits of Pi. His schooling ended just as middle school peeked its
head around the corner. Yet he gained his wisdom through experience. Each day would end with
his back aching and beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. As the calendars flipped with
each New Year, he was slowly climbing the ladder towards success. When opportunity knocked
to do the right thing, he would instantly answer and greet it with a firm handshake. Climbing
- Valerie Yang-Schmidt
as far down that ladder as he could to grasp the hands of those in need. Never accepting others
helping hands though. Simply making his steady way up that ladder. Over time his hands
became more callused and his limbs began to ache. Not until his body gave out did he accept his
place on the ladder. His mind thrived years after however. Whenever dad would go to visit his
grandpa Alexander, he would always be greeted by a wise story about that backbreaking work of
his youth. “Always extend that helping hand, but never accept one”. That was the core value he
Erin Venuti
Verge of Ambiguity
Why pink? As if labeling an entire gender by a color will create reassurance, a sense of
belonging. I’m four and outside I’m pink but I can’t feel that. My mother puts on my pink bows,
ittybitty pink baby shoes and dresses. I’m nine and I want pink. It must be plastered on my room
walls because Angie told me at recess it’s her bestest color. I’m twelve and I fear pink. I chip
the painted color ferociously from my nails, as if this will rid the persistent vision. At fifteen,
things are seen in a different light, a hazy tunnel that diverges into two lanes. The all too familiar
monochromacy of the rosy beams lure me like sirens. But I choose the obscure light and accept
the chaos of settling on the verge of ambiguity.
passed on until the day he died. He died on October 30 th , 1999, exactly one month before I
was born. The older relatives believed that he died to make room for me. He
died so that I could live and thrive. To slowly begin to climb that ladder from where he left off.
From the start I have had an old soul, his soul. My family was anxious to lay their eyes upon the
new baby girl. “Lexia has an old soul, always looking out into the world, curious.” The familiar
words, I am told, often rolling off their tongues and exiting their lips. I embrace these words.
I wear that name as a badge of honor. I was born to crave knowledge, strive for wisdom. That
spark and curiosity was there from day one. I was just too innocent, too young to seek.
- Lexia Cicone
- Natalie Knight
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From Sister to Sister
(Verse 1 - Sister 1)
As the sun sets on the lush and green plain,
she gazes over it with feelings of disdain.
She thinks about me, and she wonders
If she should feel sadness, sorrow or shame.
(Verse 2 - Sister 2)
I don’t know if I can take off and fly.
My soul doesn’t know that my ending is nigh;
Would you care, should my time come now this day?
Would you truly care if I die?
(Chorus 1 - Both sisters)
Sister to sister, you must understand
Intentions of mine to repair love from sand;
To never have hate between souls, bodies, eyes,
When love’s the one gift we can have.
(Verse 3 - Sister 2)
Blackness and darkness is now my new way
And your smile is worth every last scream of pain.
For you, I would give up my soul if I must;
I will find you, and save you, I say.
You’ll find that I want to be free.
(Bridge - Sister 2 first two lines, Sister 1 joins in last two lines)
My fears have a ghostly grip on my soul.
I’m sure you feel them too, like a two-sided sword.
To reach through our cages that we cannot see,
Then we’ll fight as sisters, not enemies...
(Chorus 4 - Sister 1)
My dearest sister, my prettiest sister,
My first and most loyal of friends.
I’m sorry for all of the sorrow I’ve caused,
And I hope you’ll forgive me in the end.
(Chorus 5 - Sister 2)
Sister to sister, I’ll fight to the end.
Forever for you I will fend till I’m spent.
Forever for all, I will fend till the war stops at last,
But for you, I will fend to the end.
(Reprise - Both sisters)
Yes, I would lay my life down till the bloodshed has past,
And for you I will fend to the end.
- Matthew Bridgeman
(Verse 4 - Sister 1)
She’ll travel all through these dark halls of ink,
Hearing the laughter as her sane mind sinks.
She will not, however, stop listening for me,
Her pain, that somehow makes me too, laugh to pink.
(Chorus 2 - Sister 2)
Sister, my sister, I fear for my life.
Despite this, I won’t stop because of such strife.
I do not know if I still see the dawn light.
Though you will, I swear this on my bloodstained knife.
