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Stories of Stories 2021
MEET THE EDITORS
Jenna is a senior and lives in Reading, MA. She enjoys dance, writing, and spending time with friends. Jenna plans to major in Biology or Psychology. She hopes to pursue a career where she works with children.
Meredith is a senior and lives in Woburn, MA. Some of her hobbies include tennis, dance, and writing. Meredith plans to major in English. She is interested in pursuing a career in the journalism field in order to utilize her creative writing skills.
Liz is a senior and lives in North Andover, MA. Her hobbies include dance, writing, baking/cooking, and running. Liz plans to major in English. She would like to pursue a career that involves creative writing, preferably in the film industry.
Interested in joining the editorial team or writing a piece for a future edition of Tolle Lege? Email creativewriting@austinprep.org to join our community of writers!
Meredith is a senior and lives in Woburn, MA. Some of her hobbies include tennis, dance, and writing. Meredith plans to major in English. She is interested in pursuing a career in the journalism field in order to utilize her creative writing skills.
Liz is a senior and lives in North Andover, MA. Her hobbies include dance, writing, baking/cooking, and running. Liz plans to major in English. She would like to pursue a career that involves creative writing, preferably in the film industry.
Interested in joining the editorial team or writing a piece for a future edition of Tolle Lege? Email creativewriting@austinprep.org to join our community of writers!
Dear Readers,
Welcome to our 2021 publication of Tolle Lege. As you read and view these pieces, you will see the voices of Austin Prep students come to life through poetry, short stories, art, animations, and more. Despite the uncertain and difficult year caused by Covid-19, Austin Prep students have remained as creative and determined as ever. Without the pieces of many featured authors and artists, this magazine would certainly not be complete. We would like to thank our fellow creators for their continued support and commitment to their methods of inventiveness this year. We also would like to acknowledge Mrs. Putney and her dedication to our project. Her help is what has made this magazine possible and we are extremely grateful for her guidance.
After a difficult year, we as students have been able to reflect back on all we have learned and experienced. We have attended classes on Zoom and in person, yet we have still maintained our creative spirits through it all. Many of these pieces were created during some of the most difficult times of our lives, but are proof that determination is the key to success. Our experiences over the past year have been unforgettable and have without a doubt impacted us, but we have begun to see the light at the end of the tunnel. We are all well on our way to returning to normalcy stronger and more resilient than ever. Our wish is that these pieces document our hopes and aspirations for a new year, but also reflect on the difficult circumstances we have overcome.
Happy Reading,
Meredith, Liz, and Jenna
Welcome to our 2021 publication of Tolle Lege. As you read and view these pieces, you will see the voices of Austin Prep students come to life through poetry, short stories, art, animations, and more. Despite the uncertain and difficult year caused by Covid-19, Austin Prep students have remained as creative and determined as ever. Without the pieces of many featured authors and artists, this magazine would certainly not be complete. We would like to thank our fellow creators for their continued support and commitment to their methods of inventiveness this year. We also would like to acknowledge Mrs. Putney and her dedication to our project. Her help is what has made this magazine possible and we are extremely grateful for her guidance.
After a difficult year, we as students have been able to reflect back on all we have learned and experienced. We have attended classes on Zoom and in person, yet we have still maintained our creative spirits through it all. Many of these pieces were created during some of the most difficult times of our lives, but are proof that determination is the key to success. Our experiences over the past year have been unforgettable and have without a doubt impacted us, but we have begun to see the light at the end of the tunnel. We are all well on our way to returning to normalcy stronger and more resilient than ever. Our wish is that these pieces document our hopes and aspirations for a new year, but also reflect on the difficult circumstances we have overcome.
