TheFine Line

Bishop Brady High School’s Literary M

agazineVolum

e VI

The Fine LineA student publicationBishop Brady25 Columbus AveConcord, NH

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TheFine Line

LayoutAlyssa Roy

Brooke SolomonKate Lawson

AdvisorMrs. Amy Usinger

Staff

Accolades

Volume IVThe fourth volume of The Fine Line was ranked as Superior by the National Council of Teachers of English program to recognize excellence in literary magazines

EditorsJordan Lassonde- Editor-in-Chief

Amelia Miller- Art EditorHannah Provost- Literary Editor

StaffMeghan McDermott

Elizabeth SawyerMark Kelly

Emily Rauseo

Proof ReadersMrs. Blithe Reed Damour

Lauren Covalucci

Volume VThe fifth volume of The Fine Line was ranked as Excellent by the National Council of Teachers of English

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Table of ContentsTable of Contents

Literature“The Machine Man”- Hannah Provost.......................5“A: Anonymous”- Elizabeth Swain............................6“Litany”- Oliveah Sears................................................7“Polluting Paws”- Anupa Murali................................8“Brothers”- Seth Mayo..................................................9“The Girl from E-Harmony”- Chris Kirk.................10“On My Way to College”- Elizabeth Swain.............11“Sailor Boy”- Molly Perkins.......................................12“Heaven’s Tears”- Kim DeStefano............................13“Kitchen Lights”- Jordan Lassonde..........................14“One Autumn Day”- Kim DeStefano.......................16“Story of a leaf”- Chris Kirk.......................................17“A Loss of Faith”- Grace Donison.............................20“My Story”- Marianna Fiorillo..................................21“Las Nubes en el Cielo”- Austin Schinlever............22“Las Estrellas”- Tomas Amadeo................................23“A Universal Solution”- Molly Perkins....................24“What I Found in My Poems”- Kim DeStefano......25“Ode to Dust”- Marianna Fiorillo.............................26“Petrichor”- Jordan Lassonde....................................27“Photography”- Claire Ryoo......................................30“How My Sister’s Camera Saved My Grade”- ! Brooke Solomon...............................................31“Aux Champs”- Alyssa Roy.......................................32“The Sun Means No Harm”- Anupa Murali...........34“1”- Amelia Miller........................................................35“A man who set to sea again”- Anthony Johnson..36“Calcareous Shell”- Pat Kennedy..............................36“Whistling Insanity”- Chris Kirk...............................38“The Cello’s Tale”- Seth Mayo...................................39“Struggle”- Eric Hambleton.......................................40“The Question”- Grace Donison................................41“An Infamous Career”- Mark Kelly..........................42“Light Switch in the Dark”- Eric Hambleton..........44“Single Thought”- Alina Howland...........................45“The Restless Researcher”- Anupa Murali...............46“Prose Poem”- Alina Howland..................................47“Falling to you”- Jordan Lassonde............................48“Untitled”- Bridget Sica..............................................48“A malfunction of the Heart”- Jared Roberts..........49“You”- Liza Schoedinger.............................................54

Art“Waiting”- Meaghan Fitzgerald......................6“Untitled”- Emily Claire..................................9“Untitled”- Nadia Craimich..........................11“Untitled”- Alina Howland...........................13“Untitled”- Meghan Kissinger......................16“Storyboard”- Amelia Miller.........................18“Untitled”- Sara Senter...................................20“Untitled”- Grace Lee.....................................24“Untitled”- Sara Bartlett.................................26“Untitled”- Hannah Provost..........................28“Machu Picchu”- Amy Usinger.....................30“Untitled”- Christi Kyzynowck....................34“Untitled”- Chris Bellino...............................37“Untitled”- Hannah Provost..........................38“Untitled”- Evan Song and Mi Jin Na..........41“Untitled”- Chris Bellino...............................45“Untitled”- Jourdain Bell...............................47“On Cavalry Hill”- Maggie MacMullin.......49“Cannery Row: A Graphic Novel”- Meaghan ! Tosi........................................................50

Cover ArtFrontSpace NeedleAcrylic Meghan Tosi

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BackUntitledColored PencilBrooke Solomon

ColophonThe body fonts are American Typewriter-Light, Gill Sans-Light, and Hoefler Text. The title fonts are Academy Engraved LET, Jazz LET and Copperplate. Authors’ signatures are in Zapfino and artist tags are in Hoefler Text. The cover, page numbers, spread credits and font for pages 1-5 is Palatino.

TheFine Line

DedicationThe Fine Line staff is proud to dedicate this sixth volume to a dear teacher and friend, Mrs. Jane Higgins. Mrs. Higgins is a beloved teacher of English who has never failed to share her passion for learning with her students. Mrs. Higgins is known by all the students of Brady for her warm smiles, bird calls, and unique stories. We are sad to say goodbye to her this year but wish her all the best in her new endeavors. Mrs. Higgins, you will be missed.

Editor’s Letter

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Dear Readers,! I can’t count how many times I have written this letter, how many times I have deleted it. I want to say so much, and I can’t seem to put it all in words. ! The magazine this year amazes me. Volume six is a collection of fascinating literature and stunning art. This issue features poetry, prose poetry, an essay, a short story, a French translation and two poems written first in Spanish and then translated. Our art ranges from charcoal sketches and acrylic triptychs to a brief graphic novel and a storyboard for a book trailer. The theme of Volume Six has evolved from the beginning of the year to be displayed in full glory in the center spread of the magazine: Proud as a peacock. We stumbled upon the theme of Pride when we were astonished by the beautiful photograph now featured in the center of our magazine. After six years, we want to take this year to take pride in not only our work but also in the work we publish. We have tried this year to let the work we publish speak for itself by keeping the layouts clean and simple. I hope you can appreciate and enjoy Volume Six.! I look back on the past four years and can’t help but smile and feel a little sad. It has to come to an end, right? “Nothing gold can stay.” Robert Frost said so. But this isn’t goodbye. Thank you for four remarkable years.

