marginal. Hopkinton High School’s Literary Magazine Volume 8 Spring 2023 Hopkinton High School c/o Marginal 90 Hayden Rowe Street, Hopkinton, Massachusetts, 01748 508.497.9830 [email protected] https://hhsmarginal.wordpress.com
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 3 FICTION 17. Sandcastles Ava Pappalardo 24. Rage Against the Reflection Jaden Miller* 34. Rejuvenation Camryn Franks* 41. Family Gardening Business Zoe Coelho* 52. My Dilated Eyes Marisa Alicandro* 64. Stealing Lady Liberty Avery Ravech 74. Oranges of Hunan May Chen* 78. Queue Mitski Maggie Joyce 85. Trial of the Millennia Skyler Hird* 94. Valerie Amy Liu* 101. The Rutgers Kavin Prasanna* 109. Depth of the Eye Kayla Sawyer* 117. Man’s First Act Ava Pappalardo POETRY 7. Luna Ana Tomas* 9. There Must Be Something Wrong with Me Piyusha Majgaonkar* 14. Venus Olivia Stacey* 22. the blues Chloe Baril* 32. comme il faut Vaagmi Shukla* 38. chloe’s verse, part one: the ode Maggie Joyce 47. Blue Hour / 蓝小时 May Chen* 50. Sheep Are Watching You Natalie Bouffard* 57. Prophets Olivia Stacey* 60. Her Name is Art Aryan Shah* 62. Bittersweet Sophia Matsoukas* 71. Tomato Harbor Jude Shorbaji* 83. The Only Keepsake of Her Father YeonSeo Yoo 92. I Have Two Houses, I Only Have One Home Delaney Doyle* 99. Poetry Chloe Baril 106. Just Another Spider Piyusha Majgaonkar* 115. I Might Have a Mullet Owen Fitzpatrick COMMENTS 5. From the Advisor 12. 2022 Art Contest 46. 2022 Poetry Contest 56. Senior-Write-Is Contest 73. 2022 Fiction Contest 127. How to Submit, How to Join, and How We Work * indicates student’s first appearance in Marginal
marginal. 4 Volume 8 – 2023 ARTWORK Cover. Symphony of 2022 Jianing Huang* 6. Ignited Alexa Feldmann* 8. Fish Feast G Lambert* 11. They Can’t Breathe Aishwarya Vijay* 13. A Feather Friend Kaylee Steir* 16. Mole Captain Nadia Matsoukas* 21. A Slice of Still Life Shelby Jones 23. Unapologetically Me Izael Thomas* 31. Abstract Autograph Carly Roleke* 33. My Favorite Pair of Shoes Delaney Doyle* 37. Ring! Ring! Eve Weatherhead* 40. What Now? Veronica Stolyar 45. Nature After Rain Tianxin Wang* 49. Inconsolable Sofia Bilodeau* 51. The Bird and His Malevolence Maeve Swab* 55. Bag of Flesh Ian Plasterer* 59. Death by Narcissism Alexa Feldmann* 61. Faciem Emily Musgrave* 63. Transparency Ellie Power* 70. Keeping Up Appearances Amy Liu* 72. Incognito Naomi Lambert* 77. The Lake in Bloom Piyusha Majgaonkar* 82. Seek and Destroy Sydney Capello* 84. Freedom Jianing Huang* 91. Effects of Mankind Emily Jiang 93. Charcoal Chess Matthew Beauvais* 98. Her Imperfect Portrait Aishwarya Vijay* 100. Arise From the Ashes Neha Ninan* 105. Bittersweet Alia Ohira* 108. A Solar Sight for Sore Eyes Kaylee Steir* 114. Waves of Fire Cecilia Dauphinee* 116. Bath Time G Lambert* 126. Cinque Terre Emerson Foster* 128. Extinguished Alexa Feldmann* * indicates student’s first appearance in Marginal
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 5 MARGINAL 2023 Volume 8 Head Editors Alveena Ehsan Owen Fitzpatrick Olivia Stacey Editors Siya Jagdale Vainavi Malisetty Anoushka Nair Anna Noroian Ruben Noroian Assistant Editors Chloe Baril Raine Furlong Madelyn Godfroy Ayah Kurdi Alia Ohira Faculty Advisor Mr. Lally Marginal is the annual literary magazine created by the students at Hopkinton High School. Volume 8 was created using Microsoft Word and a run of 100 copies was printed by Instant Publisher, Memphis, Tennessee. The text is set in Garamond (text) and Marion Regular (titles), and the cover and header font is Verb. The magazine was printed on 80# white high gloss enamel stock, with a perfect-bound cover with UV coating gloss. The cover artwork is a mixed media work by Jianing Huang. The magazine costs $10 and the proceeds fund our printing of the subsequent edition and our contest prizes.
marginal. 6 Volume 8 – 2023 From the Advisor Our main goal this year was to reach out to more of the outstanding artists at Hopkinton High in hopes of getting a greater spread of voices and styles into our magazine, and wow, artists, did you deliver. With the help of the HHS Art Department, our annual art contest was a massive success – we received more submissions that we have ever received before in a single year – an 847% increase over last year’s numbers, which is simply mind-blowing to me. Even better, with only two exceptions, every artist in this year’s magazine has not yet had their artwork displayed in Marginal. I am so grateful for everyone who shared their work with us, and I am so impressed by the many excellent pieces in this year’s magazine. I hope you enjoy them as well! With every step forward, a step back… I’ll miss our graduating editors, especially Alveena Ehsan (Head Editor from 2021-23), Ruben Noroian (a four-year editor!), and our newest Head Editors Olivia Stacey and Owen Fitzpatrick. There were a lot of meetings where it was just us! And you all put in the heroic hours during our COVID years to get us to where we are today. Thank you. I would like to thank the Hopkinton PTO for providing the funds required to allow us to publish our magazine. We would not be able to exist without your generous support. Thank you so very much. Thank you also to the Hopkinton Center for the Arts, who have allowed us to sell our magazine in their lobby. Thank you for everything you do to support the arts in Hopkinton!
