2013 Annual Teen

Writing Competition

Darien Library

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ContentsStrangers of Comfort .................................................................................................................................... 3 

Cassandra’s Curse ......................................................................................................................................... 9 

One Life to Lose for a Legend ..................................................................................................................... 11 

That Night ................................................................................................................................................... 15 

Memories of Antigua .................................................................................................................................. 16 

Different Perspective Caroline Mancini ...................................................................................................... 19 

The Soup ..................................................................................................................................................... 27 

Air ................................................................................................................................................................ 30 

Untitled ....................................................................................................................................................... 31 

Untitled ....................................................................................................................................................... 34 

The Butler .................................................................................................................................................... 36 

Trusting Caterpillars Leads You Nowhere ................................................................................................... 39 

Amber Eyes ................................................................................................................................................. 42 

Emily’s World .............................................................................................................................................. 44 

Metafiction .................................................................................................................................................. 47 

Yearning ...................................................................................................................................................... 57 

The Words We Cannot Say ......................................................................................................................... 60 

George Fox .................................................................................................................................................. 67 

The Vampire Who Can Walk In the Light .................................................................................................... 67 

Animal Slaughter ......................................................................................................................................... 82 

This I Believe ............................................................................................................................................... 85 

Untitled ....................................................................................................................................................... 86 

The Song of my Family ................................................................................................................................ 90 

Live Life, Read Poetry .................................................................................................................................. 93 

The Crowd ................................................................................................................................................... 96 

Snorkeling With a Sea Turtle ..................................................................................................................... 101 

Stranded on Water .................................................................................................................................... 104 

A Lullaby for Mordred ............................................................................................................................... 108 

Chapter 1 ............................................................................................................................................... 110 

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Dinosaur Jr’s You’re Living All Over Me at Twenty‐Five ............................................................................ 112 

CTY Scholarship ......................................................................................................................................... 116 

Sunflowers in December ........................................................................................................................... 119 

TRAPPED ................................................................................................................................................... 126 

Memories of Block Island .......................................................................................................................... 128 

The Angel`s Carol ...................................................................................................................................... 130 

The Darkness ............................................................................................................................................. 132 

An Assurance to the Virgins ...................................................................................................................... 133 

Transparently Opaque .............................................................................................................................. 135 

President ................................................................................................................................................... 138 

The American Soldier ................................................................................................................................ 139 

Neglect ...................................................................................................................................................... 141 

The Rhythm of Life .................................................................................................................................... 145 

Terrible Creation ....................................................................................................................................... 147 

Blind Man .................................................................................................................................................. 150 

Summer Dreams ....................................................................................................................................... 152 

“White” ..................................................................................................................................................... 155 

State of Felicity .......................................................................................................................................... 157 

A Place of love ........................................................................................................................................... 157 

Prideful Pain .............................................................................................................................................. 159 

A Small Step: A big leap ............................................................................................................................ 160 

Surviving .................................................................................................................................................... 162 

She Lives On .............................................................................................................................................. 165 

Remembering ............................................................................................................................................ 169 

What its like to be a rose .......................................................................................................................... 171 

Falling Asleep ............................................................................................................................................ 173 

Brighten My Day ....................................................................................................................................... 175 

 

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Fiction Grade 10-12 Morgan Peters

StrangersofComfort

Mariella always wore bright red lipstick and curlers in her hair. She would come to the door in

just her knickers, with rock ballads drifting from the apartment and a bottle of whiskey in her

had. A laugh would curl her lips into a lazy grin as she leaned against the doorframe.

“Hello, sailor,” she always said before pressing the bottle to her lips and drowning her

smile. Whoever was at the door, and it was only ever John or him, would wait for a moment until

her eyes refocused.

“You lookin’ for a good time, Tommy Boy?” was how she always greeted the younger

man when he came, before grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him inside. Tom always let

her, stumbling as the door slammed behind. Sometimes he’d wonder if she dragged John in, too.

He bet John would let her.

That apartment matched the inside of her head. Three of the walls were a dank grey

colour, while the fourth was striped with someone’s feeble attempts to paint it yellow, as though

the sun had gotten bored of shining and left halfway through clearing up the storm.

There were holiday lights- likely stolen- strung across the ceiling. A card table layered

with half finished bowls of cereal and month old gossip magazines sat in the corner. The fridge

only ever held alcohol that wasn’t meant to be shared, and spoiled takeaway that no one would

want even if she offered.

She never did.

But she always danced to whatever was playing on the radio, though maybe dancing was

a little generous. He couldn’t help staring, however, as she swayed and floated along to the beat,

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eyes closed and mouth open in an easy smile. He would stand there, hands stuff into his pockets

as she drifted from the the door to the vanity, nodding her head as though it were fighting to

separate from the rest of her.

No matter how many times he went there, he would always be reduced to simply staring

at her whenever she slipped away to this private alcove of her mind. When the alcohol loosened

her joints and the pulsing beat of the music carried her with it. They were brief seconds in which

he never had to worry about her, he could simply admire the sharp curve of her spine or the

kneecaps she claimed looked like faces in a certain light.

But then the song would end, or his heart would beat too loudly, and she would open her

eyes to become unmistakably inhibited once more. And the whiskey still clutched in her red nails

would become a weapon instead of a dancing partner.

She’d blink at him for a breath, a nervous smirk playing on her lips as though she’d been

caught doing something less innocent than dancing. He knew it must have frightened Mariella to

think that someone had caught her so lost in her head.

“How are you doing, Marzie?” Tom would ask carefully, hoping that for once he’d get a

real answer, but always knowing better than that. Her lip would curl at the nickname, but she’d

just slide into the chair in front of the vanity and begin pulling out the curlers that had been

shaken loose.

Sometimes he wondered what she saw in that mirror. With the pictures of models and

movie stars pasted around the frame, and the crease that formed between her eyes as she looked

at herself, he could tell that she had no idea.

Mariella, with her voice drowned in honey and eyes thread with green and gold cords,

was entirely unaware of how captivating she was. She was a magnet. A magnet that kept pulling

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both him and John back to her, no matter how many times they promised themselves they’d stay

away.

Mariella thought they came back for the bright red of her lips or the milk white of her

breasts. She had convinced herself that they found value in the china dolls and painted whores,

rather than what cowered beneath it all. She hid behind the guise of sex and booze and Marilyn

Monroe, acting as though no one could see through it.

“You look good, Tommy,” she might wink at him in the mirror, dabbing on a bit more

mascara, as though it could hide the sleepless nights traced under her eyes.

He would move closer, because he could never stand to be far away from her for too

long, resting his hands gently on her shoulders. She leaned into his touch, the liquor leaving her

soft and pliant and almost starry-eyed.

It was bittersweet to think that he could bring out the warm and gentle side of her, which

was so different that the sharp edges that sometimes appeared in her eyes. But there was always

the fear that it would end all too quickly.

He was always afraid that one day he would see her outside, in the grocers or crossing the

street, and realize that his Mariella only existed in the warm glow of that shitty little apartment.

John once told him that she wasn’t much different outside, but Tom wasn’t sure that he could

handle seeing her when she didn’t need him.

It had been a year since he’d first shown up on her doorstep with a torn piece of paper

clutched in his hand. A year since he’d been offered an address and John’s vague, drunken

promise of someone to spend the night with. It had been a year of never getting what he had

expected that first night, and instead finding something precious and delicate that he was afraid

might crumble at any moment.

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He assumed it was inevitable.

John said he was stupid.

He had always been more level-headed than Tom. John believed that this one, secret part

of their lives would always remain constant. It was Tom who could never shake the fear that one

day, she wouldn’t open the door for him, because she had found someone else who made her feel

safe.

“You alway look nice, Marzie,” Tom would tell her, leaning his chin on the top of her

head so that they were staring at each other in the reflection, “You’re so beautiful.”

He knew that the flush on her cheeks was more from how much she had had to drink, but

he hoped that there was some part of her willing to hear him.

But instead she would just blink and part her lips in a would-be coy smiled that looked

painfully forced.

“Are you flirting with me” she’d giggle, though it sounded hollow. Tom would sigh a

pressed a careful kiss to the top of her head.

“Not flirting,” he’d shake his head, “Just telling you the truth. You really are beautiful

you know.”

She would hear it as a line. It was easier for her to swallow the idea that he was only

trying to get her to sleep with him, than accept that he meant it. She had survived this long by

playing whore and pretending she couldn’t hear the sincerity in his voice. Tom had never been

able to convince her otherwise, never been able to mend certain scars.

So she never answered him, just stood, turning to press herself flush against his chest, and

pulling his head down so their lips met.

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Tom always allowed himself the first few moments to forget. He gave himself permission

to be immature and foolish for those first few second. He imagined, just as their mouths brushed

against each other, that they were together. That she had finally escaped the demons and self-

doubt that kept her guarded. That she allowed herself to be loved and they were a proper couple,

the sort that held hands at the cinema and met each others parents and talked about a future

together.

In those first few moments, it was as if the had something concrete and normal. As if he

had fixed her, finally. As though each kiss weren’t the death sentence of a mottled affair that

could never last anyway.

Then she would pull away quickly, almost always because she forgot to breathe. She was

like that sometimes: forgetting the most important things.

Mariella would stare up at him for a moment, breathe catching against the vodka seared

edges of her throat, and she would start to cry. It had always happened like this: after the kissing

came the breakdown, the tidal wave of hopeless misery that threatened to drown her when the

alcohol and intimacy tore down her defenses.

Tom had been confused the first time it happened, because he had thought he knew how

these things worked, and this wasn’t part of it. He was supposed to enjoy her company for an

hour or so, then buckle his pants back up and leave some money on the table. He hadn’t expected

to have her fall against him, hands twisting in his shirt desperately, and crying as though she

might never stop.

But then something had overpowered the initial confusion, and he had felt a startling and

almost pressing need to fix things. To make this broken girl better. He had never been able to

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pick up the pieces before, and here was someone handing her puzzle over willingly with a tear

stained face and hopeless whisper of ‘please?’.

So he had learned to guide her to the unmade bed and settle in amongst the bedclothes,

arms wrapped around her waist as she cried herself sober and miserable. They wouldn’t speak,

Tom would just hold her and try to think of a million ways to explain how lovely he thought she

was.

He had never quite managed to find those words, but until he did, he knew Mariella

would still need his shirt to stain with make-up and his hand to trace patterns on her shoulder.

Then she would fall asleep, exhausted by whatever thoughts stalked her during the day,

and he would cover her with blankets and imagine she’d wake up whole.

He sometimes wondered what would happen if she even regained enough sense to notice

that it was only ever John or him who came by. Would she realize that her ad had never run in

the newspaper, or that John had paid off the landlord to switch the number on her door in case

anyone else tried to come by?

He had a feeling she wouldn’t. That even if she ever had suspicions that the money left

on her bedside was a promise rather than payment, she would drown them in wine before eleven

in the morning.

That was how she felt safe, even when her two best boys couldn’t be there.

After he left, Tom would stare at the door for a moment. He might toy with the idea of

never coming back, then quickly stuff the thought into a back pocket where it had no more

purpose than lint. Tom would always come back.

As long as Mariella needed him, and as long as there was the chance he could make

things right, he would come back.

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Fiction Grade 7-9 Madeleine Ostertag

Cassandra’sCurseOnly elapsing time allows for my existence. The omniscience of my entity is defined by

the human yearning for knowledge of their temporal future. Yet few dare to listen for the

audible tones of my knowledge, murmuring mellifluously through aural perception. Rarely good

fortune is engendered by my knowledge, contrary to the ignorant notion of man whose avarice

thirsts for understanding. Most often my name is equivalent with that of a curse. And a curse I

was when I was once given as an amorous token of affection by the deity, Apollo, to a young

Trojan princess. Yet from the time of her birth, it seemed she was doomed to be cursed. If you

wish, gentle reader, take hold of my hand and follow me. I can tell the dolorous tale of such a

princess and her curse. And the tale of such a princess begins with the nascence of twins to the

royal house of Troy.

The sun’s rays had long since ceased to reach above the horizon and the luminescent disk

of the moon had begun to illuminate the faint glimmer of the stars. Soon the distant banks of the

Scamander and Simoeis, seemingly slithering in darkness, grew distorted against the ever

darkening sky. A gentle zephyr whispered across the plain; the long grasses undulating in the

serene advent of the twilight. The monotonous hum of the cicadas only complemented the

natural rhythm of the gathering night. And above the surrounding landscape, succumbing to

slumber, the legendary citadel of Troia towered in its magnificence. Night had fallen and

enveloped the city in her darkening embrace. The radiance of the full moon accentuated her

famed Scaean Gate in all its golden awe. The city loomed with commanding force in the long

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shadows cast against her edifice. And beyond, the city had also slipped away into a slumbering

stupor, as the flickering flames of stationed guards, bounced through the ever darkening streets.

Yet the palace remained wary. For it was at such a time and in such a place that twin babes were

born to the royal house of the city. The first, a son, wailed as his father reached for his feeble

body. His small form was etched with the wrinkles of a feeble child and his large dark eyes

welled with tears. The father caressed his son’s cheek, in a failed attempt to pacify his distress.

Pride swelled in his chest, for yet another prince of Troia had been born. And the second, a

daughter, with a head of flaming golden locks and effulgent blue eyes, upon hasty inspection by

her father, was returned to her mother’s enveloping embrace. Her luminous gaze, a kaleidoscope

of azure hues, perplexed him. He turned away from the daughter and his concern for the health

of his son heightened in urgency.

A tense stillness settled in the atmosphere as the dire status of the child’s health grew

evident. “Summon the court doctors at once,” her father’s baritone voice shattered the strained

silence of the inner chambers. The tense silence was shattered by her father’s baritone voice,

summoning the court doctor. The increased wailing of her ailing brother reverberated

throughout the palace walls. A flame flickered in the hall and was soon followed by the wiry

form of the court doctor. His face was etched with wrinkles and tiny beads of perspiration hinted

at his apprehension. His light step was augmented in the tense silence as he moved toward the

frail frame of the child enveloped in the protective arms of his mother. The court doctor

withdrew the child from his mother’s embrace and a lifted him toward the light. The child’s

sickly complexion shone in the dim light and his eyelids welled with tears. Suddenly the child’s

eyes snapped open. His gaze caught the court doctor by surprise as he slumped to the floor in a

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state of unconsciousness. And all was still as the faint rays of the dawning sun ebbed at the

vision of the stricken king.

The pulchritude of the princess seemed to grow with each passing day, so that even the

mighty powers of Olympus seemed to take notice. And so ardent was the love which brewed in

the heart of the sun god, Apollo, that I was bestowed as a gift upon the young princess. Yet she

spurned his advances, provoking his fury. And forever was she cursed with the knowledge of

foresight; to see yet never to be heard. Young Cassandra, as was the appellation the Trojan

princess was given, was plagued by the oppression of her knowledge. All who heard of her

visions were dubious of their verity and the lucidity of her visions. And even now, as I recall her

visions, I regret my very existence…

Fiction Grade 7-9 Sarah LeHan

OneLifetoLoseforaLegend

Was I brave? No, not really. But posterity’s not to know that.

My knees were knocking as they led me out of the cell, eyes skewered tight against the blinding

sunlight. About ten feet away a crowd of people stood rustling in the dirt and muttering in

hushed voices. Several people looked up at the clattering of my boots. One called out, “That’s

him, the hero!”

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Such a preposterous claim is immediately met with the skepticism it deserves. “A hero? He’s a

bloody schoolteacher, for cryin’ out loud!”

“And a foolish one at that--couldn’t even reason through one mission without blabbering. I could

do better- even without knowledge o’ me letters.”

Muttered guffaws--fools always have something to say.

“Hush up, you mooncalf. You speak treason, and within spittin’ distance o’ the gallows, no less.”

The sound of any--however belittling--interest in my welfare makes the Regulars behind me jerk

my handcuffs. I wince as the rope cuts into my wrists--all too soon; my neck will bear the same

red welts.

“We got us ‘ere a traitor,” roars a redcoat. “And you know wot the good British Crown does w’

traitors, gents?”

The crowd mumbles assent with much shuffling of feet. One particularly malicious lad trumpets,

“We hang ‘em!”

“But of course.” The redcoat turns to me and whispers, “Are you ready, traitor? Ready to feel

that hemp tighten about yer scrawny neck? You’ll dance a mighty fine Newgate Jig, I’m sure.”

Involuntarily, my attempted stoicism crumbles and I choke out something vaguely like “no”--or

was it “terribly sorry, just please let me live?” Certain I am not, but it doubtless was not the

defiant “Eat your words, bastard” that I had practiced. Here I go again--

“Erk.”

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“Should’ve thought of that before visiting Long Island, you damn Yankee.”

Master Malicious and several of his cronies set in to jeering. Several others look sheepish and

stare at their feet. The just-concealed fire in their eyes reveals them a Patriot, yet they yield not a

peep to save me.

“Help me,” I wanted to call, “Did I not get caught helping you?” But I say nothing; just let the

jeers and catcalls and impending doom worm their way into my brain. Just a few more minutes

and this will all be over, I think--but surprise, surprise, that notion just sickens me more.

But then I realize- though my physical existence may end in a few short minutes, this world will

continue on. God’s Earth, America’s war, the snicker of Master Malicious, fermenting memories

of grudge and love; all will race on without me.

Dispiriting, no?

But wait--memory…

Actions landed me in this situation; actions supposedly in service of this country. So what if I just

wanted to see the word, charm a few fetching lasses? My charge of treason says Nathan Hale,

Patriot spy.

What had that man called me? A “foolish schoolteacher”?

No. A hero.

A hero? Could it be? Highwaymen are forgotten before the maggots finish with their flesh, but

heroes are rewarded until civilization itself falls.

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Not to mention how actions echo tenfold when paired with words. They need not be heartfelt,

just noble; they needn’t be true but must only sound majestic. (Goodness knows the only truth

that escapes my minister's lips is the evilness of lies.) And I, Nathan Hale, have always had a

way with words--no amount of knocking knees or sweaty skin can take that away from me.

So now, as the hated redcoats roughly tug me through the noxious crowd, I have a plan.

As I mount the rickety thirteen steps to doom, I have a plan.

And when a Redcoat growls for my last words, I fall into that plan like a pig into his trough,

praying that my family will understand and continue my effort.

I chant a few words about loyalty and courage, pouring just enough emotion into my voice to

make it believable. Freedom, liberty, happiness--you know, the works--but at these magic words,

some feet shufflers’ heads perk up to display newfound inferno kindled in their eyes.

And then the whopper, the pinnacle, the sugar in your tea--er...coffee-

“I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.”

This much is true, at least--if I had numerous lives, losing this one wouldn’t matter so much.

A lobsterback tightens the bounds on my wrists and slips the thick and scratchy rope about my

neck. Though my heart beats faster at this inexorable end, even hooded Death cannot extinguish

my accomplishment--the entire crowd stands wide-eyed and awestruck, basking in some nugget

of encouragement plucked from my fabricated words. A few scattered hand claps are heard

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before a Regular shushes them, and a towheaded journalist scribbles furiously in a corner. Even

Master Malicious seems affected, though he conceals it well beneath a telltale snicker.

Did I believe my words? No, not really. But my audience did. Looking at their awed eyes, I

know that I, Nathan Hale, Simple Schoolteacher, will go down in history as Great Patriot and

Spy. No matter what this rope does to me now, I have beaten both King George III and Death,

himself. After all, mere mortals die young--but legends live forever.

Therefore, I am immortal; before they can push me, I jump.

Fiction Grade 10-12

ThatNightBy: Savannah Blue Collins

The boots, nothing but two stout piles of weathered rubber, sat among ember glows of the

furnace. The boy stood watching the flames eat any evidence of what he came to know. It did not

start out this way, dear children. Not even close.

It began at a dinner table, one of echoing laughter and casual conversation. Dusk with its

pricking breezes signaled the end of a workday. Feet trampled off fields, suddenly charged with

want of food. This was the time father came home. With calloused hands and gentle eyes he

greeted each child with a stiff “Hello.”

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Bodies that reeked of work huddled around ceramic bowls, which held hope for the next

day. Heaps of gritty food found their way from bowls to mouth that spewed events of the day.

It was his preferred time of day, for no accusing glances dared look his way. For short

moments he almost allowed himself to believe life was at his fullest.

The night was as any other until the boots arrived at the door. They were not his father’s

gruff boots, no, they were starkly shiny black boots of The Men. They came and there was no

stopping them. His mother’s hands shoved him out the back door with the urgent, hoarse,

singular command. Run.

It was almost three hours later when the boy returned. All that was left were the gruff

boots the boy knew so well.

Fiction Grade 7-9

MemoriesofAntiguaBY: Isabel Blaze

I was having one of my many daydreams when I remembered a place I have been to. I

recalled standing on the top of a hill next to Cerro de la Cruz leaning on the giant, metal, cross

for support after the long hike. The hill overlooked the town of Antigua, Guatemala and the view

was breath taking. Even from up high I could hear the little red tuk-tuks honking at each other as

they impatiently hobbled down the cobblestone streets. The houses crammed together on the

uneven roads that came in magnificent colors. There were bold yellows, bright fuchsias, emerald

greens and about any other color you could think of. The sun was high in the sapphire sky as it

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shed light on the two volcanoes that bordered the town. They seemed like the guards of Antigua.

Volcano Fuego let out a puff of smoke as if it agreed q the idea while volcano Agua stood

dormant and majestic.

After experiencing the breath taking view for a bit, I decided to hike back down the hill.

As I was walking down, I could sense the silence of the forest, every so often punctuated by the

screech of red and green parrots. The trail extended in front of me with green vegetation

blooming out from the sides. Flowers seemed to spring up out of nowhere in brilliant color. I

looked closely at one large blossom; it was a lone white flower in a cluster of yellow buds. They

swayed peacefully in the wind, comfortable where they were. I continued walking on the dirt

path dodging roots as I walked. Lost in my own thoughts I was startled as a small scaly lizard

scurried past my feet. My yelp bounced off the rocky cliff and echoed back at me disrupting the

natural euphoria. After a bit more hiking I got to the bottom back to the busy crowded streets of

town.

I strolled on the cement sidewalk of the uneven cobblestone streets looking at the people

as I went. I saw a young woman with a baby strapped to her back, dressed in the traditional

Guatemalan clothing. A brightly patterned skirt hung to right above her ankles as she negotiated

with another woman about the price of a sack of tomatoes at the market place. A group of

tourists hustled past speaking rapidly in a language I did not understand and snapping pictures

with their cameras. A man in a straw cowboy hat shook his tin asking for money. I continued

ambling underneath the weathered yellow archway with a clock. I had seen this landmark on the

back of my Spanish textbook as well as in real life. I meandered past the church, a focal point in

Guatemalan towns. People were praying throughout the cathedral and the priest was preaching at

the altar. I could feel the heavy, quiet, atmosphere of the church with marble statues of Jesus and

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the Virgin Mary looking on. The sunlight flowed through the stain glass windows making them

burst with life and color. I ran my hand along the cold wooden pew and felt the scratches and

indents. This church had been here since the catholic Spanish conquistadores came and settled

the area. I imagined that hundreds of years ago there were people in the church just like me. I left

the church and then wandered my way into the park.