Jordan Lassonde

Featured Poet

Hannah Provo"2012 Featured Poet

The Machine ManThe machine man,His name is Stan,He never trips over the watering can.

No yelling at wivesOr getting stone drunk;He can’t even come home smelling like skunk.

In this way, he is better than you.He can’t make mistakes,He can’t even choose.

He will not fall, stumble or shout,And he won’t shed a tear, mumble, or pout.He can’t show emotion, now is that good or bad?If you spill on his shirt, he won’t even get mad.

And you’re wondering now,Is this quite right?Is the machine man they createdSo faulty or bright?

Should he be this mechanical,This robotic, or not?Should he really be as unresponsive as a dull, silver pot?

Sure he remembers your birthday,And can calculate sine,But one subtle word and he falls out of line.He doesn’t know the difference between right or wrong, He can’t write poetryOr sing a simple song.He can’t tell when you’re happy, jealous, mad;It’s statistically safest to assume you are glad.

So Stan is a computer, That much you know.It’s what he was made for, Should we let him just go?

But the faults he was made with, Do they outweigh the good?Or should we accept him as he is,Just as God would?

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TheFine Line

A: AnonymousYou are a waterfall slowly icing over,a pool with a single ripple in the water.You are the trees adorned with twinkle lightsand the candy shop that sells chocolate-covered gummy bears.You are an orange sweatshirt hanging in the breeze,and the bear in its hidden cave.

However, you are not the unmade bed,the paved road,or the stillness in the nighttime air.And you are certainly not the tip of an ice skate.There is just no way you are the tip of an ice skate.

It is possible that you are the winds that wreck the shutters,maybe even the light slowly creeping over the mountain,but you are not even closeto being the hum of the refrigerator.

And a quick look in the mirror will showthat you are the pine and the vanilla,and the Old Spice and sandalwood.

It might interest you to know,speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,that I am the flower in the field.

I also happen to be a cup of tea with a cinnamon stick,the fire in the corner of the room,and the cracked picture frame.

I am also the down comforter,and the orange dress still on the hanger.I am the apple on the counter,the frost on the windshield,and ungloved, frigid hands.But don’t worry, I’m not the waterfall slowly icing over.You are still the waterfall;you will always be the waterfall,the swimmer in the pond,not to mention the Latino music in my mind,and somehow, the sun’s orange rays.

Elizabe# Swain6

Litany

You are the rain on a beach day,the fly on a picnic.You are the gum on the bottom of a shoe.

However, you are not thebutton on the shirt,or the lead in a pencil.

It is possible that you are the shoe lace on the sneaker,but really, you are the lost puzzle piece.

And a quick look in the mirror shows that you are notthe beautiful, individual snowflake you thought you were.

I am the snowflake,the edge pieces of a puzzle,the tough sole of a sneaker.I am the fresh eraser on a yellow pencil,the button soon to be found,the piece of gum, neatly wrapped,and the simple checkerboard blanket on a picnic.

I also happen to bethe warm sun on a beach day.

Oliveah Sears

WaitingAcrylicMeaghan Fitzgerald

“A: A

nonymous”- Elizabeth Sw

ain, “Waiting”- M

eaghan Fitzgerald, “Litany”- Oliveah Sears

Poems in style of Billy Collins7

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Polluting Paws

Sister, your hands are covered in grime.You wipe your little fingers on the hem of my skirt.My eyes enlarge; you sense I have found your crime.

For your grubby fingers to go unnoticed, you tell me I must be blind.When a crumb falls from my hair, your lips curl into a smirk.Sister, your hands are covered in grime.

You sit after dinner with an old book of mine.When I see oil smudges on the page, I go berserk.My eyes enlarge; you know I have discovered your crime.

My lovely book is now adulterated with slime.Do you choose not to clean your hands only to irk?Sister, your hands are covered in grime.

I lend you my favorite headband one time.With it, you hold a Dorito bag, eyes filled with mirth.My eyes enlarge; you sense I have discovered your crime.

To dirty my possessions you are oh so inclined.I share with you, for I do not want you to feel hurt.Sister, your hands are covered in grime.My eyes enlarge; you know I have discovered your crime.

Anupa Murali

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BrothersCrying and whining to evil motherPushing and shovingKicking and punchingBitching and moaningYou’re my brother, and I’m Your BrotherMaking Jokes and Screwing AroundChilling at the lakeFighting In the waterGrappling on the lawn, Pushing my face In the GroundIt’s Almost time to go our separate waysduty calls and Tests to comeNo matter where you go we shall Meet Againat the porch at the lake until our older days.Our sister, our father, our Mother, GrandFathers and MothersThey are familyBut deep down we know something They Don’tSomething that only You and I can fathomAnd That is the pact we share as a Secret Bondfor we Are Brothers.

Se# Mayo

UntitledMixed MediaEmily Claire

“Polluting Paws”- A

nupa Murali, “Brothers”- Seth M

ayo, “Untitled”- Em

ily Claire

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TheFine Line

The Girl from E-Harmony

On a date with the girl from E-Harmony. Her eyes sparkle, like a field of luminaries, the cut-out bags with candles in the bottom. She has an

imperial air, something I find underrepresented in today’s women. Her father, a cow broker, meditatively going about his job, paid the children to

clean the manure from the barn. She fought against the pull of home, like a boot, shin-deep in the goopiest mud imaginable. Now, a cosmopolitan. After

high school, to school in Dubai for a great education, and the chance to sever ties with her family. Her friends, representing every country in the Middle

East, their Pan-Arabism gave her much influence. But back to our date: The waiter stands menacingly over our table, staring at her. Her

disenchantment with him fills the void between us, and I struggle to make conversation. Our date suffers. This is only our first date, a Beta test, if you

will. I am crumpled, messy. Sleeping on your mother’s sofa bed combo from IKEA does that to you. She drinks a spritzer, I stick to water. She talks at

length about her ex-husband’s lawyer, trying to steal her money. That pettifogger! And then, I reach enlightenment. It will never work between us,

though I wish that it could.