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 7 Thank you to the NCTE REALM contest, which awarded us their top prize – the First Class Award. This marks the second time in three years that we have received this honor, which makes Marginal the only publication in New England to ever win this award twice. Thank you also to the ASPA Contest, who honored Marginal with First Place With Special Merit and Outstanding Artwork. These accolades mean the world to us – thank you. Mr. Lally Marginal Advisor
marginal. 8 Volume 8 – 2023 Ignited by Alexa Feldmann (photograph)
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 9 ANA TOMAS Luna With the whisper of light casted upon my face at night, you are the lullaby to my eyes. Slowly fading and lighting the surface on earth you sing a song to call night. As you fade into the darkness your sorrows follow, oh moon i miss you til next month follows. Luna was the runner-up in our 2023 Senior-Write-Is Contest
marginal. 10 Volume 8 – 2023 Fish Feast by G Lambert (digital)
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 11 PIYUSHA MAJGAONKAR There Must Be Something Wrong with Me “People like you are obnoxious and loud!” Although I may not talk that much, I am always categorized into that crowd. “Oh, not you though, you’re fine, it’s just your people.” They continue to say. As if adding that bit would make my anger go away. There must be something wrong with me. “She looks so weird, look at her hair!” Whether they hate it or love it, People still ask to touch it and stare. “How do you maintain that big rat’s nest?” They laugh and continue to poke at me As if comments like these don’t put me through enough misery. There must be something wrong with me. “Shouldn’t you be at basketball practice?” I’ve never even held a basketball in my life. Yet they assume they know me. Their words cut almost as deep as a knife. There must be something wrong with me. “Yo! Can you teach me some street slang? You know, the type of things people like you say.” I grew up in an upper-class home in the suburbs, “the streets” were far away. There must be something wrong with me.
marginal. 12 Volume 8 – 2023 “He doesn’t really act black.” Tell me, how should a black person act? Was there some clear identifying quality that I simply lacked? How should we fit in your preconceived “mold” of the perfect black person? There must be something wrong with me. “You don’t even like watermelon, and even I know more slang than you!” Congratulations, you’ve won the Oppression Olympics! Would you like a trophy too? There must be something wrong with me If I am told to feel better because “true beauty” comes from within You compliment the beauty of my soul To make me feel better about the color of my skin. You say you’re “colorblind”, but I don’t want you to be, Because that means you refuse to acknowledge the main part of me. I don’t want you to be colorblind because that means you refuse to see the real problem, And after all, we can’t solve a problem we can’t see. So, I want you to see my color, and still accept me for whoever I may be. You shouldn’t stand to hear our continuous cries. The world is blind, but we must learn to close our eyes. There Must Be Something Wrong with Me was the second runner-up in our 2022 Poetry Contest
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 13 They Can’t Breathe by Aishwarya Vijay (mixed media)
marginal. 14 Volume 8 – 2023 2023 Art Contest Editors’ Notes We were absolutely thrilled to see how many students submitted their work to the magazine this year. We were able to print more pieces of artwork this year (34) than we received for last year’s contest! This year, the editors of Marginal are most honored to recognize Jianing Huang for winning our annual art contest for her piece titled, Symphony of 2022. Our editors were quite impressed by Huang's diverse skill set, utilizing a multitude of media to create a stunningly dynamic visual. From the dragonflies to each tube of the horn, Huang's ability to demonstrate depth, light, and realism made her piece a star. The symbolic meaning of the horn however, the focal point of the piece, embodies Huang's definition of our evolution through this past year. We exit an era of turmoil from the right, chaotic and messy like the blemishes of watercolor or ink. From the ashes, we emerge, bold and beautiful, shining and pristine like the horn, ready to perform and make wonders. The dragonflies relate a similar sentiment, as they commonly represent deep, emotional change. We are proud to use it as our cover this year. We also wished to acknowledge G Lambert’s Fish Feast (page 8), which was the runner up in our contest this year. The image is both gruesome and whimsical, somehow. The tables have turned! And the quaint, domestic background creates a jarring disconnect from a violent (and yet also oddly domestic) scene in the foreground. On the facing page is Kaylee Steir’s impressive piece titled A Feather Friend, which earned an Honorable Mention. Our editors loved the subtleties in the color and lighting, the profile of the cat is dynamic, and its expression tells a story. It is another one of the many impressive pieces we received this year. Congratulations, all!
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 15 A Feather Friend by Kaylee Steir (digital)
marginal. 16 Volume 8 – 2023 OLIVIA STACEY Venus Millions will flock To London, Paris, Greece Stand in all the museums for collections of Aphrodite Venus on a Landscape: on display at Courtauld Reclined female figures lining the halls If I am to be one of the millions, to travel all that way How am I to understand the double standard on display? Venus lies there, not a size three… These are the most beautiful women in history? I was under that this image is unhealthy, it’s not what I see on my phone But these old oils, chalks, and pigments imply That it was less about our bodies and more about our minds Venus today would not be a showstopper People would simply just pass on by Unless your skin and bones Why bat an eye? And if she pushed herself to be thin, thin, thin To discover that that’s what made her eminent... We, today, have a new idea of feminine Do not lay and feed your soul and mind A beauty standard that only applies to ancient times Brushes of the past and virtuosos’ of the soul Depicted us girls as lavish dears (deers) For if our skin was expansive, we were living like kings Today, we must look like we can delicately fight through rings
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 17 There is something to say for the generations of minds The society of scholars, philosophers, years of mankind Who depicted us women not as a deficit of bones But as entities of energy with an essence of grace It would be quite easier to find my place If the image of beauty was that of the tried greats
