2015 Outer Limits - Hinghamhpswebs.hinghamschools.com/hhs/teachers/afennelly/2015 Outer Limit… · Ode to Why 11 By Ryan ... Your mother did not put a spark inside your soul So you

TheOuter

Limits

H.H.S.2015

2 Hingham High School’s

I. Poetry

Forgotten Pleasures 4By Abby Ruggiero

A Reason to Smile 4By Emma Ryan

Artwork “Time” 4By Sarah Murphy

Artwork “New York, 5 New York”By Ali Weaver

Land of Throw Away 5By James Roegner

Rain 5By Ryan McAuliffe

Artwork “Stare” 6By Hannah Kornack

The Masked Soul 6By Nora Hill

Artwork “Panda” 6By Hannah Bosnian

My Little Bunny 6By Sophie Paven

A World of Difference 7By Shira Berkin

Artwork “Spring” 7 By Megan Hogan

What is Love? 7By Claire Stone

Artwork “Take the Plunge” 7By Morgan Nuttall

Artwork “Stature” 8By Ali Weaver

Forest Fire 8By Julia Monz

Sarah 9By Jill Lemcke

Artwork “Laundromat 9 Personas”By Ali Weaver

Artwork “Mirror View” 9By Margot Murphy

Disillusioned 9By Matt Dwyer

Artwork “Reborn” 10By Ali Weaver

The Black Rose 10By Kalie McIntyre

to the 2015 edition of The Outer Limits, Hingham High School’s creative magazine.The Outer Limits is an eclectic mix of poems, stories, sketches, and photography.Students who would like to submit work or help design next year’s edition, pleasesee Ms. Fennelly in room 184.

Cover art, “Diamond Girl,” by Ali Weaver, class of 2015Editing, layout, and design by Ms. Fennelly, adviser

W e l c o m e

It ain’t any Good, 10but it’s not that BadBy Christian Gervasi

Mother 10By Brittney Diersch

Insight 10By Collin Bonnell

Thought Bubble 10By Haley Pichard

Artwork “Spiral” 10By Margeaux Fortin

Court Conspiracy 11By Abbi Ruggiero

Ode to Why 11By Ryan McAuliffe

Artwork “Interpretation” 11By Hannah Kornack

Piano Sonnet 12By Karen Ji

The Manipulation and 12 Obsessions of a MontagueA Found Poem forRomeo and JulietBy Sophie Paven

3The Outer Limits

Artwork “Dreaming of You” 12By Kaitlin Welch

I Pet Thee Too Harsh 13 A Found poem forRomeo and JulietBy Claire Bochman

Winter 13By Karen Ji

Artwork “Silly Little Birds” 13By Ellis Boyd

Artwork “Glasses” 14By Tamuyen Do

Summer Days 14By Anna Reaman

A Spring Orchestra 14By Margeaux Fortin

Artwork “Black and 14White Flowers”By Kai Li Cummings

Andromeda 15By Caroline Leduc

Artwork “Floating Ice” 15By Eric Sullivan

Artwork “The Twelve 15Dancing Princesses”By Morgan Nuttall

Rusted Memories 15By Claire Bochman

The Fern 16By Emma Ryan

Artwork “Black and 16White”By Lauren Kourafas

II. Prose

“...Imitation is suicide…” 19By Sarah Randall

Artwork “Eraser” 19By Mackenzie Manning

Artwork “Beach at Night” 16By Quinn Sullivan

Sonnet 16By Dan Carr, Noah Goodman,Jonas Fryer, and Mr. Raymond

A Smaller Half 17Inspired by Yu Hua’s To LiveBy Isabel Allen

Artwork “Teeth of 17Wisdom”By Kristin Saleski

Loneliness 18By Shea Kushnir

Not Just a Clock 18By Halle Sullivan

Artwork “Clock” 18By Tamuyen Do

“Irene”By Sofia Siriani

Grade 11

“Also Pretty Weathered” 20By Ellis Boyd

The Incident 20By Gregory Kaulins

The Lineup 21By Olivia Million

“Morning Ride” 21By Eric Sullivan

Sold Short 22By Ryan McAuliffe

Artwork “50 Dollars 23Later”By Peter Durkin

Uncle Rickie’s 25By Katie McDowell

“Sea Glass” 25By Kai Li Cummings

Nerve 26By Dan Carr

Artwork “City View”By Margaret Strehle


Forgotten PleasuresBy Abby RuggieroGrade 12

The roots tangled underneath cold, wet soil,Nurturing our treesAre forgotten.

Now, noises linger in the air,A constant echo of voices never silenced,A peace less chaos.

In the depths of the forest,A sparkling lake,An inspiration.

We find ourselves,AloneBeneath a starry night.

There, time,Misplaced and unwanted,Leaves us, only to be returned.Breath,Our priceless hero,Wasted and upraised,With it a devil,But lifeless without it.

A Reason to SmileBy Emma Ryan

Grade 9

My thimble sits upon my simple thumb.New Orleans shines in its clouded reflection.

The singing memory is now a hum,But I still wear my thimble with affection.Remembering the nights spent absorbing,

The jazz, the food, the never-ending noise.The nights I walked in company exploring,

A foreign city, broke by crooked poise.A dimly lit jewel gilded by the band

Housed great music I enjoyed in ardor.A gift for the enthusiast at hand,

My thimble holds these memories in harbor.Time tries to steal these thoughts in acts of guile,

But my thimble still gives reason to smile.