Happy Reading,
Meredith, Liz, and Jenna
The Palimpsest of Anne
Author: Emma Kilbride
DOG—5 points. I snap the tiles into place, building off the D in DROUGHT. Nana stares me down in such a way that is disapproving, but not devoid of love. Her wire-framed glasses are fogged from the humid parlor air, the consistency of which I have heard her liken to split pea soup so many times that I have adopted the phrase for myself. Her eyes shine like marbles beneath the milky translucence. “If you had built off the O instead of the D,” she tells me, “you could have scored 8 points instead.” She shakes a manicured talon at the board, where a condescendingly magenta DOUBLE WORD square stares up at me. I feel a twinge of shame for having missed the opportunity. She places her hand on my shoulder. “When you’re older,” she reassures, “you’ll know lots of big words, and you’ll have me beat.” She hands me a chocolate digestive biscuit before making her next move: an X placed at the intersection between A and O to make AX and OX—54 points. To her nine-year-old opponent, this is a crushing blow.
Hidden in the constellation of Nana’s endearingly conceited anecdotes are three things she consistently alleges: One, she was the first majorette to twirl a baton on the field at Harvard Stadium in 1948. Two, she was once asked by a sales representative at the Jordan Marsh glove counter to be a hand model, an offer which she nobly, yet demurely, declined. Three, nobody has ever beaten her in a game of Scrabble. The common thread among these claims is the window each provides into Nana’s vanity, a trait I would find irksome in anyone but her. I am beguiled by the way she stands over the bathroom sink to color her hair, the way she adjusts her pearls in the reflection of the glass tabletop as I explain the day’s
Author: Emma Kilbride
DOG—5 points. I snap the tiles into place, building off the D in DROUGHT. Nana stares me down in such a way that is disapproving, but not devoid of love. Her wire-framed glasses are fogged from the humid parlor air, the consistency of which I have heard her liken to split pea soup so many times that I have adopted the phrase for myself. Her eyes shine like marbles beneath the milky translucence. “If you had built off the O instead of the D,” she tells me, “you could have scored 8 points instead.” She shakes a manicured talon at the board, where a condescendingly magenta DOUBLE WORD square stares up at me. I feel a twinge of shame for having missed the opportunity. She places her hand on my shoulder. “When you’re older,” she reassures, “you’ll know lots of big words, and you’ll have me beat.” She hands me a chocolate digestive biscuit before making her next move: an X placed at the intersection between A and O to make AX and OX—54 points. To her nine-year-old opponent, this is a crushing blow.
Hidden in the constellation of Nana’s endearingly conceited anecdotes are three things she consistently alleges: One, she was the first majorette to twirl a baton on the field at Harvard Stadium in 1948. Two, she was once asked by a sales representative at the Jordan Marsh glove counter to be a hand model, an offer which she nobly, yet demurely, declined. Three, nobody has ever beaten her in a game of Scrabble. The common thread among these claims is the window each provides into Nana’s vanity, a trait I would find irksome in anyone but her. I am beguiled by the way she stands over the bathroom sink to color her hair, the way she adjusts her pearls in the reflection of the glass tabletop as I explain the day’s
victories and tribulations. It is in these moments that she transcends Nana to become Anne—sharp, alluring, commanding.
She is Anne when she plays Scrabble. I see it in the way she holds herself above the table, shoulders square, eyes peering down from atop her Hepburn-esque neck. I see it in the way she fiddles with her wedding ring, sliding it on and off her finger in deep concentration, for this is not a game to her. It is an intellectual pursuit, an art form at which she is most adept. This pursuit is one that must be won fairly and without concession. To Anne, it is a matter of principle and pride.
***
AWHIRL—24 points, a word I learned last week in sixth grade English. “It describes autumn leaves or grains of sand,” I tell Nana, “when the wind kicks up and everything goes flying about.”
She beams down at me in a tired, but adoring sort of way. “Nana’s girl,” she says to me, the skin around her eyes bunching up like bits of crinkled parchment. She builds off my L to make LEAF—14 points, but it is no match for my next move: QUICK—60 points. I am granted an indomitable lead, and I am suddenly no longer her apprentice, but her adversary. I look up at Nana from across the table, bracing myself for rueful disappointment, but her eyes fill with pride. Her delicate fingers, warm and inviting, envelop my hand. She says our fingers look the same; I wish it were true.