Ch$s Kirk

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On My Way to College

! Just off of Harbor Road, Seattle, my father drives my mother and me to the

edge of the water by the pier to watch the tugboats come in and the planes fly

over and we listen as the seagulls dance in the salty air, their beaks grabbing at

mussels and clams on the barges and mom points out the seals sprawled in the sun,

resting on old abandoned wood, floating. Dad lets me sit in the front seat of his red

Mustang, top up, that he rented for the weekend. Mom is in the back seat with her

camera while he makes seal noises, and there we are. There I am, leaning out of the

window, reaching-reaching. Reaching to grasp the moment and wrap it tight in my

hand, for I must go.

Elizabe# Swain

UntitledMixed MediaNadia Craimich

“The Girl from

E-Harm

ony”- Chris Kirk, “Untitled”- N

adia Craimich, “O

n My W

ay to College”- Elizabeth Swain

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TheFine Line

Sailor BoyCome home soon, Sailor Boy.Your parents dearly miss you.

Cone home soon, Sailor Boy.So your wife can kiss you.

Come home soon, Sailor Boy.There’s danger in those waters.

Come home soon, Sailor Boy.So you can see your son and daughters.

Come home soon, Sailor Boy.You’ve been there forever.

Come home soon, Sailor Boy.It’s hard to see you never.

Come home soon, Sailor Boy.Your time is almost through.

Come home soon, Sailor Boy.Before we must bury you.

Molly Perkins12

UntitledPencil

Alina Howland

“Sailor Boy”-Molly Perkins, “H

eaven’s Tears”- Kim D

eStefano, “Untitled”-A

lina How

land

Heaven’s TearsI heart the rain.Lounging on my bedI am adjacent to the window,And my hand is cradling my chin.I watch puddles spilling its contentsFrom gathering the many showers.While harmless thunder is keeping me awake,I take in all of its beauty.Fairies on the ground,Dancing, flitting and moving.But one moment of sleeping,And I’m alone.

Kim DeStefano

TheFine Line

Kitchen Lightsa personal essay

" The French glass doors to the dining room are closed. A glass pitcher stands sweating slightly beneath the kitchen lights, a ring forming on the table runner slightly off-centered on the kitchen island. Fresh lemon slices float in the ice cold water. The plain white (or slightly gray) plates are stacked next to the stove where a timer is slowly counting down the minutes left until dinner. Appropriately patterned napkins are stacked, reminiscent of the plates, next to a steaming round loaf of cheesy bread."" My fingers were aching. How many pieces of cheese had I cut with this useless knife? At least my mom cut the bread; it looked like a domed checkerboard, cut in both directions so to facilitate pu"ing it apart. I stuffed the cuts with my uneven slices of sharp cheddar cheese until it looked like the bread would explode.$ “How’s it look, Mom?”$ “Perfect,” she replies, taking the last piece of cheese and finding the only empty cut le% to stuff it in."" Fingers, you eat the bread with your fingers. Don’t be shy and don’t worry. You get utensils for the main meal. Though you only get one set. Who needs more than one fork, knife, and spoon for one simple three course meal? Or for any meal for that matter? A fork is all that is required for the main course anyway. Easy cheesy chicken casserole. Don’t let the easy part throw you off. It’s not fast food. Topped with potato chips crisped in the oven, with cheese hiding in the tunnels of the large elbow macaroni and chicken in every bite, nothing beats this casserole. Don’t forget to spoon a helping of peas onto your plate; it adds a little color.

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“Kitchen Lights”-Jordan Lassonde

" I sat down at the crowded lunch table holding my tupperware with the very tips of my fingers; steam fo&ed up my glasses as I bent for the first bite. Le%overs and the only kind of le%overs I like. My 'iends gi&led at my closed eye sigh and squeak when the cheese burned my tongue.$ “You’" never learn, Jordan,” someone mutters.$ “It is just too good to wait!” I reply reverently over my burnt tongue."" The Oreo cookie crust is in no way even and crumbles slightly along the edge held together with nothing more than butter and the tender pressure of fingers. The filling continues the theme of imperfect beauty as one side is higher than the other and it swirls unevenly to a not-quite-centered center. Fresh raspberries tossed with no sense of order top the flawed masterpiece. The cheesecake feels like velvet on your tongue, and the raspberries burst in your mouth."" “What do you mean you don’t eat Thanksgiving dinner?” my 'iend questioned in mock outrage.$ “I eat ro"s. . . and dessert! I eat cheesecake, my mom makes this...”$ “I don’t understand you.” She shakes her head at me in harmless disappointment.$ “ . . . cheesecake. I love it. It has an Oreo cookie crust.”$ “Jordan,” she sighs.$ “She makes it just for me.” I smile."" The plates are now stacked next to the sink, the stack topped with licked clean forks, the napkins are crumpled in balls in the trash, and the pitcher is empty minus the slices of lemon left in the bottom. You pat your stomach, filled with a simple family meal, and as you turn to leave a plate of food is forced into your hand. No one leaves such a meal without leftovers. A final glance around the dimly lit kitchen reveals a single mark of imperfection, a lone wet ring stamped into the still off-centered table runner.

Jordan Lassonde

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TheFine Line

One Autumn Day

One season change.One perfect moment of manymade just for me.The white chairs have a harmonized pace,while on the lawn pumpkins tower over a young face.Cortland apples are neighbors with my feet;they also rest with fuzzy peaches for heat.A binding less book of poetry absorbs the sunny rays,while I absorb the words in a sleepy daze.Looking up I see the sea of trees,branches nudging the leavesin synchronized heaves.Sipping my mug of hot apple cider I decide,this is my perfect kind of day if I were to die.