“Time”By Sarah Murphy

Grade 12Tomorrow comes,Crowded with brightlights and dirtysidewalks,To savor us,Americans,And our memories.

Today, we live in darkness,While experiencing light,Singing for our future,And moving forwardevery day.

5The Outer Limits

RainBy Ryan McAuliffe

Grade 12

The rain now falls,Pounding on the puddles-

Sounding like muffled bulletsShooting towards the ground.

The water leaks throughThe roof, making us

WetCold

And miserable.

The storm soon shall pass.The sun will come out

And the world will dry.You can do as you like,

But first I will fix the leaksAnd be ready for the next storm.

Land of Throw AwayBy James RoegnerGrade 12 Nothing’s sacred anymoreIn our land of throw away-Men so rich with souls so poorFar hath we gone astray. Landfills are our dearest friendPlastic is our savior-To the pile our things we sendTo gain the corporate favor. Nothing’s sacred anymoreGone is all tradition-The fakeness that we all adoreIs man’s last ambition. On our shirts we wear our GodsA logo or an emblem-So things may rule o’er us sodsAnd we might not resent them.

“New York, New York”By Ali WeaverGrade 12


My Little BunnyBy Sophie PavenGrade 9

His glassy eyes both stare right into mine.They tell of parents eager, full of hope.Go back to when they signed the dotted line,And off he went to join me in Yangzhou.His pink coat roughened from the many years,When long ago my father came to meet.And Chinese rain fell heavy like his tears,For in the flesh, united, you and me.His cotton ears flop down about the head;The head that left his home through airplane glass.Yet father, golden-hearted, turned and said,“Oh, this is now your future; lose the past.”For fifteen years we celebrate that day,And in those eyes I see my father’s face.

The Masked Soul By Nora Hill

Grade 9

A fake smile, A plastered face

As you slowly wither away.You ask yourself continuously,

“what’s the matter anyway?”Your “friends” at school, You see them every day.

But when you need them, they seem to...

look away.The way you talk,

The way you walk, With your straight up,

So high. But when the crowd disperses,

It’s time to leave.You go back home,

You Cry. You look into that glassy mirror and ask

“Who Am I?”

“Stare”By Hannah KornackGrade 12

“Panda”By Hannah Bosnian

Grade 12

7The Outer Limits

A World of DifferenceBy Shira BerkinGrade 9

The world is full of flowers;But we would never know.We only see the tallest ones;Blooming just for show.The smallest flowers never last,The middle sorts may differ;But viewing just the tallest flowers,Makes the others wither.

“What is love?”Is it the birds and the bees,or that feeling you get in your kneeswhen they put you at ease.

Is it what you feel orIs it what you swore?Is it a word of four orIs it not wanting more?

“Spring” By Megan Hogan

Grade 9

What is Love?By Claire Stone

Grade 10Love is stopping life’s repetition-

no matter the demolition-It’s putting your feelings in the ignition,

Without any stalling inhibitions.

Love is when you’re willing to go the distancewithout anyone’s intrusive assistance.

Using true consistence,You can learn what love is.

“Take thePlunge”

By MorganNuttall

Grade 12


Forest FireBy Julia Monz

Grade 11

They say that Each girl is Each girl

isborn with an ember,

a glow in her soul.With each year,

Its flames reach higher and higherUntil in her body there is

a bonfire of love and light. But sometimes the flames turn black

With anger and hatred and fear.And sometimes,

The ember gets lostOr broken.

And sometimes it gets stolenBy thick words and groping hands.

But no matter what No matter who takes your flame

away from you,No matter how much gets charred,

No matter how much you get burned,There will always be one ember

One lifeline that connects all women And it can reignite your inherent inferno.

Your mother did not puta spark inside your soul

So you could be a waning candleIn a dimly lit room.

She put it there so you could Be a conflagration,

a wild and blazing bright,Forging your own pathAnd willing to destroy

Any wall, plant, or social constructThat gets in your way.

Do not put out your fireto save the trees.

“Stature”By Ali WeaverGrade 12

9The Outer Limits

DisillusionedBy Matt Dwyer

Grade 11

I dumped the heavy coat,I shed my cocoon,

But my new wings soon brokeJust like they used to.

I wear them very wellNow that I can,

But they’re falling apart,And I thought I was a new man.

Just like the concealing cloak,The dark ugly hide,

The wings will always mirror What’s on the inside.

SarahBy Jill LemckeGrade 10

Ain’t nobody worrying about me.They’re too busy worrying about something else.Ain’t nobody worrying about me.They’re too busy trying to save themselves.Ain’t nobody worrying about me,Too busy in their own world.Ain’t nobody worrying about me,Looking for their own hero.Ain’t nobody worrying about meCause they don’t knowNo, No, NoWhat lurks-What hides-The demons inside.They scream, don’t you know?The twists- they tell me,The turns-they yell at me.Don’t know where to turn,But ain’t nobody worrying about me.When will they worry?When will they care?When will they be sorry?When it’s on the news:Girl found dead.

“Laundromat Personas”By Ali Weaver

Grade 12

“Mirror View”By Margot MurphyGrade 9


“Reborn”By Ali WeaverGrade 12 The Black Rose

By Kalie McIntyreGrade 10

Symbols of the dark,Between beauty and violence,Shown through black petals.

