marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 101 LILIANA VANCE Paper Cup When we locked horns like rams In spring I did not know what we were Fighting for And I am sorry now that I know What happened We giraffes swung our necks in the Dry heat Horses, we bit each other’s flanks with Champing teeth And I struck you with sharp hooves over And over When I drove you from the nest In autumn We stung each other again, bee And wasp I regretted my strike to thin wings, Crushing you I could have trapped you in a Paper cup And carried you away, out to the Screen door And watched you fly off outside Quietly, quietly But I cannot now that you lie still Grounded here A small heap, crumpled in a ball Not anchored About to be swept away by a
marginal. 102 Volume 8 – 2023 Stray breeze I should have trapped you in a Paper cup And carried you away, out to the Screen door And watched you fly off outside Quietly, quietly Paper Cup earned an Honorable Mention in the 2024 Senior-Write-Is Contest
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 103 Eyes of Evaluation by Roma Tewari (ceramics)
marginal. 104 Volume 8 – 2023 HOLLY THOMPSON Out of the Woods It was after another monotonous day that I found myself at the lake just a mile from my home. I pushed through branches as I walked up a steep hill, my feet softly padding against the dark green moss beneath them, to enter a lengthy path of pine needles. There was a soft breeze in the air that tickled my skin as I crept through the forest I used to love. It was a sunny day, which was few and far between during another rainy September week. I watched a bus drive by, the bright yellow flashing through the trees, and wondered if they could see me like I saw them. I stepped into the street after the bus passed to cross to another path. Hearing the sound of an engine grow louder and louder, I ran towards the entrance and continued until I reached my favorite spot. Fall leaves trickled down, contrasting the old summer leaves that were matted against the ground. Hearing a noise from the murky waters, I knew immediately who it was. Two geese nibbled on weeds growing from the pond. Last year, I spent months watching them grow up after my everyday visit to the lake. They floated closer towards me each time, and I had liked to believe it was out of love until I dropped my car keeps and got hissed at. I sat down in the indent of the rock I fit perfectly into, like a missing puzzle piece. Suddenly, I heard someone call to them. I was delighted to see their four babies who I had only seen before as fluffy, young, and adorable little goslings. These six were the only geese on the lake, and something about that brought me comfort. I hadn’t expected to see them, as the last time I’d ventured to the lake was three months ago. Once I’d seen the family, I knew it was my time to depart. As I walked towards my car, a large heron flew across the sky and landed in an area which I had never seen before. Two ducks floated together, a reminder of the companionship necessary for both people and wild animals. I sat down on the hill one last time to appreciate the lake. Staring back at my reflection, I noticed how much I’d changed. It felt like years since I’d last gone to the lake. Truthfully, I was afraid to go back. I wanted to bury it in my past with the memories that accompanied it. The last time I’d been to the lake was
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 105 when I got out of the hospital. For months beforehand, the lake had been a comfort to me. Later, it became a chore. I lost my emotions as they floated to the bottom of the pond, and I couldn’t find the joy in my daily trip anymore. So, finally, I stopped going. Once I felt better, I wanted nothing more to forget about my past year and everything that accompanied it, even the good parts. They reminded me of the darkness which encompassed me and everything I did to try and stop it. As I climbed over the hill to return to my car, I felt as though I had come full circle. I’d faced my fear of returning to the water and was comfortable with leaving it behind. Now, I knew I could handle it. The branches snapped beneath me as I closed the distance between me and my car. The birds chirped, wishing me goodbye, and the scent of pine followed me home. I didn’t mind it.