UntitledPaperMeghan Kissinger

Kim DeStefano

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Story of a leafThin, waxy, spread-eagled,He reaches to grab moreFreedom, sunlight, oxygen escaping.Breathing the bad, releasing the good.Letting it go, letting go of his home,Dropping, drifting gently to the streets below.Browning and drying with age,He lives on the street.His home towers above him,Replacing him with new tenants, young and green.By the end of fall, they have all been let go.To join him in the streets.Never able to go back again.Never able to work again.They are all let go.They are at the mercy of every storm.Torn apart by cars, who tried to stop.Swept away by wind and rain.Frozen.The street is swept.None remain.

Ch$s Kirk

“One A

utumn D

ay”- Kim D

eStefano, “Untitled”- M

eghan Kissinger, “Story of a leaf”- Chris Kirk

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TheFine Line

The Book Thief Book Trailer Storyboard

Amelia MillerDigital Media

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“Storyboard”- Am

elia Miller

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nKa5GcaU_hw&lr=1&feature=mhee

TheFine Line

A Loss of FaithThe red trail of leaves is the pigment of regret.That regret lies in my heart, for I know I’ve made a mistake.The kind of regret that keeps you awake until3:41 AM each morning.As I walk, the hues of fall remind me of what we once had, an irreplaceable friendship.Something I used to be so afraid to lose.But now it is long lost and long gone, because of actions I will never forget.The shades of the crimson leaves scream at me, “Remember!”I want to ignore the screams, I truly do.How does one forget when they have been hurt?Maybe the firey oak trees will tell me their secrets.Or maybe they are just as betrayed as I.

UntitledScratch BoardSara Senter

Grace Don&on

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My StoryPaddling on the lake in a canoe,“you are just like a full moon,however, you are not the setting sun.”I said to him.Confused, he grabbed a button on the ground.Into the lake it went, it sunk with a clunk.Thunder draws near and we paddle in.The sound of rain, and the loneliness that followsreminds me of what the end of summer meant.Passion would take him away,so we enjoyed every moment in time, momentsthat would soon run out.If I live again, who can tell me now?Will they tell me to do it all differently?Or will it stay the same?I have no idea how we have come this far,maybe it was fate.I’ll travel the world one day, just like he does.I could be anyone out there, but here,black shades hide my face.Perhaps, if I wish upon the sun, the clouds willbreak and the sun will shine through.I think kindly of our yellow dwarf star as it grants my wish.I hope it will never become a possession of another.One day, I will come home, and one will say“look, it is fall.” And then, I may regret leaving.

“A Loss of Faith”- Grace D

onison, “Untitled”- Sara Senter, “M

y Story”- Marianna FiorilloMa$anna Fio$llo

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TheFine Line

Las Nubes en el CieloLas nubes,Tan blancas y libres,Vuelan por el cieloTrayendo la lluvia preciosa a todos.

Trate de atrapar las nubes.Mire sus manos.Verá que los nubes han desparecidosComo los sueños de la noche.

Solo es posible mirar las nubesY esparar que pasarán otra vez. Encontrará que solo hay esperanzaComo los sueños de la noche.

Cuando las nubes están tan altas,Sabrá que siempre hay algo para tratar.Sabrá que las nubes están tan cerca,Pero tan lejos.

Entonces, recordará los sueños,Y tratará de atrapar las nubes otra vez.Verá que ahora, no es nada, Pero es agua en las manos.

Si trata una vez más,Verá que es posible atrapar las nubes.Y sabrá en su corazón,Que los sueños pueden ser la verdad.

The Clouds in the SkyThe clouds,So white and free,Fly around the skyBringing their precious rain to all.

Try to catch the clouds.Look in your hands.You will see that they have disappearedLike midnight dreams.

It’s only possible to watch the cloudsAnd hope that they might pass again.You will find that there is only hope Like midnight dreams.

When the clouds are so high,You will know there is always something to try.You will know the clouds are so close,But so far.

Then, you will remember the dreams,And wou will try to catch the clouds again.You will see that now, it isn’t nothing,But it’s water in your hands.

If you try just once more,You will see that it’s possible to catch the clouds.And you will know in your heart,That your dreams can come true.

Au"in Schinlever22

Las Estrellas

Mira en el cielo y verás el pasadoEl universo desplegado

Y las estrellas expandiéndoseCon luces muy brillantesY con un misterio sin fin

Desde los tiempos antiguosNos han dado curiosidad a todos

Y han forzado al la gente a hacer preguntasSobre el universo

Y sobre la vidaHan guiado a los exploradoresPara descubrir nuevas tierras

Y astrónomosA descubrir nuevos mundos

Y galaxias distantesLas estrellas siempre estarán allí

Para hacer nos explorarY para guiarnos en nuestras exploraciones

Para forzarnos a hacer preguntasSobre misterios sin fin.

The Stars

Look at the sky and you’ll see the pastThe universe unfolding

And the stars expandingWith brilliant lights

And with endless mysteriesFrom ancient times

They have peaked the curiosity of allAnd have forced us to ask questions

About the universeAnd life

They have guided explorersTo discover new lands

And astronomersTo discover new worlds

And distant galaxiesThe stars will always be there

To make us exploreAnd to guide us on our treksTo force us to ask questions

About those endless mysteries.

Tomas Amadeo

“Las Nubes en el Cielo”- A

ustin Shinlever, “Las Estrellas”- Thomas A

madeo

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TheFine Line Untitled

CharcoalGrace Lee

A Universal Solution

I’m tired. I’m hungry. I’m thirsty.Write a poem about it.

I’m stressed. I don’t get this. I don’t know what to do.Write a poem about it.

I have too much work. I shouldn’t be here. This class is too hard.Write a poem about it.

This isn’t fair. That’s not nice.You don’t like it? Write a poem about it.

Molly Perkins

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“A Universal Solution”-M

olly Perkins, “What I Found In M

y Poems”- Kim

DeStefano, “U

ntitled”- Grace Lee

What I Found in My Poems

What a beautiful thing

an ever-repeating cycle.

The slow, cumbersome beat

breaks at the slightest touch

from forgiveness never said.

Salty dots keeping track of the minutes spent in silence.

I will smile and turn my back on what used to be,

but some of us aren’t like that.

