THE FINE LINEVolume 4, 2009-2010

A student publication ofBishop Brady High School

25 Columbus AveConcord, NH 03301

EDITOR Lauren Covalucci

ASSISTANT EDITORS Jordan Lassonde, Jena LaValley

ADVISOR Amy Usinger

STAFFKendra BlanchetteTim BlandinaChristine BrennanKatie ChangMackenzie Demers,Lindsey EvansJordan LassondeJena LaValleyMaggie MacMullinMeghan McCormickAmelia MillerKaylene O’Connor Katie StewartBrant TichkoEmily Weidman

Table of Contents

Literature2. “Ten Years”, Billy Perkins3.”Television”, Lauren Covalucci4.”Places”, Whitney Bernier5.”Empty Mind”, Mark McKenna6.”On a DustyFall Morning”, Sean Hockensmith7.”Guardian Angel”, Erin Spaulding8. “Cold Bench”, Kerry Gaudreau9. “Artistic Children”, Molly Todd10. “New Paint for Old Ideas”, Molly Todd10. “Paint”, Jordan Lassonde11. “Midnight Drive”, Kirsten Zellers12. ?13. “Absence”, Whitney Bernier13.” She Takes Off at Two”, Nick Dolan14. “Clouds”, Nick Dolan15. “A Stroll on Saturday Morning”, Nick Grafton16. “An artist’s work is his soul”, Brant Tichko17. “Hands”, Erin Spaulding18. “Light”, Jordan Lassonde19. “Five”, Nick Dolan20. “Thank You”, Whitney Bernier21. “Prayer and Pledge”, Erin Spaulding22. “Brutal”, Lindsay Evans22. “Sonnet”, Aaron Kesselman24. “Grass”, Molly Todd25. “My Mother’s Nightmares”, Chris Bahr26. “Time”, Jordan Lassonde28. “Endless Strings”, Sean Hockensmith29. “No(Significance)”, Kerry Gaudreau31. “Gazing at Snow”, Billy Perkins32. “Dispatch”, Phil Smith33. “A Drive”, Catie Sylvestriadis 34. “Rider”, Erin Spaulding35. “The View of a Hungry Human”, Lindsay Evans35. “Alone and Wandering”, Chris Bahr36. “The Concord High Game”, Paul Hickey37. “Home”,38.39.40.41.43. “Ten Seconds of life”, Mark Therriault

Artwork2. “News”, Jocelyn Dorsey4. “Circle”, Kendra Blanchett5. “??”, Chris Bellino 6. “Bible”, Jena LaValley7. “Lion”, Lauren Naugle9. “Cascading Cs”, Annie Kennedy10. Untitled, Meera Latona13. Untitled, Jenn Spain14. Untitled, Jenn Spain17. “The Tenth Experiment”, Amelia Miller18. Untitled, Jenn Spain20. “Flag”, Jena LaValley23.”??”, ??

Cover Art:“Autumn Serenity”Maggie MacMullinWatercolorMaggie was the winner of our second annual cover art contest.

Fonts used in Volume IV: Trebuchet MS, Tunga, Franklin Gothic Book, Impact, Kunstler Script

editor’s letter

[“LET’S GET LITERATE!”]

Hello, reader!Congratulations on your acquisition of Bishop Brady

High School’s finest (and only) literary magazine. Our staff has spent all year weaving student writing and artwork into one publication that, hopefully, gives a snapshot of this year’s creativity. To all those featured in this volume: we are extremely proud of you. Thank you for your creativity.

Such great authors as Shakespeare and Dorothy Parker have remarked on the value of brevity, so I won’t ignore them here. This is my fourth year of being involved in this literary magazine and I’m having a hard time imagining my life without it. Luckily, The Fine Line has a life of its own and is sure to thrive under the “next generation” and the leadership of Jordan Lassonde and Jena LaValley. As editor, I am immensely proud of all that our community has to contribute. This magazine, to me, is yet another testament to the power of words and imagination. We hope that the art of the Brady community can affect your lives as it has affected ours.

Thank you and goodbye,Lauren Covalucci

dedicationThe staff of The Fine Line has long felt the need to recognize the

hard work and effort that our advisor Amy Usinger has put into the Bishop Brady Literary Magazine. This is her fourth year of working on this publication, as she immediately took an interest in it on first joining the Brady community. Always our biggest supporter, this volume of The Fine Line, or any of the volumes before it, would never have made it to the press. Thank you, Mrs. Usinger; we look forward to many more years of working with you to create this magazine. 1

Ten Years"Ten years wasted,"he squalled as heslammed the door.