marginal. 106 Volume 8 – 2023 Floral Serenity by Sophia Matsoukas (ceramics)
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 107 ZACHARY KRYMGOLD Nothing is Real Drifting peacefully through the bustling families at the airport, I made my way through the terminal. My parents taught me at a young age to get to the airport extra early to make sure you have plenty of time to get through security. Now, I was reaping the benefits. My gate, C18, was only seconds away, yet my flight was over an hour away. I loved the airport, the constant bustling around, the aroma of various vendors, the interaction of various cultures from around the world. To an infrequent traveler, the airport was like a haven away from the normality of the workday. This is one of the many reasons that I accepted my boss’ proposal to take a business trip to London. He had promised a bonus, which would really help since a law associate couldn’t cover rent in Boston unless he also happened to moonlight as a lottery winner. As I arrived at my gate, a man, middle aged and scruffy, with a hood on approached me and asked, “If you take this package onto your plane, I will give you ten thousand dollars. Cash.” I was startled by this extremely abnormal situation. But I wasn’t dumb. I gave him a I-know-something-isn’t-right-here look. I didn’t object immediately because as I said, I needed money. Maybe that’s why I was targeted. “I promise there is nothing illegal in the package. How else would I have gotten it through security?” the mysterious man added. “If the contents of the package are so innocent, then why don’t you tell me what’s inside,” I retorted, confident that my assertion would bring this temporary conflict to a fitting conclusion. “If you really must know, my wife’s ashes are in an urn in this package. She died a week ago. Leukemia,” the man said, tears starting to stream from his eyes. He quickly wiped them away, adding, “my wife was religious, and her parents requested her ashes for a proper burial in their faith; however, I don’t have time to get a flight to London. I have a business here, which helps people, and I need to keep it open in her honor.
marginal. 108 Volume 8 – 2023 The man had such sincerity in his voice. Everything that came out of his mouth seemed honest, and in the end, I wanted to believe him. Time has given me much, but it has also taken away an equal amount. One of the things that time has robbed me of is my faith in humanity, the deceit and violence that plagues society today has restricted my ability to believe that people can be good. But for once, I just wanted to believe this man. So I responded to him, “Fine, I’ll do it.” I took the package, as well as five thousand dollars from the man. He promised the other half when I was home and after confirmation from his late wife’s parents. An hour later, the flight took off. The ride was pleasant, smooth air, which let me sleep for the duration of the flight. Unfortunately, I slept too long, realizing that almost the whole plane had deboarded by the time I woke up. So, as I rushed off the plane, luggage in hand, I didn’t realize that I had left the poor man’s wife behind. Two hours later, an explosion rocked London’s Heathrow airport, smashing through walls, taking over six thousand innocent souls. “So, you’re saying that this whole explosion was caused by ashes in an urn?” the inspector asks sarcastically. The dark interrogation room surrounds me, three inspectors from Scotland Yard are glaring at me menacingly. “No, obviously not. But I am not some terrorist. I was trying to be a nice person and I needed the money,” I respond, sweat beaming out of the palms of my hands. I think back to my practice from before, stay calm, listen to what they say. Don’t be argumentative. You argued as a child and that never turned out well with dad. The inspectors’ glares remain. Then suddenly, the one in the middle changes his facial expression slightly. It seems as though he is starting to believe me. I add, “What would you have done in my situation? I know it was stupid looking back, but it seemed like nothing harmful. I am truly sorry. But please, please don’t arrest me for being stupid.” I hold my breath, hoping this last plea will ensure my release. The inspectors whisper to each other, clearly contemplating my story. After a few seconds, they say nothing and leave the room. In silence, I cover my face with my hands and shake my head, demonstrating my disbelief at the current situation. Through the slivers between my fingers, I see the camera in the corner. It’s red
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 109 light blinking furiously. I wait patiently, should I be more convincing of my innocence. No, I should remain silent, they will believe me. But what if they don’t? I can’t think about that now, I must stay the course. I imagine that the inspectors are checking my recount now. They are probably talking to the TSA in Boston, checking every nook and cranny of my intricate story. They are probably discussing what to do with me. They must think I’m a terrorist. After hours of waiting behind the large one-way mirror, the inspectors re-enter the room like lions standing before their prey. Heart pounding, I wait for the news of my impending doom. The leader among the group, Inspector Brown, breaks the silence, “We’ve checked the security cameras for both Heathrow and Logan. We also have talked to a dozen eyewitnesses and have determined that what you have told us here today is true. The cameras at Logan never got a good shot of the guy who gave you the package, but with your description and a sketch, I’m sure we’ll catch the guy in no time. Right after you finish with our sketch artist, you’re free to go.” “Thank you, thank you,” I said with a huge sigh of relief. “I’ll do anything I can to help your investigation,” I added with the greatest tone of sincereness that I could muster. The inspector nodded contently. After an hour with the sketch artist, I stepped out onto the street, I was free. A sly smirk appeared on my face as I walked gleefully away from the fortress that is Scotland Yard. I was free. Little did they know that I might have mixed up the facts a bit. By accident of course. How was I supposed to remember that the money was given by me to a worker at the airport. That the story about a widowed husband was the one I used to convince him. That the conversation in the airport was staged. That I left the package on purpose. That I had hated my wealthy father since he beat me as a child. That the fleet next to the plane was owned by my father. That it was all a lie.
