The Artist Bellows by Literary Arts

The Artist Bellows WITS Digital Chapbook 2013-2014

The Artist Bellows

The Artist Bellows 2013-2014 Online Chapbook Copyright 2013 Literary Arts, Inc. All Rights Reserved. This book may not be duplicated in any way—mechanical, photographic, electronic, or by means yet to be devised—without the written permission of the publisher, except in the case of a brief excerpt or quotations for the purpose of review.

Literary Arts Staff Andrew Proctor Jenny Chu Lydah DeBin Susan Denning Megan Gex Jennifer Gurney Paige O’Rourke Mary Rechner Mel Wells

WITS Interns Jamie Carr Eric Jennings Will Aime

Board of Directors

Jessica Mozeico, Chair Betsy Amster Mike Barr Alice Cuprill-Comas Rebecca DeCesaro Amy Donohue Theo Downes-Le Guin Marie Eckert Robert Geddes Pamela Smith Hill Amy Carlsen Kohnstamm Amy Prosenjak John Raymond

James Reinhart Barry Sanders Jacqueline Willingham Thomas Wood Susheela Jayapal, Ex Officio John Meadows, Ex Officio Andrew Proctor, Ex Officio

Strunk & White Society

An honorary society of distinguished advisors Gwyneth Booth Bart Eberwein Brian Gard Diana Gerding Molly Gloss Carrie Hoops Ursula K. Le Guin Barry Lopez Julie Mancini Brenda Meltebeke Diane Ponti Michael Powell Halle Sadle Steven Taylor Steve Wynne

Chapbook Staff

Editors: Mel Wells and Will Aime Designer: Will Aime Writers in the Schools is a program of Literary Arts, a community-based nonprofit literary organization whose mission is to support writers, engage readers, and inspire the next generation with great literature. For more information, please contact: Literary Arts 925 SW Washington St. Portland, OR 97205 503.227.2583 www.literary-arts.org

Contents Writers in the Schools vi Support vii Introduction xi In Pursuit of True Irony Jonah Siekmann

What I Should Put on My Flag Noah Beggs

The Rose Garden 4 Oscar Duyck Park Life 6 Elsie Charles Brown Sugar and Butter 9 Acacia Samples Visions 10 Collin Ruth Untitled 11 Eric Wagstaff What the Yard was Like Then Paige Diaz

The Sandwich Man 14 Khiarica Rasheed Post Mortem 16 Lizzie Edwards Broken Pieces 19 Alisha Ruback You Never Realized 20 Audrey Moritz

Temptations 21 Kirsten Rydell Regrets 25 Samantha Lesch Enemy 34 Marion Baker Careful What You Wish For Aittan Le

Baseball 41 Keegan Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill Red Sand, Clear Water 42 Rees Rosene My Boo Thang 44 Elizabeth Gomez Something More 45 Nehemiah Rude If This Applies to You! Tim and Margaret Fogerson

Scary Story 48 Amina Ahmed The Rift 49 Eddie Kelley Self-Acceptance 51 Sarah Braaten First Day of School! 52 Hani Hussein Back in the Day 53 Katiah Wagner Untitled 54 Never Retalleck

Sneaking Out from Samâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s 60 Sam Knox Simple 62 Jasper Shults Not That I Matter 63 Matthew Daniels The Chicken 64 Coby Hart Teenage Girl in an Unpredictable World Kaija Bross

The Love Poem 69 Destiny Boaldin Like Mother, Like Daughter 70 Alex Ly Fallout 72 Lucas Cansler Love Ya No Matter What Emma Gagliano

Nonsense 77 Samantha Lonie The Dealer 79 Tamdin Lathsang How to be a Basketball Star Dylan Blazevic

Sith Anguish 82 Mason Sykes Writers in the Schools 84

Writers in the Schools Writers-In-Residence

Carl Adamshick, Lorraine Bahr, Alex Behr, Carmen T. Bernier-Grand, Serena Crawford, Lisa Eisenberg, Casey Fuller, James Gendron, Jonathan Hill, John Isaacson, Apricot Anderson Irving, Ramiza Koya, Kathleen Lane, Timothy S. Lane, Amy Minato, Lee Montgomery, Mark Pomeroy, Melissa Reeser Poulin, Carter Sickels, Desmond Spann, Cindy Williams GutiĂŠrrez, Matt Zrebski

Visiting Authors

Salman Rushdie, MothSHOP, Lawrence Wright, Julia Alvarez

Participating Teachers

Amy Ambrosio, Ilsa Bruer, Stephanie Dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Cruz, Mykhiel Deych, Daniel Fredgant, Katie Grone, Vanessa Hughes, Cindy Irby, Glen Jacobs, Tom Kane, Stephen Lambert, Dylan Leeman, Eric Levine, Rodney Maack, Karen Margolis, Jennifer Newton, Evan Price, Steve Naganuma, Mary Rodeback, Linda Singingbird-Grant, Kris Spurlock, Norman Stremming, Amy Taramasso, Catherine Theriault, Dana Vinger, Ellen Whatmore, Elisa Wong, Tracey Wyatt, James Zartler

Participating Principals

Petra Callin, Carol Campbell, Peyton Chapman, Brian Chatard, Paul Cook, Shay James, Charlene Williams, Curtis Wilson

District Liason Melissa Goff

Support The following individuals, buisnesses and foundations made Writers in the Schools a success in 2013-2014:

$1000+ AHA! Alling Henning Associates, Inc Autzen Foundation Bank of America Mike R. Barr The Bloomfield Family FoundationBluehour The Boeing Company Boora Architects vii