As I walked into the square the first thing I noticed was the fact that my stomach was

growling. I stopped at a women food vendor. She stood above a large, hot, steaming pan with

sizzling oil in it. I watched as she added empanadas and they turned a golden brown. Next to her

a younger girl, perhaps her daughter, smacked dough into her hands to make tortillas. I stopped

there and bought a hot cup of arroz con leche and a tostada. The tostada was crunchy and the

meat and vegetables tasted crisp and fresh. The arroz con leche is a sweet rice drink that I

enjoyed very much. It was creamy and delicious. After I had finished and paid for my meal I

walked around the park for a bit longer. I passed the women hand washing their clothes in the

town’s community washer. It was a big rectangle filled with water and had small alcoves around

the perimeter. The women would dip the clothes in their alcove and then scrub them with soap.

Then they would rinse them off in the tub. They all had a rhythm going, steady and efficient. I

walked around the fountain in the center and saw the many people with goods trying to sell them

to the many tourists. They had jade necklaces, beaded hair pins, wooden flutes painted with

traditional drawings. Children looked for people who would pay them to shine their shoes. I sat

on a small rickety bench for a while and watched the scene that went on before me. After taking

one last look at the cross, the volcanoes, the plants, the market, the church, the animals, the park

and most importantly the people, I trudged home.” That was a good day”, I thought to myself.

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Fiction Grade 7-9

DifferentPerspectiveCarolineManciniThe field was empty, it always was. It wasn’t too far from civilization though, just a five minute

walk from the high school.

It was a beautiful day; the flowers were in full bloom and with the sun in the sky it felt like I was

in heaven. Just like Veronica described.

Veronica. My face formed into a small smile as I thought of her.

Thinking about her brought back the memory of when I first saw her.

Hopping out of the car I slung my bag around my shoulder and walked towards my new school.

After walking to the office and introducing myself to the principle he introduced me to a boy

around my age.

“Logan meet Simon he’ll be showing you around the school. You two have the same schedule so

it will work out.” He glanced at the clock and shooed us out.

      20  

We both left the office and Simon turned to me.

“I’m Simon, you already know that though.” He told me. He seemed to have a permanent look

on his face that spelled out trouble.

“Logan. What’s our first period?” I asked.

“Math on the other side of the school, we should walk there now.”

While we were walking to the class I accidently hit my shoulder into someone standing next to

me. I turned to see a girl standing there, her messy coffee colored hair falling into her face as

she stumbled from the impact.

“I’m so sorry are you ok?” I apologized quickly.

She looked up into my eyes and I saw a million emotions going through her ice blue eyes before

she quickly turned and walked away.

      21  

“Don’t mind Veronica. She doesn’t talk… ever.” Logan explained.

“Is she mute or something?”

He shrugged. “Nah, she just doesn’t talk. Probably wants attention.”

“Yeah.” I agreed but I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

I smiled at the memory, but of course that wasn’t the last time I would see her. The next time

was in English class. It was my fourth week at school, the middle of February.

“Class we’re going to be starting a project.” Our teacher exclaimed excitedly. “ What you will

be doing is you’ll be assigned some sort of emotion or feeling, for example happiness or

jealousy, and you will have to show how something else can affect it.”

      22  

The class all groaned, knowing this wouldn’t be the easiest project.

“Don’t worry you’ll be working in partners which I have made already.” She explained and

started calling out names and their feeling.

“Logan and Veronica you’ll be working with each other and your feeling is peacefulness.”

I looked over to the corner where Veronica was sitting, looking like she was in a daze.

Turning back I saw Simon mouthing, “I’m sorry” to me.

“Now class start brainstorming with your partners. This will be due March fourth”

Moving next to Veronica I sat there for a while as she stared out the window.

“Why don’t we connect peacefulness with silence?” I suggested.

She just looked at me blankly.

      23  

“After all it’s something you seem to know a lot about!” I joked.

She shot me a small, but genuine smile.

“Why don’t you come over to my house every Thursday to work on it starting today. It seems like

it needs a lot of work.”

A nod.

I tore out a piece of paper and wrote my address.

Most of those Thursdays were average. We would work together on the project. Me talking and

suggesting ideas and her helping with them. And though she couldn’t talk I had learned to

understand her body language. It wasn’t the same as talking but it seemed like more. I had

started to feel really close to her. She listened to me when I ranted. I felt like she was my one

true friend.

      24  

And then I went and changed everything.

It had been a bad day. I came home fuming over the events of the day. When Veronica arrived

we started working, like normal.

“What if we have everyone tell us how silence makes them feel?” I suggested.

She shrugged and looked out the huge glass window on the wall.

Normally her silence didn’t annoy me. But I was having a bad day and needed to take my anger

out on something.

“Can’t you just talk for once?” I nearly yelled. “I know you want attention and everything so

you don’t talk but can you just say one word? Do you know how frustrating it is to work with

you?”

She buried her head in her hands and I immediately felt bad.

      25  

I walked over to her. “Sorry I shouldn’t have said those things I didn’t mea-“

“Logan I’m dying.” She interrupted. Her voice sounding tiny and fragile.

My eyes opened in astonishment. “Wh-“

“Can I take you someplace? We can talk there.” She asked.

I nodded.

She led me out of the house and passed the high school. We ended up at a wide-open field.

“Is that why you don’t talk, because you’re dying?”

She nodded. “Words waste time. And words are forgotten.”

      26  

I looked down at where I was sitting and remembered how we laid there in silence. And even

though she said we would talk we didn’t, but I understood everything. We then went back to my

house to work on the project.

She didn’t make it to presentation day.

I found her in the field. She had left halfway through the school dance. I had seen her date

hanging out with mine.

“Did you get bored?” I yelled and she jumped in surprise.

I plopped down next to her. “What’s up?”

She was halfway through her shrug when she started twitching uncontrollably. I watched in

shock.

She looked straight into my eyes and instantly I knew it was time.

      27  

“Veronica you can’t go I need you!” I yelled.

“Logan.” She whispered.

I looked straight into her eyes and immediately understood what she was trying to say.

“Veronica, I love you too.”

Fiction Grade 10-12 Graham Helgans

TheSoup

“Bon Appetit,” the waiter articulated to the hungry woman sitting by herself at the dimly

lit table in the corner of DuPont, the restaurant opened by Chef DuPont over 30 years earlier.

The woman like much of the petite restaurant’s customers ordered the very popular French

Onion Soup, made only by the meticulous hands of Chef DuPont. It was another rambunctious

night for the employees, and even past eleven, orders were still non-stop.

The jovial chef slouched in the back of the kitchen all by himself preparing another piece

of art for his patrons. Each soup that went out had to be crafted to perfection. Nobody except the

      28  

stocky chef had the ability to produce the well-liked soup. In fact, no one else in the kitchen

knew the recipe to his famous dish. Rumor had it that it was the chef’s grandmother’s recipe, a

recipe that was passed down to him by the last dying breaths of his grandmother’s life.

“I heard that he sweats the onions for weeks before adding them to the broth,” one cook

whispered to another.

“No, it’s not the onions, he definitely adds different aged wines,” the cook responded.

Chef DuPont knew of the different ideas to his variations by his coworkers, but never

planned on disclosing his secret until he had passed. He always told his staff, “When I die, you

will learn of my recipe.” The staff’s curiosity amplified every step that the old chef took towards

dying. The first time Chef DuPont had chest pains, various members of the help barraged him

with questions referring to his soup. The time he broke his hip falling out of bed, countless

employees visited him in the hospital not to wish him the best but to find out where the recipe

was when he finally passed away.

Despite his unfaithful workers, Chef DuPont worked tirelessly every day on his soups. If

he didn’t feel the inspiration to make it, it wasn’t put on the menu.

The morning of April 26th was like any other morning. The birds were up early chirping

back in forth like they were in some argument over whose nest was better. Chef DuPont was

usually up with the birds, walking his many dogs in the nearby park. However, this morning he

was not.

He always had a love for dogs, even keeping a number of them at a time. As unsanitary

as it was, Chef DuPont kept some of his dogs in his office at the restaurant. His love for dogs

      29  

was always as mysterious as his unexplained soup recipe, because every week there were new

dogs that many of the help had never seen before. One week it was a couple of strays and a

greyhound, the next a few dachshunds.

When the workers walked in through the employee entrance to the kitchen, Chef DuPont

wasn’t in his normal spot, sharpening the knives. As one of the members of the help went to prep

the dining area for early lunch, he noticed. Sitting by himself at the table next to the window was

Chef DuPont. He was drooped in an awkward position, his face emotionless. In front of his

lifeless body sat a bowl of his own creation. Instead of calling for an ambulance, Brian, the table

planner, gathered the workers.

“Is anyone else curious about finding out this recipe?” he asked. A round of yeses rang

throughout the spacious kitchen. Altogether they rushed into his back office. They snooped

through the mahogany cabinets and the numerous desk drawers until they came upon it in an

aged dusty cookbook. It was a crumpled piece of loose leaf. On it was half cursive, half chicken

scratch writing that detailed exactly how to make the soup.

Chef DuPont’s Sous Chef read the note aloud, “Step one, gather the ingredients: butter,

salt, two red onions, two sweet onions, chicken broth, aged red wine, fresh parsley, shredded

Asiago and mozzarella cheese, and two pieces of finely cut dog leg?”

Fiction Grade 10-12 Paige Drippe

      30  

Air The day was cold. Rain had fallen recently, making the footing soft and the fall air full of

the pungent smell of wet leaves and dying grass. A cool, heavy air whipped across my cheek,

wicking away my excess heat and leaving me with only a slight chill and plenty of sweat. I

barely even noticed that my shirt was nearly soaked through as my pony Spot shifted under me. I

picked up my reins before sending her forwards. She ducked her head to the side, dropping her

shoulder low in an attempt to show me that she was having fun. Still young and inexperienced,

she tended to forget that her ways of expressing the joy she felt would throw me off balance, as

they did now. I steeled myself to stay in place, now ready for any of her other pony antics. A

smile played on my lips as I pushed her forward and she flawlessly departed into a canter and

headed for the two jumps.

Coming around the turn, I locked onto the distance to the first jump, clucking to her ever

so slightly so that she opened up her stride and propelled over the fence, meeting it at a perfect

distance. A stride away from the jump, I lessened my grip on the reins. Her muscles felt like

well-oiled, coiled ropes underneath me. I felt her ears prick forward and her neck tense in

anticipation as her body puffed up in the excitement of doing what she loves most. As she

propelled off the ground, I immediately tightened my abs to stay with her round, spectacular

jump. Her muscles bunched and rippled underneath me, and I could feel her back curve around

the fence as she sailed over it with her legs practically to her ears. As we started our return to

Earth, her muscles swelled and extended to reach the ground. I tightened my back to stay in

place, as her athletic jump nearly always caused me to lose my position and fall off.

Although we couldn’t have been in the air for more than a few seconds, time seemed to

slow down and both she and I experienced the pure joy of jumping. On the landing she took two

      31  

perfectly measured strides before rocketing over the last jump, a larger and airier one that she

still cleared with inches to spare.

The seconds she suspended herself really did feel like flying. It was so easy to get

addicted to this feeling, the feeling of defying the Earth and sailing towards the moon. The

feeling of knowing that not all laws applied to you, and the feeling of knowing that you weren’t

alone in the pure ecstasy of defying gravity.

On the landing I prepared to slow her down, but she fought my hands until she was in

reach of a low branch with some leaves that had yet to die. Now she stopped smoothly, neatly

tucking her hind end under her as she came to a perfect halt. Lifting her head up, she ripped off

those few remaining leaves and chomped them noisily before turning her head towards my boot,

woofing contentedly into my leg.

Fiction Grade 10-12 Tom Wade

UntitledWhen the sun finishes setting in the winter and only the very tops of the trees move with the

wind your walking slows to a crawl.

Sometimes you can hear it. There are clean streets and clean houses sequestered through the

frozen wood. There are parks and fields and little shops and restaurants and children who work

hard and go to college.

There’s the sound too. It whispers low into the night. You hear it first on the shore of a

midnight pond, strolling on an empty downtown sidewalk, and you start to slow down. It speaks.

It reads you the headlines. Teen dies from undiagnosed heart condition. Assisted suicide in

      32  

retirement home. Local man perishes in skiing accident. Sunday pile-up on the highway.

Family of four home ablaze. Seven rushed to hospital for alcohol poisoning. Drowning goes

unnoticed in public pool.

So it’s your own thoughts weaving dark little poems. So then, fine. It’s your own pessimism and

paranoia breaking off the seals on your instincts, crawling out of their bottles on their shelves in

your head. You’ve been here before. You’ve made beasts out of fog and feared demons only

you can see. They were your machinations.

One deep breath.

Exhale.

You’re not sure these thoughts belong to you.

Force your hand past your eyeballs and poke around. It’s smooth and quiet. Your only demons

are primal. Silenced by logic and reason, these black hounds lie peaceful. But they keep their

eyes open. They don’t move. They don’t sleep. They stare past your hand and out your eyes

and ears. They wait, but the sidewalk is empty except for your heels and the smoke from your

mouth. You turn your head to examine the folds of darkness and it whispers again.

You search and find no creature out in the dark, but continue to stare into the void, desperate to

find something, anything out there in the woodland abyss, hoping beyond hope that it is a

murderer or a monster so there’s something rational and tangible out there you can run from or

fight or struggle against or even be killed by but at least something finite. Anything with a face.

A mouth at the end to swallow the unknown. But there’s no teeth, just white noise. It’s on the

outside of your head and everywhere.

      33  

You start hearing it during the day.

It comes and goes. A headache that isn’t bad enough to warrant pain killers. And you realize

it’s stronger when the sun is out. When you’re surrounded by people, a speck in a crowd of

noise and heat, shielding each other from the shadows, their voices coalesce, floating unchained

and weaving together to read you the headlines. Teen dies from undiagnosed heart condition.

Assisted suicide in retirement home. Local man perishes in skiing accident. Sunday pile-up on

the highway. Family of four home ablaze. Seven rushed to hospital for alcohol poisoning.

Drowning goes unnoticed in public pool. All it takes is one more event. One more tragedy.

Another child in a wooden box. A drop of blood falls with the rain and now the voice is gone

and it’s just staring silently, knowing you ignored it. When it speaks again, you listen.

You turn off your censors and auditory guards and let the static come in unaffected. It reads you

the headlines again. One loop after the next. The words bleed together and they are just one

sound. One drone out in the night air. It’s a single note played on the strings of oblivion. It’s

different knowledge now. It whispers secrets nothing flesh-bound should hear. You are told the

black details of existence itself. The framework of reality reals its ugly head and bellows in tune

with the violin. A tempo starts and the shadows begin to waltz.

You can see now. If you look into a man’s eyes you can see his soul hanging loosely from the

bars of his ribcage. His pain is in the footnotes and his dreams are chapter headings. There’s a

cancer inside him, eating away at his spirit. His shame is born to your sight and his doubt and

fear surrender themselves to your will. Look inside this man and see a feeble creature. You see

a life beating dully against its bonds, struggling for meaning in a crowd of wandering creatures

coasting through rays of harsh sunlight. You approach this man. You walk slowly and

      34  

purposefully through the mob and get closer. He looks straight ahead, questioning, wondering.

Your feet and his lie parallel and your skulls side by side, as if to pass him, but you stop. Your

shoulders connect. He is silent.

You whisper quietly.

Fiction Grade 10-12 Alice Seiter

UntitledCoolness seeps into my brain, spreading around in numb waves. I grip the cool soda glass

tighter, allowing more of the cool immigrants to enter my body. My eyes don't dare open, afraid

the sunlight will turn them to ash. Carefully I swing back, stretching my legs in front of me and

resting my once straight back on the iron chairs chest.

The sound of soft footsteps enters one ear and crashes out the next, leaving me shaken.

Something soft rests on my knee, and I silently classify it as my daughters arms. The arms rub

against my pajama pants and the movement pushes nausea messages to my stomach.

"Mommy?" A little voice whispers as the arms slide to take up more space on my leg. Without

a thought my arm stretches to swat at the constraining hands.

"Off." I whisper and immediately the arms disappear. A sigh of relief leaves my stone lips, but I

quickly frown when I realize that her presence remains. A deep breath fills me and the addicting

smell of alcohol makes my senses fly higher.

The presence next to me makes a slight noise, a loud irritating noise that makes my head pound

like drums. My head turns in the direction that I imagine my child is at.

"What? You know better than to bother mommy when she's sleeping," I grumble slowly, before

      35  

peeking one bloodshot eye open so I can glare at her.

She smiles up at me, with mud colored hair in messy pigtails and her mismatched clothes set

perfectly. "I made lunch."

As if on queue my stomach lets out a monstotous growl, and I pop open the other eye. A flinch

shakes me as the sunlight becomes a bit too much for my groggy brain. I turn my head down and

stare at my daughters mismatched shoes. She jumps up and dashes into the kitchen, not even

pausing to make sure I followed. A part of me whispers to just lock her in the kitchen for now

but I shake my head, I was hungry.

The kitchen smells like decay, and I note that the fridge must've not been checked in months.

My eyes turn to the kitchen table, the bills where piled on one corner in skyscraper fashion. A

rotting apple held guard of the papers. In front of it my young daughter had set up two dinner

plates, with plates full of ravioli and old milk poured in the best glasses. She looks down at the

meal before looking up to me with foreign black eyes.

"I couldn't reach the bread box." She explains as she slides into her seat. I nod and stumble

across the kitchen to pull two pieces of moldy bread from the stained box. I drop them on her

plate and take a seat, lifting the spoon slowly and shoveling some cold ravioli in my mouth. I

look up as she slides the buttered bread onto my plate and sigh around around a mouthful of

food.

She looks up at me and smiles, also shoveling ravioli into her mouth. As we eat she waits

patiently, for any praise or criticism that I could give. I give none.

After a disappointing wait she sighs and stands to take the plates away. "Will daddy come home

today?" She asks, for the fifteenth time this month.

      36  

"No."

Fiction Grade 10-12

TheButler By Edward Pankowski

On April 24, 1928, in the small community of Cozenage, Virginia, men, women and

children went about their lives. The men labored in the factories or farms, the women attending

to the children or to their stores. Those children went off to school, a little building built years

prior, still standing despite the drawings from students both young and old which covered its

exterior. It was in this place that they were educated, to grow up and fill the roles their aging

parents left behind, and then to send their own children to school, ensuring that the community of

Cozenage would go on forever.

Arthur B. Troth had witnessed this cycle many times, looking out over Cozenage from

the manor in which he had served generations of Cozenages, the family for whom the town had

been named. Looking over the town from the manor, the butler reflected on his years of service.

Decades of silent complicity as scandal, corruption, and incompetence dwindled the family

fortune, with every generation of Cozenages being worse than the last. Indeed, it was not until

the latest Cozenage, Swinish Cozenage, married Ms. Amity Altran that Troth had felt any

genuine goodwill toward any member of the family. However, it was inevitable that Swinish

      37  

would grow tired of his wife’s generous donations to charity, further dwindling the family

fortune. Troth had known this since their wedding day, and so, he was unsurprised when, one

morning after Amity had left, Swinish handed him a pistol and ordered him to kill Amity.

Even though Troth had expected the order, he had not anticipated the emotional gale that

tore through him at the instruction. Never before had been so personally conflicted over an order

from his masters. Then again, he had never before been asked to commit such a terrible crime

against one so far more deserving of life than he. Swinish attempted to justify the crime,

claiming it would protect the family, “both in fortune and reputation.” Troth, however, knew that

the family treasury would be depleted within a decade, with or without Amity’s expenditures. As

for the family reputation, Troth knew that if any of the shady dealings or corrupt business

ventures the family had participated in over the last forty years came to light, the Cozenage name

would be irreparably damaged, far more so than any damage a divorce could do. It was with

trembling fingers that he took the gun, a small revolver, tiny enough to be hidden in his coat

pocket, and departed along the same path that Swinish’s wife had taken only a few hours before.

It was with a heavy heart and sad soul that Arthur Troth returned that evening. Before

opening the front door of the Cozenage manor, he once again examined the pistol that Swinish

had provided him that morning. The dark black color now seemed to reflect his soul, blackened

and corrupted over the years by his service to the Cozenage family. When he rested his finger on

the trigger, he felt as though he held the tool which would secure his own damnation. He tried to

      38  

placate himself, and succeeded in disrupting this line of thought long enough for him to enter the

manor.

Troth found Swinish Cozenage in the parlor room, adjacent to the front door. Swinish

swirled a small glass of red wine in his hands, looking into the fireplace, where a warm fire

burned, bathing the room in an orange hue. When Swinish saw Troth’s reflection, his previously

sober face split into a wide grin, and he got up to congratulate him on “a job well done.” Swinish

then grew stern, and warned Troth to never speak of this incident, to family, townsfolk, and

especially the police. Troth nodded dumbly through the ritual, one he had undergone every time

he had acted as a representative for the Cozenage family in some duplicitous activity or another.

He looked up, though, when Swinish went silent, and Troth knew why. At that moment, Amity

Altran entered the parlor, her arms empty of the usual items she purchased during the day.

It is impossible to know whether the shocked expression on Swinish’s face came from the

sudden and clearly unexpected arrival of his wife, or Troth, who now drew his pistol and fired

into Swinish’s chest, aiming for the heart, if such a thing existed within Swinish Cozenage.

Swinish collapsed, his shocked expression twisted into one of surprise and pain, his wine glass

shattered on the floor.

Amity observed the scene, the sudden and violent death of her husband, then approached

Troth. “Thank you,” she said to him, her warm voice containing a hint of sadness, but also

      39  

gratitude. “I am sure that I would be dead had Swinish sent a man less loyal to the family.”

Arthur Troth stared into Swinish’s dying eyes, then turned to her and said, “I am not loyal to the

family. I do not serve the Cozenages.” Quietly he looked back at Swinish and whispered, “not

any longer.” Troth looked down at the pistol in his hand and thought, if such a small thing can be

the tool of his damnation, perhaps it may now be the key to his salvation, and his redemption.