If dropped, she won’t be broken.

Be gentle with me, I ask the world,

chin cradled by my hand.

Will anyone save me before I am pulled back under?

Fear is this that takes over my passion.

And when I stop it all comes rushing back to me,

lashing my face from the breeze.

There’s so much to love about a person you hate

A woman’s reflex

is strangling a cotton-like Kleenex

with a smile.

Sun stroking my back

when a crescendo of tears erupt.

But I am a microphone whose partner has left his side,

and I have no idea how I have come this far.

Kim DeStefano

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TheFine Line

Ode to DustIt coats the world;it sparkles in the sun.Befriending everyone it lands on,its journey never ends.One speck of dust,one tiny part of one hundred billion more,sitting upon your desk.Clinging, clinging to everything, everyone.It passes no judgment.Hugging lonely old furniture,or sitting in the abandoned corner behind the couch.Wrapping neglected items in its dusty embrace.The best friend one ever had,loving you until you blow it all away.

UntitledPhotographSarah Bartlett

Ma$anna Fio$llo

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Petrichorthe long dirt road stretched endlesslybeyond sight and round a bendwhere dust unsettled by a restless breathhung on the wavesof the heat baked air.

the dried grasses beside the roaddanced languidly in the stirring breezesending whispers on the windas they collided.

and when the sky opened in furyrain fell to quench the thirstof the sun scorched earththat sighed in ecstasyas the rainbeat upon its back.

the dirt road stretched insidiously out of my sightbeckoning me to its endbeyond the maze of puddlesenticing me with its perfumeof dust after rain.

“Ode to D

ust”- Marianna Fiorillo, “U

ntitled”- Sarah Bartlett, “Petrichor”- Jordan Lassonde

Jordan Lassonde

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UntitledPhotography

Hannah Provost

TheFine Line

Photography

Click, Click, sounds a shutter in the mind. A bright flash shines in the air.Every moment, every image combined.

Fast speed of motion flies by,The shutter pressed with care.Click, Click, sounds a shutter in the mind.

Everyone opens the eyeClear, wide eyes focus and stare.Every moment, every image combined.

The background of the blue skyBrightly shines, the face clear.Click, Click sounds a shutter in the mind.

Emotion and the moments tie.As one perfect pair.Every moment, every image combined.

Claire Ryoo

Machu PicchuPhotographyAmy Usinger

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How My Sister’s Camera Saved My Grade

Some call it art, some call it weird.For me, poetry is joy.Usually. Not right now.

I used to WANT to feel my heart. My life, my soul, beating against my ribs.I used to be gripped by the strange lullaby.Not anymore.

That dusty page in my hand, burned with hot gaze.My eyes have scorched straight through this poem.I know it, but I do not.You do not have to be good, I tell myself.

My footsteps echo to the stageSuddenly, I realize...My eyes are lost in the black type maze,I cannot see through my poetry haze.Hands and heart have sunk with a clunk.

‘Til click of a camera,Like zen-master’s gongRouses me from slumber.

Sister, you are the church bells on Sunday.I am the feather of the eagle.Soaring into the sky, I speak,“O, what a strange parcel of creatures are we!”And I know I will make it through.

Brooke Solomon

“Photography”- Claire Ryoo, “How

My Sister’s Cam

era Saved My G

rade”- Brooke Solomon, “M

achu Picchu”- Am

y Usinger

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TheFine Line

Aux Champs Guy de Maupassant

La première des deux demeures, en venant de la station d’eaux de Rolleport, était occupée par les Tuvache, qui avaient trois filles et un garçon ; l’autre masure abritait les Vallin, qui avaient une fille et trois garçons.

Par un après-midi du mois d’aout, une légère voiture s’arrêta brusquement devant les deux chaumières, et une jeune femme, qui conduisait elle-même, dit au monsieur assis à cote d’elle :

--Oh ! regarde, Henri, ce tas d’enfants ! Sont-ils jolis, comme ça, à grouiller dans la poussière.

Elle s’appelait Mme Henri d’Hubières.

Elle pénétra dans la demeure des paysans.

Alors la jeune femme, d’une voix entrecoupée, tremblante commença :

--Mes braves gens, je viens vous trouver parce que je voudrais bien…je voudrais bien emmener avec moi votre…votre petit garçon…

Les [Tuvache], stupéfaits et sans idée, ne répondirent pas.

Elle reprit haleine et continua.

--Nous n’avons pas d’enfants ; nous sommes seuls, mon mari et moi…nous le garderions…voulez-vous ?

La fermière s’était levée, toute furieuse.

--Vous voulez que j’vous vendions Charlot ! Ah ! mais non ; c’est pas des choses qu’on d’mande à une mère ça ! Ah ! mais non ! Ce serait abomination.

Alors Mme d'Hubières, en sortant, s'avisa qu'ils étaient deux tout petits, et elle demanda :

-- Mais l'autre petit n'est pas à vous ?

Le père Tuvache répondit :

--Non, c'est aux voisins ; vous pouvez y aller si vous voulez.

M. d'Hubières recommença ses propositions.

[Les Vallin] gardèrent longtemps le silence, torturés, hésitants. La femme enfin demanda :

-- Qué qu't'en dis, l'homme ? Il prononça :

-- J'dis qu'c'est point méprisable.

Et la jeune femme, radieuse, emporta le marmot hurlant, comme on emporte un bibelot désiré d'un magasin.

[Charlot] prenait vingt et un ans, quand, [un] soir, au souper il dit aux vieux :

--Faut-i qu'vous ayez été sots pour laisser prendre le p'tit aux Vallin !

Alors le père Tuvache articula :

-- Vas-tu pas nous r'procher d' t'avoir gardé ?

Et le jeune homme, brutalement :

-- Oui, j'vous le r'proche, que vous n'êtes que des niants. Des parents comme vous, ça fait l'malheur des éfants. Qu'vous mériteriez que j'vous quitte. Tenez, j'sens bien que je ferai mieux de n'pas rester ici, parce que j'vous le reprocherais du matin au soir, et que j'vous ferais une vie d'misère. Ça, voyez-vous, j'vous l'pardonnerai jamais !