marginal. 18 Volume 8 – 2023 Mole Captain by Nadia Matsoukas (digital)
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 19 AVA PAPPALARDO Sandcastles The sand gives under my feet, my sandals filling with the grainy particles. They spread between my toes, and I feel almost whole with the memories that resurface. When I came here as a kid, the allure of the beach was not lost on me. I would scramble across the sand blissfully and find comfort in the steadiness of the waves. I still remember the squawks of the seagulls as I sprinted through their gatherings. They would fly away to escape me and leave feathers littered in their wake. I felt so free here. The metal jar clunks against my leg. With each step I feel its presence as it moves in my pocket. It grounds me. I know what I need to do but now that I’m here, I feel my resolve fading. But I have to do this, and I’ve already delayed enough. I make my way to the boardwalk that lies beside me – a new fixture installed a multitude of years ago – and use it to carry me down the length of the beach. The rougher surface, while unpleasant, does not hold any significance. I haven’t come here in so long. However, this nonchalance doesn’t last. My mind wanders to the reeds that erupt from the cascades of sand dunes rolling in either direction. The harsh grass tufts up arbitrarily almost as if it’s for decoration. It is exactly how I remember it. However, the new signs and the new houses and the new paths are not. They look so out of place among the beauty that this beach is, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me. I look to see that the lifeguard chair is unoccupied, and few umbrellas dot the landscape. It is almost April, so I’m not surprised. Still, it’s strange to see something once so full of life…empty. I hear laughing and automatically turn to find the source. Two children chase each other down the beach, grinning and throwing seaweed at each other. Meanwhile, their parents beckon to them from one of the new houses. One of the kids yells something back at them, and the two continue playing. I pause. There’s something so familiar about them. I stand awkwardly at the edge of the boardwalk, not wanting to interrupt their game. My
marginal. 20 Volume 8 – 2023 chest tightens as one of the kids laughs and grabs a fistful of sand to throw at his brother. We were like that once. It is strange to see him in the little boy’s mischievous grin and in his gleeful yelp as his brother tossed a clump of seaweed towards him. I grin despite myself. The boys rush off, chasing each other again. Part of me goes with them. I step off the boardwalk and into the sand, but this time I leave my shoes. The sand is cool, but I don’t mind. Seeing the boys – how similar they were to us – just reinvigorated my purpose. While it was nice to see him again, the pit in my stomach thrashes in discomfort. I frown, displeased with my reaction. Why could something as simple as children playing cause me pain? Guilt? It isn’t right. Without thinking, I throw myself into the wind, running down the beach like I used to. Eyes closed, trying to remember a time when coming to the beach was a happy thing – a time when he was here, and I was unburdened. Before I know it, I’m at the ocean’s edge. I stare at the waves surging forward and then pulling back. Over and over. And for the first time, I step back. I never used to be afraid of the water. I was drawn to it every summer and lavished in its cool embrace. It was like an old friend, reaching out and holding me safely, welcoming the warm days ahead. I used to race down the beach, not caring when shells pressed into my bare feet. I would splash into the water and throw myself into its depths. But that was when things were different. When we would swim together and play in the sand… “Hey you!” A tiny voice pitches, breaking me out of my stupor. It is the boy and his brother. Once again, a pang of sorrow sweeps across me, and I stay silent. The boy disregards my unresponsiveness and moves closer, his brother at his side. He presents a shovel and grins. “Do you want to build a sandcastle with us?” He chirps. The voice echoes in my head, feeling that same sort of nostalgia as before. I stare at the shovel in his hands. The plastic green head is scuffed
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 21 and cracked, and the wooden shaft has a chip in it. I don’t know if it’s because I am caught off guard or because selfishly, I want to remember how things used to be, but I nod. The boys smile and lead me to a spot they’ve picked out. I turn my back on the ocean and follow them a short ways away. They display their buckets and shovels proudly. “You can make the towers if you want,” one of them directs. I nod and grab a bucket to start with. I pack the cool sand into the bucket, muscle memory kicking in. I push the sand in front away so that I have a flat surface. I heft the bucket up and tip it onto the sand. I lift the battered bucket and reveal a tower of sand. One of the boys voices his approval while the other fills a bucket with water. This process repeats itself for a while. I make a circle of towers and stack them on top of each other. One of the boys lines it with sticks, another collects shells for the windows and gates. I feel normal here with them– we’re a team. It’s easy to pretend that this is just a regular time at the beach, with nothing better to do than to make sculptures in the sand that you’ll only destroy later. I find myself smiling as I help the boys brainstorm ideas to make the project even better. “A moat!” One of them calls. So we dig one and fill it with water. We work efficiently and soon enough, the boys get bored. They leave and resume their game of tag. I don’t get up from my kneeling position. Instead, I stare at what we’ve created. It looks like a sandcastle– nothing special or out of the ordinary– but to me, it’s a masterpiece. I study the uneven layers of sand packed tightly into each other. I notice the water from the moat eating away at the walls of the castle as it seeps into the ground. I count the sticks and shells poking out from our creation. This is a memory. Something to be remembered and cherished, only divested when something suitable can replace it. But I don’t want to abandon it– I’m not ready to say goodbye– so I add more. I clean up the edges of the towers and smooth the packed connections. I grab the broken shovel and dig the moat deeper, searching for the water hidden beneath. Despite the many fractions and imperfections the shovel has, it works well. Water pools in the divots I’ve taken out of the sand. I add more shells and a few smaller towers using different shapes. I mix the drier sand with water from the moat and use it to cement my additions in place. Without much else to do, I move back and look at the city I’ve made.