Broadway Books The Collins Foundation Multnomah County Cultural Coalition Ann & Ron Emmerson Et Fille Wines First Tech Federal Credit Union Bob Geddes Philip S. Harper Foundation Irwin Foundation Susheela Jayapal Juan Young Trust Kinder Morgan Foundation Knowledge Universe Amy Carlsen Kohnstamm & Kevin Kohnstamm Jessica Mozeico The Nara Fund NW Natural Jan & Steve Oliva PGE Foundation Amy Prosenjak & Steven Guy Robert D. and Marcia H. Randall Charitable Trust Oregon Arts Commission Harold & Arlene Schnitzer CARE Foundation Bob Speltz The Standard Sterling Bank Herbert A. Templeton Foundation U.S. Bancorp Foundation Dan Wieden & Priscilla Bernard Wieden Willamette Week Tom & Marcia Wood

Gwyneth Gamble Booth Tom Booth & Megan Holden Paul & Shelly Buchanan Steve & Peg Busick Jan Christensen Rick Comandich & Maya Muir Betsy Cramer & Greg Kubicek Marian & Neale Creamer Michael E. Davalt Jodi Delahunt Hubbell & Todd Hubbell Paul & Francesca Duden Myron D. Filene Diana Gerding Pat & Kelley Harrington Susan Hathaway-Marxer & Larry Marxer Tom & Betsy Henning Jane Jacobsen Phillip M. Margolin Pete McDowell Pete McDowell John Meadows Susan Mersereau Lora & Jim Meyer Deidra Miner Steven C. Neighorn Nancy Phillips Nancy & Mike Phillips Diane Ponti & Ward Greene Robin Roberts & John L Backes Lori Singer Shirley Skidmore Kaarin & Van Smith Donald & Roslyn Sutherland Dan & Lisa Trisler Kristi Wallace Knight & Eric Wallace Candace Young

$250+ Carole Alexander Seth Alley Lisa Baker Lina Beth Barber Robert Bentley

100+ Sam Adams Donald Andersen Sally & John Anderson viii

Bill Bagnall & Clayton Lloyd Tom & Molly Bartlett Kim & Rosie Batcheller Kathleen & Scott Bauska Naomi & John Bishop Mary Bodie & Tom Beaver Julie K. Bolt Sharon Brenner Valerie & Eric Bressman Evie Brim Karyle Butcher Ellyn Bye Brent & Barbara Chalmers Janet R. & Edgar E. Clark Liana Colombo Mary Louise Cook David & Denise Corey Becky Denham, M.D. Susan & Joseph Denman Nathan & Eva Douthit Justin Dune & Carol Sanders Penny & Ken Durant Tina Edlund & Sydney Edlund-Jermain Steven Burns Karen Ellmers Margaret B. Evenson Pamela & Tim Fleischmann Cheryl Hollatz-Wisely & Kate Gray Kathy Immerman Brita Johnson & Allen Poole Karen & Dennis Johnson Dianne & Alan Johnson Laura Jones & David Livermore Morley & Jim Knoll Robert & Susan Leeb Priscilla Wold Longfield Kathryn Madison & Jeffrey Wertz Deborah Mandell & Roy Pulvers Jennifer W. Mark Robert Matheson Brad & Julie McMurchie Anne Mendel & Mark Henry Dr. Elizabeth & Dr. Brock Metcalf

Ruth & Arnold Metz Ronald Mitchell & Amy Reiss Marjory Morford Douglas & Candace Morgan Mona Mozeico Joanne Nehler Emma Oliver Irja Orav Nancy Orr Karen & Marvin Pemberton David Pollock Nancy Ponzi Andrew & Veronica Proctor Bonnie & Peter Reagan Mary Rechner & Barry Sims Ruth Roth Robert Scanlan Rosalie Schenck Manya Shapiro Marjorie M. Smith Carole Smith Patricia & Marvin Straughan Catherine Theriault & Daniel Weston Carla Van Hoomissen Stephanie Volkman Joella Werlin Clif & Patty White Dara Wilk Grito Press Jacqueline Willingham Deborah Wood Morton & Audrey Zalutsky And many more generous donors

Introduction Dear Reader, Grit has become a widely acknowledged indicator for student success, and no wonder. People who commit to a goal and work hard over time often realize their dreams. At Writers in the Schools (WITS), the local professional writers we hire embody perseverance while teaching public high students to write, revise, edit, publish, and perform their own creative writing. WITS writers are exemplars, showing students how practicing a craft, along with being creative, curious, persistent, and resilient, can lead to success that may not easy or quick, but is lasting, satisfying, and sustaining. During the 2013-2014 school year 1,074 public high school students participated in semesterlong residencies uniquely designed to support, deepen, and extend existing curriculum. WITS programming reinforces the real world importance of reading and writing in all professions and is designed to meet state and national standards for the arts and language arts. Opportunity is another important indicator for student success, and WITS is committed to providing inspiring, world-expanding literary experiences for youth throughout Multnomah County. Last year 2,534 students participated in projects such as Students to the Schnitz, Verselandia! and our College Essay Mentoring Project. To learn more about these projects, go to: www.literary-arts.org/what-we-do/wits-home/. We hope you enjoy reading The Artist Bellows, our newest online chapbook of student work at http://issuu.com/literary-arts/stacks. For their help in making these books, weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d like to thank our WITS interns Will Aime, a student at Lewis & Clark College, and Reed College graduate, Rebekah Volinsky. Our online chapbook is designed by Will Aime; thank you! A vast cadre of writers, teachers, librarians, principals, interns, volunteers, and community supporters makes our work with youth successful. If you would like to contribute to our efforts, please visit www.literary-arts.org/donate.