I sat still,in my seat and waited, ashe quietly reentered the room.

We were all ina sort ofshock.

We had neverseen himthis way.

Mr. Andover wasalways a cool-mannered man.

But when he receivedthat letter-the letter that dashed all of hishopes and dreams, all of hischances to break free from hiscrummy job-he just broke down.

There, as he was sobbingbetween the pages of his masterpiece-ten years of his hard life,dashed by some aristocrat in probably ten seconds-I just couldn't help but laugh.

And I'll regret that laughfor the rest of

2010 FEATURED POET:Billy Perkins

my life. 2

TELEVISIONLauren Covalucci

The television's talking outlike chatty neighbors down the street,

busy with their fragile cause ofturning whispers into shouts:

words can killlike blood can spill.

The stacks in piles miles highof silly, silly, useless sounds

just slam together empty words--Society, the critics sigh.

To them, a secret little known:The lies you see are each your own.

With all the letters painted black we still don't know what we can trust,since truth can hide beneath the type

next to the change we can't take back.So what remains as seconds fly?

Here lies the truth: the truth can lie.

3

`

NewsJocelyn DorseyPhotograph

4

PlacesWhitney Bernier

There is nobody in town I will know.Hoping these feelings haven’t showed,But you gave me some place to go.

The sun in the sky, the clouds that float by,Carrying memories of the last chapter—closed.There is nobody in town I will know.

You can’t believe, like a bird, how time can fly.I can’t help but feel something is owed;But you gave me some place to go.

At times I may feel sad, but I’m not going to cry. The warm air helps me forget the days it snowed.There is nobody in town I will know.

Early in the morning I won’t want to try.The book is sealed, like a new heart—sewed. But you gave me some place to go.

With no more reason to ask why.I’ve found more here than grass to be mowed.There is nobody in town I will know,But you gave me some place to go

5

Empty MindMark McKenna

The cold fog, rolling in like a thunderous cloud,Sweeping down the street, engulfing everything in its path.The trees, swishing and swaying from side to side--Leaves scampering down the street like a tumbleweed from the west.Today it seems as if the sun will never rise,The clouds will never part,For this thick,Dark,Gloomy fog is all that is there.Fields where cows once grazed are now abandoned,Almost to say the day has not arrived.The day has not begun, because this fog contains nothing.It is empty, empty like a long night or a dark hall bearing no lightsLike a thought lost in transition; nothing there, to fall back on or refer to,But there is still something to look forward to,For tomorrow will come,Tomorrow will be a better day indeed.For the sun will shine,The warm wind will blow,And the cows will graze again.

CircleKendra BlanchetteMixed Media

6

On A Dusty Fall MorningSean Hockensmith

The screen opens as the crisp air squeals out,a branch falls, the leaves giggle.they crackle underneath the foliagesinging the hymns of the Lord.

White whispers bellowing in the breeze.Pillows laying their heads on sky blue sheets.

Leaves screaming when they fall.The Earth swallows them, whole.Ants crawling up from the dustEscaping their doom.

The chills of the morning,Fade into the shining rays.Plants beckoning the light,to stay, and never go away.

Chris BellinoPaint

7

Guardian AngelErin Spaulding

Her halo, resting softly on her curls,glows; enhancing her rosy cheeks againsther pale complexion. White silk clothing swirlsaround her slender frame. Her presence, sensedof kindness, watching over me. I feel...safe. Guiding me through trying decisions.My guardian angel. Soaring; concealedin the clouds. Wings lifted with precisionby the wind. Journeying between both lands.So busy helping, flying to and fro.Much work to be done with lose little hands.Trying to keep me from hurting my foes.And yet, her replica now rests uponmy shelf, awakening at early dawn.

Bible Jena LaValleyPhotograph 8

Cold BenchKerry Gaudreau

Sitting on the cold bench,watching the cars turn into the round about.I feel my legs numbing -melting into the granite.Yet, I prefer sitting—spacing out andlosing all feeling in my body—to what lingers twenty minutes northeast.

What waits for me?Not the home that I left many sunny mornings ago,But a dark gloomy, shelter from the weather.

So, I siton the bench,becoming its own personal, red-cheeked, statue.I know I can't stay here.At some time I mustplop into the driver's seat.Andmeet the new complaints thatskulk behind the white door, that lead into abitterly warm house (which will soon beFull of shouts and accusations)—Always creating tension.

So,in complete silence,I bit by bit shuffle closerand closerto the vehicle,slothfully step inandturn the engine on.Knowing—I am heading to one more place

I can grind my teeth, while I work.

