Paper Souls

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Paper Souls

BY CLARISSE SUGAR

It was a dry winter day. The kind that peels your lips and freezes your bare fingers. I walked across the school parking lot. The pavement matched the ashy sky. The colors reminded me of senior year—the grey of lost friendships and broken trust.

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The Ball

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The Ball

BY JACOB NANO

Touchdown! I scored again. For that day, it wasn’t a big deal. It was just one of many that I managed to pull off against my peers. It was a beautiful New England afternoon. It was 50 degrees with a slight breeze. Perfect football weather.

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The House That Built Me

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The House That Built Me

BY SAVANNAH D’AGOSTINO

I remember it like it was yesterday, sitting in my sophomore English class, reading a poem that at the time was solely a poem. But as I sat down to write my college essay as a senior, the connections started to float into my head; my childhood is almost an exact representation of “The Small Cabin,” a poem written by Margaret Atwood.

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Spotlights

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Spotlights

BY ERIN ADAMS

I have always belonged on the stage, dressed in some ridiculous costume with my face caked with makeup and my hair frozen in place with a whole bottle of hairspray. It didn’t matter the role, whether I was caste as ensemble or a dead child who springs in and out of the stairs at midnight every night, I put my everything into it.

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Enlightening Poverty

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Enlightening Poverty

BY ANTHONY ORTWEIN

My philosophy of school over the years of elementary and middle school was to go because my mom told me to. Grades were never really my top priority for a majority of my life. If I got good grades, good for me. My family didn’t really care as long as I stayed out of trouble and didn’t get too bad of grades—basically a C or better.

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The Deep, Rough Purr of the Engine

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The Deep, Rough Purr of the Engine

BY NATE THOMAS

I got off the bus on 4th street. When I signaled for the stop, the driver seemed confused, but I didn’t engage in fear of conversation. I knew why he seemed confused. I got off the route 4 bus on Pearl St. every weekday for the past three years.

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Competition

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Competition

BY JARROD ROBERTS

These are the vines that bind.

Your movement will slow

Your options taken

Hope will leave with your breath

Knot, constrict, and devastate

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Travelling Companion

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Travelling Companion

BY JARROD ROBERTS

i like the view

do you see it like i do

i know i have only seen one of your skies

october was a good month for it

but i wish i saw more

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Popcorn Theater

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Popcorn Theater

BY JARROD ROBERTS

This would be a pretty bad movie

writing a stilly poem

a silly poem about myself.

A coming of age movie of a kid

a kid whose family travels around the world

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To the Mountains

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To the Mountains

BY RYAN MOUNT

When we were six

I moved in next door.

You and your family baked my family brownies

And we instantly became friends

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When Adam Laid With Eve

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When Adam Laid With Eve

BY JANELLE COX

He rose to his knees and hovered over her on the twin- sized bed of his small townhouse bedroom. The desk had books on it thrown about and the TV, which sat on top of the frame, was on a sports network she did not recognize. He had piles and piles of shoeboxes under his bed next to his storage bins of clothes, drawer, and mini fridge.

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Upbeat

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Upbeat

BY VINCENT TEVNAN

Words become impossible to string together

When my synapses misfire in tangled disarray

The illusion of choice starts to make sense

As my bleary eyes struggle to stay hinged open.

The illusion of choice starts to make sense

As my bleary eyes struggle to stay hinged open.

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Antithesis

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Antithesis

BY VINCENT TEVNAN

The feeling cannot be expressed

In a matter of a few words.

That late evening, or perhaps early morning

When saying ‘Goodbye’ was akin to counting the stars in the galaxy

That late evening, or perhaps early morning

When saying ‘Goodbye’ was akin to counting the stars in the galaxy

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Home

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Home

BY VINCENT TEVNAN

To the individual who coined the phrase:

“Home is where the heart is,”

must have been thinking of the tangible.

A home where birthdays were held;

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The Rush

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The Rush

BY MARISA CHAMBERS

“This elevator is a piece of shit.” The extremely abrasive assistant manager, Becky, spoke aggressively with her hair in a bun tied tight enough to give someone a migraine. She furiously pressed the 5th floor button repeatedly as if that would make the elevator unstuck.

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Not Your Business

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Not Your Business

BY MARISA CHAMBERS

I lower the onion rings into the grease and hear the sizzling of the hot oil as it splatters onto my hairy arm. I don’t even feel the burning sensation anymore since this has happened to me since I started working my family’s restaurant at age fourteen.

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