marginal. 22 Volume 8 – 2023 I feel a glimmer of pride before it’s chased away by a mounting feeling of guilt. We used to do this together. Sandcastles are not something you make by yourself. As fickle as the boys were before, they come back just as fast. They take a second to look at the finished sandcastle, but soon trample through it. Part of me feels a whisper of loss, but at the same time, sandcastles are supposed to be sources of exploration and fun. I rise myself and turn back toward the water. When I get to the water’s edge this time, I don’t recoil or give up. I walk slowly into the water, feeling it crawl up my jeans as the cuffs soak. It doesn’t matter that things have changed. It’s still the same beach. Still the same water. Even if the sandcastles you built collapse, it doesn’t diminish the fact that they existed. It’s the same sand. Making the same sandcastles. The horizon has already started to change colors in preparation for sunset and a strange calm falls over me. It’s time. I reach into the jar pulling out some of the contents, and with a deep breath, I let the first of the ashes fall into the water. The waves pull them under the surface, and they drift away, freeing the both of us. Sandcastles was the runner-up in our 2022 Fiction Contest
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 23 A Slice of Still Life by Shelby Jones (ceramics)
marginal. 24 Volume 8 – 2023 CHLOE BARIL the blues in my kitchen, it feels geriatric honey nut cheerios at 12:14 pm i try my hand at a lunch meal but i’ve only just woken up i press ice packs to my eye sockets to avenge the girl i was the night before it doesn’t work but at least my burning shame is temporarily cooled i yearn to lay on the cold tile floor but work is in 20 and i’ve too much to do i eat the last four cheerios individually and wonder if my heart-healthy diet of cereal and sorrow will lower my cholesterol, the clock ticks and i must be going now i must be getting away from all this i must be feeling okay again soon 24 more hours and i’ll be cured of this misery no more kitchen misery
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 25 Unapologetically Me by Izael Thomas (charcoal drawing)
marginal. 26 Volume 8 – 2023 JADEN MILLER Rage Against the Reflection “Useless” Jefferson growled into the darkness, slamming the book on the ground in the dark abandoned library. No matter how many pages he flipped through he couldn’t find a way to bring her back. She was gone, and he was helpless to do anything to change that. He felt something come over him, a burning anger that consumed him like flames of an untethered fire. He got up, throwing the pile of books off the table, running up to the windows covered by thick dark curtains, ripping them down. As he pulled down the curtains, light encased the room. It was bright, almost full of life. But all that breathed in it was an empty shell of a man. His eyes followed the sun as it made its way across the room, and he noticed something he had never seen before. A single beam of light bounced back at him from behind the shelves of books in the corner. The rejected books, full of empty promises of bringing back someone he lost not long ago. Slowly he moved in the direction of the reflection, breathing heavily, curious of what he was about to find. He coughed up dust as he pulled the large frame from the prison that it had lived in for so long. Once the dust cleared, he rubbed his eyes. It was a… mirror? “Stupid thing,” he muttered, “it’s chipped.” So thoughtless. Jefferson whipped his head around looking in every direction. “Who’s there?”. No response. He brushed it off and went back to his books. You’re never going to be able to bring her back. This time he knew it wasn’t in his head. He glanced around again, looking for the source of the voice. Nothing. The room was empty. He tried to shift his mind away from the voice and settle back into his research. You liked it though. Killing her? It made you feel good. You want to kill again. Don’t you? “Who is here?” Jefferson bellowed, raising his voice, choking on the pain he was reminded of. Over here. The voice echoed. Jefferson got up and traced his steps around the room until he was back at the mirror, face to face with his own reflection, a hideous smile ruining its pale face. The sort of smile that pulls out your biggest insecurities and laughs. Boo. The color drained from
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 27 Jefferson’s face as fear settled in his body. “It’s just a reflection, just a reflection,” he muttered to himself trying to shake the feeling that brewed in his stomach. The mirror snickered. Just a reflection? Ha! I’m more than that. I’m you but a little more honest, huh? You meant it when you killed her. Such a pity, a father killing his own daughter. She really was such a nice kid too. “Shut up!” Jefferson choked fighting against his tears, “It was an accident! I didn’t mean to... she – she slipped!” All of the pain he buried deep started to haunt him again. The smell of blood brought back the night he lost everything, his daughter, the only person who ever loved him. “It will all be okay,” Jefferson whispered to his daughter. Her blood stained his hands as he tried to stop the bleeding. “I promise,” he added. But it was too late. She was gone. He couldn’t move. He sat there, her lifeless body heavy in his arms, his vision blurring, and the world became stained with crimson, as deep and haunting as the pools that surrounded him. He wouldn’t say a word, he wouldn’t shed a tear, the pain ran too deep but despite his best attempts to avoid his pain this day would leave a scar. Blood boiling, heart pounding, each of his fingers tightly formed a ball one after another, allowing his anger to consume him and take over his every move. He lost control, his fist shattering the glass for the first time, sending fragments across the floor and into his hand. Screaming for mercy from his own wrongdoings, he hit the mirror again, glass exploding upon impact. His hand began to bleed as he hit it again and again, his cries for help slowly losing hope and motivation as the bloody glass scattered below his feet. Tears threatened to escape his eyes as he looked down at his now mangled hand, blood pouring out of every direction only stopped in small sections by the shards that had melded into his skin. He paused, the room went quiet, and he stopped fighting. The pain he was trying so hard to outrun consumed him. The tears that once threatened to escape poured down his face, gliding down like a river, mixing with the blood and glass at his feet. He rested his head against the remains of the mirror, his dark hair, unkept and dusted with glass. Slowly, he could feel himself drifting away. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to shake the memories, but again he was powerless to stop it. Her face engraved in his mind, staining it like red wine. The feeling as her body went limp in his arms, unwelcomed yet rushing back. His vision now blurred his body, sinking to the ground as he finally allowed
marginal. 28 Volume 8 – 2023 himself to feel what he had been avoiding for so long. The figure that he saw now broke and surrounded him, still walking over his thoughts and taunting him with his memories. Gasping for air, he thought he was free from the reflection’s grasp. He lifted his head from his hands, shifting his gaze to the scattered remains at his feet. Most of it was mirror dust, but his eyes found a piece of glass still pristine, still mostly whole, yet a fragment of what it used to be. He locked his gaze, staring at the glass with a desperate look plastered onto his face. The glass stared back blinking, replying to the wordless conversation with a menacing stare serving as a warning. Jefferson could feel it. The cold consumed the room, the darkness escaping that small shard of glass, the darkness exploding into the room, escaping its prison, desperate to find its new home within a helpless soul. He could feel it as the blackened spirals streamed into his eyes. Now blackened, they clouded his sight and controlled his mind. There was no escaping now. His eyes began to flutter and then closed. His reflection had entered him, and he was powerless to do anything to stop it. The light from the day faded, and Jefferson’s body lay on the floor, helpless to fight off the darkness from his reflection. It consumed every inch of him, swarming through his body reaching his brain, and resting there, waiting to control his every move. Slowly Jefferson began to regain control of his body. He lifted himself off the ground and onto his feet. The room spun around him as he shifted his weight back and forth. As the room began to steady, Jefferson’s eyes darted around the room. No glass. He looked at his hands. No blood. He looked in the mirror. Not broken. He reached his hand out, his palm brushing lightly against the glass, there was no doubt it was whole again. “How…how is this possible...” Jefferson wandered around the mirror running his fingertips around every inch of it. Everything was intact, there was no evidence of what occurred just moments before. As he began to walk towards the bookshelves he was interrupted. Over here. Jefferson couldn’t have whipped his head around any faster and to his surprise he saw himself. Tall lanky sort of figure with sharp features and mangled hair. The same man he saw in the mirror moments before. Before he could get a word out the figure continued to speak. What if you took a look at one of these? The man pointed at a collection of books far away from the rest. They