Mary Rechner Mel Wells Writers in the Schools Program Director Anthology Editor & Program Coordinator

In Pursuit of True Irony Jonah Siekman Madison High School Kathleen Lane There was a strange noise. It sounded like a lawnmower being driven over a patch of gravel and mud, followed by an almost mechanical screeching noise. When Bob and Huck turned around, they saw a flying pig that flapped its ears like Dumbo. The strange noise originated from the pig’s anatomy. Its skeletal structure was incapable of supporting its own mass. As its ribs splintered under intense pressure and its organs liquefied and spilled out of the grievous wounds that had manifested throughout the pig’s body, it emitted a sad song of unimaginable pain and the human condition. “Holy crap! It’s a flying pig! This is both ironic and cliché!” Bob shouted. Huck attempted to pull his iPhone out of his pocket before remembering that, being a stereotypical redneck, he had no concept of modern technology. Then, he said: “While I am equally as shocked as you are, my good fellow, the context in which you used the word irony is incorrect!” When Bob and Huck looked around, they saw more pigs, all in the same situation as the first one. As they sang their song of pain and loss, three of the pigs began to smoke and shake. Then they collapsed into one another and demolished a barn as they fell from the cloudy and darkening sky with the grace of a rhino learning how to tap dance. “Forget about the irony, man! We gotta save the pigs!” Bob shouted over the sound of a thousand Lovecraftian horrors combusting in mid-air. “We don’t have the tractors or forklifts to save them all! And irony is an integral part of Western culture; you should know how to use it correctly, you uncultured swine!” Huck replied with a facial expression resembling that of a rich British social elite. “We’ll talk about this later! For now, pigs are at stake!” Bob said, pulling out the keys to his tractor and lobbing them at Huck. “Collect as many as you can in the hay trailer, I’ll get the forklifts!” he said before running off to the vehicles. Though it took a solid forty hours, Bob and Huck managed to collect several hundred tons of massive flying pigs and dump them all in a large pit at the center of their farm. Most of the pigs, at the end of the day, were little more than a sack of internal organs and powered bones making soft grunting noises. Little did Bob and Huck know that the pitiful noises they made were actually filled with an urgent message for the human race, filled with swine culture and language that had to be preserved so that their kind would not be forgotten. Unfortunately, Bob couldn’t hear the only English-speaking translator pig over the sound of the forklift as the poor creature was carried to the pit. “I think we’ve done all we can,” Bob said as the last moans of agony coming from the pit faded away. “Yes, Bob, the easy part is over,” Huck said. “Now, it’s time to confront something seriouser than the horrifying and statistically improbable event we have just witnessed: your misuse of the word irony when describing a situation that was merely coincidental.” Bob had been growing steadily more annoyed at Huck throughout the day as Huck’s 1

Jonah Siekman grammatical corrections became more intrusive and less polite. Fed up with the way things were going, Bob said: “Well, Huck, not everyone’s perfect, especially when it comes to grammar.” There was a moment of silence as Huck looked at Bob with an expression of incredulity on his face. “Why of course there are people like that, Bob! I have never made a grammatical error in my entire life!” “Actually, Huck, you made two mistakes in your second-to-last sentence; you used the nonexistent word seriouser, and you also created a comma splice.” Huck averted his eyes and then stared at his shoes as he put his thumbs through the straps of his overalls and shifted from side to side. The two men stared out into the sunset over the mound of softly braying pigs that were desperately trying to preserve their rich history and culture to an audience of two adult men who would never comprehend and forever live in ignorance of the massive impact they could have made on the world regarding the technological advances the pigs had made. “Well shucks, Bob, I guess you’re right. But what’s the point in going on? Grammar was the only thing I ever really believed I was good at, man.” “Huck, there’s always something you’ve been good at,” Bob said with a wry smile. “What’s that?” “Check your pockets.” Huck stared for a moment at Bob, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a brand new iPhone 5s. “Dear lord…” Huck breathed in awe. “Indeed, Huck. Do you realize how many stereotypes we have broken today? How many ironic situations we’ve defeated with the might of our forklifts, hay trailers and tractors? The power of our cultural misplacement has literally fabricated an iPhone in your pocket.” There was another moment of silence as they both contemplated the nature of living in a universe where not fitting into a stereotype meant being rewarded with an item not normally associated with their particular stereotype. “Want to go inside and get something to eat, bud? I’m getting a little hungry.” Bob suggested. “Sure, man, let’s go get something to eat.” As they walked away, the last pig attempted to get up and walk over to Bob and Huck with a note written in English containing the entirety of swine culture. It collapsed on the rim of the pit, waiting to someday be found. And someday, it would be.

What I Should Put on My Flag Noah Beggs Metropolitan Learning Center Carl Adamshick It should have stars, a mountain where I had come from. It should show the struggle, the hard work. The triumph of finally reaching the top. It should have a sense of accomplishment and smell like hard work. It should only be up for me to see not for others. It should mean what it means and nothing more.

The Rose Garden Oscar Duyck Cleveland High School Melissa Poulin The Ex-Player I remember when this place was new; I played here in the opening year 1995. But you don’t remember me because that was before you were born and even if you were born before 1995 you would not remember me anyway. I was a bench player, floating in and out of rotation. I averaged maybe a point off the bench a year. I formally retired that year and nobody listened, I don’t blame them, you can’t really call me a star. Good memories you know, I had more fun here than when I played in LA or Boston and definitely Cleveland. Well, enjoy the game! The Usher This job is more demanding than I expected. Tell people where their seat is and have a nice day. I guess you could call it my rookie season of ushering, just finished training. I get to watch forty-one Trail Blazer games and be gregarious, it is my dream job. I just called security on a guy who poured his beer on someone’s head. Oh wait, sorry I forgot, if you go up three rows your seat will be marked eleven, thank you for attending tonight’s game. The Food Server Ten years in the same building, 410 games, but I have never seen the Portland Trail Blazers play. Not once. I just hear the roar of the crowd and the announcer guy. Why haven’t I attended a game, well I am busy serving you your hotdogs and your nachos and your souvenir cups. Ten years and I have never been thanked. That’s the nature of the beast I guess. Here is your jumbo pretzel, sir. The Old Guy I have been here since the beginning. I have seen a lot of people come and go. Coaches get hired and fired. Good teams, great teams and everything in-between. I don’t really care what team is on that court as long as Randolph and Wallace stay the hell away from here. Those were bad times. That whole fiasco taught the whole league something. Before I die, what I want to see the most is another championship. Come on, Blazers, make a better use of your twenty-four. I don’t like this new guy, why go for the three and pass up the easy layup. Well….have a nice night. Pro-Moda Center I like the name change. Those Commies can whine about the corporate buy-out and the tradition of the name. This name change embodies capitalism, the spirit of America. I for one am proud of being a Blazer fan now. We followed in the footsteps of every other major sporting arena in American sports. Some things always change anyway and you can’t get caught up in it like my friend over here.