It ain’t any Good,but it’s not that BadBy Christian Gervasi

Grade 10

My life is changing.Not as good as I once was.

But I ain’t half bad.

InsightBy Collin Bonnell

Grade 10

When Memories die,He who forgets is doomed to

repeat old mistakes.

MotherBy Brittney DierschGrade 10

warm smile, sparkling eyeslistens with arms wide open I love my mother

Thought BubbleBy Haley Pichard

Grade 10

Floating overheadMysterious objects roam

Can you handle truth?

“Spiral”By Margeaux FortinGrade 9

11The Outer Limits

Court ConspiracyBy Abbi RuggieroGrade 12

The Court,an untamed Devil,fearsome of rebellion desired Death,without sufficient evidence.Examinations,trials,and accusationscrammed the Salem jail.Silence spoke,with few confessions,and NO proof of unnatural life.Prisoners of Court damned their soulsGod forgotten.Faith lost.Innocence failed to see the sun rise.Execution was Destiny.Challenge or Disagreement rumored guilt.NO escape or remedy.Decisions executed ONLY by the Court.Sins found no resolution.Life hung between Heaven and Hell.There were DOUBTS of higher opinion.Was the stench of witchcraft mistaken?NO forgiveness for the un-returnable dead.

Ode to WhyBy Ryan McAuliffe

Grade 12

What is Why?It is not merely something preceded by “x”

And followed by “MCA.”Nor is it just three letters

Arranged to make that sound.Why is not some pathetic

“What?”Or

“Where?”It is always followed by its lover-

Because.Why is the ability to question

What is really going on.Why allows us to see

(or not see)Gods.

Why has toppled empiresAnd planted the seeds of liberty.

Why is power.Without Why,

Poets would be“Who?”

Without Why,America would be

“Where?”And without Why,

Philosophy would be“What?”

Why has defined our namesAnd the names of those we love.

Why calls us to action,Perhaps you should follow-

Why not?

“Interpretation”By Hannah KornackGrade 12


Piano SonnetBy Karen JiGrade 9

If water and the piano are parallel,Then water must be filled with happiness.The pleasant chimes like droplets in a well.The fluttering tones, like streams, are full of bliss,If water and the piano breathe the same,Then tranquil tides reflect the high’s and low’s,From strong enough to snuff an angry flame,Or trickling down an angled slope. Although—If water and the piano are alike,Then water must disturb the sailing skiffs.Stiff fingers cause vibrations as they strike,The wood on strings like waves on jagged cliffs,And when the music surges up and down,Its swelling flood cloaks sorrow with a gown.

The Manipulation and Obsessions of a MontagueA Found Poem for Romeo and Juliet

By Sophie PavenGrade 9

He who sighs out of loveHast nothing but love to give

In a siege of loving termsAnd a tender kiss.

But he, the lusty gentleman,Hast nothing but sin

And more love for himself.He who hath sparkling eyes and gentle touch

Will follow and trespass walls upon night,For limits doth not hold him out.

His smooth flattering will withdraw any protest;And, out of love, she will stay.

She will allow a favour under his touchFor his faithful joy and happiness.

But if he bid her to come,And she doth not ope her lap to him,

In one minute he shall withdraw, unsatisfied;And she will stand, being vex’d, at the dislike in his eyes.

His gaze will break and turn to anotherTo look for an adventure with other sweet merchandise,

And for more lies and heavy burden.For Romeo, the stony gentleman of love and hate,

shall sin again.

“Dreamingof You”By KaitlinWelchGrade 12

13The Outer Limits

I Pet Thee Too HarshA Found poem for Romeo and JulietBy Claire BochmanGrade 9

Thou shalt stumblest upon my counsel?Confess thy love for me.I wilt bring thee drunk satisfaction.Thee, not death shall steal my maidenhead.Sinful love will never stop by the lark.Eternal thrill spent together-we will meet again.Allow me to behold thou?Confess thee love for me.Pray upon my lips and breath upon my mouth.Call for me, return for me,but thou wilt not leave me.Confess thee love for me!

Sudden business hath occured-Never be nightingale again.No more love and thrill shall lay,For sin I hath done.Pet thee, a bird, too harsh.I pet thee too harsh.I never wished for thee to hither away.I told thee to stay.Lurking smell of blood so sweet,Suddenly thee lay at my feet.I confess, yet if onlyThou hadst remained in my bounty,

WinterBy Karen Ji

Grade 9

The first snowflake falls,The beginning of a wonderful time of the year!

The world is coated in white and Christmas time is here.The new year is near!

It’s winter!What a beautiful sight it is!

White wisps of frozen water whisper,It’s winter!

The first blizzard strikes,The chilling air leaks in through

the open front doors,Waking up to a new set of chores,

Shoveling through snow and planning resolutions,It’s winter.

The third, fourth, fifth snowstorms hit!It’s tiring to see

the world covered in white,nature withering beneath

the cold carpet that coats the earth,It’s winter.

My light love would notprove strange.Love’s passion did nothold back for me,Yet for thee, a thousandtimes too rash.I am sorry how thisfortune ended.