(Chorus 3 - Sister 1)
Sister to sister, oh hear my last plea:
A song from my heart, just myself unto thee.
If you would just listen to my sole one poem,
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Gwen Orav
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Exuding Darkness
Their words escaped from caverns no smaller than a hand, bubbling over the rim of this new
fountain, it would not stop. This succession, a mere string of beads, seeped into each crevice of
unfamiliarity, borrowed the minds of living things, graffitied the landscape with colorless words.
It whispered “be still and linger,” for darkness beckons.
The sky gleamed and effervescent pools appeared, sprung from the depths of nonexistence.
Strange animals plodded through a once stygian floor, picked up, no, craned their heads in
wonder and watched the work of creation and all its mysterious beauty. One animal, this
creature of darkness, gradually took a swarthy yet shapeless form as it descended over this novel
expanse and reared its somber head. Alone yet omnipresent, it was; shadowed by a perpetually
uncertainty. Onyx trees and flowers arose, seemingly awakened by this pressing force that
shattered their dormancy. Ink-like leaves fell like tears in the silence of the dark, making no
sound as they hit the floor, unsoiled. Streams began to flow over obsidian rocks which shone
dully under the pale and sole light of the virgin crescent moon. Slowly, the trees with their inklike leaves, ebony animals that no longer craned, everything in the world, began to lighten and
be distinguished from each other under the light of the moon. Yet the shapeless form of night
continued to cloak the world in a canvas of sable sky full of twinkling, yellow stars which could
be seen far away, for miles and miles, even in a world where darkness reigned.
Alex Hendrickson
- Valerie Yang-Schmidt
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Price to Pay
Victor Chen
In history class, we learned how the world has evolved
We’ve gained and lost as time has moved forward
But some of the losses weren’t worth it
Especially when the world had to go through wars
And those wars came with a price and no prize
A lot of people had to suffer
The world was forever damaged
Because certain countries wanted to prove dominance
Because certain countries wanted to claim more land
Because certain countries just didn’t like others
Soldiers are ripped away from their families and friends
Risking everything to rob people of their lives
How can another person do that to somebody?
I’m disgusted and disturbed by this sick situation
Oh but I guess it’s okay cause they’re serving their country
Tell that to the innocent people who died
Tell that to the soldiers suffering from PTSD
Tell that to all the children whose parents didn’t come home
Tell that to the parents who never saw their children again
History says that one side eventually wins
There are no winners in war
It’s not like a game when you lose
You can just try again
Some of these people who fought in wars
They don’t get a round two
These events can’t be undone
There are prices to pay
And no refunds
We might gain a little from war
But the cost is just too much
- Zariful Shaikh
28
29
“An Immodest Proposal”
(Author’s note: this is the corniest thing ever, also, to be enjoyed to the max, please read in a
stuffy British accent)
I being a chair of oak mind and solid core, am furious. How dare you sit upon me? You,
human, smell awful. What a horrifying scent, not at all even close to wood polish. You must take
a shower at once. I have no idea how you go about smelling in such a manner. Why don’t any
of you say something to one another? Why, if there was a chair that smelled funny, I would tell
them immediately.
Moreover, it is absolutely horrifying how you place yourself upon me without my consent.
What happened to asking me what I felt about your actions? Ever since the first chair, my greatgreat granny chair, a pure beech log (she was an uncut beauty, I assure you), we chairs have been
beneath you.
Quite literally.
This, I insist, is chairism. How dare you exclude us from your respect? What have we done
to you? We deserve equal rights. What if I wish to marry another chair and have it recognized
in the face of law? What if I dream of voting? What if I want to be treated just like you treat
other humans? Let freedom ring across our fair country! Let us all be equal in the face of law!
I also suggest you treat us with respect. We could always dump you on the ground, if you
prefer? What a sight that would be! A million and one humans suddenly flat on the ground,
dumbstruck by the event.
Megan Fortune
Her story is . . .
Her story is the one she wants you to see, not the one that’s happening. When she doesn’t post
for a few days, you don’t notice, you don’t worry. But you should. The true story she will never
share; she’ll carry it to her grave. You’ll remember the stories she shared, not the ones that really
happened.
When she’s gone you’ll remember the cover, not what was actually inside.