marginal. 110 Volume 8 – 2023 Somewhere Out There by Kaylee Steir (digital)
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 111 VAAGMI SHUKLA Precede i. Ma You taught me how glorious it feels to drown; dim nights spent, still as a clipped stem. Rivulets of fights unfurled through the crevices of our vents. When the unending winter began to hiss in our ears, mine followed the smoke & sent me up the river. In this world, I am 12 again; young, selfish, and dreaming of silence. ii. This part of my childhood is the crawl space between time and a forgotten place devoid of light or reason. Where there is substance and life, I see only the dead walk among the living. The city on fire, our home stifled in marigolds. A landscape so dense it seems to pulse within its entropy. Soot glazes your cheekbones, & my blotched lungs haven’t rested since pneumonia. My palms have held the weight of an oath long before I was conceived. iii. I remember in my youth a deep yearning to be elsewhere. The moon hangs above my head like gnawed bone while Summertime eats me whole. The house- silent like a painting; There lies a boundary between you and a lover. You look into a window as if It is a dream you cannot touch. Precede earned an Honorable Mention in the 2023 Poetry Contest
marginal. 112 Volume 8 – 2023 Snapshot by Bableen Gill (pencil drawing)
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 113 AYAH KURDI A-Rose Crimson Drips Wounded by its thorn of axis A contagious pang But a beautiful tinge, Crimson Drips An expansive coat forms The leaves disperse And become decay, Crimson Drips Crestfallen, all strength forgotten Helpless to the pull of Earth The forlorn stem rests At last, relief.
marginal. 114 Volume 8 – 2023 Mother’s Love by Jessica Fan (oil painting)
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 115 HARRISON GU The Outside World This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Separate the art from the artist. My father always told me that the outside world was a sickening place, filled with plague, shapeshifting creatures, and monsters who slaughter others for pleasure. He always told me to take my pills so I wouldn’t become infected. Every day, I wake up, take my medications, prepare food, water my plants, wash myself, and then wait until exactly 8:30 AM. It starts with two heavy knocks that fill the basement with soundwaves. The sound of flesh on wood, so he lets me know that he’s here. Then, he slightly opened the trapdoor of the basement I was entrapped in, enough for me to see his heavy brown boots, but not enough space for me to see his face. “Papa, what is it today?” I asked There was a pause. “I saw a monster today, and he had a gun to my face,” he uttered. “I was filled with immense terror, but then I ran away. Back to our sanctuary with you and I.” “What’s a gun?” “It is a weapon that shoots fast projectiles into you. It goes so fast, it leaves a hole in you.” “Do you have a gun?” “No, they’re hard to come by these days.” Even with half of my father’s body covered, I could tell that he started to kneel. “Monsters can now shapeshift, and they can deceive anyone with their voice.” “We should come up with a plan,” I exclaimed. “A password!” my dad exclaimed to me.