9

Lauren NauglePhotograph

Lauren NauglePhotograph

LionLauren NauglePhotograph

10

Artistic ChildrenMolly ToddThe sweet-strong smell of wax,that illuminates their pages,nauseating their depths of imagination.

Colors crowd their minds, working hard,to make their art come alive.

Wiggling, restless in their seats,they seek knowledge that was oncein the young minds of artists: Picasso and Van Gogh

The artists' secrets at thatyoung age were simple:use pretty colors and stay in the lines.

11

New Paint for Old IdeasMolly Todd

Jeans sewn on canvasBackround? Mountains, and Sunset.The splatter:Blue for soccer orange for math class green for starry nights-and on.Watch the way the colors mixAnd the way they don't.I call it my life on canvasYou are yellow.

PaintJordan Lassonde

Pin me down with your pen,paint me with your words,

picture me in fields of green,but paint me as I was.

You could paint me bluelike the sky I loved,

or the orangeof the rising sun.

Maybe red for my passion,or pink

for the flush of my cheeks.You could paint me purple,

for majesty,or the green of spring

for youth.You could paint me yellow,

to cheer me up,or black, so I may sleep.

But if you wish,you could paint me white,

so all the colorsI could keep.

Cascading CsAnnie KennedyMixed Media

12

Meera LatonaPencil

13

A Winds EulogyJordan Lassonde

Somewhere thousands of miles away a star died. The star died and yet it’s legacy remains. The silent stars light still reaches relentlessly across those miles to shine in the inky night. It hung like a picture on a wall all-alone in the black oblivion of the universe. Frozen in perpetual loneliness the star dedicated its light to our night sky. That selfless star and I died today, and this is the story of our death.

The heavens opened up and rained tears for the star that sat a trophy upon a shelf. The sun that set in an explosion of color behind statuesque trees had burned off the charcoal clouds. The sultry summer night that followed was as still and as silent as glass. The moon smiled, its recycled light deepening the shadows of the dark. I stood planted in place by the wonders around me, trembling in the chill breath of the wind. The whole night came alive among the melodies of the crickets’ orchestra. Fireflies danced in the face of the moon serenading their distant cousins. The trees swayed to the crickets songs while the gentle breeze whispered dulcet lyrics. Then the whole word sighed as the sweet melody turned to a sorrowful lament.

Unnoticed by the human kind the world mourned the death of a star while basking in its glory. While the winds whispered eulogy resounded through the night, I wilted in the light of a dying star. The rest of the world passed me by as I withered in the grass. I stared at the moon reaching for the stars I would never touch. As the world around me I mourned the death of a star I wished that they would mourn me. O would they mourn me! I was alone like that star and in my own way I shined. Alone in a field of despair, yearning for that I would never have and living for the same, I died.

As I died the wind caught my fallen petals and carried them to the stars. In death I reached what in life I could not and as my petals drifted through the stars the

crickets lament changed once again. They mourned my death by celebrating my life. I died in the legacy of a star and now in death we keep each other company.

The sun rose behind tired trees and the crickets fell into sleep to the dawn birdsong. The tears shed during the night clung to blades of grass. Dawn broke and the world moved on.

14

ABSENCEWhitney Bernier

Why you would want to break a perfectly good heartis a question wandering in the air. I’m placing together the only part

I thought I would never break—(doesn’t seem fair).Though it seems to be such a simple word,

forgiveness; a realization yet achieved.With a mind that’s seen, but yet to be heard,

An absence of you helps me to believe.As sure as the leaves changing in the fall

Are these big brown eyes staring back at me;The only thing you gave to me at all.

Now, I find my reason to let it be.Just look at me, I didn’t need you here

To guide my hand, and help me through the years.SHE TAKES OFF AT TWONick DolanTime is ticking and I am thinking what to doShe says she is going,I stop. Try to name something...nothing.What makes herwalk away? She's leaving morethan me. My mind,my mistakes--I've said too much this time.

Her hair tied tight to her headwhere my wrist used to restand I wishher airplane would arrivejust a little later.My doubt is deeperthan any departure and I knowI'll never see her afterat two she takes off.

My mind's made up:if I follow I'm sure to fail.I've already fallenfor her before. No moreof this. I'm letting go to losewho I loved at twoshe takes offfrom the world where we wonderedhow we stay together. But here I ama man who is doing too much talkingto take her back. We're twopeople now and she's taking off.