“Silly Little Birds”By Ellis Boyd

Grade 12


A Spring OrchestraBy Margeaux FortinGrade 9 Spring drapes a cloak of warmth on frosted fields.The white quilt of winter is tossed aside.Umbrellas acting as rain fighting shields.Only a moment I feel glum inside.Spring awakens buds from a deep slumber.Tulips stretch their leaves and yawn at the sky.Orchestras play a musical number.Kids splash through puddles and stand to drip dry.Clouds rain dozens of kisses on the buds.Buds open their brightest summer bonnets,put on bright green gowns to welcome the floods.They greet the flood with raised black clarinets.A cold wet tear brings relief to the land.Spring puts on a show, oh how very grand.

Summer DaysBy Anna Reaman

Grade 9

Summer days are amazing,With fabulous weather,

And I couldn’t ask for anything,Anything much better.

We sing and we dance,We run and we play,

We meet up with friendsEvery single day.

June is warm,July is hot.

August is warm,September is not.

As summer comes to an end,And the beginning becomes a haze,

All we need to remember,Are those fun summer days.

“Glasses”By Tamuyen DoGrade 12

“Black and White Flowers”By Kai Li Cummings

Grade 12

15The Outer Limits

Rusted MemoriesBy Claire Bochman

Grade 9

Oh, solemnly looking towards the shoe,My mind extends and recollects past rust?Questioning enjoyable thoughts now blue,Despite brushing off aging times old dust.

Remaining close with her, yes I do stay,Together held through translucent ties,

And like the shoe’s crevice, loaded with hay,The dirt still stuck like glue, despite time’s fly.

I think about our walk through the trail,Four feet together destroying fallen leaves,

Until appeared Scylla, who tripped me frail-Blue avoided my back, but oh so relieved.

Though sorrow remains with her absence still,This shoe does provoke gratefulness to fill.

AndromedaBy Caroline LeducGrade 9

Twasn’t my mind that turned foully corrupt,But the icy path being stumbled on,Or perhaps it was my fate- turned abruptBy thousands of steps in wrong dimension.They weep in terror of the near future,Clinging sadly upon the wisps of hope,like needles and threads pulling the suture.In darkest hours only silver smokes,With shadows dancing across the canvas.I hold my fears in the back of my mind,Using string to keep me on my axis,Lest I falter and spill the things I bind.The summer winds don’t stroke my rising fears,But only the foreign lock aids my steers.

“The Twelve Dancing Princesses”By Morgan NuttallGrade 12

“Floating Ice”By Eric Sullivan

Grade 9


The FernBy Emma RyanGrade 9

Forgettable, insignificant With no special tone,When passersby are ignorantIts beauty is never known.

But when discovered,When noticed-A silent jewel uncovered,It’s beauty is focusedAs each leaf unravels, grows, presentsTo the world for all to walk by and ignore it.

SonnetBy Dan Carr, Noah Goodman,

Jonas Fryer, and Mr. RaymondThe Fiction Club

The death from which the plant has flourish’d-Man, mask, a seed of thou willow,

Think, it seems, covered redA plant I know

No more.Too dark, two brightConflict rises, galore!

A man, a plant, a place . . . a sight.To live awake will cut the heart too soon

To life amidst fog, the dirt, the grass, the rattleUnseen, lying warmly as breeze has blown under the moon,But yet again, I am a man, a plant! A soldier in life’s battle.

Suppose no knows of which the earth so grows cannot upon the mind, he will fall.

“Black and White”By Lauren Kourafas

Grade 11“Beach at Night”By Quinn SullivanGrade 12

17The Outer Limits

A Smaller HalfInspired by Yu Hua’s To LiveBy Isabel AllenGrade 11

Dirt suffocates my fingertips as I keep digging;my callused skin stained by the brown mud.The hot, stagnant air is my cage.Sweat cools my forehead, drippingas the burning sun stares down at me,and we play chicken.

Weeks and weeks of this monotonypass by like the churning of steel.Needles shoot down my back and knees.But still I crouch and I dig. Not for my body, but for my heart.Bend, balance, bleed, blister.My head throbs.

I know I am missing out on the others’ conversations,but sound seems only to be a distraction.Exhaustion and I dig together in my silence,but he is moving faster than me.My hollow stomach urges me onas does the sight of my hungry family.

The sun moves west in the sky each day;my ambition slips away.Another loss for today.Shadows stretch, and so do I.

But wait! Beneath my fingers,the rough earth meets an amorphous shapeand I lift the treasure from the warm soil below.A tear breaks through against the sweat on my cheek.

A sweet potato.

Pure gold.I hide it quick.

Wang Si strides overand my heart

suddenly dropsdown

to my numb feet.

He rips the hope out of my weak grip.My fear is reality.

I open my mouth to scream,but my anger condenses to boiling tears.

Father comes over to pull me away from aggression.Crying blurs my vision, and suddenly I feel alone.

No light and no sound and no speech.Only my emotions build up inside,

escaping when my eyes clear to see the thief go,swaggering away with my sweet potato.

He claims that he found it.

I find myself picking up a hoeand I swing it with newfound energy.

But Wang Si ducks to avoid the blow.I pay for my rage.

So I sit on the ground with a stinging, red cheek.My eye begins to swell.

But by the time I lay downto put my eyes to rest,

my mind can lay, too, at ease.

Negotiations were made that day,and at least my family got to sharea smaller half of the sweet potato.