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 29 were old and dusty, many of them chained together as if they were trying to keep anyone from flipping through their worn pages. “I’m not looking at those,” Jefferson muttered. “They’re all chained together, and it’s a waste of my time to try and get them undone.” What about…now? Jefferson stood in awe as he watched the chains fall to the ground and the books fly out from the corner. “How…how did you do…that?” I didn’t…you did. Jefferson, confused and trembling, looked down, and sure enough, it was his hand controlling the books as they moved across the air. Startled, he immediately pulled back his hand. “I…I didn’t even want to do that…I didn’t try to do that.” But you did. The voice sang out, taunting Jefferson. It felt good, didn’t it? The rush? You could feel it couldn’t you? The power? Well…go on. Read them. It would be a pity for such hard work to go to waste…all that time it took for you to float those books over to you. Jefferson sighed, trying to ignore the voice, but he obliged, opening the first book and turning the page. It felt dusty on his fingers, dry, almost like sandpaper. He took a breath and read the first few words. “I am NOT doing that” Jefferson yelled around the library. So, you don’t want your daughter back? Well…I guess you never cared about her anyway…no wonder you killed her. “No, I just don’t think killing someone to bring her back is the right thing to do” That’s how it works. A life. For. A. Life. How else did you think you would bring her back. “I don’t know…but I did not think it would be like this…I will find another way.” Ahh. So stubborn. You know you want to though. You want to feel it again…the rush of magic…the rush of…death. “I didn’t like it…I don’t want to do that…ever…again!” Jefferson yelled, swatting at the man, but nothing happened. It was as if he was swatting at the air. “You’re not really here…You’re just in my head…you’re just in my head.” A sense of relief soon washed over him that was instantly stolen again. I might not be here, but that doesn’t make me not real. Jefferson tried to ignore the voice. “It’s all in my head…it’s all in my head,” he muttered over and over, trying to get the voices to stop. Jefferson looked around. Silence. He couldn’t see himself anymore, he couldn’t hear himself anymore. The voice, the reflection was gone. As tempting as the books were, Jefferson pushed them aside and moved back to the pile he had been looking at before. He started reading but couldn’t focus. Those books, there was something different about them, it was the closest he had gotten to actually being able to do something to bring back his daughter. It was the first
marginal. 30 Volume 8 – 2023 time he was making progress toward his goal. He turned his eyes back to the book trying to concentrate on finding a good way…the right way to resurrect his daughter. He couldn’t do it. As hard as he tried to focus, the old books seemed to call to him. Their whispers drawing him to their dusty old covers and sandpaper pages. His morals flying out the window as he dove deep into their dark motives and spells. That’s it. The voice reentered Jefferson’s mind. Keep reading. You know you want to…you need your daughter back...does it matter how you get there? Jefferson ignored the voice and continued to dive into the books, turning page after page, absorbing more of their darkness, allowing his reflection to become stronger with each passing day. Months passed and Jefferson felt stronger than he had ever been. He held so much power and so much potential. He stood at the base of the well, conflicted yet confident. This was it. He could bring her back; all he had to do was commit to his decision. Do it the voice echoed throughout his head. Crush it. Jefferson could feel the heart pounding in his hands syncing to the rhythm of his own. He had a decision to make, a life for a life. “The man was old, ready to expire at any given moment, what’s the harm in speeding it up a few days?” Jefferson told himself as he held this man’s life in his hands. Yes, do it. Crush it. Bring her back. End him. Jefferson could feel his hands begin to shake. It was the last ingredient, the last step before he could bring her back. Do it now! The voice became more demanding, more powerful. Jefferson began to feel powerless once again as he raised his hand over the well, the heart pounding in his hand, and he squeezed. The heart slowed until it was blackened and then dusted. It sprinkled down into the well swirling with the ingredients forming a fiery smoke that coated the ground. Jefferson had made the final step into the darkness and there was no going back. As the smoke cleared, Jefferson coughed, gasping for air. He looked around, searching every inch of the well for his daughter, his Grace, but it was…empty. Jefferson began to feel hopeless. He had tried everything and allowed himself to give into the darkness, and his daughter was still gone. “Dad?” Jefferson heard a voice calling out in the distance, different from the voice that lingered in his head. It was young and delicate, like a soft breeze on a sunny day. “Grace,” he called out hopefully. He then saw the young girl running towards him, embracing him in a warm hug. “It worked?” he thought to
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 31 himself. Indeed, it did. You’re welcome. “What are you still doing here, go away, I’m done with you, she’s back” You might be done with me…but I’m not done with you. Now that I helped you, I am going to need something in return or…your daughter might…disappear. “What? No?” Jefferson said out loud. “Dad, who are you talking to?” Grace said as she pulled away from the hug. “Nobody,” Jefferson replied as he pulled her back in. “I’m just happy to see you again.” “This place is…nice,” Grace said as she walked into her new home. It was an abandoned castle, overgrown with vines, and starting to crumble at the walls. She didn’t know what to think of her father’s home, something about it felt dark and cold like soulless beings were lingering in the air. She began to wander around, running through the halls until she stumbled upon a door. It was closed tightly with a wooden bar between the handles. Something about it felt different, there was light pouring out from the cracks in the wood, the only light she had seen since she entered the castle. Carefully, she began to remove the wood in front of the door, making sure to not make any noise to not grab her father’s attention. The doors were heavy, but Grace gathered the strength to push them open. What was behind the doors was better than she could have ever imagined. It was an abandoned library, full of books on every shelf. She walked around, curiously examining each of the titles, running her fingers along the books. As she explored the room she noticed a collection of books on the table, pages marked and notes written, all in her father’s handwriting. She carefully opened one of the books. Reading the first sentence, she closed it again. “He wouldn’t…she thought.” Grace opened the book again, this time flipping to one of the marked pages. “He didn’t.” She read through the old text making sure to understand every word, reading even the smallest of letters. Her eyes stopped at the bottom of the page, and she looked at the fine print. “When a person and their reflection have become one?” she read. “What does that mean?” She slammed the book shut and started to look around at the shelves of books for an answer. Then she found it, a book on reflections. Vigorously, she flipped through its pages, scanning them for something about a reflection entering a person, something about them becoming one. Then as she was just about ready to toss the book aside a few small papers flew out of the book and landed at her