Oscar Duyck Anti-Moda Center Shut up, Mor. Sorry about my friend over there. Moda, what is Moda? An acronym with no meaning now replaces a name with meaning. Rose Garden, a place of history and pride, now swallowed by some corporation who thinks by just plastering their name on the side of the stadium who just wants to drum up business. Some things never change. The Camera Man I film these games for television broadcast. I capture every moment of the game, every ounce of heart and hustle. I film the drama, the intrigue. Every single dunk or three-pointer ever made over the course of every season. I bring all of that to your television. You know, come to think about it they should really pay me more for this. Me I always feel sorry for those teams that have to travel 3,000 miles to play against the Blazers and lose. It must be hard to do those seven-game cross-country sweeps. Most kids who practice in my gym think traveling to Canby is far. I can guarantee you those kids will never make to the pros. I am one of those kids. The Person Who Gets Way Too Caught Up in the Game GOOOO blazers! Go Go GO! How do like my body paint? I am proud to wear the black and red across my chest and stomach. I know I should lose weight but the hotdogs are so cheap! Yeah way to beat him in the post, LaMarcus, great work! Sorry what was I saying? Oh yeah. I tried Weight Watchers and Sensa but I’m just bad at sticking with it you know. COME ON! Protect the rim guys! You can borrow my war paint if you want, I have too much of it anyway. You don’t want any? Oh well see you friend. COME ON REF that was not a foul. Get your eyes checked! Popcorn Seller Popcorn! Get your popcorn here! You want popcorn? That will be five dollars, sir. What you want to talk about my job? That will be another five dollars, sir. Thank you. Alright I’m making this quick because I’ve got a lot of POPCORN AND COTTON CANDY to sell. I love my job because I get to do what I love. I sell my favorite foods. Make meaningful though brief interactions with fellow fans. Okay bye, sir. POPCORN! GET YOUR POPCORN HERE! Janitor Ra, Ra, Ra, go team go. That’s what they say as they spill their oversized soft drink. They spill their popcorn when they jump up and down after a three. But you know who cleans up the soft drink spills and popcorn messes? Me, I do, so please enjoy the game but I beg you not to spill that jumbo popcorn. Really, Lillard, that three made everybody in section 303 spill their drinks!

Park Life Elsie Charles Franklin High School Jonathan Hill

Elsie Charles

Brown Sugar and Butter Acacia Samples Grant High School Apricot Irving This amazing woman dug up the soil and planted a few round seeds, with a smile spread from cheek to cheek. In the hot rays of the sun I could see all her wrinkles on her face. Her gorgeous silver mane flowed in the wind. At that moment I understood that she was in her element. Gardening was the one thing that made her happy; besides me of course. She grabbed her clippers and stared down the squashes. She screamed her battle cry, “You’re mine!” and charged at the squashes like a bull in a rodeo. “Hurry give me the bucket, before they get away!” I giggled so hard my ribs hurt; my grandma lived to make me happy. We went inside so my grandma could cook the squash that she had captured. Her eyebrows were ruffled, her forehead creased. “Now you listen here, you’re going to try it and that’s that!” My grandma grabbed a spoonful of squash with brown sugar and butter and shoved it into my mouth, there was no stopping or denying this woman. This was the first time I had tried the squash my grandmother had raved so much about. My eyes widened in shock of the fireworks going off in my mouth, those weren’t fireworks, those were my taste buds. It was so delicious I went in for another bite. The smell of the brown sugar filled my nose, I closed my eyes and savored the sweetness. “Mmmm.” A smile appeared on my face. “Now you know to try it before you judge it,” said my grandma. I could not force myself to hate the taste of the brown sugar caressing my tongue. My stubborn young eight-year-old self could not hate such a magnificent creature. I picked a squash up, it was as if I was in a trance. I traced my fingers over every perfect curve and imperfect bump. I gently set the delicate creature down and smiled. The first round against the squashes had been a devastating loss. My grandma had won, but I no longer cared. I never doubted squash with brown sugar and butter ever again.

Visions Collin Ruth Wilson High School James Gendron When the world stops moving, gravity releases its Hold, and the darkness decides to stay forever. Space truly begins to matter, because we are going Where we have never gone before. The truth was Revealed, and time stopped. At that point, I wondered what it would be like to move again. All I know is, when I died, I was placed Six feet under, in a coffin of oak, airtight. When I arrived back on earth, I realized I had nowhere to go. And I returned to The sky. What I saw from the sky was something That had been prophesied in years past. Each connected event began to make Sense. Now, I began to realize, the vision Was my own; the apocalypse had arrived.