15

CLOUDSNick DolanThe sky is solid blue; I can see the airplane’s trail left behind them.I hope the cops do not search my pockets;That is where I hid the stolen cloud.I thought, I’ve never been good at giving presents,But I know, since your eyes were always on them,The clouds, they might be somethingYou can keep, with you, in your room; to surround you.And you can feel themblow through your hair, move up your sleeves, or wrap around youlike sheets. I can only think how jealous I am, of this cloud,Able to see you when you’re alone.Maybe my mind will let me be the cloud that you hold.

Jenn SpainMixed Media 1

6

A Stroll on Saturday MorningNick Grafton

Sun shining high,Wind with a slight breezeStrolling along the streetas thoughts of today,tomorrow, and yesterdayoccupy the mind.A little boy waves,shoes untied,as he stumbles along.Too preoccupiedabout where he is goingto even notice.

Dogs chasing cars,as if they were dreamsslowly driving away.There he is,he catches the eye.His shiny face andcontent expressionepitomize his honesty.Liberty softly breathing over his right shoulder.His trust in Godgently hangs over his head.His bowtie as boldas his bronze beard.But what is it worth?The answer is right around the corner.

Jenn SpainPhotograph

17

An artist’s work is his soulBrant Tichko

The key to the world lies hidden in twilight.My soul searches for its true home.

Moon shadows of the sublime night.

The mist rises from the mountains, releasing sunlight.Across the vast globe I roam.

The key to the world lies hidden in twilight.

My adventures I sit and write.Nothing sways the heart like a poemMoon shadows of the sublime night.

With my brush I paint them on a kite.Releasing it to fly away over the sea’s foamThe key to the world lies hidden in twilight.

Quite a sight, seeing the fruit of my soul head from the top of heaven’s

dome.Moon shadows of the sublime night.

Praying with all my might,to someday have my art return home.

The key to the world lies hidden in twilight.Moon shadows of the sublime night.

HandsErin Spalding

Fingers clasp the zipperof the little girl's pink winter coat.Pulling and tugging. Until it almost catchesthe skin of her little chin.

Hands, long and slender,resemble the user. They havelittle creases from the wear,and rough patches.

The knuckles are encircledwith bags of extra skin.Wrinkles growing biggeras they move inward.

The nails are jagged,lined with dirt. And thewhite specks show the hard workthese hands have gone through.

These hands will guideand perform the work of the heart.

18

Midnight DriveKirsten Zellers

You bundle me up, lift mylimp body and carry me—in soft, protecting arms, to my seat.You put the key in the ignition,roll down the windows,start to drive.You storm forward, as the frigidair surrounds us. It feels goodto me, flooding my lungs withclean air; I know you are tryingto hide your shivers.You drive for hours,in circles, dreaming of laying yourhead on a pillow (you are my medicine).You keep driving,for me.

The Tenth Experiment Amelia MillerPencil

19

20

FIVENick Dolan

I am five years old and always standing by the doorwaiting for my dad to come home,excited to tell him about my day.All the pictures I colored, the juice I had spilled on the floor,and how I made the tallest castle out of blocks.

I am five years old and I imagine my daddressed in a white shirt with a green tie.I want to pull on the tie so he will pick me up. But I am too big.He comes in and stands next to my mother.I think that their laughter sounds like birds.

I am five years old and I eat mac and cheeseevery day for lunch because it is my favorite.My mother knows this and fills my cup with milk.All the times I eat until I finish, lick the bowl, and ask for more.My mother says I am a growing boy.

I am five years old and my room is full of toys.My parents send me here when I am bad, but I don't feel punishedas I drive my trucks up and down the blue rug.Then I realize I am trapped here alone.The door is closed and I cannot find a way out.

I am five years old and I scream for my parents.They have left me forever, and I am lost and thinkinghow bad I am sometimes. The silence of my room makes me sorry.My mother comes into my room and I am crying,but she tells me she'll always be right outside the door.

Jenn SpainPencil

21

THANK YOUWhitney Bernier

The best day:a little pony tail pulled too tightthat bounces in the air as little legs (of wonder)run, skip, and jump around the yard:

a hose splashing water on my face,waving hands in excitement, while curious eyesscan what seems like miles of soft, green grass.completely aware of my surroundings:

a swing set that can carry me to the moon.a hammock that can sway me into dreams.a garden where I help plant seeds.a picnic table where I eat my lima beans.the hill, that Dad helps me climb:

a scrape covered my knee.I tore a hole in my tights, I lost my ballet shoe.My headband broke. My Barbie's head was loose.the multiplication tables didn't add up, I didn't want to

play sports,I broke the dinner plate. My kindergarten teacher knew I

would be going to college:

I earned my first 'A', I had my first surgery.best friends were a session of recess.sports became a passion. I switched schools:I received my first 'C'. You and I got in fights,you sacrificed, you gave your everything to help me

achieveanything:

helping me jump, catching me when I fall,and throwing me back up again.I thank you for teaching me to throw myselfback up again - even when I didn't want to -for giving me my best days, your eyes,and watching me shine:

I love you

22

Comentarii De Bello GallicoBook-2 Chapter-6Gaius Julius Caesar

Ab castris oppidum Remorum nomine Bibrax aberat milia passum VIII. Id es itinere mango impetus Belgae oppugnare coepeunt. Aegre eo die sustentatum est. Gallorum eadem atque Belgarum oppugnatio est haec: ubi circumiecta multitudine hominum totis moenibus undique in murum lapides iaci coepti sunt murusque defensoribus nudatus est, testudine facta portas succedunt murumque subruunt. Quod tum facile fiebat. Nam cum tanta multitude lapides ac tela concicerent, in muro consistendi potestas erat nulli. Cum finem oppugnandi nox fecisset, Iccius Remus, summa nobilitate et gratia iner suos, qui tum oppido praeerat, unus ex iis qui legati de pace ad Caesarem venerant, nuntium ad eum mittit, nisi subsidium sibi submittatur, sese

Molly ToddPaint

23

Comentarii De Bello GallicoBook-2 Chapter-6Gaius Julius CaesarTranslated by Zach HighamEdited by Mrs. Goulson

A town of the *Remi, Bibrax by name, was eight miles away from this (Caesar’s) camp. The Belgians began to besiege it, (while) on the march, with a great attack. The defense was maintained poorly on that day.

The Gaul’s method of storming, the same as the Belgians’, is this: when, with the whole fortification surrounded by a multitude of of men, stones began to be hurled against the wall on all sides, and the wall was left unprotected by the defenses, they advance to the gates and undermine the wall by forming a testudo. That happened easily in this insatance. For, because so great a multitude was hurling stones and spears, no one had a chance of standing on the wall.

When night had brought about an end to the fighting, Iccius, one of the Remi, of the greatest nobility and influence among his people, who was in charge of the town at that message to him (Caesar) saying that unless help was sent for them (the Remi), they would not be able to withstand any longer.

24

Prayer and PledgeErin Spaulding

We stand each morning to recite.My attention quickly falls.I stare out the window at a kite.

It is a wonderful sight.Freedom seems so tall.We stand each morning to recite.

It rings with such a might.But in reality it is so small.I stare out the window at a kite.

With this thought I ignite.Not wanting this to befall.We stand each morning to recite.

I hope I am not right.This cannot be our downfall.I stare out the window at a kite.

Through the window pours sunlight.It brings me back, it calls.We take each morning to recite.I stare out the window at a kite.

FlagJena LaValleyPhotograph2

5

Brutal WarLindsay Evans

I listen to her gentle breathing hereI see her chest restlessly rise and fallAs she happily dreams without a fearOf her great Marine father standing tall.

This, being the man I miss so dearly,Far away in the bright-hot desert sun.He fights for a cause he sees so clearly,Keeping us safe from those who almost won.

But while I am watching his daughter sleep,I see she does not know why I’m here.I’ll tell her that you are across the sea.One day she will understand I’m sincere.

So please don’t act like a hero, my friend.Come back to me when this brutal war ends

SonnetAaron Kesselman

Why hello, she will say, how have you been?Perhaps a hug, maybe a juicy kiss.A mere year prior to departure wonWas my heart to my lovely and dear miss.Possibly I could be her mister man,That would be any soldier’s dream come true.Three long years spent in AfghanistanDyed my bright hopes a melancholy blue,But my dreams of her face, her hair, her scent,Kept me going like the energizerBunny. My dreads, doubts, and fears flew and wentWaiting to wrap my big arms around her.Knock Knock. A male stranger opened the door.She gasped, our ceaseless love is now no more.

26

EVAAli NemcovichInspired by John Steinbeck’s Cannery Row

Call me a slut, a whore, a hooker,it’s what I do but ain’t who I am.Just like Mary, I follow Jesusnot like the mother, but the friend.

I hold my head high around townand they don’t look down on me,but when I get home and shut the door,I cry into a bottle of whiskey.

Every time I go to churchstill sick from the night before,and I tell the preacher what I donehe say Jesus forgives me but I ain’t so sure.

It ain’t like I can quit,I got my family to support,sisters and brothers, Ma and Pop—so I guess I go back to being a whore.

27

MY MOTHER’S NIGHTMARESChris Bahr

Asleep at the wheelAs the rain pours downMy Mother’s nightmaresAll seem to be true.