Fiction Grade 7-9

TrustingCaterpillarsLeadsYouNowhereWritten by: Amanda C. Blaze

Based on Harris Burdick’s “Oscar and Alphonse”

Sally Williams stared into the mirror while fastening her pink scrunchies. What would

she do today? There were so many things for a six year old girl to do! Maybe she would explore

the forest behind her house. She wasn’t exactly supposed to go there, but her parents had said

don’t go into the woods. And her parents probably had meant the place where her dad stacked the

wood. After all, the forest didn’t have any wood, it only had trees!

Satisfied with here reasoning, Sally set off to explore. Sally skipped around the forest,

picking flowers as she went. When it was getting dark, she turned and discovered that she had no

clue where she was. Icy sweat ran down her back as she screamed for her mom, her dad, anyone!

She ran and ran, abandoning her flowers, until she couldn’t run anymore. After all of that

running, she still hadn’t made it home. She sat down, and began to cry. Now what would she do?

She would miss dinner! She would starve! Sally saw a leaf move. She shrieked and scrambled

      40  

away. She hid behind a rock, her heart pounding so loudly that she was sure that it would burst

out of her chest and the monster would eat it. Sally slowly peered over, clutching her ribcage so

her heart couldn’t escape. Aw, it’s just some cute caterpillars! Sally puts her hand out shyly, and

the caterpillars crawl on her hand. She giggled, her earlier sadness gone. The caterpillars spelled

out an H. Then an I. Oh, she got it, hi! Sally may not have been to first grade yet, but she knew

how to read pretty well. W-E (pause) K-N-O-W (pause) W-H-E-R-E (pause) T-O (pause) G-O.

Then the caterpillars formed an arrow, pointing behind Sally. Should she trust them? She

couldn’t be any worse off then she already was. Sally followed the caterpillars all the way to her

house, in time for dinner! “How can I ever thank you?” Sally asked. F-R-I-E-N-D-S-? “O.K!”

Sally said, with innocence only six-year-olds have.

For the next couple of days, Sally and the newly dubbed Oscar and Alphonse settled into

a routine. In the morning they would disappear into the forest, and Oscar and Alphonse would

lead Sally back. In the afternoon they had spelling competitions, Sally versus Caterpillars. The

caterpillars always won. At night they stayed up as late as they could, sharing stories. The only

thing that stopped them from continuing longer was the lack of light to read the caterpillars

words.

On the fourth morning, it was a drab, cloudy day, but the trio set off anyway. When they

were a good way into the forest the caterpillars started to spell something. G-O-O-D-B-Y-E

“What? Are you leaving?” N-O (pause) Y-O-U (pause) A-R-E.

Sally felt the ice-cold knife of betrayal stab her heart, “Why? I thought we were

friends?” T-O-O (pause) B-A-D. Suddenly searing shocks of pain went up her arm. Sally

screamed, but no one could hear her. Sally looked down, and screamed even louder. Oscar and

      41  

Alphonse were eating the skin in her hand. Her friends, confidents, and companions were

gorging themselves on her flesh. Her tortured mind flashed back to the time Jonathon from down

the street had pushed her into a mud puddle, and when Alice had stole her pudding in pre-k.

Those had been mean acts, but Alice and Jonathon were cruel all the time. This was different. No

one had ever tricked her like that before. Red-hot anger enveloped her body. She would be

remembered. No one would forget her death….

Even with her contracting and dying body, with her last breath, she smiled and looked at

the last things she would ever spell: NEVER TRUST A CATERPILLAR

For years people speculated what poor Sally had meant by trusting caterpillars. Some

thought it was a metaphor that caterpillars was a way of saying that bullies were like insects, and

caterpillars are insects, so maybe Sally had tried to cause her own death because she had been

bullied. Others wondered if maybe in her delirium she had imagined her murderers as

caterpillars. Sometimes though, things are exactly as they seem.

Two Years Later…

One day young Patrick Miller was strolling through his backyard when he saw an adorable pair

of caterpillars…

Fiction Grade 7-9 Umu Thiam –

Amber Eyes  

      42  

AmberEyes By Umu Thiam

I looked across the skyline. I stand alone on a barren hill. My mind wanders, when will i

get off this island? Will i ever find another one like me. “no!” i think aloud. It is highly

improbable, “Huh” improbable my “Dad’ used to say words like that, before the Incident.

“ahoooooooo” A sound pierces through the falling dusk. As it nears closer and closer i walk

back to the “Pit”. Hopefully i will be visited by a Nene I need all the luck i can get, and

maybe even a nice bird dinner.

I awake suddenly. I My spirits are raised, “Today, will be a good day Birdy.”

Birdy, Dad used to call me that i still hear his gruff voice. He was more gentle than

people think. I was his little nightingale.

Now I being stranded here for 183 scratches on the rock, I can barely remember his

face. I wish that i could take back harsh words said, but they have disappeared along with

words and customs. Now it is just me and this jaguar. I panic. I have to run. But before i

can even gather myself to get up i am pushed to the ground. The beast stands over me

huffing its vile breath in to my face. I whimper, only 8 inches between me and the putrid

animal’s snarling lip.

      43  

Amber. I was thrashed around, like a kitten’s play-thing. Spots were

appearing in my sight. The world was fading, but not before I got a look at the

beast’s eyes. Amber.

“ Ugh.” It hurt to sit straight, to even breathe was a pain.

I felt a sticky liquid on my side. As i looked down I saw a mass of

blood. I was wounded, the cat ripped my side open. It was vile and

Yellowing, I took a deep breath wincing at the sharp pains. That is when i

noticed the cat Sitting with it’s head held high, as if to say, “ Look at my

prize”. Those eyes made me shake and quiver, those eyes bore holes and

cracked the surface. Those amber eyes.

It Felt like forever sitting there, but it was probably only 6 days. I

knew that the Beast was still there, but i was too stubborn( or maybe scared)

to look. My attacker Shoved pieces of fresh Meat in my Direction. I did not

want to look. Not at those menacing Amber Eyes.

After Another 3 days i was too tired too refuse, i took the Kill

and tore a piece off and shoved it in my mouth. I immediately rejected

it. A monkey. Its lifeless eyes seem to beg, “why, why?” But i would

face these before i even catch a glance of those Amber Eyes.

      44  

I cannot, I will not, I just could not help myself. I Run, i run as fast as i can, I trip

and fall. I shriek from the pain of the wound which i had just reopened,

“is this how it is, to be left for dead in an unknown land. To be feasted on by

animals of an exotic caliber, What an honor!” I yell, furious. I finally close my eyes.

Fiction Grade 10-12

Eliza Grace

Emily’sWorld

As a child, I was too young to see the reality of what was happening around me. I never

had any alone time, and I could never develop my own thoughts. I was born in San Francisco,

California, but after only three years I moved down to Florida. I lived in a small neighborhood,

an average sized house. My father was a banker and my mother didn’t work. She would say her

job was taking care of me. One of the last memories I have of my childhood was my fifth

birthday party. My mom had spent months organizing and planning- it was in a small

recreational center in town. I don’t remember the actual party, but what I do remember is

something about my mother that has stuck in my mind forever. As I sat with her and got my

princess-apparel ready for the party, and with the thought of fantastical characters in mind, she

began to tell me about the life she fantasized. She told me how that what she really wanted to be

was and painter. In San Francisco, she said her imagination ran wild with ideas and inspirations

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for her work. In Florida, she had an impossible time seeking out hidden beauty within the dry

and uneventful lands of northern Florida.

A little less than a year later, my mother suddenly past away after overdosing on sleeping

pills. Neither my father nor I were prepared for this. At the time, I did not and could not

understand what had happened. Looking from my perspective now, I know that she was not

happy. It was not my father or I who had caused her distress, but rather her own mind. She was

not able to express herself, and if you had noticed the way she looked at her hands so

devastatingly every night after trying to sketch something beautiful in her journal, you would see

her pain. She became stuck inside her own head, and couldn’t get out. Everything she saw had

lost its beauty, and she had longed to go back to where her inspiration had been. She was not

someone who could complain, but rather she held herself back for the sake of my father and I,

for she knew he needed to be in Florida and that I would be better off growing up here.

To this day, I cannot tell you whether or not my mother meant to die on that night. I had

seen her taking pills before, more than just one or two at a time, but she always seemed to need

them, or else her anxiety would come rushing through her in an even more self- destructive way.

My father barely knew how bad my mother had become, and I don’t blame him for anything that

has happened. After her death, he clung too me as if I were his last hope for salvation. I became

his everything, and he became mine. His overprotectiveness started to become irksome, as I

grew older and began once again to desire the sight and voice of my mother.

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I needed to see my mother again, and so I had been sleeping. In my sleep, I could

imagine whatever world I wanted. I believed that if I could dream deep enough, I could see my

mother again; see her in San Francisco, a time when she was in her element. The only memories

I have are during the years of her growing sorrows, but I wanted to see her painting. I imagined

the masterpiece that she would have been painting if she had stayed in California; I see it as a

grand abstract canvas of the world at night. She had always loved the night, and the universe

that surrounded us. She had a fascination with the sky and the stars, and I see the painting that

could have fulfilled her dream, and every night in my dreams I get to see more and more of it.

I am now almost thirteen, and a few weeks ago I found a hidden medicine bottle with

some of the sleeping pills my mother would take, and so I have been taking some. Slowly, of

course. I am not trying to have the same fate as my mother; I just want to see from where she

saw. If I take them enough eventually her masterpiece will be fully revealed to me, if I take

enough then I can finally meet the happy Californian mother I had never seen. I can fall farther

and farther into this world inside my head. My father doesn’t know yet, and I don’t know how he

will take it, but I need to finish the masterpiece.

Yesterday morning I woke up in the Hospital, with my father praying over my hospital

bed. Apparently I had taken one too many of the sleeping pills. My father was crying, and I was

confused. I told him it was okay; I wasn’t sick, and explained to him what I had been looking

for. He continued to cry even after I had explained, I don’t know why. He must have been

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scared I might not wake up, like my mom, but I was fine, he couldn’t understand it. But I was so

close to seeing my mother’s masterpiece being finished, I was so close.

Now, I am forced to try to escape to my dreams without my mother’s pills, my dad

became too worried about me. Now whenever I want to sleep he has to tell me a story until I

drift off. Sometimes I can almost grasp the dream world like I used to, but I am having a hard

time seeing my mom. I love my dad, but he can’t understand, so I have to act like a normal

innocent girl around him. But I am planning, a final trip into my mind to see my mother and the

beauty in her final creation. I need to get just a few of those pills, and then I will be done.

I think my father is suspecting something of my plan, because ever so often when I am

drifting towards my abstract dream world, my father will wake me up and have an expression on

his face as if he had just seen a ghost, scared that I might be pulled forever into my dream world.

I play along with him, but soon I will be able to meet my dream world again, where I really

belong.

Fiction Grade 10-12 Anjali Krishnamachar

MetafictionThe girl had a look about her of casual disarray. It had been the first thing he noticed

about her, and he thought about it now, rolling the words casual disarray around on his tongue

and liking the way they nestled between his teeth. He’d only been watching her for a while, but

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he’d already memorized the way the waves of chocolate hair fell past her shoulders, the way the

laces of her boots lay untied—as if she’d shoved her feet into them in a hurry—and the way she

idly tapped her half-painted fingernails against the plastic armrest of the bench.

Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have spent his Sunday afternoon watching a girl in the

Metropolitan Museum of Art, but this wasn’t just any girl. He had been dragged along to the

MET by his newspaper friends—C’mon, you need to get off campus, they’d said—and he’d spent

hours staring listlessly at paintings that blurred one into another in the edges of his memory, all

confusing swatches of dark and light, muddying his vision and numbing his senses.

Until now. The girl was sitting in the same place she’d been for the past half hour—legs

crossed, elbow on knee, and pointed chin resting in one delicate hand. It was a strange painting,

not full of stately lords and ladies like its neighbors on the gallery’s wall. Instead, it depicted a

proud little girl in a dress shaped like a cupcake, attended by two simpering servants, a solemn-

looking dog, and an odd lady who almost looked like a dwarf but it seemed rude to say so. He

leaned a bit further off his seat and caught a glimpse of the painting’s title—Las Meninas, it read,

by Diego Velázquez, borrowed from the Museo del Prado, Spain.

Las Meninas. It vaguely rung a bell in his head, awakening a few hazy recollections of

his Art History class in high school. He peered once more at the shadowy canvas. There was

definitely something weird about the painting, he decided. At least, there had to be something

special about it—something fascinating enough to keep such a girl spellbound for so long.

Maybe she was captivated by the scrutinizing expression of the painter as he stood just behind

his canvas. Or perhaps there was a particular mystique about the man in the back of the scene,

the one who almost looked as if he were about to flee from the picture. Or maybe the two fuzzy

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faces in the mirror behind the tiny-cupcake-girl had captured her attention. He suddenly frowned

in frustration and slumped in his seat, completely taken over by the urge to know what exactly

the girl saw in the painting. What was worth pondering anyway for more than half an hour?

He chuckled at himself, amused by the irony of his own question. He’d been pondering

the girl, of course, for more than half an hour now. He couldn’t explain why he felt rooted to his

seat simply by the thought of her, why he had told his friends to go on without him—he had lied,

pretending to be enthralled by 17th century art—when in reality, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of

the girl.

Now the girl rotated in her seat, finally turning away from Las Meninas and—almost as if

she could feel his burning gaze on her—swiveled around and glanced at him. He drew in a sharp

intake of breath, but he was frozen, immobile, incapable of coherent thought or speech or even

faking a smile. The irises of her eyes were a deep green, their color exaggerated by the thin black

eyeliner that rimmed her lids, and they stared right into his own guilty eyes. She held his gaze for

a long moment—for what felt like an eternity—before finally shaking that glorious mane of hair

and slowly standing up and stretching.

In an instant, he was on his feet, surreptitiously pretending to tie his shoelace while he

watched her gracefully saunter out of the corner of his eye. She had seen him! His heart beat fast

and furiously, and he fumbled with the laces of his shoe, struggling to keep calm. What should

he do? She walked in the edge of his vision, just about to cross the threshold into the next

gallery…

He made his decision in a split second. He straightened up, brushed dust off of his jeans,

and skirted around the throngs of people that filled the gallery, following her into the adjoining

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room. He paused behind a marble pillar, feeling a bit ridiculous. Before he could fully try to sort

out his thoughts, a flash of brown hair to his right caught his eye, and he plastered himself to the

pillar, moving his head slightly, just enough to glimpse the bright magenta ends of her silk scarf

flutter by the exit doors. He hesitated—for half of a second—and then slid out from behind the

pillar, ignored the few stares he had attracted from children in strollers, and leapt out into the

street.

Squinting in the bright sunlight, he rotated in a full circle before he caught sight of her

halfheartedly tying up the askew laces of her boots. He bit his lip and looked away, trying to

camouflage into a gaggle of scowling teenagers with ripped jeans and spiky hair, all of whom

were lounging just a few steps away. He glanced back at the girl, who by now had moved on to

rummaging through her large leather shoulder bag. Relaxing for a moment, he inched himself

half a step closer to the girl, waiting for her next move.

Suddenly, he felt his foot catch on something, and he tripped on one of the rowdy

teenagers’ backpacks. Windmilling his arms, he frantically attempted to keep his balance but

instead flew headlong through the air and found himself unceremoniously sprawled across the

steps at her feet.

He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, using all of his remaining willpower to make the

throbbing in his right knee go away. What was he supposed to do now? He held his breath and

painstakingly counted slowly backwards from three in his head… and then he gingerly cracked

one eye open.

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“Oh, good!” a lyrical voice washed over his ears, and he turned to look the girl squarely

in the face. “You’re not dead!” she said brightly, an impish grin crossing over her face as she

tucked the ends of her scarf back into her coat.

Taken aback, he gaped at her. “N-no,” he stuttered, trying to look at her normally without

remembering that he’d been staring at this beauty for the better part of an hour. “Still very much

alive, I’m afraid.”

She shook her head at him in mock disapproval and crinkled her eyes, laughing silently at

something that he couldn’t tell. “Well, if you’re more or less in one piece,” she went on lightly,

“you can explain to me why you’ve been following me.” He froze in shock, astounded at his

discovery. Had he really been so obvious? He glanced at her and suddenly caught a glimpse of

the steel behind her smiling eyes, and he shivered involuntarily. How on earth was he going to

explain himself?

The problem was, he realized, that he didn’t have an answer to his own question. Why

had he followed the girl? He didn’t know. She was attractive—there was no doubt about it—but

he wasn’t in the habit of randomly trailing attractive girls around the city. “Well?” her expectant

voice broke into his confusion, and he shook his head, trying to get his story straight.

“I… Well. I write for the Columbia Daily Spectator,” he offered, hoping she would

recognize the name. Instead, she raised her eyebrows, unimpressed.

“So?”

He tried again. “Well, you were looking at Las Meninas for quite a while, and you see,

I’m writing this article…” It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. He was an editor on the board of

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Columbia’s student-run newspaper, and he could have been reporting about 17th century Spanish

art. The fact that he had no intention of writing such an article was entirely beside the point.

At his mention of Las Meninas, her expression softened slightly, and the hint of a blush

tinted her cheeks, causing his heartbeat to quicken. “You’re writing about Velázquez?” she said

incredulously, a tinge of excitement slipping into her voice.

He gulped and stuck to his story. “Of course!” he squeaked, mentally begging her to

believe him. He had to find out what she had been thinking. “It’s not every day that the Prado

lends the MET such an important piece of artwork.”

He was bullshitting, but she appeared to buy it. At least, her eyebrows inched down

marginally from their questioning heights, and her eyes flitted across his face as if sizing him up.

“What do you want from me?” she asked, this time in a gentler tone.

“What do you see in Las Meninas?” he shot back, but in his mind, the question sounded

more like who are you? His eyes locked on hers, and he caught himself holding his breath,

waiting for a release.

“This is really for your article?” she asked dubiously, tapping the heel of her boot against

the side of the step. “I’m hardly an art connoisseur, you know.”

“Actually, I don’t.” he said, letting up his pretense for a moment and giving her a

sheepish grin.

She raised an eyebrow at him, and he caught himself, quickly sliding back under his

slippery façade. “But it doesn’t matter anyway. I’m just looking for… for a passer-by’s opinion.”

Again, he felt that clenching in his gut, and he gripped the straps of his backpack, trying to block

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the guilt out. She didn’t deserve to be lied to, but he was desperate. “Please?” he blurted,

suddenly convinced that she would walk away, leaving him to wonder about her forever.

She paused, biting her lip, and ran one hand through her hair while clutching the lapel of

her coat with the other. “Alright,” she consented, turning thoughtfully back to him and seeming

to change her mind. “Quote away…”

He rummaged in his pocket, and, feeling like an idiot, pulled out his iPhone and

pretended to type notes into it as he listened to her.

“I see the illusion,” she said, “I envision Velázquez in the painting, looking out at me, as

if he were painting me.”

“Velázquez is in the painting? Since when?” He looked up from the garbled letters on the

screen of his iPhone and squinted back at her.

“You really didn’t do your research, did you?” she scoffed, but her expression softened

when she saw the confusion in his face. “You’re making me worried about your article…” she

said concernedly, still half-laughing at him.

“I know, I know,” he fibbed, smiling in spite of himself. “I got assigned the article today,

and I was in a huge rush…” he trailed off, trying to shrug his shoulders convincingly.

She hesitated, and then rolled her eyes at him. Grabbing his hands, she pulled him up the

stairs back towards the museum. “C’mon, I can’t explain it—it’s the kind of thing you have to

see.”

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Up the steps they went, back through the hall with the long leering paintings by El Greco,

past the sunlit window, back through the dissipating crowds, past the bench where he had

perched for half an hour, until they stood directly in front of Las Meninas.

“I don’t know why on earth I’m doing this—for a perfect stranger,” she muttered loudly

as she gesticulated for him to stand by her side.

“What was that?” he grinned.

“Nothing. Just pay attention.”

She smoothed a few stray strands of hair out of her face and pointed at the painting. “See

that girl?” She gestured at the tiny-cupcake-girl in the frame. “That’s the Spanish Infanta—you

know, the Spanish princess at the time.”

“And who are all of those random other people surrounding her?”

“Her servants. Maids, entertainers, you know. They are supposed to be keeping the little

princess occupied while Velázquez paints.”

“And Velázquez is… the painter in the picture?”

“Very good,” she said sarcastically. “A-plus.”

“Hey! I’m trying!” he objected. “I’m paying attention, I really am.” He turned to her,

willing her to believe him. But as he gazed at her, he found a secret part of himself wishing that

she would see past his guise and understand the urgency that gripped him—an urgency that now

drew him to the painting, convincing him that to understand Las Meninas would be to understand

her.

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She ignored him and continued to dissect the canvas. “So you’ve got Velázquez on the

side of the painting, and you can see the back of the canvas that he’s working on. Does anything

about that strike you as strange?”

He paused and stared at the painting, trying to focus on the ruffle-sleeved, dark-

mustached man poised with a paintbrush in hand. What was supposed to be strange about him?

Velázquez looked… like a painter. Surprise, surprise. He swiveled helplessly back to the girl,

wishing more than ever that he’d never made up the lie in the first place. Yes, there was

something about the painting that drew him in, but he couldn’t fake this art analysis. He ground

his teeth, feeling even more foolish than before, if possible.

“C’mon,” she said, giving him a prod in the upper arm. “Look at the eyes!”

He peered at the painting once more, screwing up his own eyes and zeroing in on

Velázquez’ face and dark pupils. In a flash, it dawned on him. Velázquez wasn’t looking at the

canvas! Instead, the sad eyes of the painter seemed to bore into his own—as did the eyes of the

Infanta, he realized with a gasp… and the eyes of the dwarf-lady… and the eyes of the maids…

“They’re all staring at us!” he blurted, completely overwhelmed with his discovery and

unable to keep the excitement out of his voice. “It’s like… it’s like Velázquez is painting us!”

She grinned at him, clearly enjoying his moment of glee. “Very nice, Mr. Columbia Daily

Spectator.” She patted his shoulder gently.

“That’s… that’s unreal!” he spluttered, still caught up in the painting. “It’s kind of mind-

blowing! If Velázquez is painting us, then it’s like we are in a whole different painting looking

out at him, and… and…”

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“I’ll leave you to it,” she said, with a knowing glance. She adjusted her scarf and checked

her watch, smiling to herself as she turned to go.

“Hey—thank you,” he cried out, again ripping his eyes away from the painting and

refocusing on her, suddenly forced to deal with the thought of her leaving. Belatedly

remembering the lie, he looked into her green eyes for a moment, then awkwardly stuck out his

hand. “Oh, and I’m Arthur, by the way.”

She smirked at him, but shook his strong hand with her own delicate one. “It’s a little late

for that, don’t you think?”