Untitled Eric Wagstaff Benson High School Timothy Lane The woods behind my house were an escape for me. I could go there whenever I needed to get away from my problems. There, I felt free. I could do things free from the judgment of my peers and my family. When I was there, I sometimes lay in the grass, underneath the twisted branches of the towering pine trees, and just thought. I thought about happy things. My future, my family, or anything that helped me escape from this miserable thing called life. Other times, I would go to the clear water stream that runs through the middle part of the forest. When the Californian sun beat down fiercely, I dipped my feet in the cool water. I liked to imagine that doing this washed all of my problems away. It was a dry day in mid-March, and I had just been dismissed from school. It had been a tough day full of bullies, teachers, and the rest of the school that doesn’t understand me. My school problems stay at school. I have enough problems at my house, I don’t need more. Today, I was excited to be home. As I opened the door to my old house, the only greeting I received was my dog Eric. He was a very handsome dog, about three years old. As I knelt down, Eric brushed his nose against my worn out jeans. “How’s my boy been?” I said as I stroked his soft fur. Of course I got no reply. I stood up and continued to walk down the hall and into my room. There, I set my book bag down and changed out of my school clothes. I put on my swimming trunks and my shoes and set out to the woods. My worn-out sneakers squished in the mud as I jogged to the woods. As I entered the woods, I felt a new and different feeling. It was much different than the common feeling I had in the forest. This feeling was darker, more sinister. It felt like something was very wrong. I continued to walk deeper into the forest. I was surrounded by the usual scenery; pine trees, fern plants, blackberry bushes, and wildflowers. But yet, there was no birds chirping. The birds were always chirping! My foot brushed against something soft, and almost caused me to trip. I looked down and saw that it was a bird’s nest. It was still intact, but there was no sign of bird life anywhere inside, or around it. I thought this was very peculiar, but I continued to walk down the muddy, pine needlecovered path. As I reached the end of the path, I began to feel a slight pain in my left heel. As I continued to walk, it became increasingly painful to move. I decided to take a rest under a large fir tree. As I sat down, I felt an immediate relief in my pain. I leaned my head against the hard bark of the tree, closed my eyes, and began to dream. I dreamt that I was in a different life. One with no pain, no problems, no stress, or worries. Somehow, in the midst of my dreams, there was a familiar sound. One that reminded me of my home, my family, and my problems. It was my dog. I awoke very startled to see my dog standing at the base of the tree in front of me; his light brown fur was sparkling in the Californian sunlight. My dog looked up at the tree above me, and ran in the other direction, his small paws 11

Eric Wagstaff kicking up pieces of mud with every step he took. Puzzled, I too looked up at the tall pine tree and saw a carpet of scorched pine needles falling from above like little raindrops. Suddenly, I heard a very loud creaking sound, then a crash. I jumped up and saw a very alarming sight. In the distance of the forest, I could clearly see trees crashing down on to the earth underneath. I stood there, paralyzed by the sight as the vibrations from the crashes traveled up my legs. Then, I snapped out of my dazed state. My legs poised to spring, every bone in my body wanting to run away from that place. I took one last look up at the mighty pine tree in which I once had taken refuge, and saw that too was creaking and moaning. I stood there frozen once again as the tree began its slow descent. When the tree hit the ground, I immediately felt a pain in the mid-section of my body. As the great pine tree began to crush me, I realized that my death was inevitable. I took my final breath; my eyes gazed on the place that had set me free for the final time. Then, I was free.

What the Yard was Like Then Paige Diaz Madison High School Casey Fuller Two acres of yard with so many bushes and with the tallest tree in the neighborhood. In the summer time you can pick raspberries but just donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t pick the lower ones the dog peed on those. If you want to be alone during your parentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s party, all you have to do is go in the front. During the fall if you wish to go outside barefooted well good luck my friend because there are chestnuts husks out there. It was so beautiful you should have seen it.

The Sandwich Man Khiarica Rasheed Grant High School Carter Sickels Hi, remember me, I met you first when I was 8 and lived on Skidmore Street, I remember the first thing you ever said to me, “Aww, so y’all ain’t get me no sandwich,” we laughed and shook our heads no, Because at that moment you were a foreigner, The next morning, I wake up at the crack of dawn, come downstairs to see my mom, I tip-toed and crept in the room because I knew that if I had awakened her, all hell would break loose, I opened it (gasp) who is this, It was you, the sandwich man, Coming in my house and trying to take my place, MI CASA ES NO SU CASA!!!! This foreigner! This sandwich man! All fondled up next to my momma, Many more days and nights came, I guess you could say you were her boyfriend now, My mom, never forgetting we were here, never forgetting I was here, I mean you were clearly a thug, Went to jail a few times, you had lots of hair, was crippin-cuz and C-walking up and down the street, And ate top-ramen and chili in big mixing bowls, you know the usual, This foreigner and I started to develop a small relationship after I made him make this promise, “Never go to jail again,” Sooner or later we became friends, But I think you took my promise too lightly, Sadly, and amazingly you took yourself to jail, That’s too bad, because no one was coming to bail you out, But man, do you know how love-struck she was over you, I opened the door one day and she’s walking, in with a new tattoo, Right on her chest, a heart with this foreigners name cut through, No tats of us, just a tat for you, It’s like you transcended above us, you always came first, That’s why you got those new shoes, new sweats, new jackets, and new T-shirts, You got everything new and we started to look bummy, I mean you were bummy too but we looked super crummy, But after that more bad things came along, Not only were you a thug, but you were a thug who sold drugs, and liked to walk around in clubs and receive hugs, From other women, (If you know what I mean) 14