On the car ride home, my mother explains to me in gentle terms that Nana is not well. “She is starting to forget things,” she says above the rumbling heater, “important things.” The look on her face gives me a sick feeling, so I turn away. I recall last week when we were driving her home and she forgot where we were going,
She is Anne when she plays Scrabble. I see it in the way she holds herself above the table, shoulders square, eyes peering down from atop her Hepburn-esque neck. I see it in the way she fiddles with her wedding ring, sliding it on and off her finger in deep concentration, for this is not a game to her. It is an intellectual pursuit, an art form at which she is most adept. This pursuit is one that must be won fairly and without concession. To Anne, it is a matter of principle and pride.
***
AWHIRL—24 points, a word I learned last week in sixth grade English. “It describes autumn leaves or grains of sand,” I tell Nana, “when the wind kicks up and everything goes flying about.”
She beams down at me in a tired, but adoring sort of way. “Nana’s girl,” she says to me, the skin around her eyes bunching up like bits of crinkled parchment. She builds off my L to make LEAF—14 points, but it is no match for my next move: QUICK—60 points. I am granted an indomitable lead, and I am suddenly no longer her apprentice, but her adversary. I look up at Nana from across the table, bracing myself for rueful disappointment, but her eyes fill with pride. Her delicate fingers, warm and inviting, envelop my hand. She says our fingers look the same; I wish it were true.
On the car ride home, my mother explains to me in gentle terms that Nana is not well. “She is starting to forget things,” she says above the rumbling heater, “important things.” The look on her face gives me a sick feeling, so I turn away. I recall last week when we were driving her home and she forgot where we were going,
victories and tribulations. It is in these moments that she transcends Nana to become Anne—sharp, alluring, commanding.
She is Anne when she plays Scrabble. I see it in the way she holds herself above the table, shoulders square, eyes peering down from atop her Hepburn-esque neck. I see it in the way she fiddles with her wedding ring, sliding it on and off her finger in deep concentration, for this is not a game to her. It is an intellectual pursuit, an art form at which she is most adept. This pursuit is one that must be won fairly and without concession. To Anne, it is a matter of principle and pride.
***
AWHIRL—24 points, a word I learned last week in sixth grade English. “It describes autumn leaves or grains of sand,” I tell Nana, “when the wind kicks up and everything goes flying about.”
She beams down at me in a tired, but adoring sort of way. “Nana’s girl,” she says to me, the skin around her eyes bunching up like bits of crinkled parchment. She builds off my L to make LEAF—14 points, but it is no match for my next move: QUICK—60 points. I am granted an indomitable lead, and I am suddenly no longer her apprentice, but her adversary. I look up at Nana from across the table, bracing myself for rueful disappointment, but her eyes fill with pride. Her delicate fingers, warm and inviting, envelop my hand. She says our fingers look the same; I wish it were true.
On the car ride home, my mother explains to me in gentle terms that Nana is not well. “She is starting to forget things,” she says above the rumbling heater, “important things.” The look on her face gives me a sick feeling, so I turn away. I recall last week when we were driving her home and she forgot where we were going,
She is Anne when she plays Scrabble. I see it in the way she holds herself above the table, shoulders square, eyes peering down from atop her Hepburn-esque neck. I see it in the way she fiddles with her wedding ring, sliding it on and off her finger in deep concentration, for this is not a game to her. It is an intellectual pursuit, an art form at which she is most adept. This pursuit is one that must be won fairly and without concession. To Anne, it is a matter of principle and pride.
***
AWHIRL—24 points, a word I learned last week in sixth grade English. “It describes autumn leaves or grains of sand,” I tell Nana, “when the wind kicks up and everything goes flying about.”
She beams down at me in a tired, but adoring sort of way. “Nana’s girl,” she says to me, the skin around her eyes bunching up like bits of crinkled parchment. She builds off my L to make LEAF—14 points, but it is no match for my next move: QUICK—60 points. I am granted an indomitable lead, and I am suddenly no longer her apprentice, but her adversary. I look up at Nana from across the table, bracing myself for rueful disappointment, but her eyes fill with pride. Her delicate fingers, warm and inviting, envelop my hand. She says our fingers look the same; I wish it were true.