“Better late than never, right? And you are…?” he smiled at her. “For quoting purposes

in the article, of course,” he added quickly, as he saw her eyebrows tweak upwards.

To his surprise, she chortled, and the sound of her laugh reverberated through the hall.

“You didn’t think I actually bought that crap, did you?” she waggled a reproving finger at him

and took a step away. “Article, my foot!”

He gaped at her, completely nonplussed. So she had known about the lie the whole time?

And she went along with it, letting him play the fool? Yet again, he was stunned, at a loss for

what to say or do. Powerless, he just stared at her.

“Later, Arthur.” She bit back another smile and headed for the door, swinging her bag

jauntily from one arm. “Oh and a word of advice… you’re a really bad liar, you know…” she

called back at him, her eyes dancing merrily at him, even from a distance.

And just like that, she was gone. He blew the air out of his cheeks, realizing for the

second time that he’d been holding his breath. Then he flexed his right hand, trying to keep hold

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of the memory of her touch. He shook his head, but he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that

something inexplicable had happened, that he had crossed to the very edge of something and

looked out on the unknown.

Suddenly exhausted, he sank down onto the waiting bench beside him and rested his head

in his hands. Through the cracks in between his fingers, he glimpsed those same sorrowful eyes

staring at him from Las Meninas. He slowly raised his head and once more gazed at Velázquez,

remembering all the girl had said and trying to sort through the muddle of questions in his mind.

He ran a hand through his tousled hair and grinned to himself. Some painting, he thought.

And some girl. Still smiling, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a black ballpoint pen

and a worn moleskin notebook, covered with ink stains and dog-eared pages. Thumbing through

the notebook until he reached a fresh page, he settled onto the bench and clicked the pen open.

Then he chuckled, bent his head over the page, and began to write.

Fiction Grade 7-9 Candice Wang

YearningMy watch is broken. Its tranquil hands rest on half past eleven, the time I dropped it into

the creek and water flowed in and time stopped. So now, I shake my wrist helplessly, willing the

hands to budge. I’d stayed late at the music studio, straining my eyes with the dull light of the

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harsh light bulbs, brain filled with the haunting notes of Chopin. It could be anywhere from nine

to eleven, how was I to know?

Tingly night air relieves my throbbing fingertips, as I start down the cracked pavement

road, not bothering to stay out of the center. This is West Addison, Vermont – a deliciously slow

establishment, where police officers sit in sunny stupors on peeling back porches, and the soft-

eyed cashiers at the local Farm General Store deliberately load your shopping bags, hoping for a

long chat about the recent rumor of a three-foot snowstorm just around the corner. When would

any automobile attempt to speed in this town? Unthinkable, all the townspeople would declare.

My sneakers thud soundlessly on the fading fluorescent yellow middle line of the street,

as I nestle my scratchy wool scarf closer around my neck, and look up at the sky. It’s bulbous,

soft. Suffocating. It dares to lock away those caustic shocks of light away from devoted

stargazers like me. Indignantly, my eyes plummet through the clans of individual liquid droplets

and gradually thinning molecules of oxygen, but still – not even a whisper of a star.

Crestfallen, I gaze around myself instead. There is the Armstrong’s little house, with its

multitudes of avaricious sunflowers, always twisting their yellow fringed heads towards the

sunshine. And right around the corner is Arnold Ringer’s cabin, which is, unfortunately, more

like a shack. He isn’t especially an expert in housekeeping, as he’d always lived with his sister,

who passed away eight years ago. Arnold drowned his sorrows in tea. I guess it’s better than

alcohol, he bitterly laughed, the day after Triss’s funeral. I went to see him that night, and

watched him angrily rip herbs, flowers, and fruits from the dark soil of his garden, and feed them

into a pot of boiling water. Lavender, soft honey, tangerine, jade, and mahogany tints would

swirl into the fragrant water, coaxed out by his spoon. Many a cold winter night I’d sat with him

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at his sticky, rickety table, sipping the best tea on earth, commenting on the crazy amount of

snow we were getting. Would it ever end? I muttered, shaking my head.

Five hundred steps later, there’s Stephanie and Ricky Goldstein’s verdant house. Their

two children had long ago fled to glamorous, fantastical cities, transforming themselves into

lawyers and doctors, ultimately abandoning their slow Vermont lives. Stephanie and Ricky

pleaded with them every year to come for a visit, even a short one, but they’d stuffed their

parents with sick excuses that ate away at them steadily. Insufferable, is what all us townspeople

called them. Not in front of the Goldsteins, of course.

A crippled bicycle sleeps soundlessly in the tangled weeds near the road. It bore the name

of Speed Demon, and I recognized it as my friend’s, Shoe. Shoe loved speed – the very mention

of it would widen his arrogant silvery eyes. He’d dreamed of zip lines, race cars, race bikes, and

bullet trains since I could remember. I, on the other hand, adored relaxation and the relish of not

having to do anything. But somehow, Shoe and I, we clicked, like two opposite magnets. The

dilapidated bike came to be dumped in the weeds because of one race Shoe and I happened to

have on a hot day four years ago. I can still see Shoe slamming into the resilient oak from the

side, soaring off the bike to land in a pitiful, bloody heap in the dust of the road. I’d desperately

scrambled to his side, screaming, Are you alive?? He survived with a broken wrist and tons of

bruises and scratches that he deemed as tough and cool. But that bicycle… the impact of the rigid

tree contorted its handlebars, and bent its wheels to the extent that I decided not to pick it up for

Shoe. I left it there, in the weeds, and it has rusted away there since.

I stand up, letting my fingers slip away from the cool touch of Speed Demon’s handle

bars, and continue on my journey. Out of the soupy darkness ahead, two blinding lights emerge,

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dancing up and down along the road like flirtatious fireflies. My eyes sting with the brilliance,

and I walk to the side of the road. The familiar truck pulls up beside me, wheezing and sneezing

as it goes.

I let myself in through the oiled-up door, and pop in the passenger seat full of punctured

holes. And there’s Shoe behind the wheel, giving me a stare that I return.

There’s an unspoken understanding between us. Our minds enter the same memories that

repeat into the future – we’re stargazers together, and we gaze away from Vermont, into the

heavens, up into the chilling, bejeweled atmosphere.

I can’t feel my hands, but he grabs them with his callused, chapped hand – each frozen

finger tightly entwined around the other. We swear it together – we’ll drive until we reach those

forbidden stars.

Fiction Grade 7-9 Katherine Du

TheWordsWeCannotSayThe wind slathers a gossamer glaze of soft, buttery breath across my face, drizzling down

my chin, nipping its way along the nape of my neck. She’s tender today, a welcomed variation

from her usual snapping self; maybe it’s a sign that what I’m about to do is justified. But nature’s

tongue speaks only to a loose strand of dandelion, a stolen piece of sky, or even a bird ripping

through long, empty expanses of tumbling countryside. It doesn’t have time for us humans; we

were never meant to be able to understand the nuances of its beauty. We can sit here and wither

our lives away in complete awe-but truly realize what has been bestowed upon us? That’s as

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likely as plucking a star right out from the night sky and taking a nice, fat bite before patting it

back into its velvet mold. Of course, such generic similes can only be the result of aimless

thoughts that I really shouldn’t be having. And consequently, reality hits me like a brick.

I stand on top of a grassy mound of knoll overlooking the only place I’ve ever called

home. Hampstead is in the north-west sector of London, a dutiful cluster of neat Victorian-era

flats lined up in tidy rows. No odd protrusions dare poke out. Everything is stiff, formal,

impeccable. Hampstead is residence to a discreet bunch; heads hung, eyes lowered, the people

around this place would give automations a decent run for their money. Wives slap open pots

and kettles around tea-time; husbands come home from a hard day’s work at quarter to eight,

earning a swift peck on the cheek. Every day is the same as the last. Tomorrow is only a

trembling reflection of today, losing just a touch more of its color that only time can tell us used

to be so vivid.

At times like this, standing on the rise that’s Primrose Hill, wind splaying through my

forgotten hair, tearing long-abandoned tears from my eyes, I can admit to myself that there was a

way once. A way to hold on, to bear the acres of beating, thrashing, blinding oblivion that have

now claimed this place-and me.

Because he was once here.

I can still remember the day Matthew was born. He was premature; my mother was

worried sick that he wouldn’t make it. His eyes had been hammered shut through three straight

days and nights. There was no crying for this little bird until the fourth morning’s daybreak. I

was there when he caught his first glimpse of the world he had entered, and amid all the lashing

tears and dumbfounded confusion in those melted chocolate irises, I saw how there was no fear-

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only regret. In a sense, I understood what Matthew so desperately wanted-to slide his eyes shut

again, screening himself off from the cold, cold universe he had been thrown into that he knew

could only hurt him.

Such events can only lead me to conclude how life is such a strange, almost

unfathomable thing. We look at all these prestigious professors, scientists, politicians, you name

it, and we give them credit for being these intellectual, witty geniuses, when truly the smartest of

us all are the ones who know of only one thing-that life is not worth living. It’s not worth the

pain, the struggle, the bitter cold. And only a newborn will understand this, because they have

not yet been exposed to the deceit life plays on you to make you believe that living can be

amazing, maybe even beautiful. But beauty is nature’s greatest form of deception.

Nevertheless, months, persistent with the twirl of the sun, flew by. Matthew grew so fast.

It seems like it only took a day for him to get from sprawling across the wooden floors of our

stone house to gracefully leaping from limb to limb of the great oaks in our backyard, stretching

out their kind but toughened fingers. He was born for the lush feeling of fresh, unfiltered air

dripping through his lungs. I would often tease him, calling him my mighty leopard of the leaves.

Matthew had his odd perks, too; it wasn’t anything out of the norm for me and my mother to

wake up one morning discovering a tent deftly assembled along the border of our yard to

Matthew’s imaginary woodlands beyond. Just like it would be yours or mine to sleep within four

walls underneath a ceiling, that was Matthew’s way of living, and we respected it.

When my father left us, I didn’t believe I could love again. But Matthew proved me

wrong. He was everything to me, and I saw him everywhere. The flash of someone’s teeth curled

into a smile always looked like his, sharp and snowy white as lobster flesh. A friend showcasing

      63  

her violin efforts to the class had Matthew’s slim, elegantly defined fingers, perfectly curved

over the instrument’s fingerboard. A drift of conversation that floated my way sounded like

something Matthew would crack up at-and the list goes on.

But I think the moment I knew I loved him was when he first said my name. It lolled

around in his mouth in messy half-syllables for a while, a “kuh” or a “rih” occasionally escaping,

but one day in the stifling summer of his first year, “Christine” finally fought through the

onslaught of mixed consonants and vowels mushing around his cramped jaws.

“Christine,” he had reiterated.

My name must have tasted lovely in his mouth, because it perked his cheeks up into such

a sweet smile, unveiling his beautiful little dimples that shone like the finest gold on Olympus

with the final fading streaks of summer daylight.

“Christine.”

When he was older, my brother once told me that nature was his saving grace. He said it

was the only place where he felt free to jump, run, scamper-and dream. In a place like

Hampstead, that was unspoken taboo. There were no eight-year-old boys scurrying about in their

backyards, conjuring up fantasy forests, glorious wildlife, because there wasn’t any room for

dreaming anymore. All children would grow up to be bright scholars, graduating at the nation’s

most esteemed universities, going on to be doctors, lawyers, bankers, moving on to much greater

places-maybe even America!-but that was the end of this “dreaming” train of thought.

Maybe his childhood aspiration was what led to his resolve later on in life, when

Matthew was commencing his first year of middle school. He was so excited; after all, middle

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school had been deemed this new land full of fresh, raw possibility. Matthew still dreamt of his

forests and quests, but their appearances were less frequent. He had his whole life set out for

himself. After graduating high school, he would major in Environmental Science at Harvard, our

mother’s Alma Matter, and from there he would go on to become a full-time environmentalist.

But, see, fate never gave him that chance.

Matthew was diagnosed with Glioblastoma Multiforme when he was eleven years old.

He had a brain tumor, and nobody understood why. The doctors said it was more common in

males, but for completely unknown reasons. All they did know was that Matthew was going to

die.

My brother was going to die.

Of course they never explicitly said that to us, but all that chemotherapy and gene transfer

talk was so empty. You could see it in the nurses’ drained eyes; they didn’t believe a word of

what they were sputtering. But they’d seen it all play out before with some other family, another

little boy or girl. And they had wanted to give them all hope, so that’s what they tried to give us.

There was this one day, a few weeks or so after we had first known about Matthew’s

tumor, when our family was eating dinner-an impressively burnt, half-recognizable pizza-at

home. Matthew had asked me to pass the grater to him, but instead of sliding it across the table, I

got up and, bare feet slapping the hard linoleum tile of our kitchen floor, walked over to his side,

setting the clunky metallic block immediately next to his plate. At the time, I had considered it to

be a simple gesture to save him some trouble. But I had been mistaken. As soon as the grater had

finished its cacophony rattling down onto the table, Matthew exploded.

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“What’s wrong with you, Christine? Who do you think I am? Do you not think I can

reach over and get the grater from you? Just because I’m dying doesn’t mean I’m not living right

now!”

A hand fluttered to my Mother’s mouth, a weak attempt at stifling her gasp that ensued.

“And you, as well! You both are the worst of them all! Stop acting like you don’t know

it, like I don’t know it. I’m not an idiot. I know I’m going to die, but the least you can do is treat

me like a human being while I am still here!”

I’m dying.

My body was a plane on autopilot, a predator enslaved by its hunger, only seeking,

launching, finding. Tears blinded my vision, slicing it into strips of telltale horror. I ran out the

back door, away, so far away-from whom, from what, I didn’t know. Couldn’t know.

I’m going to die.

I didn’t think. There was nothing to think about, because there was nothing without him.

All of a sudden, a pair of arms tightly wrapped around me like beautifully asphyxiating

rivers of ivy. I’m still not sure whether I was holding Matthew, or if it was him who was holding

me. Our bare feet ground into the tough dirt underfoot, sculpting it into living proof that we were

once here. As I ducked down to his height, our tears blended together, and we looked into each

other’s eyes, speaking the thoughts that words could not. We were-are-one. We will live us one,

we will die as one. And all this I knew-I knew for an indisputable fact-because in that moment, I

understood how I couldn’t live without this boy. This boy who I watched grow up, who I hoped

      66  

to see by my side while we were living our years, maybe even into old age, right there,

unwavering, forever standing by my side.

He whispered those three words, kisses seeping into my ears.

“I love you.”

And I knew that I would never let him go.

Matthew left us a few months after that. It’s safe to say that it was a peaceful passing,

utterly painless, and for that, I’m happy. Yes. Happy. Yet I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to

smile in the same way again. Matthew, he’s gone, and he isn’t coming back.

The grater slides between my hands at a dangerous pace, barely missing my skin in its

travels. This was wrong of me, to think of coming up here to this hill to let the wind toss my last

piece of him away like some jettisoned piece of rubbish. I can’t let this-him-go. But wherever I

am, whoever I become, I know Matthew will always live inside of me. It’ll be like my dreams;

he’ll be with me, and he’ll watch over me-he’ll guide me. Just because I can’t see him doesn’t

mean he isn’t here.

My little brother is a part of me now. Even death can’t separate us, though it’s definitely

tried. I still love Matthew with all my heart. And nothing will ever take that away.

Matthew’s soul is in the wind that carries me back down Primrose Hill.

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Ficiton Grade 7-9 Caleigh Hoffman

GeorgeFox

TheVampireWhoCanWalkIntheLight He was born July 1624 in England; he “reportedly” died 67 years later. He was known as

the first Quaker. George Fox was an English Dissenter. The son of Christopher Fox, George Fox

lived in a time of great social upheaval and war. He rebelled against the religious and political

authorities by offering a different approach to the Christian faith. He traveled throughout Great

Britain and preached to those who would listen, often harassed by the authorities who didn’t

agree with his beliefs. Later in life Fox married Margaret Fell, the widow of one Fox’s

supporters. He then brought the Religious Society of Friends to North America, where he was

immediately imprisoned for over a year. He returned to Great Britain and London he redoubled

hiss efforts to organize the Quaker movement. Along Fox’s travels he attracted the suspicious

hatred of some and the respect of others such as William Penn. Fox then died in 1691. Or so they

say.

Very few people know that George Fox didn’t die in 1691; he actually roamed the earth

for almost another 300 years until he was laid to rest in 1983.

Vampires were better known of in the 1600s. It wasn’t that uncommon for a child or

young adult to get bitten. People thought that vampires were servants of the devil because they

craved human blood, were repelled by anything holy, as well as garlic, could turn into bats and

couldn’t come out in daylight, and were cursed to roam the earth forever unless set free by a

stake in the heart . Vampires were evil because that is what they believed vampires were when

      68  

they were human. Their brain convinces them that when they become a vampire they become

evil even though this was just conditioned thought from their days as humans.

George Fox was 23 years old when he was walking around at night in a village in east

Scotland and he heard a rustling noise above him. He stopped and looked up only to see

branches.

“I’m going out of my mind. I’m so paranoid nowadays,” He muttered to himself and

continued walking. Fox walked a couple of meters before he heard it again. “I did not imagine it

this time, I am sure I heard something.” He looked around and back up again. This time he saw a

human figure siting in a branch looking at him. In the moon light Fox could see that the human

was a man with very pale skin, slicked back hair and a blood red cloak. Fox of course heard of

vampires but he didn’t believe they were evil. Fox believed that anyone who was once a human

is always a human. No one was forced to do evil it was their choice and nothing could change

that.

The vampire jumped out of the tree and approached Fox slowly. Fox did not run nor did

he move at all, he stood awaiting his fate knowing that this was the Lord’s intent and he would

not oppose it.

“Aren’t you going to run?” The vampire asked. “I mean I’m a vampire here to drink your

blood, to take the human in you away.”

“I know that this is the Lord’s intent and I shall accept my fate for I know the light shall

always be in me and I will never do the devil’s bidding. I shall walk in the light where ever I may

be, in my old leather britches and my shaggy, shaggy locks; I walk in the glory of the light,” said

Fox.

      69  

“Are you stupid? I am going to make you a vampire. Vampires can’t walk in the light it

kills us. Duh.” The vampire said to Fox.

“The light is God, we all God inside of us, even you. I shall walk in the glory of God.”

“Whatev’s,” The vampire said with a sassy tone. “I’m still going to drink your blood.”

The vampire approached George and bit his neck. The vampire drained him of blood and left

him in the woods.

The next morning Fox woke up feeling the same. Sure he now had fangs and craved

human blood but other than that he felt the same. He decided not to let anyone know he was a

vampire because then people would think Quakerism is the devil’s religion. Fox walked back to

the village he was staying in without detection or burning up because the sun wasn’t up yet.

George Fox waited until nightfall the next day to leave the village. On his way he met up

with his friends the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. They said to Fox that he seemed paler than

usual and his teeth were more pointed.

“My dear friends, I feel the same as I did when I saw you last. I am still the same person

but I have become a vampire,” Fox said.

Donatello pulled out a bottle of holy water as Raphael pulled out a clove of garlic. “Get

away from here dirty vampire scum!” Leonardo shrieked. Michelangelo pulled out his nunchaku

and started swinging them at George as he hissed and ran away.

Fox thought he should stay away from Scotland and the Ninja Turtles for a while. Fox

then traveled to North America to help Quakerism catch on there.

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About 3 months after Fox arrived in America he ran into some trouble with the

authorities. He was delivering a sermon on a street corner and some police officers thought

Quakerism was blasphemy to God. George Fox spent one year in Jail for blasphemy. After Fox

got out of prison he went back to Great Britain to continue his preaching there.

He was in England when he ran into is fellow Quaker William Penn.

“William, how are you?” Fox asked politely.

“Very good, George. I am on my way to Scotland, I heard about a vampire outbreak. I am

going to set those poor souls free,” Penn said.

“Oh, well, I must be on my way, dear William. Goodbye.” George Fox mumbled as he

quickly walked away.

Fox decided to stay in England for a while preaching about Quakerism.

~

After his encounter with George Fox on his way to Scotland, William Penn was

suspicious. He decided to ignore the vampires in Scotland and follow George Fox. Penn

followed Fox all over England and Wales. He noticed George only preached in night time or

inside without sun and he disappeared every night for about an hour. Penn knew; George Fox

was a vampire. But he wasn’t evil. He was still a good person and a good Quaker. Penn Decided

to clarify what was going on and talk to Fox about it.

George was walking down the street when he glimpsed Penn; he altered his course and

headed in another direction. Penn ran to catch up with Fox.

      71  

“Hello, Mr. Penn, I am really busy right now, please excuse me I have to go.” Fox said.

“I know you’re a…vampire.” William whispered.

~

George and William were sitting around a table discussing how Fox became a vampire

and how it actually made Fox act. William suggested that George try walking in the light

because of the pureness of Fox’s soul, the Lord might grant him that ability. George tried it and

since he was a Quaker he could because Quakers can walk in the light wherever they may be and

whatnot.

Years passed and Quakerism caught on in Great Britain and the Americas. Nobody knew

George Fox was a vampire and in 1691 he faked his own death. He lived until 1983 when an old

fashion vampire slayer killed him with a stake through the heart and “set his soul free”.

The End

Ficiton Grade 10-12 Stephen Barston

An Emulation of The Catcher in the Rye: An Extra, Final Chapter to Holden’s Story 

“And that’s it.”

“Holden, I’m proud of you. We can help you through these difficult times,” Mr. Luce

said. The smile on his face said it all. Cupping his goddam hands together and looking at me like

I’m a child. It killed me.

      72  

My hands were trembling. God, I was so lonely. D.B. came to visit me every once in a

while, but this place was just plain awful. I couldn’t stop thinking about all the people I had been

with the past couple years: old Spencer, Stradlater, Ackley kid, Mr. Antolini, Sally, Jane, and

Luce. Old Luce is even the one that got me into this place, his dad being my psychoanalyst and

all.

I’ll never be able to forget all the people I let down. You feel the weight of the world

when you think of how many people you’ve disappointed and how much you miss them.

“We should probably talk about how to help you,” Mr. Luce broke my train of thought,

“There’s some things we need to attend to.”

I glanced up at Mr. Luce and he had that same goddam look in his eyes. I needed some

help, but I didn’t need to be treated like a baby.

“What should we do?” I asked.

“I just have a few further questions. What keeps you motivated during these times?”

“Wuddaya mean?”

“Who do you always think about that allows you to carry on?”

It sounded like a phony question to me. Who the hell do I think about? What business

does he have asking that? But then Phoebe popped into my mind.

Phoebe was the one that I thought about. All the messed up stuff I had to deal with, I

thought about Phoebe. She’s the one that kept me sane. No matter how crappy the rest of the

world was, as long as I knew she was happy, I was fine.