“Teeth of Wisdom”By Kristin SaleskiGrade 12


“Clock”By Tamuyen Do

Grade 12

Not Just a ClockBy Halle SullivanGrade 9

Seconds pass, then minutes, then hours.Each moment that passes is another I will never get back.Time shifts.My heart beats like the tick tock of the clock.Each moment that passes is another I will never get back.My life ticks with the clock, one less minute, one less moment.My heart beatslike the tick tock of the clock.Tick tock, tick tock...My life ticks with the clock, one less minute,one less moment.The hands on the clock never slow.Tick tock, tick tock...The clock ticks away a lifetime.The hands on the clocknever slow.Seconds pass, then minutes,the hours.The clock ticks away a lifetime.Time shifts.

That sinking feelingLike nothing is around you.You are falling,But no one is catching you.Suddenly everything is still-The sounds around you areMuted out by all the questions.You feel so shaken,Like a tree after a snow storm.Your own skin doesn’t even feel comfortableAnymore.The world is spinning and you don’t knowHow to stop it.Are you happy, sad, disappointed?No. I am angry-No one cares-No one tried to save me-

They just stared and mocked meAs I stood there,

My heart tremblingAnd my head confused.

They extended no hand to grasp the weight,Deeper and deeper-

It gets overwhelming.Why is it so heavy to carry?

Then suddenly,It’s gone.

Every hand comes to extend,Reminded that mocking is wrong.

I pretend everything is fine,But I know the truth.

I know who you really are.

LonelinessBy Shea Kushnir

Grade 9

19The Outer Limits

White-hot light sears my retinas. I stuff my fingers into my ears toescape the horrendous clanging that assaults me. Glancing around theroom, my classmates are silent in spite of the sensory cacophony I’mreceiving. “How can they stand this,” I silently bemoan. You might be

“Eraser”By Mackenzie Manning

Grade 12

“…Imitation is suicide…”By Sarah RandallGrade 11

thinking that I’m being tortured but, for me, this is just an average day in my autistic life.If you haven’t guessed already, I’m taking a history test right now. The light is an ordinary fluores-

cent overhead. The clanging, a heater stirring to life.My fingers are tapping at a maddening pace. I have to leave. I turn in my desk to look at my

teacher. Her forehead is furrowed as she scrolls through something on her computer. I scowl and lookback at my paper. She wouldn’t help me. After all, I’m the same kid who had asked if we needed one orfifteen timelines for the APUSH summer assignment because I didn’t understand the directions. “Seri-ously?” she’d responded with eyebrows raised. I responded affirmatively and people started laughing. Oh,I had thought to myself, that was sarcastic. That kind of stuff usually goes over my head.

But back to my test. What I’mexperiencing right now is sensory overload.It is an almost daily torment for autistics.With allistics (non-autistic people), thesenses are regulated in an average, balancedway. For autistics, our senses are like alightboard being manned by an overlyenthusiastic technician. “Let’s crank up theauditory, the visual, the tactile! Tune downthat olfactory!” Knowing that doesn’t make it any better,though. Recognizing the enemy is not thesame as defeating it. At school, my optionsin calming down are very limited. I carefully pull a small pieceof blue thread from my pocket. Holding one end in my righthand, I wrap the thread around the finger of my left hand in afigure-eight pattern. Wrap, wrap, wrap, unravel. Wrap, wrap, wrap, unravel. This kind of behavior isknown as “stimming”. Many people, not just autistics, stim to calm down or feel happy. It’s like smellinghomemade bread or hugging a favorite stuffed animal. For me, it means being able to cope with my schoolenvironment. I can breathe again. Based on the clock, I’ve wasted about fifteen minutes of test time. My pencilbegins to fly over the test, scanning the multiple-choice questions. Proper nouns come to my mind easilynow. Andrew Jackson, Judge Marshall, Indian Removal Act. My scantron is full in fifteen minutes. Theessay is almost as easy. My pencil is surprisingly gregarious for an inanimate object and it spits out infor-mation about politics and commerce. This is the thing people often forget about autism. My life isn’t dominated by the torture of sensoryoverload as many who want to eradicate autism believe. When my brain is given the right conditions, I cando whatever I want. It’s like my brain has been training for ballet. Once it has the right pointe shoes, mybrain is ready to dance its way through Sleeping Beauty in a lead role.

My quotation, “…Imitation is suicide…” matters because I am autistic. My autism has shaped mylife more than anything else. I cannot act “normal” because it is impossible for me to be something I amnot. Trying to fit in and deal with the same environment as my peers takes a painfully large toll on me.

My completed test ends up on my teacher’s desk with five minutes to spare.


“Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders andabsurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well andserenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.”

A sudden crash, being pushed forward, chaos, confusion. While I felt as if the world wasending, the rest of the world didn’t skip a heartbeat. A typical Monday night. The summer was abouthalfway over, so the sun was still in the sky with its orange glow highlighting the earth. Everyone wantedto get home from work, but for me, work hadn’t even started. Driving fast, then slow, seeing the worldpass by from the driver’s seat in my mom’s Jeep. The brake lights of a car are a brilliant idea, the boldred warning. Useless if seen too late. When one machine stops short, it’s a test to see who can react.The first car slams to a halt. The second. And then I too am able to pass the test. Time slowed as thefourth car fails. I heard it before I knew what happened. Then I felt it.