marginal. 32 Volume 8 – 2023 feet. “The spell of shattered sight,” she read. “Long ago, there was a plague of darkness approaching the world, in an attempt to put a stop to it, a powerful sorcerer trapped it in a mirror and hid it from the rest of the world. This mirror infected with the darkness can find a person’s darkest memories and use them to bring out their darkest potential. The darkness would stay trapped behind the glass until one of its victims broke the mirror and set the darkness free. Once free the darkness must take control of a living being and force them to act upon their darkest impulses in order to blacken their heart and take control of the world once again, there is only one way to stop the darkness, but even the bravest of souls would not commit such an act, to save the life the darkness is trying to take one must give their life in return, whispering this enchantment as they smash the mirror once more.” She knew that her father wouldn’t do such a thing; this had to be the answer. It was the only way he could have saved her. She closed the book, determined to make things right again. “Grace,” Jefferson yelled as he walked up the stairs “Where are you-” “I’m sorry dad, but I have to…It’s the only way,” Grace exclaimed as she pulled the mirror out from behind the bookcase. She grabbed the dagger off of a nearby table and whispered the enchantment slowly to it as she sunk the blade into the glass. Upon impact, Grace could feel herself weaken and she let go of the dagger, the metal making contact with the floor with a loud metallic sound. She collapsed. Her wounds rushed back to her skin, the blood beginning to swirl in pools around her just as it had before. Jefferson felt a rush of relief; dark spirals swirled out of him into the air and out of sight. He was free of the reflection, but at what price? He watched his daughter lay on the floor, a scene all too familiar. “I…I…can’t lose you...again,” he stuttered. “I know you can’t dad…but you have to…this is the way things are meant to be.” She breathed out her final words and was lost to him once again. Jefferson sat there for moments, reeling in self-hatred and remorse. He looked down at her blood-stained gown and felt something that couldn’t be taken away: a feeling of relief from his pain and suffering, a moment of peace and understanding. He was set free and finally had a chance to restore happiness once again.
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 33 Abstract Autograph by Carly Roleke (colored pencil & sharpie)
marginal. 34 Volume 8 – 2023 VAAGMI SHUKLA comme il faut i was given a pair of shoes. crafted by my mother, they were hand-spun, yielding the finest silks southeast of the yamuna. woven alongside her own mother, they were elegant, elegance i saw in the women in my family. naturally, i tried to slip my mother’s shoes on– i felt obligated to slip them on. yet i could not. no matter the books, the baggage, the pages i pressed upon them no matter the time i spent, tugging at their stiff fabrics no matter the callouses cropping up my skin like thistles. i could not fit into those shoes. though i realize, why force shoes you don’t even want to fit in? i have come to terms with them. i will not fit into those very shoes.
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 35 My Favorite Pair of Shoes by Delaney Doyle (acrylic painting)
marginal. 36 Volume 8 – 2023 CAMRYN FRANKS Rejuvenation “I’ve been here for months! I don’t want to be here… no I don’t need to be here!” The Old Man complains as he puts on his well-loved slippers. “Dad it’s only been a month, you haven’t given it a chance,” his son tries to reply. “I am not like the people here. I’m not crippled. I am fully capable of taking care of myself,” he grumbles back. “Maybe the reason you hate it here is because you don’t even try! You refuse to even leave your room! They could bring in Ronald fucking Reagan and you still wouldn’t leave!” His son huffs. That much is true. The Old Man can’t deny it. He rarely leaves his room besides to eat once a day. He goes down to the dining hall around dinnertime and sits alone at a table in the corner. It’s a miserable sight. “If you just give the people here a chance, you might make some friends. Maybe even meet someone you like,” his son reasons. And his son leaves, not giving his father a chance to respond. So, The Old Man sits there in his recliner chair that faces the wall. He sits and he thinks for a few minutes. He imagines his son, trudging out of the home back to his car. Climbing into his truck, he will start the engine. He rests his head on the wheel for a moment. He can hear his son’s sigh of frustration as he shifts into gear, and the quiet ride home, music suspiciously low. His son will get home to his wife sitting on the couch, and when she asks how it went… he will just shake his head. His son is right, and he knows it. He hates to leave his room. He glares at his untouched sneakers by the door gathering dust. Finally, The Old Man gets up, and slowly walks over to the coffee table, covered in pictures. His eyes land and instantly soften at the sight of a woman. The woman he loved. The woman who passed years ago. Her hair was long and neatly brushed before any treatments had gotten rid of it. Her eyes glittered with the same soft smile that
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 37 she died wearing. The old man takes a minute, finally lets down his guard and lets his emotions through. As a child, he had learned that men don’t shed tears, let alone weep. Yet he stood there and wept with tears falling down the pale wrinkled skin of his face, not bothering to try to wipe them away. He wept until there was nothing left and then he went to bed, missing his one meal a day. The next morning, the old man wakes up, eyes sore from the night before. He sits there in his bed for a moment and contemplates his day. Bones aching, he gets out of bed and gets dressed. Standing at his dresser, he looks down at the clothes in his drawers, many having been messily thrown in. He digs around and finds a single folded pair of trousers and an unwrinkled shirt. He gets dressed, tightens his belt, and goes to grab his shoes. He picks up the dusty old sneakers, hits the soles together to get rid of the dust, and pulls them on. With a once-over in the mirror, he heads out the door. The Old Man finds himself in the garden. He has avoided this place from the start as it is a strong reminder of his wife, who loved to garden. He remembers how she would spend her spring mornings out in the yard. Her hands deep in the dirt, without a care. Her hair tied back in a messy ponytail with a visor to cover the sun. He has missed the sweet smell of flowers, and the vibrant colors scattered throughout the garden. He listens to the crunch of the pebble path under his lightly used sneakers. The vibrant whites and yellows of daffodils spill over the sides of the garden bed. The Old Man walks down the stone slate path, hands clasped behind his back. As he walks, he hears someone behind him. As he turns, he is greeted by a woman with short white hair and a sunny smile. “We missed you at dinner yesterday,” she says with a slight southern drawl creeping into her words. “I wasn’t sure anyone would notice. It was… well. I was tired. Went to bed early,” The Old Man responds, avoiding her bright eyes with his tired stare. “Well, I sure did notice, didn’t see you hiding in that corner table of yours. I’m Sandy,” and she puts her hand out for him to shake. For a moment, The Old Man is stuck in his fascination with this new face. After a moment, he extends his own hand, shaking hers lightly.