      73  

It sounds phony, it really does. But after all the stuff that happened to me, letting down

almost everyone I knew, my parents’ reaction to my goddam expulsion, it was a relief to see

Phoebe. Seeing her up on that stage in her class play, even if she was that old liar Benedict

Arnold, it made me proud. I didn’t really want to see much of my family Allie’s death. Going

away to school and all was just an escape. Seeing Phoebe made me remember why I love my

family. It’s sort of lousy, I know.

When I looked up, I realized old Mr. Luce was still waiting for an answer. He was trying

his best to be patient, and I chuckled.

“My sister, Phoebe. She’s the one,” I said quickly.

He looked goddam surprised by that. Maybe he thought that because I was as old as his

son, I wouldn’t be that close to my little sister anymore. Well, he was wrong.

“Great,” he replied with a broad smile on his face, “we’re making some progress.”

It’s pretty goddam lousy being depressed and all, and hearing that I’m making progress

was good news. I even started smiling.

All the time, I try so hard not to be phony. So many people are, that it just makes me

sick. Even old Stradlater is a phony. You don’t meet genuine people too often, and my whole

life, I know that when you do, it’s a goddam miracle.

When I feel that happy, you know it’s not some phony crap bubbling inside me. It’s me

really being happy. That’s how I felt right then. All the sadness and depression I was just feeling,

it just plain disappeared.

      74  

Mr. Luce coughed real gently. I think he could see that I was deep in thought, and wanted

to grab my attention. I glanced up and he seemed ready to talk.

“Just one more question for you, Holden. What do you think is your problem?”

It sounded real aggressive at first, like he had the nerve to ask me what my problem was.

But to be honest I hadn’t really ever thought about it before. I always dodged that sort of

question.

Old Spencer had tried to help me, and I just lied my way out of it. Mr. Antolini gave me

advice, but by the end of the night, I pretended like that whole thing never happened. And even

Sally tried to talk some sense into me, and I made her bawl her goddam eyes out. Then I realized

that I did have a problem: I don’t listen to advice. All this time I think of how I let so many

people down, and I ignore the goddam help everyone tries to give me.

“Mr. Luce, my problem is that I don’t listen to advice.”

“How so, Holden?”

“Well, sir, people have been trying to help me this whole time. It’s my own fault that it

ended like this.”

It all came crashing down on me. Every goddam person who came around wanted me to

succeed, and I plain ignored them. I wanted to blame everyone else, but it was my own fault. I’m

going to sound pretty phony right here, and I don’t anyone to get sore about it, but that changed

me.

“Holden, I think we discovered your problem. Congratulations on a successful

psychoanalysis.”

      75  

“Thank you sir.”

Finally it was done. I was actually fixed.

Mr. Luce helped me off the couch, and I was shaking. I was goddam shaking.

The past week had just been crappy and depressing, and it seemed like it would never

end. So many people got sore with me, so many people were disappointed in me, and I miss

them. I want to tell them, no matter how phony or lousy it looks, that I’m sorry and all. Finally

realizing that was too much at the time.

Walking out, I wanted to be with my family. That crappy feeling where you miss

everyone came back to me. I went to my quarters and sat down on the bed. I looked out the

window, where I thought I saw D.B. in his car. It couldn’t be. He drove that goddam thing over

just last weekend. Then I thought I saw Phoebe in the back seat. That made me jump off the

lousy mattress and peer out the window. I thought my goddam mind was playing tricks on me,

but it was actually her. She stepped out of the car and almost fell over her own lousy feet.

That’s when I raced out of that crappy room, straight through the hall and down the stairs,

three steps at a time. I met Phoebe at the door, with D.B. behind her. For the first time in what

seemed like forever, I hugged her and smiled. Then a goddam tear rolled down my cheek. You

start missing people after a while, you really do.

Thomas Jefferson: Amongst America’s Greatest 

By Keenan Warble

      76  

“To preserve our independence... we must make our election between economy and

liberty, or profusion and servitude.” These are the words of one of America’s greatest presidents,

Thomas Jefferson. This inspiring quote means that the economy and liberty of the people are more

important than owning slaves and being rich. Jefferson was an amazing president for numerous

reasons, but three important values stood out as the best. Jefferson wanted to reduce the deficit, was

willing to alter strict beliefs for the best of the country, and believed that all men were created

equal. Thomas Jefferson sought a better, less Federalist government for America and these are the

three ways this feat was achieved.

Jefferson’s main goal for presidency was to reduce the deficit while bringing in revenue.

The president planned to do that by lowering taxes, reducing government spending, and limiting

unnecessary military. When Jefferson bought the Louisiana Purchase from France, it opened up

New Orleans and the Mississippi River for trade, without the major conflict from France that was

expected. France, who had previously owned all of the land on the other side of the Mississippi,

plus the bottom of the river, was already attacking American ships across the globe. Sharing a

border with France would make issues even worse. Likewise, when John Adams was in office,

America was paying nearly a quarter of all earnings to the Barbary Pirates, who threatened to

terrorize United States vessels if ransom was not received. Jefferson knew that if America kept

handing over money, the Barbary “Terrorists” would keep demanding more and more. Hence, the

courageous president declared that the United States would no longer be paying any more bribes,

starting the trend that America does not negotiate with terrorists, whatsoever.

      77  

Additionally, Thomas Jefferson was one of our country’s greatest presidents because

Jefferson was willing to change strict opinions or policies for the best of the country, without the

fear of being criticized, a feat that most presidents have yet to accomplish. The third president had a

narrow interpretation of the Constitution, believing that if the Constitution does not specifically say

something can be done, then that thing is not allowed to be carry out. When these Mediterranean

terrorists, the Barbary Pirates, attacked the U.S., Thomas knew that troops needed to be sent, yet

Congress wasn’t primarily consented like it should have been. Later, this fault was cleared up when

Congress was asked for a more formal declaration of war. Secondly, Thomas Jefferson wanted to

reduce government spending and the deficit. The president went against this sensible stance by

buying the Louisiana Purchase from France, at the amazingly low price of four cents an acre. The

transaction more than doubled the size of America, while preventing conflict and opening up

opportunities for expansion and exploration. Lastly, Jefferson wanted to eliminate unnecessary

military to get rid of that nasty deficit, yet willingly sent troops against the Barbary Pirates, in order

to prevent further attacks and raids. The president made lots of tough decisions, but still took

advantage of many great opportunities to expand, explore, and lower the deficit, even if some

opinions or policies were violated.

Furthermore, Thomas Jefferson was one of America’s best because of one major belief

that shaped the way the United States grew and prospered throughout the ages. “All men are created

equal,” Jefferson wrote in the Declaration of Independence, the first written document proclaiming

that the United States is free and separate. Since then, these five words have become the bases on

which America was founded. Jefferson believed that man is generally good and can make clever

choices, and that the government shouldn’t have the right to nanny them. On the other hand, some

      78  

people like Alexander Hamilton believed this kind of government provided order, stability, and

unity. Federalists like Hamilton believed that a strong, federal government is more important than

individual rights, Thomas Jefferson knew that the people and their rights should be top priority.

Finally, when Jefferson wrote that all men were created equal, this quote was meant to show other

countries, especially Britain, that Americans and Colonists are just as good as any European ruler.

Thomas Jefferson had a great financial plan to lower the deficit with less government

spending and fewer taxes, but would still change his policies for the best of the country. Jefferson

believed that all men were created equal, that they were endowed by their creator with certain

unalienable rights to make personal decisions without the government telling people what was right

and what was wrong. Jefferson knew what was best for America, evident in nearly all of his actions.

By starting a new, separate party from the Federalists, the president started many precedents that

shaped the way America is today, and forever will be.

Nonfiction Grade 7-9 Zoe Christofor

Human Body Reactions to Visual and Psychical Stimuli 

The human body reacts to different things at different times. My study is many focused on

videos. For example, if you see a video of food, will you be tempted to go get some, even if you

just ate? If you see something scary how much will your heart rate go up? If you’re hungry, and

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you see something gross, will you still want to eat? I will look for physical and visual stimuli on

my class by showing them a series of videos, one scary, one of appetizing food and one

disgusting. They will get a questionnaire for each video. I will also measure the heart rate of one

student. These tests will see how the human body reacts to visual and physical stimuli.

Digital Photography School (http://digital-photography-school.com/forum/general-chit-

chat/201359-visual-stimulus-emotions.html) says that “the reflexive path causes physical

changes/reactions in the viewer. Things like increased heart rate, or muscular tension.”

This means that when the viewer (you) sees a visual image, it can cause you to stiffen and your

heart to beat faster. The affects varies on the video and the person.

“An increase of heart rate could be "love;" an increased heart rate combined with muscular

tension could be "fear." Now we, as humans, have highly advanced cognitive capabilities. We

have extensive long term memories and develop cognitive associations of the physical reaction

(feelings) to the visual stimulus. And due to the cognitive associations we have the ability to first

have a thought, which then causes a physical reaction, which is then a feeling/emotion.”

Scary

Now that we know the basics, let talk about scary movies/images.

Why do people want to watch scary movies? Some people think it’s so human can face there

fears in a controlled environment. Other say it’s a form of addiction; when you get a sensation of

      80  

fear, your adrenalin gets released. Some say the empowering feel of adrenalin can get you sub-

consciously addicted to it.

How does scary movies affect you? For one it obviously execrates heart rate and can cause

muscle tension. It can also make some people paranoid. Like Jaws for example. 80% of people

that don’t swim is because of Jaws. (Yahoo Voices, http://voices.yahoo.com/why-jaws-

considered-most-influential-372597.html?cat=16) Tons of beaches where bare or didn’t have that

many people the summer Jaws came out. The affect was so lasting that to this day, the average

amount of people that go to Michigan beaches are still lower than they were before Jaws. What

the creators of Jaws did was they made a realistic movie about huge sharks attacking people.

Because shark attacks are possible (But rare) the brain can get over focused on the subject, thus

creating paranoia. All this commotion because of a 130 minuet film. (Google,

http://www.google.com/)

Appetizing

Ever know that time when watching Food Network and then you get hungry? Me to. It’s actually

really simple; when you see food your brain triggers your saliva glands. Then if you don’t eat,

your brain tell you you’re hungry, thus you desire food.

A craving of a specific food is close to the same thing. If you contently see an image of a food,

your brain will think it’s going to eat that food, and if you don’t, a craving accurse.

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Grossed out!

Why do we get grossed out at naturel things such as burping, passing gas and “Releasing

Waist”? Mostly just because it keeps us away from disseize. You can get grossed out bye dead

things, bugs, passing gas, sneezing and much more. What do all of these things have in

commend? They all relate and/or carry disseize. So getting grossed out is only a natural defense.

So in conclusion, visual stimuli is a very interesting thing, and better yet, we are even beginning

to comprehend it. We know it causes physical effects like heart beating faster, mussels tightening

and lots more. We also know that it will affect different people differently. And we keep learning

more every day!

Bibliography

Yahoo Voices, http://voices.yahoo.com/why-jaws-considered-most-influential-

372597.html?cat=16

Digital Photography School (http://digital-photography-school.com/forum/general-chit-

chat/201359-visual-stimulus-emotions.html)

(Google, http://www.google.com/

Nonfiction Grade 7-9 Mansi Dhond

      82  

AnimalSlaughterBy Mansi Dhond

One major issue in this world is animal slaughter. Organizations such as PETA, have tried

to expose this cruelty, but the government has not taken it seriously as an issue. This issue needs

to be emphasized because millions of animals are being heartlessly slaughtered each year. It is a

problem that people are avoiding because of the amount of consumers. The number of annual

animal kill is so big that it is not possible to bring it down in the matter of one or two days.

Banning animal slaughter would be a project that would have to be spread out over years. The

three main reasons animals are being killed are for meat, testing, and their luscious fur and

feathers.

Why is it right to kill animals? Animals are living beings that have nerves, feeling, and the

ability to do many things that even humans cannot. Some are even more intelligent than humans.

Yet manslaughter is a federal offense, but animal slaughter is not. This is truly absurd because it

is committing the same crime of murder.

Animals are being used in the fashion industry because of their valuable fur and feathers.

Many animals are skinned alive as blood rushes out their bodies, and they are left to whimper in

pain and die as no one else cares. Often times, animals are sold and even abducted for this

cruelty. They are packed into tiny cages by dozens, and crammed into trucks. Then they are

thrown from heights of fifteen feet and left alone to deal with their broken bones. Annually, as

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many as 300,000 seals, in Canada alone, are clubbed to death to provide fur. They are snatched

from their mothers at ages less than a month and beaten to death. Every year after Canada's

annual commercial seal slaughter, the Canadian ice is left with brutal stains of red. Feathers are

also very cruel. In the down industry, geese and ducks are being packed into crowded rooms that

often are dark. They are plucked alive as they helplessly scream, and people take advantage of

their vulnerability. Sometimes, they are plucked so violently that their skin gets tore open. They

are then sewn up using needles and thread using no anesthetic of any kind. This cruelty repeats

two or even three times a year. It is completely incorrect to wear a corpse upon one’s body or to

sleep on the feathers of a bird.

Animals are constantly getting tortured for lab research. The government does not protect

many of them, such as rats and birds, which make up 90%-95% of all animals used for testing.

Others are protected by a law saying they should be treated as humanely as possible. Many

facilities that test on animals do not abide by these rules. All animals, including birds and mice,

should not be forced to sacrifice their lives to improve the quality of humans. Animals are

injected with viruses so their behavior can be observed, and the results get implied to humans.

These results are inaccurate most of the time, so in reality many of them are being tortured for no

legitimate reason. The majority of the animals are mentally troubled due to the isolation from the

rest of the world. Animal research and testing should be banned by the government.

Animals are also being slaughtered for food. They are suffering all over the world, being

bred to suffer, be overfed, and end with a miserable death. These innocent creatures do not have

any control over this. They are crammed into miniature cages and pens by the tens of thousands.

These facilities are so poorly kept, that many of them die early due to the lack of hygiene and

exposure to fatal sicknesses and diseases. They suffer while they are alive, as well as while they

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are being killed. Some animals get shocked repeatedly to enter a state of unconsciousness, which

often turns out to be more painful then the act of killing itself. Some chickens and turkeys are

thrown into tanks of scorching hot water for defeathering in total states of consciousness. They

are overfed with tubes that are shoved down their throats for them to grow too big for their legs

to be able to support them. There are many people who deliberately abuse them to feel a sense of

empowerment. They break and step on their necks, and beat them with metal rods. The shameful

part is that the government has no concern for the manners in which these animals are

intentionally getting tortured. Eating animal products is not mandatory; there is another

alternative and highly beneficial option of plants and grains. Vegetation provides nutrients that

are crucial for our bodies. Then, many of the problems that people face, like heart disease and

high cholesterol, due to red meat, will decrease. Also, eating meat is one of the main causes for

world hunger. Such a large quantity of grain is used to raise animals before slaughter, rather than

for feeding people. The pollution caused by animal slaughter is greater than all the forms of

transportation. If nobody ate meat, then the world would be much better, and many health and

global issues would be resolved.

Animal slaughter and cruelty should be ended before more animals are ruthlessly

tortured. The government should pay attention to this issue because the effects of animal

slaughter also have a devastating affect on humans. Ending this cruelty could potentially solve

many issues for humans, such as world hunger, and give many animals a better life. This major

change could be easily started with small rallies and just by making other people realize the

brutality of animal slaughter. The first step is to get people's attention. After all, every tiny effort

makes an impact, and when it is multiplied big issues can be resolved.

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Nonfiction Grade 10-12 Maddie Putnam

ThisIBelieveMaddie Putnam

I believe family should act as the most important aspect in life. From my oldest

grandparent to my youngest cousin each and every one of them impacts my life for the better.

Most importantly come my parents, they resemble my best friends. Neither of them portraying

perfection, obviously, but both of them perfect for me. I believe that they have shaped who I am

today and I pride myself of the girl I have become.

Family will always exist in your life, unlike friends that can come and go and places that

can change, your family maintains, blood linked to you. From when you’re a little preschooler to

when you’re a working adult, family should always appear as number one on your list.

I believe that you embody the most like the people you spend the most time around.

People always tell me, “You are so much like your mother!” And I take that as a compliment.

My mom and I do everything together. Probably unlike most teenage girls and their mom’s

relationships, I tell her everything. She is the person I go to when I need help and who I tell when

something exciting happened that day. Even though sometimes she may seem strict or pushy I

always try to remind myself that she just wants what’s best for me.

My family has taught me a great deal of things, a few being: to love with all my heart, to

not judge people and actually get to know them, and to try my best at all times no matter what

the task at hand might be. Your family guides you through life and I believe I would appear

completely lost without them.

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Everyone has a time in their life where they’re lost or just having a hard time, I know I

have. A few years ago a situation like that evoked, and without my family there, always making

me laugh and reminding me how much they love me, I would probably act a little different than I

do today.

I believe strongly in the fact that your family should undergo importance. That no matter

what, they will always end up there for you, guiding you in the right path. “Where life begins

and love never ends, family.”

Nonfiction Grade 7-9 Johnathan Stimpson

UntitledIf Columbine wasn’t it, or Virginia Tech, Fort Hood, Binghamton, Tucson, or Aurora – maybe

20 tiny coffins will finally push politicians from their incredible tolerance for such tragedies and

into the realm of action. As cries from the Newtown tragedy can still be heard, now more than

ever is the time for sensible, non-ideological reform, and regulation of guns in America.

Last year alone, the United States recorded approximately 11,775 firearm homicides. However,

the majority of current gun control proposals under consideration will fail miserably since they

neglect to address the triggers of gun violence, instead opting for political rhetoric to suit their

respective parties. Among such recent proposals that will do little more than provide a

perception of safety, are the NRA’s arming schools proposal, and Dianne Feinstein’s, Senator

from California, assault weapons ban. Neither of these proposals addresses the real culprit for

our country’s firearm death rate which unequivocally is sheer gun accessibility.

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Based on data analyzing the effect gun ownership has on firearm-related deaths per 100

thousand, the US has the 2nd highest firearm death rate (10.2) among OECD nations, eclipsed

only by Mexico. That number is 3 times higher than France’s; 10 times Australia’s; and a

staggering 146 times worse than Japan, an industrial nation of 150 million. The question is why?

The US decidedly doesn’t have 146 as many psychopaths as Japan, nor are we any poorer than

countries with lower firearm murders. The answer to this enigma becomes much less mysterious

when one realizes there is an astronomical statistic in addition to our country’s extraordinarily

high firearm death rate. We possess 88.8 firearms per 100 people and more than half of our

nation’s households have one or more such firearms. Why do we have so many murders?

Because guns are easy, convenient, and accessible. If I snap or become suicidal, I am

surrounded by nearly more guns than people and what is likely the biggest hit-men industry in

any of the Westernized nations.

Thus, the scope and complexity of our gun paradigm necessitates legislation that is holistic in

nature, progressive, yet still respects America’s veneration for guns. More essentially, any

legislation has to recognize several important, yet obvious facts: banning only certain guns is not

effective; armed guards mask a problem, not solve it and accessibility is a major factor. Also,

what needs to be taken into consideration are policies grounded in political sectors only fuels

divisiveness. Policies should not look to prevent mass murders, but aim to tackle the broader

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issue of national gun violence. The answer is not revolutionary, and even better, it already exists

within our borders – we need to regulate guns as we do cars.

Cars and guns are very similar. Both have their uses, but when used irresponsibly have the

potential to compromise public safety. The population of guns and cars in this country are

roughly the same, but when have there been powerful lobbying groups trying to prevent car

regulations, which at one point probably saved your life (i.e. seatbelts)? No one likes going to

the DMV or taking part in the long difficult process of obtaining a driving license, but who likes

to crash because another driver wasn’t capable or responsible? Guns should be treated the same

way. Guns should not be treated like a God given right, but rather a privilege that is acquired

through strict licensing, renewal of licenses, and entry of all purchases into a central database.

Still my aforementioned proposals do little to quash areas rife with illegally owned and obtained

weapons. While regulating illegally obtained weapons will always be the most difficult of any

proposal, there is still an answer to be taken from cars – insurance.

John Wasik, from Forbes Magazine, was the first to propose such a measure and later was

backed by other financial journals, such as The Economist. The concept of forcing people to

purchase liability insurance in order to own a gun is a unique, but viable remedy to many of the

more complex gun issues. Either government sanctioned or private insurance could price risk

according to age, personal history, location, and other factors. This would make the price

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negligible for a middle-aged person with a clean legal slate and a history of gun club

membership, but unaffordable for a young person in a crime ridden city with a history of drug

abuse. Implementing gun insurance would also reduce “straw sales”, the legal purchase of a gun

for someone who can’t, by holding the purchaser accountable for any damage that the gun

causes. If “straw sales” are limited, it would have a direct effect on illegally obtained weapons.

Gun control in the United States is one of the most complex and divisive issues we face. Any

mention of it results in a fiery battle of ideological beliefs and with good reason; no other

country has anywhere close to as many firearms as we do. This makes gun control difficult,

extremely difficult, but it is essential to realize that it is not an incurable terminal disease.

Simply “taking a side” or taking “the liberal or conservative” point of view will only prolong the

pathetic divisiveness that plagues any attempt at solving this very real issue. We need laws that

address our country’s severe issue of accessibility, the excessive ease of obtaining permits, and

lackluster enforcement of gun laws. Issues with gun control could be significantly minimized

through a combination of adopting car-like regulations and implementing liability insurance.

Mass shootings aren’t the only manifestation of lax gun control; cities such as Chicago, Detroit,

New York, New Orleans, and Memphis have dozens of gun murders each year. These all but go

unnoticed by the media, but in reality we all have to face the grim truth that families have to

grieve, every day from gun violence. Only when politicians decide to lead, and people advocate,

will Newtown serve as the end of an era.

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Nonfiction Grade 7-9 Sarah Powless The Song of my Family

TheSongofmyFamily

I wake to the sound of nothing. The sounds of my dream still linger in my head and I see

few images of what I had dreamt, but other than that, the rest is lost. The aviary sounds of the

summer have been lost as well, and the only sounds I wake to now are the ferocious whipping of

the wind or the hard pounding of rain aloft my head, like a shower of boulders. Our song has not

yet begun and the notes of our day will cease to play until we are all together.

My mouth is dry and my light, frizzy morning hair covers my face. I inhale the pleasant

smell of my flannel covers and open my heavy eyelids. I sit up, fighting my aching bones and

stare at my chaotic room. My pink and white rug is littered with clothes, blankets, and papers

that should have been picked up days ago. The sun shines through my curtains, casting a hot

pink glow over the lime green walls. I stagger out of bed, not caring about what time it is or my

uncombed hair. I start to shiver even though I have not yet reached the door. My covers kept me

safe all night long from the frigid spirit that is winter. I have pushed their hospitality aside and

winter has come to surround and freeze me until my toes are numb and the tip of my nose is red.