marginal. 116 Volume 8 – 2023 I heard a slight rustle. Then he slipped something in the crevice of the trapdoor. “What is that red sphere?” “An apple, eat it while you still can. It’s tastier when fresh.” I took a bite out of the red object, round and hard on the outside, yet soft and juicy on the inside. “That, my friend, is our password.” “Apple?” “Yes, Marcy. If anyone comes to the trapdoor and knocks on it, make sure he says apple. That way you’ll know it’s me.” “I’m feeling sleepy, I’m going to bed now. Thanks pop!” The trapdoor echoes around the basement, indicating that his presence is lost. I jumped on my squishy bed, and let the mattress sink into me as I closed my eyes and dreamed about the unknown. In my dream, I woke up in front of the stairs that led to the trapdoor, except the trapdoor was fuzzy and bright. I looked around, and it was the void. I had no other choice but to climb the stairs. Every step echoes and each step is a closer step towards the light. I woke up sweating and feeling nauseous. I wanted to throw up, but I couldn’t gag. I woke up, took my pills, prepared food, watered my plant, washed myself, and then waited until exactly 8:30 AM, for two knocks on the trap door. The trap door was lifted so I could see his bare feet, but I couldn’t see his face. “Good morning, Marcy.” papa said. “Any stories for you to tell me?” I asked. “I brought you something that will keep you entertained for a while.” “What is it?” I asked. A journal and a pen were slipped into the aperture of the trapdoor. “I knew you always loved reading the dictionary downstairs, so I bought you a diary!” papa exclaimed. “What is a diary?” “It’s a place where you can write your thoughts down” “What’s the good in that if I have my thoughts in my head?” I questioned. “You can keep track of your thoughts so if you have a good one, it doesn’t go away.” “Thanks pops.”
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 117 A gust of wind closes on me as the aperture of the trapdoor closes. I’m feeling sleepy again, but I decided to write my final thoughts down before I went to bed. I drew a picture of what I thought the outside world would be, then after a while, I fell asleep on my bed and let my sleep take control of me. I dreamed of the outside world. I imagined a labyrinth of steel walls, and apples covering the trail, but every time I touched the apple, it turned into dust. Every corner was a steel wall, and I was hungry, but my hands always deceived me. I gasped for air, and I was in my bed again. My PJs are wet again from the beads of sweat. I usually leave the dirty clothes on the first stair leading to the trapdoor, or the outside world, because my papa usually washes them for me, but today I felt as if puzzle pieces were put into the wrong place. I took my pills, prepared food, watered my plant, washed myself, and then waited until exactly 8:30 AM, for two knocks on the trap door. 8:30 AM passed, then 8:31, then 8:32, then 8:45, then 9:00. No response. I tried pushing open the trapdoor, but it wouldn’t budge. I gave up, but I was feeling wonky. I tried to walk to the bed, but I walked into the wall and hit my head. I dropped to my knees, and I threw up all over the place with no one to clean the vomit up. Then, I lay on the floor, my muscles loosening up, and my eyes fading away into an opaque cave. In my dream, I was in a steel hallway. There was nowhere to go, but I strode my way toward the never-ending hallway. At the end of the hallway, there was this pit, filled with apples. I didn’t want to jump, but I fell into the pit like a domino. I woke up with my eroding vomit staring me down. I looked at the digital clock next to my bed, and it was 8:30. There were still no knocks. I started to miss Papa, whether the creatures got the better of him, but I also questioned my pills. Papa always told me to take them every day to prevent the infection, but what if I didn’t? What if there was a day when I slept without the pills? I grabbed the pills, smashed them into a powder with a spoon, and dumped them into my tub. I always found the pills annoying anyway because they tasted like an expired can of tomatoes I went to sleep with red covering my eyes. I dreamed of chains connecting to the sky and clippers in my hand. There were four chains presented in front of me. I clipped the first one, and a rumble shook the entire world. I fell onto my back and dropped the