marginal. 38 Volume 8 – 2023 “Jack,” he says, introducing himself. “Do you work in the gardens?” “Oh goodness no, I’ve got quite the black thumb. I’ve got to be careful not to touch any of these plants here or they are sure to shrivel up and die,” she laughs. And as she laughs, he watches as her head tilts back slightly, her eyes crinkle, and smile widens. And for the first time since he’s gotten to this place, Jack smiles. He can’t help it. She’s radiant like the sun, and it’s contagious. She still has that excitement for life and what’s to come. And he can feel it, that excitement that comes off of her in waves. They walk together, to the end of that stone slate path. They talk about anything and everything. And at the end of the path, they turn back. Weeks pass before Jack can even realize. They’re sitting at breakfast. Jack pours them each a cup of tea as Sandy hums softly to herself. He leans over and grabs the small plastic tongs. He picks up a single sugar cube, just as Sandy likes, and drops it into her cup. She pauses, turns to him, and smiles. And then he can see it, the rest of his life with her. Having tea in the morning, daily walks in the garden until they can’t walk anymore, dinners together, a tall glass of wine, light jazz playing as the night passes. The whole time a smile on his face mirroring hers, the very smile that brought him back to life.
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 39 Ring! Ring! by Eve Weatherhead (photograph)
marginal. 40 Volume 8 – 2023 MAGGIE JOYCE chloe’s verse, part one: the ode we could be swimming or we could be running for our lives we could be fighting or we could be kissing and i would think, we’re being girls together. what a joy it is to be a girl. i spent my terrible twos turning twenty-eight. i planned to spend my adolescence acting middle aged. i didn’t mind if it was what it took to be loved. i didn’t know i needed you when we met. but i know now that i need you desperately, entirely. i needed someone to show me girlhood. i needed someone to show me a lust for life unlike any other. someone to show me love and hate and fear and rage and joy. incandescent joy. such emotions, i thought, were too extreme. immature. unprofessional. it was not right to be so loud so bold
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 41 so seen. you saw me as i was. maybe i didn’t understand that then but i understand now. and i’ll see you as best i can, i swear. i am not perfect nor are you. but we are perfectly young. young and beautiful full of life and hope with futures bright like sunshine on skin. i’ve never been faithful but god, i believe in you. i would devote a lifetime to you on my knees, if you asked. because you showed me light. because, to me, there is nothing kinder nor more fearsome stronger nor more beautiful truer nor more perfect than a girl as human as you. whatever you want, chloe. whatever you want. -”i would do anything she wants me to.” phoebe bridgers; graceland too chloe’s verse, part one: the ode was the runner-up in our 2022 Poetry Contest
marginal. 42 Volume 8 – 2023 What Now? by Veronica Stolyar (acrylic paint, pencil, pen)
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 43 ZOE COELHO Family Gardening Business My entire life I was raised to be a “good Samaritan.” Always follow the rules, look presentable, and keep your family’s best interest at heart. And that’s what I did, or at least thought I did for forty-five years. I got married right out of college, got a secure job, and provided for my family. My life was seemingly perfect. I had a beautiful wife and children. Plus, I was well on my way to climbing the top of the corporate ladder by being the “nicest” in the office. It was strenuous but worth the effort. Yet a single two-minute conversation wiped my entire world away, “Jerry, I hate to do this to you. You know how much we loved you here, you were great. But we have to let you go. We just can’t afford to keep you on anymore. Take as much time as you need packing up and let me know if you need any support along the way.” At least Tim was nice about it. It softened the blow slightly but didn’t diminish the fact that I became an unemployed loser without my six-figure job. Now I have to spend my time at home, filling my days with busy work like watering the lawn and making small talk with the conceited yoga-pant-yummymummy-zero-brain-cells-unemployed housewives. It’s excruciating. Not to mention having to spend time with my delinquent child Zach. He’d always been a bit out there, but this year he really regressed. First was cutting class, then selling merchandise illegally to a flea market, then being questioned by the police to top it all off. At least he’s at home. He’s better off here than out in the world. Zach and my daughter Neha have been so secretive lately. They keep inviting guests I’ve never met before over to the house. They only stay for a few minutes before leaving with a plastic baggie tucked neatly into their coat pockets. I’d think they were selling dope if I didn’t know any better. The neighbors think we’re selling dope. It’s all I ever hear those Lulu-Lepers talking about. Something smells off. Like a skunk diffusing its stink into the air. I segue to the garage and open the door to find hundreds of green little plants growing out of tiny compostable pots. What? I look to the other side of the room and a
marginal. 44 Volume 8 – 2023 gorilla-shaped bong lines the floor. Were the neighbors right? My house is a Mary-Jane plantation? My heart sank. “Dad, I can explain. I-” “Can it Zach! I don’t want to hear it! All I wanted for you was to have a sense of agency and a successful life. Now you’re getting involved with low lives and illegal sales?!” I see a look of shame sprawl across his face. “Dad-” “I don’t want to hear it!” A profound smack silenced Zach’s face. Neither of us needed to say a word, the emptiness of the room said it all. “Zach,” I started slowly. “I didn’t mean to.” Harsh stomps echoed out the garage door. I felt my gut wrench in the pit of my stomach. We used to be so close. We used to play on the beach until the sun went down, we used to fish out on the lake in the summer, we used to toss the football around until we were coated in mud. How did we go from him running to me each night when he was paranoid about monsters under his bed to him hiding every demon he has from me? I thought we were closer than most fathers and sons. I don’t get it. Back in the house, I wait for Zach to calm down. He usually settles in no more than a few hours, but we’re well into the evening now, and not a peep has come out of him. This is starting to worry me. “Dad, you need to talk to him. He’s really upset.” I peer up at Neha with tired eyes, “To say I didn’t see this coming would be a lie. But that doesn’t disappoint me any less that he did it.” Her chest rises and falls before she breathes out an answer, “You play favorites. You have different rules for different people. I was in on it too, and where’s my punishment?” “The rules are different for you because you’re a different kid. You chose tennis and the piano. You chose school even when it was hard. You delay gratification. Zach has always chosen the easy way out.” “Dad, this isn’t the easy way out. Do you know how much money he’s made so far?” “How much?” “Ten-thousand dollars.”