Before I reach the door, I grab my pink fleece blanket and wrap it around myself. My fingers

grasp the chilly, black doorknob and I step out of the silent solitude of my room to meet the

morning. I avert my eyes, from the sunlight, only to find that there is no need to. Grey clouds

coat every inch of the sky though there is no rain. I hope that this means white, fluffy snow will

soon shroud every inch of our muddy lawn but so far we have seen only rain, so I soon dispose

of the foolish thought. I continue to saunter down the black, carpeted staircase and I lean on the

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rail more and more with every footfall. Sensing my presence our dog, Augie bounds playfully

into the den to greet me. He twists and turns, curving his body into a C almost as if he is

dancing. I stroke his soft brown and white fur and journey into the kitchen. I hear the sizzle of

bacon on the hot iron skillet and smell freshly cooked Bisquik pancakes. The hum of the family

song is growing louder and more powerful as I near the start of our day together. My stomach

roars like a lion as I take in the sights and smells of this perfect, yet ordinary Saturday morning.

As I step into the kitchen, my father is there to embrace my cold body. He wraps his lukewarm

arms around me and rustles my already untamed hair. I look up at him and see his short black

hair and his energetic smile. I ditch my blanket on the couch for a small, red fleece vest that

won’t get in the way when I make my favorite meal. I ramble over to the stovetop to watch, as

my older sister pours the thick batter onto the sizzling griddle creating five small silver dollar

pancakes. I hear my mother pouring herself another cup of coffee, for she too is not fully awake.

I spot my father’s ceramic cup on the counter and glide silently across the room to sneak a sip. I

raise the mug to my lips and sip the hot coffee. It tastes horribly sweet and I can’t possibly take

another gulp. I place my tongue under the faucet to wash the distasteful flavor out of my mouth.

My sister giggles for this is not the first time I have tasted his coffee. I try my father’s coffee

frequently to see if it will taste more pleasant, but alas, each time it tastes the same as the time

before. I ignore the foul taste and extend my arm as high as it can go, to reach the top shelf of

the cupboard. My hand grasps the package and as my arm descends I open the yellow Nestle

bag and pour a few mini chocolate chips into the palm of my hand. My father pours three circles

of appetizing batter onto the griddle, and as soon as he pulls the bowl away I am right there to

place the miniscule chocolate chips into the bubbling dough. I pluck my favorite yellow spatula

out of the drawer and get ready to flip the hotcakes. The spatula slides under each pancake with

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ease and I quickly flip them over, revealing a new golden brown surface. As I slide my pancakes

onto my plate Augie scampers over and sits by my feet. He gazes up at me with huge, glassy

brown eyes begging for a bite of my breakfast. As usual, I laugh and stroke his chocolate brown

ears trying to ignore the guilt I am feeling. I sit down in a cold metal chair and begin my favorite

meal. My sister, Emma and I tell each other of our eventful weeks and crack jokes about

everything we can. My mammoth stack of pancakes stares down at me, and suddenly I feel like

it’s girl vs. food. I slice through my hotcakes with the side of my fork and take a bite. The

savory dough melts in my mouth and slides down my throat. I take a sip of creamy, refreshing

milk that I can feel running down the back of my throat and all the way to my stomach. My

mother doesn’t sit down to eat with us, but my father does. He listens closely to our childish

jokes and laughs his loud, manly laugh as if he is remembering himself as an adolescent and the

foolish stunts he pulled.

We all chat about the past week not excluding any details. The future and past of our

family is discussed with great detail. Questions that I have pondered since I was younger are

answered at the table and new questions are brought to life. My father tells stories about his

childhood that make Emma and I chortle. We stay at the table for some time laughing and

pondering the most irregular questions of all time.

Soon enough, the morning comes to an end and we all go separate ways for the day. In

our busy weeks we are not together that all that often and there are few quality moments we

spend together. I found that one simple morning could create the most wonderful memories and

the most beautiful family song.

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Nonfiction Grade 10-12

Amanda Sload

LiveLife,ReadPoetry One of the first major scenes in the movie Dead Poets Society takes place when Mr.

Keating explains to his students why poetry is important. He says that we read and write poetry

because we are part of the human race, which is filled with passion. “Medicine, law, business,

engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance,

love, these are what we stay alive for”. Poetry is about living life. It’s about carpe diem, one of

Mr. Keating’s favorite phrases. Poetry isn’t necessarily about setting yourself up to make a lot of

money in the future so your parents will be proud; it isn’t about being famous or rich. Poetry is

about taking chances, living in the moment, doing what you love, and enjoying life.

Neil Perry, the main character of the movie and one of Mr. Keating’s students, really

takes the meaning of poetry to heart and applies it to his life. His father wants him to be a perfect

student, go to the most prestigious college, and become a doctor. Neil, in contrast, wants to live

life now. For him, acting is what brings him joy and gives him a reason to live. Neil decides to

take a chance, live in the moment, and defies his father’s commands. He is cast as the lead in a

play and couldn’t be happier. However, when his father finds out, he’s furious and eventually

decides Neil will go to military school and never act again. Instead of living life without acting,

Neil takes his own life. Neil embodies the meaning of poetry in this situation. If he were to give

up his life to go be a doctor, he’d be living a life without joy, excitement, love… That’s not

living. Acting was his reason to live. To Neil, dying is a better option.

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Though other students in Dead Poets Society don’t embrace Mr. Keating’s message as

radically as Neil, many of them incorporate the lesson into their lives. For example, Todd has

been living in his brother’s shadow and is afraid to be his own person. He’s scared to fail, but he

puts himself out there and creates his own beautiful poetry. Todd is also the first student to stand

up in support and honor of Mr. Keating when Mr. Keating is leaving. This is out of his comfort

zone, but he stands up for his teacher and himself. Knox falls in love with Chris, and though she

has a boyfriend, he lives in the moment when he kisses her, writes her a poem, brings her

flowers, and eventually persuades her to go on a date with him. He doesn’t think about all the

ways it could go wrong. Instead, Knox seizes the day. Todd, a slightly shy boy, uses pent up

emotion to discover the poet within. He makes a point when he throws his second-annual-

birthday-desk set: He is more than just a student; he is a son, a friend, a person, a poet. All these

boys prove that it doesn’t take drastic changes to live life.

One of my teachers recently gave a speech similar to Mr. Keating’s. We were discussing

course selections, and he encouraged us not to sign up for the AP course if it wasn’t right for us.

You can take lots of AP classes, spend all your time getting good grades so you go to a great

college, work hard in college, get a prestigious job, and then be happy, or you can simply be

happy. His point was that you’re not living life when you’re just living for the sake of your

future or to make someone else happy. You aren’t experiencing the poetry, beauty, romance,

love. If you take that path, sure, you may be successful and end up very happy one day, but you

aren’t living life right now. You should do what you love and are happy doing. In the end,

money isn’t what makes you happy. Doing what you love and what brings you joy makes you

happy.

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I really connected to the speech because it’s sometimes easy to fall into that mindset.

Here, you’re expected to go to college. You’re expected to take all the AP courses you can to get

to a great college. Sometimes, it seems like many high school students are hardly living, with all

the schoolwork and extracurricular activities they do. Maybe pausing to read and write poetry

would do us some good.

Memorizing the poem for Poetry Out Loud and listening to my classmates perform was

really meaningful for me. To take some time off from writing essays and studying for tests and

pause to appreciate poetry is important in my eyes. One of the themes in the poem I memorized,

“More Lies” by Karin Gottshall, is appreciating the little things in life. The speaker says, “I like a

place / where you can hear people talk about small things, / like the difference between azure and

cerulean, / and the price of tulips”(Gottshall 11-14). Too often, we as people don’t stop to

appreciate the small things life has to offer. Poetry as a whole is about stopping to appreciate

those little things that make life worth living. Listening to the passion some people had while

reciting their poems struck a chord with me as well because you could tell that they were really

living in the moment, taking a chance by putting themselves out there, and fully enjoying what

they were doing, which is exactly why poetry is important.

Life isn’t about going to the best college. No one should live life so that he can be a

lawyer or a doctor and make his parents happy. We all need to take chances and live life for

ourselves. Life is about love. In the end, it’s about discovering what you’re passionate about and

doing it. Life is about being happy. Life is about poetry.

Nonfiction Grade 10-12

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Angus Bass

TheCrowd“Are you coming to the Yankees game with me this Sunday or what?”

Although I have always hated playing baseball, and still do, I would never miss an

opportunity to attend a game with a friend. Hollering, laughing, and pointing at the players,

surroundings, and especially the fans, gives the lackluster sport true appeal. As I walked out to

my car and into the warm summer afternoon, I called David to let him know that I was on my

way to his house. Scraping my feet across the army of empty bottles and cans that had amassed

around the cockpit of my car, I began my journey to Yankee Stadium.

It took David’s sister, Amanda, quite a bit of time to track down the train station, but she

managed despite David’s and my verbal barrage of sarcasm, which relied heavily on sexism.

Now this was quite a feat of resilience. I have always appreciated Amanda, for she had helped

embarrass David since at least third grade. She knew how to deftly mess with David in a way

that only siblings can, while my friends and I relied on vulgar and clichéd sister jokes to get

under David’s skin.

We both hustled onto the train carrying nothing but wallets, phones, and the game

tickets. My god, I had never seen the train so crowded. Pacing up and down the aisle of the

train, the long and seemingly never-ending train, we prowled for seats. I swear we walked the

length of the train three times until we found a suitable place to sit – a man’s suitcase. The

suitcase was conveniently located in the open space in front of the train’s automated doors and

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was quite comfortable. The man never did gain the nerve to say anything. I reckon he should

have.

The train grinded to a halt in the Bronx at least 45 minutes before the game, which

allowed David and me just enough time to go take a look around the block. My skin could feel

the heaviness of the air, and my feet could feel the energy of the streets. Thundering past, trains

provided an exhilarating urban backdrop. And as we walked past some sort of market, its

shelves packed to the brim with colorful arrangements of chewing tobacco, a mystifying amount

of cigarettes, ice cold cases of beer, and any cheap bag of chips you could imagine, two shirtless

black men did pull-ups on some hanging metal bars out front. I would never dare try. The

subway rumbled, and thick steam rose with the men’s bodies. Whistles, horns, and yells swirled.

Yankee jerseys were scattered throughout the vibrant street, bopping up and down in the mass of

people, so easily distinguishable. We hustled back to the station.

I bought my first hotdog that day on the walk to Yankee Stadium, which was about a

quarter mile away from the train station. It was a classic and recognizable cart, loaded to the top

with low quality, yet oddly delicious and hilariously expensive, hotdogs, pretzels, and

condiments. I quickly ordered a 3-dollar hotdog, an enticing deal I couldn’t ignore. “Just

ketchup, please,” I said. “Do you want to buy a hat?” the man answered back. The hat was

lame. The hat was all white with a navy blue Yankees logo. The hat was not worth 20-dollars.

“No. Just some ketchup” I managed to reply rather meekly. Through my seventeen-year study

on food, it has occurred to me that hotdogs have a unique ability to taste great, yet never fill you

up.

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I cannot remember our section number, but it was in the “bleachers.” Aside from a plush

viewing box, a bleacher section was easily the best option. And including the possibility of a

viewing box, a bleacher section was the most fun anyway. We shuffled by an array of people:

old people, young people, rude people, but always loud and energetic people. It appeared to be a

community of fans; where one can get away with almost any act no matter how audacious. We

chose an open section of blue bench and sat down. I gazed out over the expansive green field,

with its perfectly mowed green rows, and I gazed out over the streaks of rust colored dirt, just

waiting to tarnish a pinstriped uniform. I noticed the stadium and all its mosaic parts: hands

waving, people moving, laughing, standing, sitting. I needed another hotdog.

After the walk to the concession stand, which felt like an early morning traffic jam, we

began waiting. David told me how amazing the garlic fries were, for apparently they were a

must buy. My excitement grew. Our time to order arrived, and I asked for a hotdog with a side

of garlic fries. I made an error, however, for garlic fries only come separately and not as a side

with a meal. A rookie mistake. My order slid over the greasy plastic, which glinted oddly and

felt unnaturally sleek, and I suddenly realized my error.

“I’m sorry, could I exchange my side of fries for garlic fries, please?” I pleaded. “You

need to order those separately” a woman behind the counter spat back. I walked away quickly,

yet I was in no rush to go watch the game. How could I be so afraid of a young worker behind an

ugly plastic counter that I failed to correct my order?

We reentered the boisterous bleacher section just as tension was mounting. David and I

watched as Ichiro Suzuki, a diminutive Asian player for the Yankees, blasted his second

homerun of the night. My legs extended and my hands soared upwards, as my mind thought

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hard. Now here is a man who is bold and cuts against the grain. He is admirable even. Besides,

I was sick of juiced-up sluggers, slightly overweight, slow, bearish, and bothersome. A rhythmic

noise rolled over the bleacher section as we chanted Ichiro’s name loudly, deafeningly even. I

will admit I even stealthily gave a few shouts despite my dislike for New York sports.

Even with the thrill of Ichiro, however, the real bleacher spectacle was just starting. A

blonde lady brandishing a Red Sox jersey, maybe in her late twenties and with massive breasts

stood up in the front row. Her hands whizzed back and forth only stopping to point, as her mouth

curled into distinct and harsh shapes that leaked and spewed profanities at the Yankee fans. My

grandfather would not be thrilled with this liberal vocabulary education I was receiving. The

bleacher section began boiling. She stood up again, with her face red and the dark roots of her

hair showing, and hollered more blasphemies adding vigor to each new word. I noticed cops

shifting around the stadium, keeping a not-so-watchful eye on the section. The bleacher section

laughed, yelled, and grew angrier. The cops’ eyes glared, glanced, and darted. Foul words

began forming on the lips of practically every patron, and the lone Red Sox jersey paraded

around, not to be deterred. Soon, a rhythm was added to a singular, hurtful, word. The cops’

ears poised, and they closed in.

“Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!” they all shouted at her. Their hands formed arrows and moved in

rhythm, pointing to her each time. Along with the spittle that accompanied the jeering, bits of

popcorn and slick butter flew through the air, drumming patron after patron.

The cops burst onto the scene. Oh no, I thought, am I in trouble? Is David in trouble? But

in hilarious fashion, the cops waddled toward the blonde woman and promptly began trying to

move her out of the section and out of the stadium. Oh, did she scream and kick.

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“Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!” they all shouted at her. As the roaring eruption of noise continued

to reverberate through the section, I noticed the lady’s boyfriend. Bald and tattooed, he stared off

into the distance apparently completely entranced by the ball game. She pleaded with him and

grabbed his muscly arm, but he didn’t budge. I swear he didn’t even exit the stadium with her;

he just sat right there and absorbed the harassment like a sponge gorges itself on dirty water.

Despite the stereotyped norm, a woman appeared to have bigger balls than her tattooed boyfriend

in this unique instance. For some reason, I doubt they are still together.

After the ride back, while lying on a couch in David’s ornate basement, I began thinking

to myself. Was that lady an idiot? Is she just dumb? How much can one person love the Red

Sox? Or should I admire her boldness? Despite the blatant and outlandish dislike the section

expressed for the woman, the foul female-oriented vulgar word, and her vast minority, she still

spat in the face of it all. The whole bleacher section quickly denounced her as an idiot, yet now I

was not so sure.

I thought back to a conversation that David and I had with a stadium cop on our way out.

Light reflected off his white head, the uniform fit his body too tightly, and he appeared to be in

his forties. We asked him about the girl, for it was certified stadium news at that point. His

answer was prompt, and he chuckled heartily as he eagerly told us his response like a child

finally revealing a horribly terrific secret. He said, “If that was me, I woulda dragged her out by

her fucking ear.”

I suppose I do admire her.

Nonfiction Grade 7-9

      101  

SnorkelingWithaSeaTurtle

“Are we almost there?” my little brother whined. “Yes, we are about two minutes away.” My

dad responded. I looked out the window at the magnificent mountains in the background. They

stood tall, towering over our car. Ahead of us was the turquoise ocean, sparkling beneath the

scorching hot sun. We drove past a sign that read in big bold letters: “WELCOME TO SHARKS

COVE.” “We are here,” my dad announced, as if we couldn’t read. I slowly climbed out of the

car breathing in the fresh Hawaiian air. I hurried behind the car, to the trunk and pulled out my

blue snorkeling gear. “Hurry up!” My little brother Chris shouted anxiously. I hurried to catch

up with my family. Why did we have to go snorkeling? I mean, nobody really wants to have

little fish nibbling their toes, do they? Well I don’t and I don’t plan on it either!

To get to the beach, you had to climb down a steep and rocky trail. My two brothers

hurried to the trail, almost tripping a couple of times. I followed them, looking out for rocks that

could trip me. I looked back; my parents were slowly making their way down the trail. I waited

for them at the bottom, and then we emerged into paradise.

The soft white sand oozed between my toes. The sky was the most perfect blue I had

ever seen. The ocean was so clear; I could see all of the little minnows swimming around

beneath it. The sound of children running and laughing lightened my mood. I watched people’s

heads bob in and out of the ocean; their snorkels were sticking straight up into the air. My

brothers struggled to get their snorkeling masks on, but when they did, I couldn’t help myself but

laugh. They looked so different in those masks. I knew that I would look the same when I put

Emily Bergwall 

 

      102  

my mask on, so I decided not to make fun of them. My dad started wading into the water and

both of my brothers followed him. I looked at spots in the water where you couldn’t see

anything and my stomach churned. I didn’t know, and I am not sure I wanted to know, what

could be lurking under there. What if I was swimming in one of those dark areas and a shark

came out of nowhere and bit off my leg? Well, it IS called Sharks Cove! A shiver went through

my spine. It doesn’t have to be a shark, I thought. It could be an eel or an octopus. My mind

just wouldn’t let me stop thinking about it.

I scanned the water and saw my brothers blue tubes sticking out. They both came up

with wide eyes laughing and pointing down. I wondered what they had seen down there.

Whatever it was, they weren’t scared of it. My dad was staying close to my brothers, but looking

at his own fish not paying mind to their giggling. “Emily I think you should go in the water. It

will be fun. Nothing will hurt you. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity and you shouldn’t

miss it. You never know what amazing things you may see down there.” My mom encouraged.

“Fine” I answered as I struggled to put my mask on. It tasted like salt water, which made

me gag a little, but then I realized that I better get used to it. I started walking towards the water

and stopped at the base of it. I let the water ripple against my toes. The water was warm, the

perfect temperature for snorkeling. I started heading deeper and deeper into the ocean avoiding

all the little sharp rocks hiding beneath the sand. Eventually the water was up to my knees. I put

my face under the water and immediately my eyes opened wide. Dozens of brightly colored fish

swam all around me. My fear of the dark areas seemed to just vanish. I felt no emotion except

for happiness. Seeing all of those fish made me realize how correct my mom really was. I

would never be able to do this anywhere else. Hawaii is known for their fish and who knows

when we would be back here. The fish were unbelievable. I had never seen anything like it

      103  

before. The fish were very brightly colored. Some were pink, yellow, blue, green, black, white,

and even purple. There was a very wide variety. I scanned the water looking for my dad and

brothers. When I finally spotted them, they were getting out of the water to dry off. My mood

sank as I realized I would be out here alone. I put my face back under and my mood

immediately turned back to normal. A school of neon yellow fish swam below me. To my right

were some purple fish eating algae off of the coral. Some black and yellow tiger stripe fish were

behind me. I swam a little farther out and noticed one fish. It was black but it was unusual.

Instead of a fish mouth it had an orange beak. It looked half bird. I knew I would never see that

kind of fish again so I savored the moment. I followed that fish longer than I followed any other

fish.

I was about to get out of the water when I noticed a shadow swim under me. My heart

skipped a beat and my mouth turned dry. I could barely swallow. What was swimming under

me? Did I even want to know? I told myself yes, I do need to know. I put my face in the water

and almost screamed. Below me was the biggest sea turtle I had ever seen. Its arms waved in

unison. It was so graceful; it didn’t even notice I was swimming right above it. I followed it

everywhere, never wanting to leave. Its eyes stayed locked straight ahead knowing everywhere

it should go. All of a sudden I watched it disappeared in between two rocks. I watched those

rocks for a while, hoping it would come back. When the sea turtle didn’t return I swam back to

shore, the whole time with a smile on my face. This turtle taught me a lesson. It taught me not

to judge a place before you really know what it is about. I was wrong about Sharks Cove. I

would love to come back here, and I would also love to have little fish nibbling my toes.

      104  

Nonfiction Grade 7-9

StrandedonWaterBy Sheena Zhou

“Rain, rain go away, come again another day.” sang Grace. “Don’t we all wish for that.”

sighed Sophia, Grace’s cousin. “Finally the day came for us to sail, rain comes pouring down the

sky.” “Cheer up girls!” comforted Custard, our counselor with a British accent. “The rain is not

going to last long.” “I hope so.” I muttered. After all the training we went through at Camp

Candlewood, today was the day we were going to sail and show how much we learned. It was

also the day for us to have fun too. The week was almost over and our sailing trips were kept on

getting canceled. Some kids, like my cabin mates Fiona and Phoebe, were losing hope.

“How about you tell a story Custard?” suggested Toffee, a curly haired counselor. “The

one about how Candlewood Lake came to be.” Custard smiled. The sailing girls all found a place

to sit and listened to custard’s story. “A long time ago, the place the lake is now on top of used to

be a grand town, with many gentlemen and ladies living in glorious houses. The town was called

Candlewood town. All the way up the river, there was a dam so the water won’t come gushing

out too quickly and drown the whole place. One day, some naughty boy made a crack in the dam

and the whole thing broke down!” “Really.” whispered Cat, my closest friend, in my ear, “That

sounds so unrealistic.” “Shush. Just listen to the story.” I replied. “The water tumbled down the

hill making loud rumbling sounds.” continued Custard, “Before the people had time to react,

they were overwhelmed with the water! Some say the people were washed into the ocean, others

say they sank to the bottom of the lake, waiting to grab victims!” “HA! HA !HA !HA !HA!”

      105  

laughed Cat. Everyone pivoted their heads and stared at Cat. “Sorry.” said Cat sheepishly. “But it

sound so preposterous right?” “If you don’t believe me, look for yourself. Some fishermen

sometimes see the top of a church building during the low tide.” defended Custard. “Hey look!”

shouted Fiona, “The rain stopped!”