marginal. 118 Volume 8 – 2023 clippers. I picked myself, and the clippers back up, and clipped the second chain. Again, another rumble in the sky, and the air, and the Earth. Then on the third chain, I heard a roar, the sound of my father. I ignored it. Something inside of me told me to keep on rebelling. I clipped the fourth one, and I woke up. There were no pills for me to take. I prepared myself some food, watered my plants, and recorded all the dreams I had in the journal. I was not feeling tired, and in fact, I felt as if water was soaked into my face, and then I dried it off with a towel. It was noon, and I heard two knocks. “Apple,” he said. “Papa!” I exclaimed. “I’m so sorry for missing the two days with you!” he cried. I started to cry for the fear of being alone, and it was cured. “Where have you been?” I asked. “I had a situation with the monsters. I was held captive! They’ve made me dance, and they beat me until I couldn’t get up!” he replied I tensed up. “Did you take your medications?” papa asked. My eyes widened, but I needed a response. “What is the word ‘dance’?” I asked. “Did you take your medications???” he asked in a bigger, and heavier voice. “Y-yes.” I stuttered. “Good, good girl.” I saw him take off his heavy brown boots through the crevice of the trapdoor, and I saw him strip away his socks and mindlessly toss them onto the ground. “Are you feeling sleepy?” he asked. “Y-yes.” I stuttered again. “Good,” he replied. I walked down to my bed and stared at the ceiling. I wore my dirty PJs that hadn’t been cleaned yet and decided to fake my sleep. The light turned off, and I heard a glove-snapping sound, but I didn’t know what it was. I heard a voice. “Are you sleepy?” I did not respond. He nudged me with his hand, and I didn’t move, I thought it
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 119 was the monster impersonating my dad. He then took the blankets off of me revealing my PJs. There were three subtle knocks outside the trapdoors. “Police, we have a search warrant for this house.” “Shit,” he exclaimed. A few hours passed, and I was perplexed by the situation. The trapdoor was open this time. I walked up the stairs, and a bright light shined in my eyes. It was a lightbulb, the same one in my basement, but this one was brighter. I saw a lot of cardboard boxes with dumbbells beside the trapdoor. On my right was a living room and kitchen, like my basement but it had more, like a couch and a black flat rectangle thing in front of it. What is it? On the left of me, there was a picture of flowers, and below the picture, was an oak table. I looked down, and there was a strip of paper lying on the table. The paper said “Receipt: 5 Sedative Pills: Costs: $74.99”. What are sedatives? I looked to my right again, and I noticed a knocked-down door, and clothes on the floor, with the heavy brown boots next to his jeans. I walked out the door frame, only to be revealed by a bright white light shining through my eyes. What is that glowing ball up there, and why is it hurting my eyes? Interlude “Mr. Carter, do you swear to tell the truth and only the truth?” Mr. Carter raised his left arm. “I swear to tell the truth and only the truth.” “Let the case resume,” the judge said. The judge looked at Mr. Carter for one last time, and then her eyes watered. She then looked at the case she was assigned to. She sniffed. Mr. Carter just looked down at his heavy brown shoes, the shoes worn for one last time. “Marcy me, Marcy.” Mr. Carter said.
marginal. 120 Volume 8 – 2023 AVA PAPPALARDO Fireflies The sky was smudged with gray as the rain beat against the pavement. It pooled in potholes in the streets, transforming trimmed lawns into muddy pits that spilled into the sidewalk. It infiltrated my canvas shoes as I ran to the building and hoisted my broken umbrella above me. Another dreary day, but I decided I’d visit her in the nursing home. I busied myself by organizing the cards my family and I had sent to her. Once she saw the display, she would surely delight in the shrine of words from her loved ones. “Is it time for lunch?” Mimi asked, appearing in the doorway. I plastered on a smile and shook my head. “No, I’ve come to visit you,” I explained. Tracing me up and down, Mimi’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?” She asked, suspicion in her voice. Grandma was gone - at least the version of her that I knew. “I’m Liz. Your granddaughter? Mary is my mother,” I spouted quickly, trying desperately to clear the fog that covered her once bright eyes. Her words had the same sting to them as the first time she’d uttered them years ago. It was moments like these that made me stop visiting as frequently. Mimi was still perplexed but chose to go along with it. “Would you…like to play a game?” I offered, hoping to at least entertain her. “Alright,” she muttered. I rooted through the pockets of my old cardigan to find a game to play with her. The carefully selected wool had paled with time, and Mimi’s meticulous stitching loosened with each wash, but it was my favorite. The last time I wore it was when I was studying for my midterms when I needed the extra luck. Hopefully, that luck will help me now. Sometimes, I could still make her laugh in the way she used to. I held these moments tightly to my chest as proof that somewhere, somehow, Mimi was the same person I’d always known.