As loud as a gunshot and as destructive as hammer to nail, the event was over faster than theamount of time as it took me to write this on this page. Experiences directly before and after a collisionare routine. No need to bore you with the paper pushing and registration copying. It is the one-second,the very instant, the one moment in time that will never repeat itself when the metal of the two carscollide in a chaotic war of metal crushing metal. A violent fight, one knight crushing another’s armor withhis sword. The destruction was never seen; only the screams of the metal could be heard, never to bereplayed. Spoken and gone. The moment only I and the innocent assailant will remember, engraved instone.

The moment seemed frozen, but time moved on. Time moved on for me too, but the feeling lefta fear I never knew existed. Not fear, an acknowledgment, similar to when someone points out howoften people say “like” while talking and then you notice nothing else. The constant belief every car inthe world is not just following, but chasing you and you need to prevent each one from catching you.But the collision was done. The cars were repaired- seemingly new, but forever damaged. I did what Icould. Nothing. I was there at that very moment at that very place and that’s on me. I was just the bugflying into a web. It was already out of my control when I arrived at the spot fate created for me. Thespider bit and then everywhere I looked I saw spider webs. It is by acceptance and progression that Ino longer worry about stalking vehicles through my glances in the mirrors. It was a mistake that involvesme no more, and I understand that now. While the recognition of those an arm reach away is foreverpresent, it is no longer a burden. The accident is now just an answer to an essay prompt and my clockticks with the world. That day is over. Today is not.

“Also PrettyWeathered”By Ellis BoydGrade 12

The IncidentBy Gregory Kaulins

Grade 11

21The Outer Limits

The LineupBy Olivia Million

Grade 10

With every step the sand becomes more wet, the water becomes closer, and the waves becomelouder. With every step I leave the walking couples and dogs and enter the frigid water. I stand there for aminute ankle deep as the first ripple enters my skin tight suit like a final warning sign of the dangers ahead.When I take those steps forward I reach a point where I place my weapon of choice in the water andpaddle out. I must enter a mindest to prepare myself for the water. “Mindset” can have a variety of mean-ings to different people because the simple word can be interpreted in copious ways. Minset, passion, andsuccess remind me, that for me to become a better surfer, I have to take every chance I can get to paddleback out to the lineup for just one more ride.

The charts illuminate with colors, convincing me to get my wax and board and head out. As I turnthe corner and gain the view of Nantasket Ave, I hold my breathe every time due to possibility of seeingflat ocean. I always take a minute to look at the ocean as if to give it a moment of respect and to see if itgives me permission to enter. Despite my love for surfing I never enter the water excited, but rather onedge. As I start to paddle out, the water becomes deceiving as I paddle for what feels like the length of afootball field, to look up only to see I still have a long white water line to overcome. On those briskNovember mornings, as the mountains of water come bellowing at me, I brace myself as I dive down andslice through the wave. With only my nose and eyes showing, the return to the surface ends in abrainfreeze. For a while I’m pummeled wave after wave, and every time I go under, I think, I should justgo in and quit. But then with every time I don’t go out, I sit and watch others with envy for their skill. Withevery bashing wave battle, I think of the thrill it is to paddle into a wave and feel the wave rise underneathme and propel me forward like a car on cruise control. With time, that thrill becomes longer and moreoften. As I think about surfing, I notice the different mentality required for one to secceed. The competionbrewing within me keeps me going back out to the lineup. The passion reassures me that the only way Icould ever come close to the professional surfers is just by taking that one step in the water, by taking thatone duckdive, or by paddling out that extra time. The challenges allows me to appreciate every aspect ofsuccess there is and that nothing can start from nothing, I have to start somewhere. I create a piece ofmind to help myself succeed in what I wish to.

“Morning Ride”By Eric SullivanGrade 9


Joseph Di Nero fell out of bed due to the harrowing screech of his alarm clock. He struggled torise out of the mess of blankets and sheets that surrounded him and proceeded to walk into his kitchen.First he opened his refrigerator door that had small stains of sauce and coffee around the edges andseized the carton of milk that rested behind it. He pulled it out, twisted the cap, sniffed it, and nearlyvomited from the smell.

I guess I’m not having cereal this morning, he thought to himself.As he went to grab something from his freezer, the phone started to ring, which was unusual

considering it was before eight in the morning. He reluctantly picked up the phone, only doing so to endits incessant ringing.

“Yeah,” he said, picking up the phone, not expecting his boss to be on the other end of the line.“You’d better get in here early today, Joe. We’ve got a bit of a situation.”“What do you mean by situation?”“Just get here and see for yourself.”

Still wiping sleep from his eyes, Joseph fell into the seat of his car. He looked in the mirror,examining his unshaven face, unkempt light brown hair, and emerald eyes. Since he had been in such ahurry, his tie was inside out and would not quite stay straight. His suit had a few specks on it since he hadnot been able to make it to the cleaners in a few days. Its golden buttons had lost their shine after years ofuse.

Damn, Joseph thought. I didn’t even get to take a shower.A few curse words were on his tongue as he tried to make it through traffic, but none of them

jumped off. They instead retired in his brain for future use. In any case, Joseph managed to make it to hisoffice building, albeit only a few minutes before he would normally be there.

While walking to his office, Joseph nodded to the seal of the SEC on the wall. Before he went totalk to his boss, he went to the lounge room and burned his tongue on the coffee that was passing over it.Thoroughly frustrated, he went to speak to Mr. Heffer.