Khiarica Rasheed But the ironic thing is that you would come home and accuse my mother of cheating, And later after all the accusations of cheating, She had her first beating, Handed to her, By this foreigner, this, this sandwich man, This foreigner came and hit my mama, I was too young, man, I didn’t have time for all this drama, This sandwich man wasn’t supposed to be a part of my family plan, Let me call up AT&T, let me tell them you can’t be a part of this Klan, You put my mom, you put my sisters, you put my brother, and you put me in danger, My mom seen you as her lover, but I still see you as a stranger, She gave you love, she gave you trust, she gave you loyalty, How hard was it to return the favor, to treat her like your queen, to treat us like royalty? I got a question for you, What was going on through your head? Did you know I seen that gun, that gun that could’ve had my momma dead, I seen the evil in your eyes, when you looked up, That dark brown, that dark red, But you gone now, we finally realized you didn’t know what we were worth, You are a peasant, my mom is the queen bee, ya, the one who gave me birth, But it’s all good now, you’re in a place where you should be, I’m glad you’re gone because you were that one bad apple in my tree, When I look at you, I see nothing, you are nothing and will never be anything, Pssh… (Laughs) you ain’t nothing but a foreigner, a simple sandwich man, Who’s beneath me

Post Mortem Lizzie Edwards Cleveland High School Melissa Poulin You know the feeling when you wake from a deep sleep and you feel different? I open my eyes and I feel like I am no longer in my warm bed. Maybe it is because of my weird dream which involved a crash, bang, and a scream. I can’t remember anything else about my dream. I am enveloped by darkness and it takes all my willpower not to freak out. Where am I? I try to move but I can’t as I am cramped into this tiny space. There is one fact I know for sure and it is that I am not at home. My mind is racing with panic. Have I been kidnapped by aliens? I reach out my hand to see if there is a wall. But when I touch the barrier trapping me I touch... paper? Okay, this situation is getting even weirder. I wake up fully and find I am being suffocated in paper. I’m all the way awake now and I am definitely surrounded by paper. I hit the paper. The impact of my hands wrinkles the paper. I finally break through and rise out of the shreds. Looking down I see that I was contained in a parcel?! That’s right, it seems, a parcel held me. It has stamps and all. I look down to read the stamps. A picture of envelopes is on it and several ink-printed words are on the stamp. They say Incoming Mail. I was the incoming mail. But where was I coming from and why am I here? I look down the street and see rows upon rows of box houses. There are parcels on the porches of all the houses. If other people are in the parcels as well, who is receiving us? This is not an ethical practice! I sneak around to look in the window, but there is nothing inside the house. Maybe it is an illusion so I knock on the door. Nothing happens, so I try the front door. It is locked. So what am I supposed to do? I hear a rumble in distance. The rumble sounds like bad news so I try to hide behind what remains of my parcel. I must look pretty sad hiding behind a piece of paper but I don’t know what is coming. Wait, I recognize the sound: a car. Maybe someone in the car can help me get out of this mad place. I am saved! The sound takes me back to my odd dream. I hear my rusty red car speeding, the sound of my brakes straining to stop in time. But what was I stopping for in my dream? I still don’t know. I see the car in the distance. No, it is a van. I run out to the street and wave my hands. The van stops and in fact it is a mail van. A uniformed man gets out. “You have to help me! I don’t know where I am!” I am frantic. He stares at me in his mailman uniform. “I can help you,” The mailman speaks in a monotone. He reminds me of a robot but he can help me. “Thank you so much! So where are we?” “I can’t tell you.” “Why?” “I’m sorry for this.” I am still processing his last words when he grabs me. What is he doing with me? This would most likely not happen at home. He opens his trunk and gets out a giant envelope which he stuffs me into like I am a letter. I am about to suffocate when he drills a few holes in the envelope so I can breathe. I try to escape but the envelope is made out of metal. This is the most bizarre 16

Lizzie Edwards thing that has ever happened to me. Where is he taking me? How could a mailman do this to me? Who is behind this madness? I guess I will find out eventually. The bumping of the car makes me drowsy. I guess I fell asleep while the van was moving because I was jolted awake by the abrupt stop. The van sounds like it is going to fall apart any second. I hear the car door open and my kidnapper stumble out. I hear a mumbled exchange between him and a mysterious person. Then the footsteps start heading my direction, the trunk clicks open and I feel their hands under my envelope. They lug me out of the van and put me on this surface that starts to move. It must be a conveyer belt. I am getting used to the motion of moving. But then it stops and I am free falling. Being stuck in a metal envelope, this is a scary feeling. It brings me back to my peculiar dream. In the dream, I went soaring out of my seat because my seat belt wasn’t buckled in when the crash happened. I land in a heap. I am tangled up in the envelope and it is not the most comfortable feeling. I hear screams of other people. Maybe they are stuck in envelopes as well. I start to doze off when I feel a tipping sensation. Screams get higher, but oddly enough I don’t scream. I feel hands and I am starting to think I am in a cheap horror movie. They could call it The Evil Mail Office. The hands are probably sorting through us like any normal mail office. A pair of hands pick me up. I hear this creature walk and the rhythm of its footsteps as it takes me somewhere. The being gently puts me down on a table. The being gets up and I hear them walk somewhere, and then they walk back. I hear a slicing sound and see a point of a letter opener. I see a sliver of light, then a person’s eye looks back. “Don’t eat me!” I am honestly afraid this person will eat me. But a woman helps me out of the envelope and sits me down. Her desk has a picture of an envelope on it. “Can you tell me what is going on?” Maybe this woman will actually help me. “I regret to tell you that you have died.” Okay, what is going on?! I died? She consults her paperwork. “It says you have died in a car crash.” Now everything makes sense. That weird dream was actually my memory of dying. “When you died, your soul was mailed to this land. So welcome to the afterlife.” I am still confused so I ask, “What are the rows of houses for?” “Those are the delivery spots. People’s souls are delivered to the porches and then are picked up by the Porters. They bring the people here to begin their afterlife. The envelopes are to make sure you will come to the headquarters. Some people are so freaked out that they won’t trust anyone so the envelope is a necessary precaution.” “Okay, now it makes sense. But what do you do?” “I am a sorter. I tell people that they are dead and what their job will be. Now let me cut to the chase. You must serve so I am going to weigh you to see what you will do.” She leads me this tiny blue weight. But instead of numbers, it has pictures on it. The woman explains that the picture of a mail person, those are the Porters. “They deliver people here.” The picture of the packages stand for the workers who make envelops for the souls to be received in. The woman also explains what the picture of an envelope stands for. “It stands for my job. We determine what job each newcomer should do by weighing them.” But there is one picture that I have no idea what it stands for. It is a picture of a stamp. I am about to ask this woman what the stamp stands for but she tells me to stand on the weight. I do and it points to the stamp. I ask the woman what my job is. All she does is smile. But I don’t like this smile. She is looking at me like a cat looking at its prey. “Come with me,” she says. I don’t want to but she pushes me along. Where is this woman taking me? She leads me into 17