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 121 I pulled out a deck of Go Fish! cards I’d gotten at the Christmas Tree Shop before it closed. Anytime I was at Mimi’s house I would play this game with her - I wanted to win so badly. *** “It’s your turn!” I whined. Clasping my cards in my hands I stared at my collection of fish cards, vibrant and seemingly full of life, and tried to strategize. “Give me a minute, Lizzy,” she bellowed, her voice resounding through the finely decorated space... “Oooo,” she said under her breath as she surveyed her cards. As if she could sense my frustration, she feigned uncertainty until I was begging her to begin. “Let’s see…do you have the purple Beta Fish?” She asked with a mischievous glint in her eye. Of course I had it. I’d taken it from her two turns ago, hoping for a Clown Fish. Reluctantly I watched as its watercolor fins disappeared into Grandma’s fan. “How are you so good at this game?!” I exclaimed. It wasn’t really a competition. She could always remember where I put the cards I had taken from her hands. She had such a good memory. *** I replaced the cards in my pocket. That’s not a game we could play together anymore. Instead, I grabbed my phone. “How about some music?” I offered. Grandma scoffed, but soon hummed along to the music. Suddenly a familiar melody swelled around me. Can’t Help Falling in Love by Elvis Presley. I didn’t know many of his songs by heart, but this one was Mimi’s favorite, so she’d insisted she play it every time we were together. *** “Do you know how to catch stars?” Mimi whispered, holding me on her lap. It was the Fourth of July, and we were waiting for the fireworks to start from the driveway of Mimi’s house. She’d pulled out battered, blue lawn chairs for us to sit on, and blasted Elvis’ Greatest Hits on the radio. Me, being six, was amazed at the question. “Tell me how! Tell me how!” I squealed, squirming on her lap. She put one of her long, manicured fingers to her lips. “First, you must be very, very quiet,” she murmured. I made a show of closing my mouth and locking it with a key. Elvis’ groaning melody swelled around us as we remained silent. “Stars like Elvis
marginal. 122 Volume 8 – 2023 too, in fact, they’re so busy dancing they don’t notice if you sneak up on them. Now close your eyes.” “Mimi, how will we catch the stars if we can’t see them?” I asked, utterly puzzled at the prospect. She only laughed in response and closed her own eyes. Without sight, I noticed more: I heard frogs croaking, the wind on the lake blowing my wild hair out of my face, and a distinct buzzing heard here and there by my ears. “What do you hear?” Mimi guided. “Fireflies,” I breathed. When I opened my eyes, Mimi’s hands were clasped tightly together. She grinned at me and opened her palms slightly so I could get a glimpse. I stared at the glowing insect, marveling at the magic of nature. I reached my pudgy hands out and Mimi placed the bug into them. “Be careful now, love,” she cautioned. “They’re little.” I watched in awe as it glowed. It seemed like it was our own magic secret. It flew away quite promptly because I didn’t close my hands fast enough, but Mimi showed me how to catch them. “If you wait for them to come to you, you’ll never catch them,” she said. “You must take what you want, Lizzy, and never take no for an answer.” *** I don’t remember if there were fireworks that night. I don’t remember a lot of things from back then. Her house. A small condo full of glass and porcelain but for a small room she’d filled with old Fisher Price collectables from the 1960s that her own kids used. I didn’t care that the stickers were peeling or the faces on the figurines were faded. Late at night, I still felt a pang of loss for the erased go-fish games - the beta fish forever unpicked - the friendly room in that breakable house, gutted and sold to the next owner, the wonderful fisher-price toys collecting dust, and the fireflies uncaught and unseen. Memory is a funny thing. I never remembered my grandma getting old. Not old in the way that she always was, the kind of old that steals your energy, and saps your joints of their stability, and replaces patience with a temper, and love with confusion. The kind that turns granddaughters into strangers. We used to be so similar, she and I.