The rain seems to sootheBeating on my carThe wipers are slowTo clear the windshield.

Focus fades slowly.My blinks grow longer.My Mother’s nightmaresCreep into my head.

I look in my mindSearching for focusBut again thoughts stray. The rain seems to fade.

A final collisionThe world has gone blackMy Mother’s nightmares,All validated.

Kirsten ZellersMixed Media 2

8

TIMEBy Jordan Lassonde

Time is my prisonerI hold the key to his lockAnd though he may brandishHis tail in my faceMy hands hold the keyTo his disgrace

I hold time in my handsAs he ticks and he tocksSteady I hold time in his fastFor time is voraciousHe would eat up the daysIf my hands trembled And Time slipped from my grasp

Time is my prisonerAnd though he may struggleMy hands hold him tightAnd I laugh at his mightFor though it feels at times he escapedAlways in my hands time is encased

29

PurpleLauren NauglePhotograph 3

0

Endless StringsSean Hockensmith

Your eyes look into your thoughts.Are there a thousand things?To share, to listen to, to find.

Your eyes openwondering what has happened.Gives away, the ropethreadless, snapped.

Together wound, the stringsThe elastic bonds, made.

That bondisEverywhere, it’s love.It snaps every timeBack, it lashes, always.

New feeling foundBut,

Are you dreaming?

31

No (Significance)Kerry Gaudreau

Do you have a problem?Did you get my text?Can we do this later?Are you free after school today?Do you have somewhere you need to be?Can't you just call me later?Are you trying to avoid the issue?Can't you see I'm busy?Am I not important to you?...is this the end?

Ripples Casey BurrPhotograph

32

FlowerLauren NauglePhotograph

33

Gazing at SnowBilly Perkins

Gazing out that window of mineI stared at that birch treeand the snow flakes were very fine.

And the sun did shineAnd the flakes were prettyGazing out that window of mine.

And if I had more than a moment, I'd certainly give a dimeFor the branches of the tree blew gleefullyAnd the snow was very fine.

And maybe the snow and the tree were a signThat I just couldn't seem to seeGazing out that window of mine.

Maybe it would have been better if I just winedFor I was running latelyand the snow flakes were very fine.

And if you dare to opineDon't direct your objections at me.

Gazing out that window of mineThe snow flakes were very fine.

34

Taking Responsibility for Yourself

a speech by Emily JobeMy freshman year, I wrote

"BALLS" all over a teacher's classroom.  It was late on a Friday night after a basketball game and three other people and I were all in a classroom eating pizza.  I did not have this teacher and I didn't know anything about her.  One of the boys in our group made a suggestive joke about her Christmas ornaments.  We thought it would be funny to write "BALLS" underneath them.  We then proceeded to hide her ornaments in pairs around the room and leave notes in strategic places that said the same thing: BALLS.  There were notes on her board behind a television set, on her projection screen, and on the back of her printing paper.  We left the room feeling mischievous and headed home for the weekend.

    Monday morning I began to hear rumors from my friends about how someone had vandalized a teacher's classroom.  Nobody knew who it was, and no one suspected me.  I watched as school officials made the rounds, questioning the usual suspects about the incident.  They were accusing other people, innocent people, of our crime.  Of my crime.  What I had consciously decided to do to that classroom was beginning to affect many people in a negative way.  And that was certainly not fair.

    When I was faced with this situation I had created for myself, I had to decide how to handle it.  I decided that with my ability to think and make decisions comes an

responsibility for something that would be admired by your peers.  If you score the winning goal, get a good grade on a project, or tell a funny joke, you want everyone to know about it.  You want everyone to know that it was you who did something right, something admirable, something to be proud of.  It is much more difficult to advertise the mistakes you make, especially if these mistakes could get you into trouble.  You worry that people will hold it against you or that the consequences will make you uncomfortable.  It is human nature to avoid making ourselves uncomfortable.  Punishments and negative consequences come with some form of physical, physiological, or social discomfort.  So why should we confess to doing something wrong? 

    One reason is to maintain and improve your relationships with the people involved.  Goodwill and better friendships can only be developed through honesty and the ability to admit your mistakes.  When you make a habit of making mistakes and never taking responsibility for them, you'll become deceitful and secretive and you will never develop healthy relationships with other people.  When you do something that hurts someone you care about, and that person does not know it was you, you can either blame it on someone else or accept responsibility for your own actions.  Taking responsibility for your actions is beneficial to everyone concerned.  If you come clean about something you have done wrong, you'll be able to fix the situation before it gets out of control.  You will build better friendships with your honesty and nobody else will have to take responsibility for a mistake you

35

something you did.  It will allow people to see that you are trustworthy and that you want to fix your mistakes.