Alors Charlot tapa du pied et, se tournant vers ses parents, cria :

-- Manants, va !

Et il disparut dans la nuit.

32

translated by Alyssa Roy

Aux Champs The first of the two abodes, coming from the Rolleport spa town, was occupied by the Tuvache family, who had three girls and a boy. The other shack sheltered the Vallin family, who had a girl and three boys.

On an August afternoon, a small carriage stopped abruptly in front of the two cottages, and a young woman, who drove herself, said to the gentleman sitting next to her:

“Oh, look, Henry, this group of children! They’re cute, like this, milling about in the dust.”

Her name was Mrs. Henri d’Hubières.

She entered the peasants’ home.

Then, the young woman, in a broken, trembling voice, began:

“My good people, I’m here today because I want…I want to take with me your…your little boy…”

The Tuvache family, stupefied and clueless, did not answer. She got her breath back and continued.

“We don’t have any children; we’re alone, my husband and I…we will take care of him…okay?”

The farmer’s wife got up, furious.

“You want me to sell you Charlot? But no! That’s not something you ask a mother! But no! That would be an abomination.”

Then, Mrs. d’Hubières, while going out, realized that there were two young ones, and she demanded,

“But the other young one isn’t yours?”

Mr. Tuvache replied,

“No, he’s the neighbors’; you can go there if you want.”

Mr. d’Hubières restarted his propositions.

The Vallin family kept silent for a long time, tortured, hesitant. Mrs. Vallin finally asked:

“What do you say, husband?”

He pronounced, “I say it’s not a bad idea.”

And the young woman, radiant, took away the howling lad, like one takes away a desired trinket from a store.

Charlot reached twenty-one years of age when, one night, at dinner, he said to his old parents:

“Why did you have to be so foolish, letting them take the Vallin kid?”

Then, Mr. Tuvache said,

“You’re not going to reproach us for having looked after you, are you?”

And the young man said, brutally:

“Yes, I’m reproaching you for it, because you’re nothings. Parents like you are misfortunes for their kids. All you deserve is for me to leave you. Well, I know well that I will do better to not stay here, because I would do nothing but reproach you from morning to night, and I would make your life miserable. But see, I’ll never forgive you!”

Charlot stamped his feet, and, turning towards his parents, cried,

“Hicks!”

And he disappeared into the night.

Translated by

Alyssa Roy

33

TheFine Line

The Sun Means no Harm

Emily, does the sun truly bother you so?When you water your flowers every day,Does its golden glow only bring you sorrow?Are you sure you are not grateful for the sun’s rays?

You mention that the morning scorches your cheek.A love for the night and a hate for the day is strange;Perhaps SPF is what you must seek.What is it that gave you a view so deranged?

Does the light reveal that which you wish to keep hidden?Or is life simply so dull that only dreams were fun?The dark, a shroud in which you can do what is forbidden,under your blankets where you hid from the sun?

Were you a vampire, whose complexion betrays his identity,Or a chemobacteria who needs not energy solar?When exposed to light, you may have had my pity.In these cases, I would understand your constant want of night’s cover.

Yet, supernatural you are not, and mammalian you are,so do think kindly upon our yellow dwarf star.

Anupa Murali

UntitledPaper

Christi Kyzynowck 34

1

For though we See, we do not HearWanton songs Looking –– In their MirrorsWe do not hear their Hums and Haws ––Nor do we give the Silence Thought

For though they possess Devoid FeaturesThe Sounds are Fabulously Vain creatures ––They strive to beat the rest in SkillAnd so come Night don Colored Silk

In jewel and gold they fill the hallEyes and Limbs alike –– EnthralledIn Whirling Wander –– across the floorUntil they Mimic Human once more

Weaving notes in Enlivened DanceDainty Footsteps do shake Walls ––Be it Unnoticed or risked ChanceSuch Jeweléd Sounds take no pause

Every Leap Planned so when Placed DownA singing Scale screams its SoundBut now coming of Silent LightPurges Dancers out –– Colors fade White

And as Begun, so now it Ends ––Memories sliding from Clench Closed handsAnd with night’s Grace so soon GoneThey Stumble and Perish in the Rose of Dawn

Amelia Miller

‘The Sun Means no H

arm”- A

nupa Murali, “1”- A

melia M

iller, “Untitled”- Christi Kyzynow

ck

35

TheFine Line

Calcareous Shell

The ocean is not as round as a shell;Its complexion of multiplicities of trianglesSoars beyond the euclidian plane.Finding one unique as all others,Survives as death’s dispensation.Servants toward virtue file toward light,Gold and white deeper than the crescent,Ascend toward the opaque sky.A bleached shell reposes on a dark morning.

Pat Kennedy

A man who set to sea againAt a quarter to three he docks off to sea,A baby blue boat,With white as a feather sails.His only companion, A snailWho only sits and waits, with the old sailorWaiting patiently for the fish in the seaTo catch and cook right, or hungry the sailor will be.

An#ony Johnson

36

UntitledScratch BoardChris Bellino

“Calcareous Shell”- Pat Kennedy, “A man w

ho set to sea again”- Anthony Johnson, “U

ntitled”- Chris Bellino

37

TheFine Line

Whistling Insanity

Bitterly listening to the whistling man.

Ladybug poetry comes from out of his land.

Happiness parallels our anger and grief.

Drifting insanity, we whistle along.

Cackling, laughing, we drift slowly down,

From the highs to the lows we drift with the song,

Insanity grows as we whistle along,

It grabs us, it shakes us, our mind is now gone.

Our whistling grows frantic; we gasp for our breath.

The Whistler smiles, and carries the song.

Blue in the face, we fall to the ground.

The Whistler laughs; we’ve lost the song.

We’ve lost the song.

Ch$s Kirk

UntitledPhotography

Hannah Provost

The Cello’s Tale

A stillness in the atmosphere

Creates an imagination as we close our eyes.