Lizzie Edwards a room. It is a dark room with a knife and a bowl. Maybe I will become a cook but I doubt that. This woman has something up her sleeve. “I will explain your job after we eat,” She goes to a slot at the wall and pulls down. A bunch of boxes come down. The woman gives one of the boxes to me. I open up the foil wrapped box and see a glowing amber pie. It smells so good that it makes my mouth water. I eat the pie at once. It feels good to have a full stomach, but I feel dizzy now. The walls start closing on me. Then realization hits me and I know what happened. “You drugged me!” I fall down and everything becomes fuzzy, then dark. The next thing I know I wake up and I am tied to a table. “What is going on?” My voice gets loud then fades to a soft whisper. I see the woman sharpening a huge knife. “You will be providing service to us. I will be cutting out your soul with my knife.” Whoa, she is doing what?! “But I’m already dead. You can’t kill me.” “You won’t be dead. Your soul will be used to make stamps. The ones with the strongest souls get chosen. You should be happy because it is an honor. Us dead have to eat stamps to live in the afterlife. If we don’t, we float around aimlessly. Your soul will be alive, in our stomachs.” I scream. I see my first afterlife in a blink of an eye. I will be starting a new afterlife, as a stamp. I see the knife above and it is the last thing I see before my soul gets cut up.

Broken Pieces Alisha Ruback Wilson High School James Gendron The hate I have for you grows As the leaves flow off the trees In fall. You are the broken pieces That I hope will never be fixed. You are the darkness that falls over Me, bringing me to the depths Of the earth! Fill these shadows. I ask you, please Just get away from me.

You Never Realized Audrey Moritz Metropolitan Learning Center Carl Adamshick You never realized That your words Held weight to others You were something To be feared Filled with rocks You thought yourself To be akin To pumice or Cotton you could hurt And you did You turned inside And hurt yourself Didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t dare let Any dribble away Fear of hurting others Even if they hurt you Wanting to be Small Silent And left alone But you came to realize Finally That you have gravity in the world

Temptations Kirsten Rydell Grant High School Carter Sickels “Cedar, no!” was the last thing Lauraine heard before she was hit by what she thought was a train. Two plate-sized paws pinned her into the inch-deep tide that continued running in and out as if nothing had happened. A shoe-like tongue made sure none of her wrinkled face was left dry before his owner could pull the black Labrador off her sandy and soaked body. “I’m so sorry, ma’am,” squeaked a young voice. Still catching his breath he offered Lauraine a hand up. Ignoring his attempts to help, she frantically called to herself, “My camera, where is it?” “Oh no! I’ll get it,” said the boy, still breathless from trying to catch his behemoth of a Labrador a few moments before. Brushing the sand off and trying to dry the black camera he said with a crack in his voice “Here, I’m sure it’ll be fine, it just got a little wet is all, it’ll be good as new, right?” Struggling to her feet, Lauraine snatched the camera from the boy, she just barely caught a glimpse of his eyes, which were the color of clouds after a storm, except they looked as if rain was on the horizon. Stumbling over his words, he said, “I’m so sorry ma’am, Cedar, his leash just slipped right out of my hand when he saw the beach and you. He loves people, especially of the older kind, not that you’re old, and he never jumps up on people like that, I’m sorry. Are you alright?” With a shiver she sharply retorted “I’m fine, my camera though, it’s ruined!” “Benjamin, what happened,” called a worried voice from on top of the sand dune. A woman in her upper thirties came running down the dune to where the two stood, green raincoat unzipped and flapping. “Are you alright?” she asked. “I’m fine, just wet from being plowed down by that dog,” Lauraine stated, focused on her soaked camera. “His name is Cedar,” Benjamin said clearly. “My camera, it’s ruined,” she said without taking her eyes off what used to be her favorite pastime. “I’m so sorry, let me buy you a new one,” said the mother clearly embarrassed of the whole situation. “No, no, it was an antique, they’re hard to find and expensive,” Lauraine replied. “Well, we’re new in town, what if Benjamin worked to pay you back?” she said, pleased with the idea. “No,” Benjamin and Lauraine replied in unison. “That really won’t be necessary,” Lauraine said. “No, I insist,” said the mother. “It’ll be good for him anyway.” Only a few hours later, after a warm bath Lauraine, dressed in blue jeans with an elastic waistband and a blue sweater with stretched-out sleeves, heard a knock on her door. Looking through the peephole she saw the boy wearing a red, gray, and blue plaid shirt, jeans with a hole in the knee, and an annoyed expression. She opened the wooden door and spoke through the screen of the second one. “Go away.” 21