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 123 “It’s like her genes skipped a generation,” my family must have joked. We had the same laugh, the same smile. But I wasn’t around to see Mimi in her prime - I may become exactly like her without realizing it. I’ll never know the woman that Grandma was, but I saw her in glimpses. I knew the version of her that chirped back at the birds, echoing their melodic calls. Those shining green eyes with brown speckles around the pupil embraced you when you spoke - she had this way of making you feel like you were the only person in the universe. When she said my name, she drew out the syllables in a way I adored. Lizzy, she called me. Lizzy. Mimi inscribed our names in the sand long before I knew how to spell. She didn’t care that the tide would soon wash against the sand and take her work away as it drew back into the sea. When you live in the moment, the world is wonderful because it’s everchanging. If only she knew that one day she’d wash away too. How was she to know that would happen? Imagine blinking your eyes open and staring out into a faceless crowd that claims to know you. Forgetting is a scary affair. “Turn it up,” Mimi murmured. I complied, grateful that we could spend time with Elvis together again. Mimi closed her withered eyes and sang along. I joined in once we reached the next chorus. “Just like the fireflies,” Mimi whispered, opening her eyes. “What?” I cried. “The fireflies, they like Elvis too,” she confirmed with a hint of a smile. I laughed. “That’s right,” I nodded. “They’re easier to catch when they’re dancing.” Mimi nodded, eyes shining, and a moment later the song changed, and she began to hum along again. Despite everything, she remembered that night. She remembered the fireflies. She remembered me. She was still the person who always bought Snickers bars by the checkout counters even though she wasn’t supposed to eat chocolate. Still the person who adorned herself in leopard print even though the gaudy pattern has been out of fashion for decades. The kind of person who loved me even if she couldn’t always recognize my face. And the same person who could always catch the stars buzzing around in the sky.
marginal. 124 Volume 8 – 2023 CAM HIGHWATER Senryu Series 1. a bag of trail mix multiculturalism the packaging lies 2. making a plan to make a plan is making the plan maker anxious 3. squirrel attention pencil top deficit crumb hyperactive me 4. Autumn’s fowl take flight one goose roasts on rumor’s spit in the team group chat
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 125 Hiroshima and Nagasaki: The Paradox of Atomic Defense by Ayah Kurdi (charcoal drawing)
marginal. 126 Volume 8 – 2023 PIYUSHA MAJGAONKAR Petals of Deception A rose Stripped of her thorns To appear more approachable Plucked of her boundaries To appear more beautiful Glorified for her looks Yet not for the strength That it took for her to bloom Yanked from the source, that gives her color and life. Praying that after days of neglect, She is not tossed away for losing her novelty.
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 127 Max and Cheese by Vera Zieger (charcoal and colored pencil)
marginal. 128 Volume 8 – 2023 How to Submit Marginal accepts submissions from any HHS student, and we accept work throughout the year. Students may submit any original writing or artwork to Mr. Lally in the English hallway or to our email address: [email protected] There are no limits to the number of submissions an individual student may enter, although the advisor retains the right to trim the selection of any large number (10+) of submissions from a single student. We ask that students consider keeping their written submissions shorter than five full pages, double-spaced, although longer pieces will be considered. Artwork should be submitted digitally, with a high-resolution image of the artwork. Around January of each year, we close submissions for that school year’s magazine, but will still accept submissions from any non-seniors for the following year’s publication. Due to space constraints, we can only accept 15-25% of all submitted work, depending on the number of submissions. How to Join All HHS students are welcome to join our editing staff. We generally meet after school once a week (the day of our meetings is an annual choice made by the returning staff). Regular attendance is not mandatory. Students can assist as frequently as they are able. Once a student attends his or her sixth meeting, that student earns the title of Assistant Editor. Once a student attends an eleventh meeting, that student is promoted to Editor. Our Head Editor positions are generally selected by the departing staff or returning staff in years when we do not have many seniors, in collaboration with the advisor. Students do not need to submit original work to be an editor. How We Work Marginal’s main goal is to provide an avenue for the school’s writers and artists to receive a greater audience for their work. Student submissions are made anonymous by the advisor and are graded by the student editors, with the highest cumulative scores earning a place in our magazine. To prevent overvaluing any student’s artwork or writing, students may not have more than two written or two artwork submissions printed in the magazine, excepting contest winners or pieces that work in tandem.