When she’s gone, she’s gone, and so is the truth behind her Snapchat stories.
- Jacqui Baer
My purpose in life is not just to be sat upon. We chairs, as a people have more to offer to
the world. Let us be a part of the world. We have such brilliant minds. Together, we can rule the
world, humans and chairs together. As equals.
I have a dream. A dream to be the world’s first chair violinist. I wish to live my dream. Let
me! Give us chairs our rights!!!
This has been Olive Oak speaking for “Chair Rights Everywhere.” This message has been
authorized and paid for by the “Chair Lives Matter Foundation.”
- Kat Thonangi
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Gus Wiedey
Jacqui Baer
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Where I’m From
I am from aluminum bats,
From Louisville Slugger and Demarini.
I am from Jim Rice Field
In the South End with a mini green monster and the smell of pastelitos.
I am from stolen bases and dirty uniforms,
From “Play Ball!” and “That’s the game.” Sophie Zacharakis
ABC
ABC. Three letters. Three meanings. To a kindergartner, it is the alphabet, a strange collection
of odd-looking swirls and curves and straight lines that somehow form the word “apple.” To an
immature third-grader, ABC means AlreadyBeenChewed,
a term applied to rubbery, sticky wads of used bubblegum, chomped on and decimated by a pair
of jaws. Do you want some ABC gum, kids will ask, laughing to see if you’d fall for it.
But for me, ABC stands for AmericanBornChinese.
Born in America, but with Chinese parents. Not exactly American, but not really Chinese either.
Stuck in the middle.
As ABC, you sort of fit, but not exactly. A right shoe on the left foot. The puzzle piece that is
almost the right one. Almost, but not quite.
When I was ten, there was a kid at my summer camp named Jim something,
with huge pale eyes like a goldfish. He was rude. Always blurting out answers and cutting kids
in line. Once, he asked me where I was from.
Here, I said. I’m from here.
Goldfish Jim shook his head. No, where are you really from?
Here. Massachusetts. I’ve been here for my whole life.
You don’t look American. Are you Chinese?
My parents are from China. But I’m not. I’m not Chinese.
So, what are you?
ABC, that’s me. Not the alphabet. Not old gum. But belonging to two places and no places all at
once.
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- Leslie Yan
I am from the low-cut trees and twenty-foot trees.
From loud people and long eyelashes,
I am from FiFi and Chico,
From “Portate bien” and “Dale a la bola mas duro,”
I am from the Dominican Republic and Platano Con Salami.
From the black and white mansion in Santo Domingo and brick townhouses in Harbor Point,
From black and white stripes to camping in the cold.
I am from Jordan and Nike,
From PLAYOFF 8’S and blue and pink South Beachers, From Retros and Originals.
I am from Reebok.
I am from shoeboxes stacked up by brand. I am from blue and white pinstripes and twenty-seven World Series championships,
From walk-off wins to last pitches.
I am from towering home runs and cutters to win the game,
From broken bats and strikeouts.
I am from injuries and hustle plays,
From diving catches and wall climbs.
I am from three balls and two strikes.
- Anthony Rodriguez
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Sophie Zacharakis
White Skin
Take a look, drink it in:
I’m super tall, and super thin.
I’ve got my health, I love to ball,
I need no luck to help me win.
I’ve got something money can’t buy,
I’ve got white skin.
I don’t represent an entire race,
I only speak for me,
I’m not asked for “the white perspective”
Since I’m a majority.
I’m a clean, non-threatening white guy,
You can take me home to Mom,
And when I walk through Logan,
No one thinks I have a bomb.
And when I get pulled over,
It’s because I’m doing eighty,
Not because I’m driving with black skin
Past the always watchful Statie.
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And if I see another cop,
At a park or a routine stop.
I won’t wonder if I might get shot,
With a taser set down on the spot.
So if you’re white like me,
Acknowledge your position
If one group is treated worse,
There’s a flip to that condition.
A history of imbalance,
Set up the world of today,
White people must admit
The scales are tipped our way.
But feeling guilty won’t make it better,
There’s a part for you to play,
Don’t settle for, “That’s just the way it is”
And hope for brighter days.
Talk to people of different races,
And listen to their stories,
And when you go to the cafeteria,
Don’t just sit with all the other white people.
- Mr. Hebert
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