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 45 My jaw physically dropped, “How long has he been in business?” “Almost three weeks.” “How is that even possible?” “He’s very meticulous about management. He tracks the market and sees which strains are most in demand, but most limited in supply, then he only sells those types of weed. It’s actually genius because those customers tell their friends, who tell their friends, who all buy from him. He’s untouchable. He can charge whatever he wants because he’s unmatched in Marion County.” My jaw still hung balanced in the air, “I always knew he had the potential to be hardworking and successful at something, and he is using his merits well.” “Yeah, he is using his merits well, you’re just angry because he’s doing it in an unconventional way.” Neha threw a bunch of paperwork on the table, “Look!” I flipped through the sheets rapidly. My mortgage, the one payment I had been screaming, crying, and throwing up over not being able to pay, sat in front of me, ever-so humbly, completely paid off. Each cent that stole precious hours of sleep from me, returned on a single sheet of paper. “This is what he’s using the money on. We saw how overworked and stressed you were after losing your job, and Mom walking out didn’t make that any better. So, when he started dealing, I helped to help you too.” Dumbfounded, my fingers kept gripping the papers, “I have no words.” “I think it’s time to talk to Zach,” Neha advised. Tiptoeing up the stairs we went together, careful not to give Zach an explicit warning. Yet old oak was never one to be subtle. EEERRR! “Gee Dad, thanks for knocking,” Zach scribbled away at a printed spreadsheet that lay before him. “He has something he’d like to say to you, Zach,” Neha, glaring into my soul, demanded that I apologize. “Zach, I’m sorry. Not just for blowing a gasket, but for any time I’ve made you feel small, minuscule, or anything less than what you are. That was never my intention, I only wanted the best for you. I’ve always been there for you, and never stopped, I just had a very specific dream for you to grow up, go to college, and live a normal life, but that’s never been you. You’ve never had a predictable path.
marginal. 46 Volume 8 – 2023 Even though this little ‘gardening project’ is borderline cartel activity, I’m still glad you’ve found something that directs you, something that gives you purpose and drive. Seeing as how you’ve used the money for something unselfish, I gotta say, I’m proud of you. Truly. You’ve never been one to follow the rules, and even though this is all a little questionable on the surface, you’ve always been compassionate, and generous, which is all I’ve ever wanted you to embrace about yourself.” Zach gave me a heavy look, “Dad, I want you to know that as much as you’re here for us, we’re here for you. Seeing how much those bills gutted you from the inside out broke a piece of me too. I never want us to struggle like that.” “Parents are supposed to provide for their children, not the other way around. I guess I’m getting old seeing how much you’ve matured.” Zach smiled and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, “Dad, it feels really good to hear this from you. All I ever wanted was to make you proud.” “Indeed, you have, Son,” I found myself shedding a tear as well, and so did Neha. Crying our eyes out, the three of us stood in a huddle on Zach’s bedroom floor. This entire affair was odd and unprecedented, but it healed our family. It united us when I thought we would never be whole again. Sure, it was unconventional, but I think that’s who we’ve always been. Playing by the rules and never trying to color outside of the lines just makes you plateau. Innovation was derived from defiance and my children helped me learn that best. It was nearly five years ago since that day in the garage. Neha just finished her freshman year at the University of Chicago, on track to graduate early with a BS in Biomedical Sciences. Zach owns a booming landscaping business that specializes in spring cleanup. Despite all of these achievements, they still come back home every Sunday to nurture the little money trees in the garage. What started as a little forest has now expanded into an international business with partnerships from the most influential forces in the Marijuana industry. We have a warehouse down the road that deals with the nuts and bolts of the operation, but the main executive decisions and expense management are still handled by the three of us. No matter how far away they go and no matter how busy their lives get, they always come back to help the family business.
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 47 Nature After Rain by Tianxin Wang (mixed media)
marginal. 48 Volume 8 – 2023 2022 Poetry Contest The winner of the 2022 Poetry Contest is Blue Hour / 蓝小时, written by May Chen. The idea of the American dream is carefully woven through the piece, along with the anxious tone. The vignettes created really drew this poem to the top of them all. The duality of the words chosen, such as indigo or bare, added so much depth to the piece. Congratulations, May! Our first runner-up for the 2022 Poetry Contest is chloe’s verse, part one: the ode, written by Maggie Joyce. This piece starts off with the joys of being a teenage girl but turns out to be a lovely dedication to a vital person in her life, Chloe. The easily flowing stanzas clearly show that this author is a natural poet, along with just the right amount of imagery and the theme of desire and devotion. Congratulations, Maggie! The second runner-up for the 2022 Poetry Contest is There Must Be Something Wrong With Me, by Piyusha Majgoankar. The theme of not fitting in, whether that is because of the way you look, talk, or act, is a feeling that resonates with many, and Majgoankar captures these feelings with ease. Stereotypes, especially those about people of color, highlight the many problems of acceptance that our society still has to work on. The concept of colorblindness creates another level of depth, not only in her words but the events that are displayed. Congratulations, Piyusha!
marginal. Volume 8 – 2023 49 MAY CHEN Blue Hour / 蓝小时 i. Ma told me i was living the american dream football games every weekend dances every month what more could someone ask for? The american dream she said hungry but never starving we feast. ii. take me back to when we would sit by your bed other kids had books we had your experiences you called my name but i wasn’t there i was in the fields of 湖南 China running through the rocky roads Yiruma kiss the rain played in the back as i slept. iii. my anxiety lives among my fingers my nails my hair my skin flesh and bones bare, bear a beast lives within my anxiety eats me.
marginal. 50 Volume 8 – 2023 iv. 蓝色小时 the blue hour a period of twilight where the sky is overcome with an indigo hue indigo means devotion I am devoted to this life The sound dips a pause in the music a flaw of the musician a whisper of hope in the silence i’ll be okay Blue Hour / 蓝小时 was the winner of our 2022 Poetry Contest