“Yahoo!” we all cheered. “Ok girls.” said Toffee clapping her hands. “Get your life

jackets and pull the boats into the water.” We scrambled to the life jacket hooks and tried on the

life jackets. I got one that was orange with black buckles. “Hey! Let’s be partners!” I grabbed

Cat and we raced out the boat house onto the deck. Everyone circled the sailboats and half

hauled half shoved them into the water. Cat and I hopped into the blue sailboat right when the

rudder touched the water. “Alright you two, you’re going first.” chuckled Custard, “I’ll be going

with you!” The wind gently guided us out into the lake. My first sailing experience had finally

begun!

“Ok, now Cat you steer the rudder, Sheena, you’re handling the jib and I’ll adjust the

boom and tell you what to do.” Custard instructed. We were making great progress when all of a

sudden, the wind stopped. “Awwww! Come on!” wailed Fiona from the other boat. “Not just

only that,” I observed, “we’re in the middle of the lake!”

“What are we going to do!” cried Phoebe.

“Sheena, you are a great swimmer, why don’t you drag us over?” suggested Custard.

“Huh?” I questioned.

“You can tow us over to land!”

      106  

I stared down at the water. Brown, murky water lapped at the sides of the boat. Icky, green stuff

floated on the top. Shadows and weird sounds were emitting from somewhere in the brownness.

I remembered Custard’s story. “Um…ah…” I stammered. “You’re not scared are you?”

questioned Cat.

“No!”

“Candlewood town people grabbing their victims!”

“Uh.”

“You might be targeted!”

“Oh, why don’t you tow us over to land!?”

“Admit it, you’re scared.”

“So are you.”

“Hey, hey calm down girls.” warned Custard shooting Cat a glare. “I want to go home! I’m

scared!” complained Fiona. “Let’s wait.” advised Toffee from the yellow boat, “the wind might

come back.” So we waited. Sophia and Grace started playing Concentration on the red boat,

Fiona still shaking with fright with Phoebe trying to comfort her, and Cat was grabbing

imaginary people from the sky, most likely miming Candlewood people grabbing their victims.

Maybe she’s not a good friend after all. I thought. We waited for about 1hour. It was time for

lunch. Sophia’s stomach growled. “I’m hungry.” She said. Phoebe’s stomach growled with

agreement. “So am I.” Then all of our stomachs started growling like crazy. “I nominate myself

as the loudest stomach growl!” announced Cat. The sun beat its heat on our bodies. I was

tempted to jump into the cool lake and tow the sailboats back to shore. That was when I

      107  

remembered Custard’s story again and decided not to. “I’m sweltering under this heat!” huffed

Grace, fanning herself with a water scooper.

“Hey!” A light bulb clicked in my head. “We could use the water scoopers and the rudder

as paddles!” “Great idea!” exclaimed Toffee, “Let’s all try it!” We all grabbed a water scooper

while the counselors took the tilt of the rudder and we paddled towards land. The sail boats

moved slowly, but we were at least making progress. The wind must’ve pitied us because with a

loud whoosh the wind finally came. The sailboats sped forward like sail fish after a chase of fish.

We all cheered as the boats neared the deck. Once the sailboats nudged the deck with its nose,

we scrambled out and dashed towards the boat house yelling “NEED FOOD!” on top of our

lungs. “Wait!” shouted Custard after us. “You guys still need to bring the sailboats back into the

boat house!” “Also the life jackets are not free!” added Toffee. We groaned as we walked back

and lugged the sailboats back into the boat house. Then, we ripped off our life jackets, tossed it

on the table, and scampered up the Goat Trail to the Cafeteria.

* * * *

I nearly choked on my food that day. The girls at my table were staring at me, wondering

what happened to the sailing girls that came back eating like “beggars eating expensive food

after nearly starving to death.” It was quite a sight and pretty embarrassing when I thought back.

Well, if you were stuck in the middle of the lake with empty stomachs and with the scorching hot

sun beating down on you for about 2 hours, you’ll understand. That was an experience I’ll never

forget.

      108  

Fiction Grade 10-12 Christine Bouffard

ALullabyforMordredPrologue 

There was a screech. Like a war cry it pierced the sky. Heads turned toward this unexpected

challenge. The soldier saw it out of his peripheral vision. It was a fast blur that never stayed in

one spot long enough for the eye to make out detail. Then suddenly it was upon him, slashing at

his arm with alarming speed. Score marks appeared on his upper arm, and he let out a surprised

cry of pain. It wasn’t deep enough to become fatal but painful enough to divert his eyes from his

original enemy.

His uninjured arm flew up to stanch the flow of blood the new wound was providing. He looked

up just in time, barely dodging the murderous steel that cut dangerously close to his ribcage. The

blade met no resistance and skittered loudly on the palisade wall, hard enough to draw sparks.

His arms went up instinctively as the sword hissed past, leaving himself vulnerable to the next

unforeseen threat. The bird had come back around, turning in a three hundred and sixty degree

arc. Its talons, gleaming dully in the moonlight, flashed down quicker than the eye. The

gathering darkness helped conceal its path. Its claws ripped and fastened themselves into his

side, wrenching him off balance as the bird tried to free itself. It only proved worse for the poor

soldier, as it managed to shred more flesh and leather armor in its attempt. The man wriggled in

      109  

agony and his head gear clattered loudly to the floor. Only then did the bird managed to free

itself, shrieking its consternation, and then take off. He turned awkwardly to face the soldier still

opposing him. The soldier stopped in front of the helpless man. His sword had skidded away

from him in his prior encounter. It now lay a good ten meters to his far left. He sat awkwardly

upright on one elbow, virtually defenseless in front of the man about to execute him.

He didn’t look back at his sword, not willing to break eye contact. But the warrior, as if sensing

it, did look over to his fallen sword then back at him narrowing his eyes slightly. The man was

faced toward his attacker. He would fight bravely till the end, not squander his pride by pleading

for mercy. His side was searing with pain and with his unburdened sword hand he was clutching

his injured side. He could feel the warm blood trickling over his fingers but he didn’t look down.

In a few minutes he knew he wouldn’t feel anything anyway.

Instead he stared into the eyes of the man, who stood sword poised to strike in a deadly

overhead cut. He searched the man’s eyes rebelliously. Looking for mercy or pity, instead he saw

uncertainty. His eyes widened in bewilderment. Not from the sheer fact that the soldier’s sword

was still hovering precariously close to killing him. Or even from the ambiguity in the eyes he

could make out just above the raised visor.

The man about to kill him wasn’t a soldier at all.

It was a woman.

      110  

Chapter 1

That was made evident soon enough. The women, or more correctly girl in her later teens,

turned away from her original quarry to face the oncoming attack from the rear.

Reinforcements, the man thought wearily, thank the Lord for them. Two, half armored knights

slashed at the girl. She dodged and parried them with the reflexes of a cat. She slapped the sword

hand of the knight nearest to her with the flat side of her own sword. But in doing so she was too

late to reciprocate as the man continued his charge unfazed.

He dropped his sword because of his stinging fingers and pivoted his shoulder into her side

driving the breath from her and knocking her helmet off with his elbow, in a flinging movement.

Her helmet was whisked clear off her head and down into the courtyard below. She was winded

and her ears were ringing but other than that she was unharmed and regained her balance

summarily. Her luscious red brown hair flung out of the helmet to gently fall around her

shoulders in a graceful almost mesmerizing way. For a split second it seemed time was in slow

motion. Just like that it was over. She parried another downward stroke with a resounding clang

that rang clearly down the ramparts. She had her sword ready to block another stroke but there

wasn’t to be any more. She looked up a little perplexed. Her adrenaline was pumping through her

blood making her breath come out as ragged gasps. She saw the hesitation in the other mans

eyes and knew why. Forcing her heart beat to settle a little she flushed slightly, and ran past her

original prey, ignoring him completely. She only stopped briefly to look back over them and her

      111  

eyes lingered on bleeding mans sword. Then she swung her legs over the side and jumped lightly

to the ladder farther below.

The soldiers remaining on the lookout post above exchanged uneasy glances. Then there was a

shrill whistle. As the bird heard it, it flew toward the general area, the whistle emitted from. The

soldiers halfheartedly helped their companion up and turned to head back inside. They had no

idea what they were going to tell their supervisor.

Down below the castle farther into the darkness that the thick trees of the forest provided, the

girl thought along similar lines. She shook her head bitterly rubbing her hip where a sentry got a

lucky hit with his club. She knew her superior hated failure, after all she did herself. On that

thought she looked pensively at the brick clay wall, where the sword had been, before the

soldiers hurriedly scooped it up and cut the ladder, which was still lingering against the wall, to

pieces. She knew she had to go, but she was reluctant.

They would be coming for her soon.

Nonfiction Grade 10-12

      112  

Sam Miller

DinosaurJr’sYou’reLivingAllOverMeatTwenty‐Five

By 1984, the basements of America still swelled with angst and teemed with dizzying

congregations of sweaty, shirtless teenage boys, bobbing and thrashing to anarchic sheets of

white noise and speed. Hardcore punk had slowly homogenized into a monotonous formula,

employing similar conformity it so maliciously denounced. Out of this desperation, a

Massachusetts trio by the name of Dinosaur formed; J Mascis, Lou Barlow and Murph. While

maintaining hardcore's ferocious edge, colossal pop hooks provided a much needed melodic

ingredient. "Ear bleeding country, that was the concept for the band,” J Mascis explained in an

interview I recently conducted, “It didn’t quite adhere to that, but it was a starting point."

Dinosaur's self-titled debut album failed to make much of an impact. An indecipherable

blend of tripped out acid folk, shimmering psychedelia and sugar coated speed metal, punk

rockers found themselves scratching their heads in bewilderment. "We were playing and trying

to figure out our sound," Mascis recalls, "We'd get gigs and always get banned because we were

too loud. Pissed off a lot of bartenders."

Things changed with You're Living All Over Me. A radical departure from their debut,

the band's sound evolved into a contained fury of blaring guitar fuzz and luscious melodies. "We

wrote a bunch of songs, and they all sounded different. It was the first time we felt we were onto

something." It was clear Dinosaur had touched upon an eccentric and beautiful musical formula.

      113  

You're Living All Over Me is thoroughly remarkable, from the opening notes of "Little

Fury Things." Murph's drums scatter, followed by an explosive sonic assault, a burst of electric

ecstasy. J's wah-wah deliriously shrieks, while Lou roars a cryptic inquiry. "Who is it, Where is

it, What is it?" A source of considerable puzzlement, I ask J what this could possibly be referring

to. "I don't remember,” he replies, much to my disappointment. As the intensity dies down,

more un-orthodox lyrical territory is crossed. . . Rabbits.

The sheer versatility of You're Living All Over Me accounts for a large portion of its

greatness. Nowhere is this more prevalent than the majestic "Sludgefeast," which alternates

between fluid thrash pop and avant-drone freak-outs." J's words of yearning sound strangled and

tortured, pushing the dismal chaos to an almost disturbing level:

"I'm waiting, please come back,

Got the guts now, to meet your eye

Those guts are killing, but I can’t stop now

Got to connect with you girl, before I forget how."

"The Lung" closes side one, a winding, tense, (almost) instrumental, perhaps the closest the

band has come to representing the extended soundscapes of their live shows. The tempo dives

and plunges, alternating speeds without warning. It consists of one ever-repeated lyric:

"Nowhere to collapse the lung

Breathes a doubt in everyone."

      114  

The songwriting that appears on side two deals almost exclusively with painful themes-

lost love, unfulfilled expectations, and a vast array of scathing disappointments. "Raisans" tells

the somewhat tragic story of an un-fruitful attempt to draw attention from a girl, set to

a Ramones-esque backdrop: "The lights exploded, she stood burning in front of me, she ripped

my heart out and gave it to me." At the bridge, the guitar drops out, leaving the bass and drums

still clanking away. A phantasmal voice appears, crying out in anguish. "You're Killing Me!

You're Killing Me!" he shouts. The effect is simply terrifying. (It turns out, the voice was from

a recording Lou made while volunteering at senior citizens facility, as nurses hoisted the man

into the bathtub.)

"Tarpit" sounds a lot like the sequel to "Sludgefeast," a dragging, heavy tempo blanketed

with sprawling heaps of guitar gunk, as J whines about bubbling emotion. The mysterious voice

reappears, and song is gradually overtaken by a wash of tape effects, distortion, and noise. A

couple moments of Metal Machine Music, and it unexpectedly cuts off. In these moments, you

remember what silence sounds like.

Lou's very own moment of glory comes with the album's closer and centerpiece, "Poledo." In

stark contrast to everything on the record, "Poledo "is made up of tranquil ukulele folk and

incendiary sound collages. He quietly strums the four string, letting loose a string of

confessional metaphors, delicate, yet foreboding:

"I don't see

I don't feel

Like every little moron

      115  

I think nothing is real."

"The basic motivation for that song," Lou explains, "was like this is my 'please come and

get me' to a girl.'" (He would eventually find this girl, a college disc jockey named Kathleen

Bilus who believed "Poledo" to be the answer to her dreams. They are married to this day.) Like

"Tarpit," the song morphs into complete weirdness, this time swallowed by a demented sound

collage. Jesus, Jesus Christ, a voice continuously drawls. Out of fear, Lou was reluctant to

reveal the bizarre home recorded song. "He never showed it to me," J recalls, "He just said, "I

want to put this on the record." The song and album end with an endless, droning note.

Something funny happened to Dinosaur when You’re Living All Over Me hit the racks in

December of 1987 - success. After years of grueling touring, practice, and incessant lambasting

from punk community, the band’s brilliance was finally acknowledged. “It was when everything

came together,” J recalls, “we got on SST, that was our goal, and we finally got some sort of

sound we were looking for" The triumph was not to be enjoyed though, as mountainous tension

threatened to tear the band apart. J's dominance and control increased, only feeding into Lou's

immense insecurity. "Well, you know theres always two sides to every story," J sighs, "He didn't

really want to be in the band anymore, but he didn't want to be the one to quit. He wouldn't

contribute anything." The three were barely speaking to each other, leaving "things bubbling

under the surface," as Sonic Youth's Lee Renaldo put it. This volatile situation fueled the

album, providing an undeniable savage intensity. “It definitely added something,” J admits, “I

never thought you had to be best friends with the guys you’re in a band with. We just had a

common goal, to make good music."

      116  

You’re Living All Over Me is more than a rock and roll record. It’s a place, a time, but most

importantly, a state of mind. "We definitely weren't happy campers at that point," J remembers,

"you're just kind of writing songs when you're depressed. It's not like if you’re happy you're

going to write a song. You'd probably be doing something else." Loneliness dwells in us all, but

some entirely live it, everyday fraught with the numbing harrows of isolation and melancholy.

For these troubled souls, You're Living All Over Me struck a deeply personal chord. I, for one

can distinctly remember lying on the floor with "Sludgefeast" blaring, sobbing

uncontrollably. The record oozes with despair and longing, the cauldron of raging testosterone

and musical ferocity. It applies to a special breed, one comprised of losers, loners, outcasts,

outsiders, kids who fail gym, nerds, kids who get stuffed in lockers, the depressed, the

disaffected, the disenchanted, the restless, the friendless, the shunned, and the forgotten. It's

therapy, and has the power to heal. I explain this to J, rambling about the passion, intensity, and

beauty of the seminal masterwork he created-

"I mean yeah, it’s definitely the best one," he murmurs.

-Sam Miller, November 2012

Nonficiton Grade 7-9 Fahd Zia

CTYScholarship

      117  

Dear Darien Library,

Y name is Fahd Zia and I go to Middlesex Middle School in 7th grade. I was researching on

the CTY program, and your name appeared as a director of the program. I understand that this

is from grades 5-12. I am sure that I am eligible for the program. I suppose that if you pass a

certain test then you get a scholarship. My father has always been pushing me saying, “Fahd you

need to get a scholarship because I won't be able to pay for your tuition fee." I wanted to

research on this program in 4th grade this way when I get to 5th grade I will be able to take the

test. But I couldn't because on the night of July 4, 2009 my grandmother had a wound that we

thought is not a big deal. But we took her to the hospital on that night because her thighs had so

much water and so it swelled up. We took her to the emergency room late at 12:00. We took her

in and the doctor took a look at it. He said, "She is fine but she will be discharged tomorrow."My

father said, "Ok doctor." We left her there and we told her that we are going home to sleep. The

next day we went to go pick her up, and then the doctor came in and said, "She caught dieses in

the wound from the hospital so she will have to stay." Over the next few months the dieses got

worse and worse. We ended up staying at the hospital for one year in that case. So, than one day

the doctor came in and we all thought that he will give us good news but we got terrible news.

The doctor said, "We did a MRI on your mom and the dieses got worse, and so she will have to

move to the Intensive Care Unit (ICU)." She stayed in the ICU for at least six months or more.

Then, she got discharged from the ICU and went somewhere worse the cardio section of the

hospital. The doctor was about to leave the room and I said, "Excuse me doctor I have a couple

question from you. When will my grandmother leave the hospital? Two why is she in the Cardio

section on the hospital?" The doctor replied, "I am not sure when she will leave, but she is in the

Cardio section of the hospital because she developed cardio dieses." The doctor left the room.

M

      118  

The tragedy begun because I had a feeling that she might die. All eyes were at the screen hoping

that there will be some good numbers. The numbers kept decreasing, and I am about to erupt. It

was June 2, 2010 at 9:45 A.M. All eyes were at the screen at 10:00 A.M. in the morning the

doctor said to my dad, "There is no way that she will go through the whole day." That memo

kept on being repeated in my head. 10:11 A.M. came and the screen went to 0%. We are crying

and sad. I was on the ground and my heart just broke. After that day I will never forget about my

beloved grandmother ever again. I think that this scholarship will have a big impact on my

parents, grandparents, my siblings, and me because of the fund that was taken away for my

grandmother health insurance. “Health comes before anything” or “Safety comes first” means a

lot to my family and me. The insurance took the fund away from us that my grandmother has

been saving up for my college sense I was a kid. If I don’t receive a scholarship my dad will

have tons and tons of loans and morgues. This tragic took away many important things from. It

took away important woman from my life, it took away our important funds, and last it took the

woman away that always shines me. I will always remember this important quote that was said

by her to me.”Fahd, college could be expensive for you and your parents. But, your parents and I

always admired you to get a scholarship from John Hopkins CTY financial aid and scholarship

program.” This is the tragic event that occurs in my life during 4th, 5th, and the beginning of 6th

grade. This tragic just broke my heart in half. It also touched me and my family’s heart and life.

But, the day I returned to school I was crying, drips of tears on paper, and I just couldn't do it. I

left school really early that day. We went to the grave early the next day to put roses on the

grave. I will never forget and the nicest grandmother yet. I need to reach for that successful

scholarship that my grandmother always wanted my five siblings to achieve it.

      119  

Sincerely,

FAHD ZIA

Claire Naughton

SunflowersinDecember

She’s three drinks in

A dirty trench coat on her mind

And there are two men in love

Neither with her though.

Because who could love something like her

Something broken,

Wrecked.

So she orders another drink and hopes

The bartender doesn’t notice the shaking

Of that one lonely finger

      120  

Because she was mommy yesterday

And now she’s just June

June from down the street and the neighbors tell their kids

Don’t talk about June

Because there’s been an accident

There’s been a tragedy

And they watch this shell of a woman with their smiling tots.

Don’t talk about June

June keeps placing her hand on her belly after every drink,

And she keeps telling herself that maybe

She should be careful

Maybe there’s still hope

But she knows there isn’t

She knew the moment her husband walked through that door

      121  

The slam as it fell back onto the frame

Don’t talk about June

The way when he sat in the cheap hospital chair

It creaked and complained

And don’t think about that coat

She knew when he held her hand and she realized they were both made of ice

And somewhere

Down the street from her yellow house

While her husband held her frozen hand in the hospital

Another man sat alone in his living room

Wondering at what could have been

Who could have been

And he lights up a cigarette

There used to be four of them

A family that didn’t know it was a family

      122  

June, her husband, the man down the street

The who who could have been

Now there’s just one

Because June isn’t holding onto that who

June isn’t hoping for that could have been

Not anymore

June is three drinks in

And that dirty trench coat he wore the night she fell in love with him

That’s on her mind.

A dirty trench coat

Soaked in rain

Protecting the body of a simple man

Just out

Walking along the street

So she gave him a ride

      123  

Drove him down her own street, straight to his blue house

And he invited her in and she

Smiled.

Like it was some big secret that she was one half

Of the newest married couple

The newest pair that deemed themselves better than the others

She hadn’t gone in

Two weeks later she did

Almost a year later she wishes she never had

Because some things just can’t be planned

And like the downpour that started it all

This who came upon them unexpectedly.

She didn’t know

Honestly

That who was a question

      124  

A single dot beneath the mark,

Begging them to answer

Refusing to was her defiance.

The knowledge that this

Who

It belonged to three

She liked that

So she held onto her who like this little who

Was going to lasso the sun one day

And bring it down so that only her sunflowers bloomed

Only her morning glories would open their faces to the world and

Rejoice because the who was upon them now

The who was here

And then the who wasn’t

      125  

Vacated, empty

Faulty

The family of four

The dreams of one

Four drinks in and June

She’s wishing she’d never picked up that dirty trench coat

She’s wishing she’d never rifled through the pockets

And found dried flowers and candy wrappers

As if the man in the coat still housed a child

Hidden somewhere beneath the fabric, waiting to peak its head out and grin

Five drinks in and June regrets her wedding vows

The way she placed her hands on his cheeks

How when they danced she swore they floated

And on the side her mother cried sweet tears for her little who

      126  

The bar is crowded now

A sports game is playing on the television and a man sitting across the room

He’s trying to catch her eye

So June closes hers and dreams of the who

The little could have been

A blue house and a yellow house

And two men

Place them over a dirty trench coat

And multiply them by possibility

This is what June dreams of

Lily Schaeffer

TRAPPEDFire, fire

In my eyes.

Dreams shattered. Vacant hope.

      127  

Stolen.

Taking everything

Away

More than nothing

Left.

Trampled trust.

I say I’ll forgive, but I’ll never forget.

Now you’re nothing

But dust.

Trapped in lies,

Can’t get out,

Twisted logic is your comfort.

You’re trapped within yourself

But you

Mean nothing to me.

      128  

MemoriesofBlockIsland

By Erica Blaze

The beach, all sand, sun, and sea. You can see the calm, blue ocean that doesn’t seem to ever

end, and the huge, open sky, only a shade lighter than the water. As you walk out of the waves,

you can feel where the sand goes from hard and moist to soft and dry. You flop down on your

towel and can feel the sun baking the water off your back. Before you close your eyes, you

notice a small crab scuttling past, and smile at the memories of catching them and holding one in

your hand without being scared for the first time. Your eyes shut but you don’t fall asleep, you

just lay there, enjoying the feeling of the sun on your skin and the sound of other families

playing, enjoying the beach as much as you are.