    But what if you don't care about how other people see you?  If you don't care about how they see you, you should at least care about how you see yourself.  The famous American author Joan Didion once said that "The willingness to accept responsibility for one's own life is the source from which self-respect springs."  You may be able to deceive everyone else, but you can't lie to yourself.  You'll have to live with yourself and your actions for the rest of your life.  Your decisions shape you into the person that you are and determine the kind of person you will become.  If you can't be proud of the decisions that you have made, you'll have to live forever with that disappointment in yourself.

      If these arguments are not enough, consider one of the most universally understood concepts: whether or not something is fair.  It would not be fair for someone else to take credit for your achievements just as it would not be fair for someone else to take responsibility for your mistakes.  The only way to achieve fairness is if we all take responsibility for ourselves.  If you can take responsibility for your good decisions, you should be able to take responsibility for your bad ones as well.

 So this is how I decided what to do about the BALLS incident.  I knew that I had hurt the teacher in question, and she had a right to know who vandalized her classroom and that it was not personal.  I knew that I could not live with myself if I tried to hide from the consequences of my actions.  I would feel like a coward and I would become someone that I did not want to be.  I also knew that if someone else were blamed for what I had done, I would feel guilty.  So I confessed to this teacher, face to face, and braced myself for whatever punishment was to come.  I left the room with my dignity in tact and without punishment.  She appreciated my honesty and, because I was honest about what I had done, we have built a stable relationship.  As my current English teacher, she is the reason that I am at this competition tonight.  This experience taught me that

36

DISPATCHPhil Smith

I am Detective Robert Shepard:Breaker, Breaker one-nine.I vow to catch these two:Man and woman.They will not leave my home state alive:Mississippi.Through the state they travel:Robbing banks.His sorrows are hidden:Jeans and flannel.His own pain inscribed upon him:Tattooed arms.Her tears match her garb:Blue ruffled dress.The furnace of her soul burns:Long red hair.They speed away:'43 Black Cadilac.Time spared only for a kiss:True love.

DriveCasey BurrPhotograph3

7

A DRIVECatie Sylvestriadis

Car rides.They’re so long and boring.Especially when mother lets my sister drive.And she. Drives. Slow.I usually just plug in my iPod,And blast music in my ears,While my mother complains about something else I’ve done.The only thing really to concentrate on is the things outside my window.I usually just look at other cars.What kind are they?Size?Color?Sometimes I’ll look at the fall foliageThat blankets New England.Its wicked colorful.

I hate riding in the backseat.It is so small and cramped back there with the rest of my education.My mother’s only excuse for me not riding in the front seatIs “your music is too loud.”That’s a lie.Her purse is so big,It has its own zip code,And a place in the front seat.Stupid purse.Oh well.At least I get my license in the summer.That’s wicked far away.Then, I will blast my music as loud as I want,And shove my stuff in the back.But for now,I just sit here.Going as slow as “I wanna be gansta so ima walk with some swagga in my step;”Looking out the window.

38

RiderErin Spaulding

Some Loud noiseis coming from that distant thing.I stop.Ears forward, nostrils flaring.

I can sense the slightest movementof the trees around me.And ho the dirt shiftswhen I tense.

A sharp pain,near my stomachcauses me to turnand touch my nose to it.

Pink FlowerMackenzie Schofield

Paint

Another tap to my stomachJerks, me back.I slowly start placing my hooves,bearing the weight above.

39

The View of a Hungry HumanLindsay Evans

The crisp crunch of cucumbers,Lots of light lettuce,so glossy and green.The fiery red ripe and round tomatoes,Bring bright colors back to this salad.Freshly farm grownThese gracious green garden veggies.I wish I had some meat.

Alone and WanderingChris Bahr

Alone on my couch,I woke up to say goodbye.They left to work, my throat keeps me home.It used to be great,To have theses days off.Now school just leaves me,Further behind.No matter for now, my eyelids droop.

Sleep's edgeGrasping for reasonSoup, kitchenwhere that medicine is?What am I thinking?Dreams drift in,reality impeding.Where go my thoughts?Off a cliff, alone into the darknessWanderingNight overtakes.

40

ShoesLauren

Covalucci

41

Sunflower SeedsLauren Covalucci

The sunflower seeds, as always, lay scattered on the worn down, torn-up, red leather passenger seat, basking in their parents' namesake. They were reflected in the extra-long mirror on the right side of the eighteen-wheeler, and a tattooed hand reached down to pull a handful out of the bag while an expert spit blew a mouthful of shells out the window. Concerned parents would have followed the trucks with shrill protestations, had such people known about the drag races--but they didn't. For these two men, it was just a long stretch of beaten-down highway and a tradition formed through long beaten-down years.