On the car ride home, my mother explains to me in gentle terms that Nana is not well. “She is starting to forget things,” she says above the rumbling heater, “important things.” The look on her face gives me a sick feeling, so I turn away. I recall last week when we were driving her home and she forgot where we were going,
fearful complexity distorting her features in the rear-view mirror. The notion that I am slowly losing her spreads across my tongue like cough syrup, bitter and stifling. Out the passenger side window, Somerville is gray with overcast and muddied frost. I avoid my reflection in the glass.
***
HAT—6 points. I build off the H in HAPPY as opposed to the A, intentionally skirting an emerald green TRIPLE LETTER square. She chides me playfully between labored breaths. “You should know better,” she says, “you’re… how old now?”
This is the fourth time in the hour she’s asked, but I answer as nonchalantly as the first. “I’m seventeen,” I say.
“Seventeen, seventeen, seventeen…” She mouths the number to herself, savoring it carefully, recommitting it to memory as she begins to pour over the tiles in her rack. Her brow furrows above her wire-framed lenses, thicker than I remember. I gently point out a vacant TRIPLE WORD square, pale orange, hers if she uses an S to pluralize GARDEN. “I know,” she informs me, “I’m just thinking.” After a moment of performative consideration, she heeds my suggestion and relief softens her features. 27 points. “Your turn,” she says, pride permeating her words in a way I have grown to miss. She turns to my mother, her gaze dripping with youthful radiance. “I’d like to visit Helen next week,” she declares, “Helen from down the street.”
***
HAT—6 points. I build off the H in HAPPY as opposed to the A, intentionally skirting an emerald green TRIPLE LETTER square. She chides me playfully between labored breaths. “You should know better,” she says, “you’re… how old now?”
This is the fourth time in the hour she’s asked, but I answer as nonchalantly as the first. “I’m seventeen,” I say.
“Seventeen, seventeen, seventeen…” She mouths the number to herself, savoring it carefully, recommitting it to memory as she begins to pour over the tiles in her rack. Her brow furrows above her wire-framed lenses, thicker than I remember. I gently point out a vacant TRIPLE WORD square, pale orange, hers if she uses an S to pluralize GARDEN. “I know,” she informs me, “I’m just thinking.” After a moment of performative consideration, she heeds my suggestion and relief softens her features. 27 points. “Your turn,” she says, pride permeating her words in a way I have grown to miss. She turns to my mother, her gaze dripping with youthful radiance. “I’d like to visit Helen next week,” she declares, “Helen from down the street.”
My mother offers to accompany her. We exchange a hurried glance, silently agreeing not to remind her that Helen died three years ago.
It’s a peculiar thing, the way words are the last to go. I watch as her deteriorating mind seems to spare nothing but the means to articulate its own deterioration; words, that when put together, illustrate a decline, steady and unrelenting. But they are there, and though disjointed, they hang in the air like the scent of autumn. They are constructed of wooden tiles that cover the parlor table, placed with scholarly deliberation between whispered inquiries of day and year. Such inquiries do not deter the careful manicuring of her nails, nor her charming hubris, nor the five point lead she holds over me after her final turn. She is here and she is gone, all at once.
My eyes fall upon a barren swath of empty board. I have the opportunity to overtake her, but I don’t, for it is a matter of principle and pride. Hers, not mine. I snap a final two tiles into place. SIT—3 points.
It’s a peculiar thing, the way words are the last to go. I watch as her deteriorating mind seems to spare nothing but the means to articulate its own deterioration; words, that when put together, illustrate a decline, steady and unrelenting. But they are there, and though disjointed, they hang in the air like the scent of autumn. They are constructed of wooden tiles that cover the parlor table, placed with scholarly deliberation between whispered inquiries of day and year. Such inquiries do not deter the careful manicuring of her nails, nor her charming hubris, nor the five point lead she holds over me after her final turn. She is here and she is gone, all at once.
My eyes fall upon a barren swath of empty board. I have the opportunity to overtake her, but I don’t, for it is a matter of principle and pride. Hers, not mine. I snap a final two tiles into place. SIT—3 points.