The town, all ice cream, old weathered buildings, and frozen lemonade. The doors are always

opened, welcoming customers or just friends. All of the stores are unique, but they also look the

same; weather-beaten with the same gray color. The sky is clear and the sun is shining. As

always, it’s the perfect weather for a cold dessert. You make the hard decision on whether to

have frozen lemonade or ice cream, and you decide on ice cream. You walk into The Ice Cream

Place, one of the best (and the only) ice cream stores on Block Island. You look at the flavors,

even though you already know which one’s your favorite, since you have been here so many

times. You sit at a table, licking your ice cream, and watch the people walk by.

The house, all grass, wood, and blackberries. The house has a large wood porch, where the your

parents can watch you and your siblings play hide and seek, which is fun because even though

you think you know all of the hiding places, there are always more to be discovered. Right

behind all of the short green grass are the blackberry bushes. You wake up early in the morning

      129  

to go pick them, picking just enough for the morning and leaving enough so there are more for

tomorrow. You are careful not to get pricked by the thorns as you reach over to pick the ripe

berries. Once you decide you have enough blackberries, you bring them inside. Your parents, not

at all worried that you weren’t in your beds when they woke up, have already started making the

pancakes. You hand them the berries and lay on the couch. There is no TV, but the remains of

the card game you played yesterday lay on the wood table. All of the furniture, floors, and walls

are made out of wood, covered in patterned cushions, rugs, blankets and pillows. The house is

cozy, comfortable and so familiar that you could get yourself anywhere inside it with your eyes

closed. The house is old, with holes in the floor and rickety lights, but it is still like a second

home.

The ocean, all salt and fish and sunscreen. The water is dark and blue and a little bit rough, so

your boat leaps over the crest of the waves. The boat slows to a stop and your dad hands you a

fishing rod. You smile, because you even though you are still right next to the island, your dad

couldn’t resist fishing, especially since it’s the last time. You leave Block Island every year on

your little fishing boat, and now, you are starting the long trip home. You fish for a while,

casting your rod and, when you catch something, biting your salty lips as you try your hardest to

reel the fish into the boat. Soon, however, it’s time to go. As your boat speeds away, you take

one last look at the island. You will miss Block Island, but you are not sad that you are leaving.

That is because you know that next summer, when you come back; it will be exactly the same as

when you left it.

Christopher McGovern

      130  

TheAngel`sCarolI throw on my dress

And rush down the stairs

I go out to my Grandmother’s car

My Mom and Chi-chi follow

I am excited to sing

Christmas carols with my family

On Christmas Eve

The red choir robes are on

The music starts playing

Walking down the aisle

Two by two

Everyone sings “O Come, O Come Emanuel”

In the choir loft

      131  

The anthem is coming up

My first

Of many with the choir

I am confident

I am excited

Sweet sounds from the piano fill my ears

I sing

“Have you heard the sound of the Angel`s voices?

Ringing out so sweetly

Ringing out so clear”

My mom on one side

Chi-chi on the other

We sing

Three generations of Franklins

Singing together all night

      132  

TheDarknessMatthew Alvarado

Born from nothing

Being nothing

He moves slowly

Still often quickly

He envelops all that he touches

Hindering the sense most relied upon

He causes chaos

He would easily make his prey succumb

If he had to kill

But he doesn’t for

From all he touches he consumes the light

With no conscious he will freely

Hobble anyone

      133  

Or anything hewants

For this being of emptiness

Is but a soulless vacuum

With which can be filled by

Anything he wants

Venture far and end islost quickly

To us, light is often life

AnAssurancetotheVirginsby Andrew Farley

To youthful virgins, dread no more

The callous grip of Time-

Thy rosebuds grow still plentiful

Upon this hallowed vine.

      134  

Imbue thy step with jaunty spring

All petty fears dispelled.

This world is not so wretched as

The Bleeding Hearts would tell.

At once rejoice and spurn the tales

Of old, vindictive wives-

For death is but a masquerade,

Mortality, a guise.

Dance frivolously ‘round the pole

This merry month of May.

Elude the scythe of Saturn this

Fair eve of Frabjous day.

How blithely trill the pipes of Pan,

How sweetly sings the sea!

      135  

His forces hold no power in

Our realms of frippery.

Yet heed these words with careful ear,

Be scrupulous to hold

Steadfast in thy delusions, lest

The awful truth unfold.

Thus eat of lotus flower sweet,

Ambrosia of Divines.

Else Eden’s high and waxen walls

Should crumble in decline.

Hold fine thine eyes to butterflies, in blissful reverie,

For vile realms of darkness lurk beneath felicity.

 

TransparentlyOpaque         By: Madeleine Keane 

      136  

Light flurries falling

No snowflake alike

Filling the deep gray sky

Fields become blankets of white

Stick figure trees stand bare

Near crisp icy ponds

Little tracks surround the lake

Ice melts at the break of dawn

Tiny bulbs bloom bright flowers

Painting Earth’s surface with vibrant colors

Pinks, whites, and purples galore

Everyday becoming lush, thick, richer, fuller

Teardrops of Mother Nature pour

Watering her life upon Earth below

      137  

Sunlight drying her tears

Leaving her plants so mellow

A fallen leaf ripples the pool

Tides force dark, blue waves upon beaches

Sun pressuring down against the world

Tangy iced lemonade and lush juicy peaches

Breezes form, leaves break

Spiraling down from trees

Kelly green to flaming red

Covering fading brown weeds

Bright orange spheres with twirled stems

Ripen in gardens, accompanied by much more

Birds settle into straw houses

Preparing for the icy war

      138  

Light flurries falling

No snowflake alike

Presidentby Matthew Fitton

You people elected him,

But you misjudge him.

You want to impeach him for nothing.

You people think he’ll become a dictator.

You just want Legislative and Judicial Branches.

You don’t want an Executive Branch.

I think you should give him a chance to prove himself.

You, the people, elected an African-American to be your President.

Lay off of your President.

Think about your actions and give him RESPECT.

      139  

TheAmericanSoldierBy Katie Farren

From where does this man’s courage descend?

In him, there exists no panic or fear,

Though he’s said goodbye to countless loyal friends.

On his sheer bravery, we all depend;

Protect my country: His mission is clear.

From where does this man’s courage descend?

In war-torn and battle-scarred locations he fends.

His children and home may be nowhere near,

      140  

But he’s said goodbye to countless loyal friends.

He fights valiantly and without end —

While he loses much, he sheds not one tear.

From where does this man’s courage descend?

A man whose life is the least he can lend,

One may wonder what words he would most like to hear.

A man who has said goodbye to countless loyal friends.

There are not enough thanks we can extend,

As he defends us from terror for years.

Do you know from where this man’s courage descends?

Could you say goodbye to countless loyal friends?

Michaela Brady

      141  

Neglect

An apparition appeared last night

Of plain and darkened streets.

I followed forth despite my fright

Of creatures I was beckoned to meet.

But he came upon a frozen child

With its foot caught in a smoky pond.

Banal tar beguiled

By glistening rain, I sought something fond.

In pursuit of gleaming gold,

The fact after shade,

I found only a steel wall of old

As high as egos could have made.

Those trifles of regret

      142  

Are hammered into our barrier.

Pity, fear, envy, caught in the net

And ensnared by its carrier.

I could not stand it alone

Without caring footholds of bone.

Steel shifted to forms,

The child wept as the monster railed.

Above the wall sang storms

Amplifying frigid wails.

Fog hung on branches wringing themselves dry

Of those nested and reliant;

Grayscale figures blending, sly

And deeming themselves defiant.

      143  

As the chasing thunders ceased

My mind raced at a deadlock.

Since then, it has increased,

That sorrowful shock.

Apparition, I still know not why

There has been many an instance

Of a door ajar to happier time,

And so many must silently watch in the distance.

Cassandra Bouffard Ownership (free verse)

Society stabbed my ears

Allowing only for indistinct mumbles to be heard

Which I was then shown how to interoperate

Based solely upon how society saw or understood.

Now they own my ears.

      144  

Society then ripped apart my throat

Because I tried to mimic these sounds

As I heard them rather than how I’d been shown to understand.

Now they own my voice.

Society then seized my attention when I tried to look away.

They flashed images before me

They force me to see things the way they saw

Now they own my thought.

Years went on like this, but then I started to see,

Creation within those images and thought.

Out of fear, they gouged out my eyes.

Now they own my sight.

Blind, dumb, mute, and deaf,

Society only left me with my hands.

Truly, the most potent and destructive thing I possess.

My hands became my eyes,

Dictating images through my sight.

      145  

My hands became my thought,

Showing everyone my creation.

My hands became my voice,

Speaking for me in my language

Through my own design.

My hands became my ears

Ears which could feel the pain of a wail and the joy of praise.

Now, I own myself.

Isabelle Ostertag

TheRhythmofLifeBy Isabelle Ostertag

One night I gazed up at the stars

The night sky seemed a vast pristine heavenly pool

While the grass swayed rhythmically

To the song of the crickets

      146  

And the owl sang her sweet lullaby

I gazed up at the stars and a calm swept over me

A calm as deep as the ocean

Wide as the sky

And as soothing as a mother’s touch

A feeling of pure happiness engulfed me

The stars seemed to pulse in a rhythm

A rhythm that suddenly seemed ubiquitous

The crickets buzzed

The grass swayed

The owl hooted

All in this rhythm

It was then that I understood

Everything and everyone is connected

I felt my body become one with the dew covered grass

I felt my heart begin to pound in the same rhythm as the stars

An indescribable feeling came over me

      147  

One that seemed so familiar yet so distant

I could feel that I was slowly floating off the ground

As all hatred or fear was drained from me

And left behind

A car engine started

I plummeted back onto the ground

Once again I felt anger and fear

My heart stopped beating in the same rhythm as the stars

And I awakened to reality

Nadia Czebiniak

TerribleCreationBirds fly free

Trees bend and sway

Critters scamper

Fields quietly lay

      148  

The river whispers

A song of the woods

Joined by rustles

Whooshes coos and hoots

The music flows on

Bending and swirling

While leaves flutter down

Twisting and twirling

A beautiful forest

To the glance of an eye

But as many know

Our sight often tells lies

For there in the undergrowth

      149  

Lies an old piece of metal

Gnarled and rusty

Foreign and lethal

And down by the creek,

A small island began,

But basen on carpet

not dirt, nor on sand.

And under the music,

There is a vibration

Unnatural, unclean

A terrible creation.

Born to make logs

Of the wonderful wood,

To reduce it to farmland,

      150  

“For humanities good.”

But what of the worlds

next generation?

What will they see

but the mechanical creation?

No beauty, no love;

They’ll lead desolate lives.

Killing off color

Leaving black and white lines.

Katie Tsui

BlindMan

Yesterday, I tried to teach a blind man

All the colors that exist in a rainbow:

He nodded off as I described

      151  

The family of red: disputed and loved,

Loyal and back-stabbing,

I could see his face, lined with charcoal crosshatches,

Concentrating on a battle

That he has only seen in his mind.

His eyes were closed,

Squinted shut, as I painted--

A girl in yellow, in a sea of daffodils and wheat,

She twirled and swirled,

From my lips to his mind

And in a screen of green,

His mouth twisted into Jealousy;

It softened into a weak smile,

At the scent of grass and light tea,

I told him stories about the ocean,

Deep blue; a landless oasis,

And the cerulean sky that turned black with dusk,

And pink, in the sun's welcoming arms,

      152  

His hands, victims to arthritis,

Were wrung against each other,

But his cheeks were lined with tears--

One salty grain for each moment he had missed,

He smiled and said: I do not see a thing,

Nor can imagine a hue—

Something as bright as a family,

A girl, the grass, and an ocean,

But thank you anyways.

SummerDreams By Carson Halabi

You see the leaves whirling down,

Accumulating into crunchy heaps,

And pull on those Hunter boots,

Laughing, skipping,

Through the auburn shades—

      153  

Trees have shed for autumn,

But as you sip that hot cocoa,

You fancy a tall frosty glass of lemonade.

You watch snow pile up,

Drifting down in noiseless flakes,

And lace up those fur-lined boots,

Frisking, frolicking,

In the hushed silvery world,

But all the while,

Wanting the white snow

Beneath your toes,

To be a white beach.

You gaze up at a flock of swallows,

Coming home across pastel clouds,

And step into those boat shoes,

      154  

Wandering, meandering,

Spotting daffodil buds,

Just peeking up through the soil,

But as that brisk breeze picks up,

And you wrap your jacket tighter,

You long for sunshine,

When you can wear your summery lace dress.

You look up into the inky sky

Where stars twinkle,

Thousands upon thousands,

Looking down on YOU,

Your turquoise toes tingle in the wet sand.

In your heart you feel summer,

The time when your hair turns golden,

The time when the waves crash,

      155  

Rushing up on the shore,

Then retreating back to the moonlit ocean,

Fleeting like summer does,

Just as the sandpipers,

Scuttling across the shoreline,

Leaving behind the prints of summer.

“White”By Emily Oh

White is a fresh start,

Clean and simple

White is blank, no problems to it.

White is the color of wedding dresses flowing

Gracefully down the aisle.

White is the color of roses, curled and curled until you

Can’t see where it ends.

      156  

White is relaxing.

Turn a page in your notebook,

Leave the past behind.

No red marks or scribbles

White helps you cover the mistakes that you’ve made.

White is the color of snowflakes falling from the sky.

They’re doing a dance,

So simple and light.

White is the color of puppies with a red ribbon tied around them.

White is the color of whipped cream swirling around in cocoa.

White is the color of sugar sprinkling down onto cakes.

White is simple, like the start to a new day.

Lindsey Ferreira

      157  

StateofFelicity

As I walk throughout the enchanted forest

I see a luminous light calling me towards it

As I walk through the light it

ripples like waves in the ocean

When I get through I hear giggles

and this

Brings me to a

State of Felicity

Emily Bergwall

APlaceofloveI open the rusty red door

      158  

I smell the aroma of freshly baked goods

The quiet “meow” of the cat is heard occasionally

My grandma’s house

A place of warmth and delight

The bright red tomatoes sit alone in the garden

I hear the slight sound of the ping-pong hitting the racquet

My grandma’s house

A place of comfort and joy

The pool noodles slither along the crystal blue pool

The badminton net waves in the wind like a flag

My grandma’s house

A place of fun and happiness

-Emily Bergwall

      159  

Claire Plunkett

PridefulPain

Shouting athletes, heralding announcer

unheard in my ears.

Extraneous sounds, cloudy blur.

Pupils fixed on the monitor.

Every breath hankers for air.

Lactic acid diffuses in my legs,

muscles throb with exhaust.

Five hundred more meters,

until the end of this deathly 2k.

Make it

or break it.

Calling it a hard workout?

Drastic understatement.

Mental, physical battle.

A hike to hell.

Pride lasts a lifetime.

      160  

Pain lasts eight minutes.

Forget pain, Ignore it!

Anticipate rejoice,

successful honored accomplishment,

Gratifying illustrious sense,

Finishing.

Pride.

ASmallStep:AbigleapOne small press,

One bullet

Marks the end,

Of existence.

One shot; one bullet,

Illuminates the sky,

Taking the motionless,

Up the stairway to heaven;

Leaving behind, a dark blue sky.

      161  

Torn apart,

Left with a broken heart,

The ones who loved

Their bright star.

Their raining cries,

Create a stream,

Of floating memories,

Of that bright star.

This missing piece

to a perfect puzzle,

Lost to a bullet,

Marking the end of existence.

One small press,

One hasty decision,

One strike of lightening,

That ends it all.

      162  

Sarah Beringer

SurvivingThe diminutive, grey bird struggles to hold onto life,

Gasping for air from its tiny beak.

Its big round head wobbles on its body and he is just starting to grow feathers

He is weak but he will survive, I know he will...

He has to.

I lean over and take its temperature

Perfect.

The homemade incubator casts a bright, blinding light on the infinitesimal, hurt figure

It was just yesterday that I had rescued him from the riding ring at my horse farm

The gooey liquid drops into Chirpy’s sensitive beak carefully

My hand is vigorously shaking and I can’t seem to get every drop into his mouth

I scoop the bony shadow from its corner and place him gently into his nest

He feels hollow and weightless.

I hate to let him out of my sight…

      163  

Or leave him at all

But I manage to make it up to my bed

Dad has offered to take the night shift, feeding him every hour.

As I sprint down the stairs the next morning

I can’t hear the loud piercing chirps that usually come from him

I can’t hear anything…

My heart skips a beat and I swing open the door to the room were the cardboard box is open

It feels like days before I reach the box

I stare down at the lilliputian figure

Come on Chirpy! Move! Do something…

But I get nothing it return

The lifeless bird lies on its pile of straw, sticks, and feathers

Its meager wings tucked beneath him, pressed against his minuscule, pale feet

I feel the world close in on me

      164  

As I curl into a ball and cry myself to sleep next to the cardboard box

I feel as if my tears will swallow me at any moment

Memory blocks my thought and I wish I could go back to the day when I found him

Two weeks.

It had been two weeks since then.

The knot in my throat just gets bigger and harder for me to swallow

My knees have suddenly lost feeling and I can’t stand up

So I lie there…

Next to my bird.

I learned that day to accept disappointment,

Even when you think it’s the end of the world

To not always expect but to learn and to cherish the memory

And to move on

Just as I have moved on.

Erika Osherow

      165  

SheLivesOnWhen the sky cries,

It sobs,

It weeps,

Pouring down the remains of the unwanted.

She lives on;

Stroking across the golden, medallion sun

Through the storm

Because somewhere there lies a rainbow,

With her soaring through;

Freedom: A transparent silhouette through the eyes of all.

She lives on in our minds and eyes,

Our souls forever: sailing away like small boat vulnerable to the horizons of the winds.

She lives wherever I am.

      166  

She lives in the presence of the room.

I know she lives on.

An awakening of a baby,

Carries her new mortal life of immortality—

Her philosophy and spirit.

I know she is there.

Hope: a recharge of chance to give others what she has already given.

She lives in the billowing winds,

Or the calmest of summer breezes—

Her light airiness follows where her heart is branched.

But mostly, she lives in the summer

Wild daisies,

Vibrant in their yellow jackets

Like a whisk of unforgiving energy—

A natural source of motivation.

Although not always seen,

      167  

Her presence is felt;

She continues to live on.

Some days she chooses to live in the pebbles

I find my sandals casting away—

Rolling into new boundaries ahead;

Showing a new chance of the future,

But a solid support within.

Those days she mends together our distant hearts

To be ever tied.

It’s funny how someone so close can suddenly melt in the grasp

Of your precious dissolving drops of security;

Placed in your hand by the cold spirit of life.

But those drops of always changing, never ending molecules

Remind me how vast our gaps of time can be,

How life can seep through the cracks of your hands so easily.

      168  

But I must never forget the way those drops were once solid:

Frozen with the happiness that lifts her flying path high.

She lives on as a butterfly.

Now, as the constant flow of tears mix with the memories of our family love,

The stream of excess water expands,

Creating a new journey of our same passions.

When that stream is no longer in our conscious, and it decides to hit

The rocks, and

The feet,

That blocks the fluidity of movements,

I’ll remember what my mother always told me,

“When you follow your heart,

No tear is worth crying, no pain is worth hurting,

And no soul is ever forgotten.”

For it is here, when you must expand your small, focused eyes

To the strength that keeps us bonded forever.

Here, in my heart,

      169  

Is where she is renewed.

And now, whether the wind may bring the changing tides

Or the seasons’ personalities,

I know in the brink of all the chaos,

All the un-fought wars left without a battle—

Lost because of regret and defeat in oneself,

There is small sparkle of light:

Reminding me how tough this life can hit us in the face,

But how gentle we can cradle the world’s diversity,

And see beyond this one world.

In that place our love is truly found.

Brianna Kearney

RememberingI see life flash before my eyes

It’s not about remembering every single moment ever,

      170  

but rather your current position,

status, label, title,

your last memory before a new beginning.

You remember the sweet smiles,

the silent love of enemies,

and the strong everlasting bonds of friendship.

You try to remember who you were

or who you are?

Who you’ve become.

You search through every memory

until you can’t remember anymore,

the innocence of your existence fading away

into forgotten memories.

Nobody can seem to remember.

      171  

Emotti Zeigler

Whatitsliketobearose

Being a rose is like being lonely and distant

Standing for love and heartache at the same time not really knowing what exactly you stand for.

You bloom when your happy and close when your sad yet your beauty still remains not matter

your mood.

Your presented on days like weddings and valentines day, and appear when the one you love

passes away.

Still trying to find your true meaning baffles you to the maximum power are you for happiness or

sadness?

A penny for your thoughts and a diamond for your happiness.

A bottle cap for your emotion and a broken heart for every reaction of pain that goes in and out

your life for simply being you.

So now you know a rose can be just as depressed as you.

      172  

Not knowing it's true purpose and having various of meanings can leave you confused and a little

bit defeated.

Feeding it's self positivity and negativity all at once building and destroying it's self esteem.

Year after year being used for the same purpose over and over again, it's almost like seeing the

same rose for eternity a never ending cycle of happiness and sadness .

A penny for your thoughts and a diamond for your happiness.

A bottle cap for your emotion and a broken heart for every thorn that cuts your side when you

need someone the most.

Living the life of rich and poor.

For better or worse.

For sickness and in health.

The life of a rose is not the life I would want to live, even if my beauty is counterfeit.

A mix emotion threw happiness and sadness isn't the life for me, and when it rains it cries so

silently.

For every rain drop that falls off the smooth petal surface, represents each life the rose lived and

wish it represented one thing...

LOVE!

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~Emotti

Nikolas Cirillo

FallingAsleepIn the mirror

Out of sight

Through the blinds

I pray naught for vision

Under the woolen shroud

So sheltered from all

Yet something is amiss

It is watching

The deep eye of the void

Never ending, never beginning

It trickles from the corners

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Sludge like viscosity

Enticing for sleep

Accept this invitation

Rest the eyes

For it is watching

It will act one day

And envelope the mind

Joining the two together

In the realm of shade

The uncertainty it causes

The doubts begin to form

What is out there

Nikolas Cirillo

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BrightenMyDay

I know what I want

such certainty

in what I do, in what I say

I sit

hoping that the light flies in

what day what time

ill stared my eyes are bloodshot, my face, numb

I sit

where is my home, my purpose, my place

but with those golden locks and bright face

the same difference in them as in myself

until then I sit

lifeless, staring

standing out

across that room towards the horizon

hoping that the light flies in

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