     Bill stepped out of his truck first, as custom dictated, walking away from the faded black lettering on his trailer.     "Name your terms," he said gruffly to Neil. Only the laugh in his eyes granted any softness to the words. Neil leaned out of his window from the high red seat. "And you have sunflower seeds in your beard."     "Watch yer' attitude," replied Neil, brushing away the shells nevertheless. Gesturing, he pointed to a familiar sign a mile away. "I beat you again, you pay for burgers down at Lou's the next time we're in Springfield. Burgers and coffees and a bag of sunflower seeds for me."     "Coffee and the seeds."     "Burger, one coffee, seeds."     "No coffee, seeds, and a burger."     "Done."     They shook. Neil spit. Bill climbed back into the eighteen-wheeler and started the engine in a small cloud of grey smoke. Neil did the same amidst some suspicious clanging that he never got around to fixing. By now, the didn't need to count out loud with blasts of the deep truck horn; each knew when the other would start.     Three, two, one. Go.

42

THE CONCORD HIGH GAME

Paul Hickey

Back and forth I sway,shaking the nerves away.Look to my left and to my right,Teammates all on the blue line.

My sweaty hands resting in gloves to my side,the awakening feeling of the rink’s brisk draft.The smell of concession foodsand hockey equipment pollute the air.

The Anthem ends,helmets are strapped onand the fans erupt.

It’s game time.

Bland mouth guards slipped between our lipsthe taste lasts only for a secondas I now focus on the face-off.

Teams line up, Green and Goldon one sideBlack and Maroon on the other.

Fans go quiet,Cold air floats away,Smells do not exist,Nerves go numb.

All eyes lock on the puck,it drops—

Let the game begin.

HOMENick Grafton

The stone property linesof farmers from long agolinger like a memory.

Winding through the deep backwoods,along the rough, narrow dirt roads,through the wide open fields of growth.

But where do they end?If I find the end, will there be a pot of gold?

There will only be more—Forests, dirt roads, fields,the only things that are here.

Deer trotting through the brush.The crunch of dead leaves and twigsis all that can be heard.

The rusty old pickuprumbles down the road,leaving a cloud of dust.

The formidable smell of the horses’stables resonates, asthe steeds peacefully graze.

Yet nothing happens in this quiet old town.But it still remains—Home.

Casey BurrPhotograph

43

44

ConsistencyAbbie Stehno

Yellow like the sun the lack ofshade bursting on the beach like a piercingpain in the eyes simply staring to the star jumping up as awave comes yelling by: its chorus tumbling

waves around your ankles become cold—the sun comes back and warmsthem up beating on the ground likethe never endingwaves rolling back and forthin a pattern never-ending waiting to be stopped

but

the earth—keeps on turning and the sun—keeps on shining and there’s nothingyou can do to stop the moon from risingas it circles our existence likean eagle flyinghigh over rivers winding downthe mountains- people climbing up to the sun shining yellow.

ShipwreckAbbie Stehno

I don’t understand whyyou have to act so cynical.

Because the world out there loves you

Regardless of the bridges you’ve razed.

I understand why you thinkthat life is just a piece of shi—

pwreck floating out to sea,never to be seen again. But really,

it’s not that bad, my fellow comrade

because life as you know it will soon take

a turn of extreme proportions.So hang in there like a monkey on a

vinebecause one day you’ll be

swinging yourself back up to the top.

45

SunsetCasey BurrPhotograph

Ripples Casey BurrPhotograph

SunsetCasey BurrPhotograph

Abbie StehnoMixed Media

46

47

Ten seconds of life Mark Therriault

I am alive,The “I” that I just said was my first breath of life Breathed in me by my creator, My author. I am living as I am being written, I will be dead when this poem is done. I live to serve one purpose. Only one.I am being written- Used-For my writer to win a contest. And then forget about me. I look in the mirror and envision myself, See myself winning this contestMaking my author proud, But I quickly realize that the glass I gaze into,Is no mirror- A window.And the image I see of myself being rewarded the winner,Is no image of my imagination,But rather another poem,Who has already won.Perhaps she is better than I,Or perhaps she was going to win all along. Her author. Loved by the teachers.She has already won the contestWhile I am still being written. I will die now, not abruptly with a dash,No, with an ellipsis,For I made it clear, lonely reader,That my death was inevitable…

48