In the moment of the pure perfection of silence,

The world slows down and begins to pause.

A long warm note softly rings out

The sound vibrates, it sadly cries.

The mind floats away into a deep imagination

As another note whines and wails

It echos.

In a state of supreme relaxation,

More notes pile onto each other

One after another, to play a soft sad song.

A tune so astounding, the strings violently ringing together.

The whine and cries of a simple old Cello

It sings, it bellows

its sad story.

With a sound so beautiful, so flawless,

The strings they seem to hum,

Followed by the echoes, as the sound again, starts to fly.

Then a pause,

With a final note that rings out,

As a tear falls from the eye

The Cello has played its song, told us its sad tale.

The audience stands and roars in wondrous applause.

Se# Mayo

“Whistling Insanity”- Chris Kirk, “U

ntitled”- Hannah Provost, “The Cello’s Tale”- Seth M

ayo

39

TheFine Line

Struggle

My life is what makes my education;the purpose, I believe is to transcenda constant struggle against frustration.

Those who seek to make their own salvation,guard themselves with a message that they send,“My life is what makes my education.”

Prideful to the point of degradation,finding refuge in their fault they menda constant struggle against frustration.

To change what I was given at Creation,in hopes of having something at the End,my life is what makes my education.

I try to avoid a negative ramification,I see someone trapped, fighting, in need of a friend;a constant struggle against frustration.

I wait for the future with great anticipation,until the day when others follow my trend.my life is what makes my educationa constant struggle against frustration.

E$c Hambleton

40

The Question

As I stroll along a beaten path,against a wedded pasture,I come upon a cow.She looks at me with kindness I’ve never seen.Her face is brown and she seems to ask,“Where are you going?”Ironically, that’s the question I’m even afraid to ask myself.Yet, I can not share the secrets, even between earsthat could never understand.Or maybe I don’t say because I’m afraidshe too would tell me,“Don’t go.”So I pick up my items I will never needand carry on to a place without questions.

Grace Don&onUntitledCharcol

Evan Song and Mi Jin Na

“Struggle”- Eric Ham

bleton, “The Question”- G

race Donison, “U

ntitled”- Evan Song and Mi Jin N

a

41

TheFine Line

An Infamous Career

It started with a rock. Yes, a rock. After the rock, I was called on by the Divine. He always seemed to talk in riddles, expecting everyone to understand. I did after years of listening. He called me to the throne and informed me of a new job opening. Lucifer, the angel he had asked before, had run away . . . Sort of. If I was aware of the morbidity of the job, I may not have accepted. But it was the rock that started my illustrious and infamous career.

Traveling to earth was not easy, even for someone like me. The other ones laughed when I told them why I was going there. An one had already been sent to earth and was destined to never return. Earth. Terrible name for a place. Looking there, it seemed dried out and deserted. There were only four individuals at the time, and the rock had taken one already. I wandered the earth, searching for the four people. (At the time, all the landforms were connected, so oversea travel was not necessary for me). Divine had told me that my goal would be nearby to the other one he had sent to earth and destined to never return. He was the guardian of a green utopia; something that would never be achieved in all the years and generations of people on earth.

" It was strange. The very first death on earth was intentional. (Humans later called it “murder”). One brother (the older) had smashed the other brother’s

head in with a rock. My Divine had confronted the “murderer,” (as humans later called it.) He was ashamed of his creation and banished him to eat dirt or something. Divine did give him a crescent shaped scar on his upper left forehead as a warning: if you wrong this guy, he’ll be avenged sevenfold. I had to find the younger brother. It wasn’t hard to follow the scarlet trail.

" The younger brother was lying on the ground. His head was mashed to a pulp. The murder had occurred elsewhere, where Divine confronted the murdering brother. He heard his younger brother’s ‘blood crying from the soil.’ What does that even mean? Blood doesn’t cry; it doesn’t even talk! It seems Divine doesn’t know his creations very well. The pulp did not even vaguely resemble a head; fragments of his skull were lying in the general vicinity. They were covered in crispy blood. His grayish pink brain was still leaking between cracks in the fragments, but what I was assigned to retrieve was not there.

" I searched the area for the brother’s shade. Finally I found it sitting by the river, weeping. “How could he have done this to me?” he howled. I assumed he was talking about the brother who had killed him.

" I walked to him, unsure of what to say. Being something of an outcast where I was from, talking to someone I do not know, not necessarily my spiritual equal, seemed difficult. So I just let words flow

42

“An Infam

ous Career”- Mark Kelly

from my mouth, “Hello.” It was easier than I thought.

" The boy’s shade looked up. He was very similar to me and the other ones. However, he simply turned back and continued to howl at the river. I sat beside him on the bank and put my arm around him, “Well, you will go down in history as the first victim of murder. It is indeed an honor,” I said. This did not make the boy feel better, he howled even louder. “It’s not just your fault. Your parents are responsible for the horrors that will come to this world,” I should have though through what I was saying throughout this conversation. I was not used to grieving conversations. (I would have to get used to it for my job).

" “If you’re trying to make me feel better, you’re doing a terrible job,” the boy said.

" “You are simply a victim of jealousy. Your brother regrets it, I know he does,” I placed my hand on his shoulder. “Come with me,” I said. This time, the boy did not argue. He stood up and walked with me for a while until he was ready to walk alone.

" And so my job began: finding the shades of living beings and escorting them to the appropriate place, depending on whether their soul was white or black.

Some shades had to wait a while before I could get around to them. There were so many to pick up, and the black souls that

I had to escort to Lucifer took a while. He was the “king” of what lay beyond the gates where I put the ne’er-do-wells. Soon, it would be called ‘Hell.’ I saw him sometimes. He came to me and other shades as a black gas shaped as a person. It was impossible for his true form to escape the icy, lowest level of Hell.