“Glad you could make it, Di Nero. Look at this report given just before closing yesterday.” Mr.Heffer showed him a graph that showed most stock brokerage’s incomes from the day before. All ofthem seemed fairly familiar and consistent with what he had expected. All but one.

Upon seeing this discrepancy, Joseph nearly pulled out one of those words from his brain, butmanaged to contain himself. “What the hell is that?” he said.

“I don’t know either. But it didn’t exist two days ago, so it’s up to you to figure out what it is. It’scalled Intelligent Trading Incorporated. It started trading from a single trading CPU yesterday and bleweverything else away.”

“I know where I’ll start,” replied Di Nero, on his way to the Trading Center.

The Trading Center is not at all like the floor of the Wall Street stock market where humans wildlygo after stocks for relatively small amounts of money. No, the Trading Center could be more accuratelydescribed as a warehouse-a warehouse that the majority of most major stock market trades take place.In order to regulate the market, the Federal Government forced all of the major brokerages to bring theirmachines to one building so that they would all receive their trading information at the same time and in

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Corporations are people, my friend. –Mitt RomneySold Short

By Ryan McAuliffeGrade 12

23The Outer Limits

from the previous page

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obvious sight of regulators. Needless to say, it is also one of the most heavily guarded buildings in theworld, so an SEC identification card was very helpful to Di Nero in order to be admitted.

After entering the Center, Di Nero asked one of the engineers if he knew where ITI’s processingunit was located. “I’d better go with you,” he said. “Name’s MacInster.”

The Center was so large that it took Di Nero and MacInster several minutes to arrive at the roomwhere the ITI machine was situated. The room was not unlike most office-type buildings in raw appear-ance: its roof was made of the classic Styrofoam-looking rectangles in a white plastic frame with somerectangles replaced by lights. Unlike most offices, there were no people, but instead several large ma-chines steadily humming. As long as those machines hummed, they made money.

“The problem is that this one right here was put in by one of those big companies, but now it’s notworking for them,” MacInster stated to end their period of silence.

“What do you mean by that?’ Di Nero responded.“I mean that this computer no longer works for those who created it. I’m saying that this com-

puter started working for itself.”“Nice tie, by the way,” MacInster added after a pause.Ignoring the comment about his tie, Di Nero tried to process the information that had just been

given to him, but he could not. He managed to avoid using one of those words in his brain a third time.“How in the world does a computer start its own company?”“You saw the reports yourself, didn’t you?” MacInster replied. “It started by short selling some

stocks to raise a little capital, and after that it just started trading like crazy with no regard for risk since ithas no future to plan for. It overrode its programming, somehow, and now it’s the best stock trader inhistory. It’s one of the most valuable people in the world. Pretty good for a box.”

“I just don’t understand how it created its own company.”“You’re the SEC guy. You should.”“Anyway, why don’t we just unplug it?”“I was going to, until one of your guys told me that would be sabotage. We can’t touch it.”“I guess I’d better find out who built it.”

“What do you need, Joe?” said the voice of Marie Lamar, in a kind tone.“I need you to run the history on a trading unit. It’s owned by ITI.”“Just a sec.”Joseph looked around the interior of his car. The fine weaving of the seats and perfect placement

and shape of the mats contrasted sharply with his disheveled appearance. Feeling guilty about his clothing,Joseph fixed up his tie and tried to straighten out his suit a bit.

He merely smiled at the “Rejected” sticker on the windshield. He had suffered much headacheabout some mistakes made by other people, but he did not want to think about them right now.

“Hm. This is funny. Nobody seems to own it,” Marie remarked.“Yeah, I just wanted to check on that first part. What I’m concerned about is who used to own

it.” “Well, let’s see… hm. This just keeps getting stranger.”

“What is it, Marie?”

Artwork “50 Dollars Later”By Peter DurkinGrade 10


“Well, it used to be owned by a lobbying group. They have some powerful people behind them,Joe.”

“Send me their info. I think I’ll go have a chat with these folks.”Di Nero followed his phone’s instructions to reach the group’s New York headquarters; fortu-

nately for him, every group seemed to be involved in New York. He reached their building, a tall sky-scraper, and took the elevator to one of the highest floors. When he reached the floor he frowned, notbecause he disagreed with the group’s politics, but because he was at an office of a stock brokerage.

He simply walked in and asked someone there, “Who runs this place?”“Who the hell are you?”“I’m with the SEC. I want to speak to your boss.”“He’s over there,” said the man, pointing to a small office in the corner of the room.The room was fairly large, with around twenty computers for workers set up aside from the

office. Joseph crossed the room to reach the office. None of the workers even looked up from theircomputers.

“What’s going on here?” Di Nero said as he walked in.“Reggie, I gotta go. I’ll call you back in an hour, okay? Bye,” said the man in the room to his

phone, and then he hung up.“Where would you like me to begin?”“What’s the deal with that unit you have at the Trading Center?”The man looked down towards his desk and smiled, more towards himself than Di Nero. He was

completely bald and had a bushy yet small silver mustache. “I see no point in lying to you, although I didnot think this conversation would occur. No matter. We created that machine to crash the stock market.”

“How do you plan on doing that?”“Well, kid, imagine that tomorrow morning the headlines of the Journal read ‘RoboCorp: com-

puter starts company, sweeps market.’ Would that make you feel confident in the stock market?”“Hell no, it wouldn’t.”“Right. Now imagine that one brokerage knew this was going to happen beforehand and none of

the rest did. And imagine that they had the ability to short sell a lot of stock. A hell of a lot more than thisbot.”