Anyway, the shades that had to wait cried often because they thought that my Divine had “forgotten them,” and was leaving them in the limbo of life and death. Well, I can travel fast, but sometimes the shades take their time. I even allowed some of them to stay on earth and watch people they knew, or visit places they wanted to but didn’t have the chance to in life. Humans are unbelievably impatient and ignorant. Even their shades.

That is the most abridged version of my story. It is not something people will find in a novel or a movie, but I am somewhat proud. No human really know it, but they know who I am. Since the first civilization, they have feared and respected me. The later and more popular depiction of me is interesting. It is morbid and amusing, yet universal to the world. Early in my career I decided to go with it. I morph into different shapes, but I prefer that one. The other ones gave me the robe and I easily shaped my face and body. And Lucifer gave me the scythe.

Mark Kelly

43

TheFine Line

Light Switch in the Dark

Search the walls for a light switch in the dark,Look for the answer to illuminate your life.Feel the smooth surface of the painted wall.Blindly assume you are near.Really, though, you are in a mystery.You remove your hand and begin again.Position it on an untraveled path.You find it like a deer finds an arrow.You flip it, the light shines in your life.You have spent all this time in darkness.Being so close to the answer.All you needed to do was try something new,Search where it didn’t make sense,Ask strange question questions,Dare to go where you haven’t.

E$c Hambleton

44

Single Thought

I’ll travel about the world.My feet are dangling off the edge.Memories, a story unanswered. Unable to be decoded.A mystery.There is silence, and noise.So I sit here listening, there is that chill of quiet and still, seeming ten times larger than I.Secret.Gone-Almost forgotten.Games are played.Silent danger.Is this all?This thought could accompany my mind forever.

Alina Howland

“Light Switch in the D

ark”- Eric Ham

bleton, “Single Thought”- Alina H

owland, “U

ntitled”- Christopher Bellino

UntitledPen

Christopher Bellino45

TheFine Line

The Restless ResearcherHe never thought that he would become a jet-setter. The times he had spent, holding a swizzle stick above his coffee, trying to make sense out of equations and relationships on musty, yellow parchment under the urban Torontonian glow, mostly yielded fruitless ideas: still, like long-poisoned bodies of water. But occasionally, he’d reach a splashier puddle. He’d smile at this, and stop at a restaurant for ratatouille- one of his favorite gastronomic delights. A smattering of occasional fun is harmless. In his comfortable office at the University, he thought continuously of discovering intergalactic frontiers. Occasionally, he would look out at the vibrant autumnal colors and the bourgeois life led by the less profound people. The abattoir within his heart was urging him to do more than sit on his rump and think. So he jumped at the opportunity to travel stated in his worker’s journal. Once he set his feet on the first plane, he held no more desire for all things homely. His spirit seemed to crescendo, resisting the fascist bosses that forced him to work. He was ebullient; he had finally learned what vitality is. When he returned, he found that, due to his wayward impulses, his bosses saw him no longer fit for his job. At his protests, they told him that he can justify himself to their Justice Department.

Anupa Murali

46

Prose Poem In the lounge, the jet setter sat, twisting the swizzle stick around the edge of the glass. Torontonians don’t go south for the winter, but during the splash of the season, it becomes appropriate. His mother’s ratatouille called, his gastronomic enzymes longed to break it up. Despite the smattering of clouds in the distance, the sky was calm. His homecoming could only be halted by intergalactic forces. An autumnal hue of shallow light which hung overhead kept the bourgeois ambiance at bay. From the abattoir of feelings that existed, a double-helix of vowels and consonants emerged from his fascist tonsils. Until then, the aroma of cigarettes and aged citrus had crippled the normally ebullient vitality of the young man. Instantaneously, his pupils constricted, yielding the pathway of light reflecting from a badge that read “United States Department of Justice.”

UntitledMixed MediaJourdain Bell

Alina Howland

“The Restless Researcher”- Anupa M

urali, “Prose”- Alina H

owland, “U

ntitled”- Jourdain Bell

TheFine Line

Falling to youI fell from the forty-fifth floor

and landed in your armsfrom the forty-fifth floor I fell

and surely should have died

but the fall did not kill meand the landing

was landing on a cloudon a sunny day

in an azure sky

Jordan Lassonde

I’ll spend forever wondering if you knewThat I always turned on my night light when you were gone.And when you weren’t around, I was lost.I just couldn’t tell you that you were my diamond sky,But you should have known.Without you, I came undone.

B$d't Sica48

A malfunction of the Heart

My heart is made of Screws & Bolts,It does not beat but beeps and purrs.My wish would be to make it love.My hope would be to make it real.Mechanics tried to fix its tricks, yet every time it was the sameA period of blood and life, ended by piercing shrapnel.An untrained man gave it a go; what he was getting into, he didn’t know.It started like the others did, but the skin turned to steel again.I didn’t tell him to save his pride, though he could see it in my eyes.He stared right through my silicone soul and said “I love you.”I felt a beat…

Jared Robe(s

On Cavalry HillAcrylicMaggie MacMullin

“Untitled”- Bridget Sica, “Falling to you”- Jordan Lassonde, “A m

alfunction of the Heart”- Jared Roberts, “O

n Cavalry Hill”- M

aggie MacM

ullin49

TheFine Line

from Chapter 12

Cannery Row:A Graphic Novel

Meaghan Tosi

50

“Cannery Row: A graphic novel”- M

eaghan Tosi

from Chapter 4

from Chapter 851

TheFine Line

from Chapter 15

52

“Cannery Row: A graphic novel”- M

eaghan Tosi

from Chapter 2853

TheFine Line

YouYou are the walk back home, the smoky haze around the campfire.You are the lights on the lake at night.

However, you are not the setting sun, or the zipper on the jacket,and certainly you are not the crisp autumn air.

It is possible that you are the passenger in the car, maybe even the deck of cards,but you are not even close to being the snow on the ground.

I am the flip flops in the pine needles, the slamming screen door behind us, and the open book on the porch.

I am also the paddle, and the raincoat.

But don’t worry, I am not the walk back home.You are the walk back home.You will always be the walk back home.

Liza Schoe)n'r

54