“So you set up that bot to go wild so you could make money.”“Right-o, kid. But you can’t do anything about it.”“And why’s that?”“You sit behind a desk, don’t you?”“Yeah.”“We have some friends that sit behind desks. Bigger desks than yours. It would be a shame if

their desks…” he said, looking out the window. “Well. I guess now you know how we got the paperworkthrough for the bot’s company.”

Joseph merely sat silent for a moment, and then he got out of his chair. Soon he found himself inhis car riding back to his apartment, unsure what to do next. The man was right: there was nothing hecould do, for if he tried, it would only hurt himself more. He finally let loose those words at his head,words hurled towards corruption, towards suffering, and even towards the blasted traffic he had to dealwith again. The rejected sticker made him more frustrated than ever.

Never had there been so little to do and yet so much.

from the previous page

25The Outer Limits

Uncle Rickie’sBy Katie McDowell

Grade 10Yells. Shouts. Crashes. Eviction.Hide. Run. Do something—anything.I woke to a drip of my face and shivered against the mist that encased us. I was damp all over

and starving—incredibly starving. But we were almost there. The night before had been lived like anightmare- in a daze. We were thrown out and they were taken and we ran. Ran from the dark, the fear,the cold, the hunger and them. We snuck onto the subway and rode it to the end of the line, duckingbeneath fences and running again. And then the rain fell. Fell down with the darkness so we were sense-less. Nothing made sense anymore. We no longer ran. We stood. There were no streetlights.

But then I saw the bridge. We tumbled blindly down the steep bank, yelling to each other not tofall into the river. Lily did and we had to pull her out. And then there was peace. Dark, damp peace. Wehuddled together on the slab of concrete under the bridge, arms mixing with legs and heads with feet. Andthen we slept. Still, we ran in our heads. When I woke and the others woke, we knew it was okay. Wewere going to Uncle Rickie’s.

It rained and misted all day so that our pajamas we still wore from two nights ago were soakedand muddy. Our already holey shoes were disintegrating, the mud sucking them away from our feet. Icarried Emily and Aiden carried Max while Lily dragged on behind. But then she ran past us squealing andjumping up and down. “I know where we are! I know where we are!”

And there it was. Down the gravel lane flooded with mud and in between the dripping trees withthe little old red pick-up parked under the big one. The log cabin was like a beacon in a storm and we rantowards it, Emily crying because I woke her up. But we were here. We shouted and screamed as we ranup the steps and as always, Uncle Rickie opened the door.

He bent down and pulled us all into a big bear hug, even though we were sopping wet and muddy.Then he brought us inside. Inside. The warmest, woodiest place in the world. He took our wet and muddyclothes and gave us t-shirts of his to wear that fell to my knees. Emily ran around the room, her t-shirtrolled up but still dragging while we sat in front of the fire with the huge log mantle. And Uncle Rickie gave

“Sea Glass”By Kai Li Cummings

Grade 12

us warm bread and tomato soup andlarge mugs of hot chocolate. And weate. But Uncle Rickie didn’t.

He sat in the plaid armchairunder the dim window, leaning forwardon his knees, watching us. He had curlygray hair and a curlier beard and thewarmest brown eyes. But as hewatched, his eyes were sad. But Icouldn’t see why, because at thatmoment, I was the happiest boy onearth.


NerveBy Dan Carr

Grade 10

I stand cold. No breeze blows, but I feel the air around me, hitting everywhere. I lick my lipsinstinctively,doing anything I can to suppress the chills. The eyes look at me. They glare. They knowI’m naked. I know why they glare, but there is nothing I can do. I am his prisoner. The red eyes beginexamining me, as they pretend to evade the understanding of my nakedness. I can’t do anything so Ibegin to uncomfortably sway. I thrust my arms out wide, but the eyes tell me to put them back in. Asthe red seeps into me, I search for a way out. I find a crude pair of undergarments and frantically placethem. I continue to be uncomfortable as the eyes search me. They find nothing, and daggers continue toimpale me. I don’t know what to do. I move, but I still feel the penetration. I search desperately forsomething else, anything, to resist the glare of the red eyes.

The pants lay there. I dive, doing anything to resist the eyes that follow my every step. I putthem on, but the eyes continue. They chase me, getting inside me, moving throughout my body andaffecting the movement of every cell in my body. I try to walk it off, but they continue. I jump and theydo as I do. I run and they stay with me step by step, stabbing me with every second they continue tolook at me. I don’t know what to do. I grab a shirt, and cover my frantically heart with it, but the eyescontinue to target me. I put on everything, an itchy wool hat, a pair of old cotton socks with a hole onthe sole, and a pair of boots masked by soil. The eyes stare at me, relenting a bit. I take this as a signof what I should do. I put on more clothing, covering every inch of skin on my body. I look and theeyes recede. As they look away I see the warmth of the outside world, which can’t penetrate methrough my clothing. I burn.

“City View”By Margaret Strehle

Grade 9

27The Outer Limits


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2015 Outer Limits - Hinghamhpswebs.hinghamschools.com/hhs/teachers/afennelly/2015 Outer Limit… · Ode to Why 11 By Ryan ... Your mother did not put a spark inside your soul So you