Kirsten Rydell “I can’t, my mom is watching in her car for me to be let in,” said Benjamin. “Fine,” Lauraine said as she opened the squeaky door and motioned for the boy to come inside. “Well, what do you want me to do?” asked Benjamin. After some thought she told him that he could paint her fence, the paint supplies would be in the garage on the back shelves. The boy huffily trudged out to the garage so he could complete his task. Lauraine sat down to read a book. About an hour later she heard Benjamin’s footsteps in the garage followed by the shuffling of objects, then there was a large crash, as if someone had taken a baseball bat to a window. Lauraine shuffled out to the garage as quickly as her slippered feet could go. “What happened?” she called out. “I’m sorry, I was moving this box when these bottles came crashing down,” said Benjamin, “I can sweep the glass up.” “No! Just leave it,” she said dropping to her knees next to the pile. Benjamin, not knowing what to do, ran outside, away from the house. Lauraine found herself staring at the broken pieces of bottle, dark green and muddy brown morphed together in a pile on the cold cement floor. Sprawled out next to her were the contents of an old storage box, pictures from her camera of her years before living at Rockshore. Carefully she pushed the pictures back into the box trying not to look at them, trying not to remember. She placed the box upright and slowly made her way back into the house. About half an hour later Benjamin crept into the house, a brown grocery bag in hand. He reached into the bottom and pulled out a clear container. “Here,” he said, “I didn’t know what to do but whenever I used to feel down my dad would take me to the store and buy me some mac-ncheese.” “Thanks,” she said, taking the warm container from his small hands, “Why don’t you sit down for a bit?” She motioned towards a little wooden table which was surrounded by four intricately carved chairs. They started an awkward conversation, some small talk about the weather. Soon neither one had anything left to say. The uncomfortable silence was broken when the boy asked “What were all of those bottles from anyway?” Lauraine didn’t reply. Benjamin continued on. “My parents are divorced. I used to live with my dad down in Colorado, before he started drinking at least, that’s why I moved here, with my mom.” Lauraine wasn’t used to having company, but for some reason talking to Benjamin suddenly felt easy. She started to recount her days of being a photographer for Life magazine, traveling the world. But best of all she talked about Louis, her husband. ‘Young love’ was how she described it, but her job made it so the newlyweds couldn’t be together very often. Her smile started to get heavy as she explained how she and Louis had planned to meet in Colorado; he would pick her up from the airport and they would go straight to Brightwood, their favorite restaurant. “My plane had been delayed, so Louis was on his way to pick me up during rush hour. He was driving his little beat-up Toyota pickup truck down the highway when a drunk driver hit him head on. He died on impact. I waited at the airport without a clue as to what happened for three hours until I got a call from a police officer who had found my number in his wallet.” Now tearyeyed, Lauraine continued on, “I didn’t know what to do, where to go, I don’t even remember how but I ended up in my hotel room. The next thing I knew I had drank the fridge dry of its alcoholic beverages.” Benjamin sat quietly through the entire conversation, straight-faced but hurting inside for her. “Alcohol became my go-to from then on, when I was drunk I didn’t feel anything which was better than feeling alone and the heartache left from Louis being gone.” Sitting up straight and 22

Kirsten Rydell rubbing her hands on her knees, Lauraine said, “But that’s behind me, I’ve been clean for fifteen years now. “ “I’m so sorry to hear that,” Benjamin said, his voice full of empathy. “It’s really great that you’ve been sober for so long, not everyone can make that commitment.” “Yeah,” she said in a whisper. “Well look at the time, you better get home, and thanks Benjamin—for painting my fence and listening to an old lady talk.” It was almost midnight and Lauraine still found herself staring at her off-white ceiling. Thoughts rushed through her head, which made her unable to sleep, so she got up and walked out to her garage. She sat down next to the heap of broken glass that remained on the floor. After all these years she thought that those rough nights and remembering that devastating phone call were over, gone, forgotten. She was wrong. Fifteen years later and the hole Louis left was still not filled, the pain was still there, enough to where she wanted to feel nothing. She sat staring at the broken glass for a few hours, her mind longing for the numbness alcohol created. It was almost 3 AM when she slowly stood up, her eyes shifted over to the old fridge, which had a layer of dust and grime from not being opened in fifteen years. She walked over to it, wondering if there was anything left inside. When she stood only a foot away from it, she reached out her hand, and grasped the cold handle. She yanked back the door and light filled the dark garage. Inside was an old cardboard box that read Coors Light. In what once held four bottles remained one cold, unopened, beer. Lauraine just stared at it, hand still on the silver fridge handle. She couldn’t help but imagine the cool liquid going down her throat. With caution she reached her shaking hand into the cold atmosphere of the fridge. A chill went down her spine when her fingers touched the bottle. It was the first time in fifteen years she had touched anything with alcohol, and she realized just how much she missed it. As she took hold of the bottle and brought it out of the fridge and closer to her mouth she felt a slight pang in her chest, saying, “No, don’t Lauraine.” But there was an even greater part of her saying, “Yes, this is the way to forget your pain, this will fill the hole in your heart.” She closed the fridge door and walked inside, never taking her eyes off the bottle in her hands. Sitting down at the table she and Benjamin had been at a few hours before, she slowly lifted her right hand up and grabbed hold of the twist top. After a few tries at twisting the top, the cap relented and she was left holding it in her hand. She took a deep breath and inhaled the aroma of the beer. She started to feel dizzy, her head clogging with thoughts. Without thinking much about it she walked outside and headed towards the beach, leaving her slippers behind but still clutching the open bottle in her hand. It was a cool morning, the sand damp from the ocean spray already sticking to Lauraine’s calloused feet. As she walked straight down from the worn-down dunes towards the steady Pacific she found herself turning left, not right. Hers were the only footprints left on the sand as they would be most days at 4:15 on a chilly November morning. She watched the waves repeatedly run up the shore, ending only a few inches from her feet only to have the water return to where it had come from. Her gaze was locked on the old lighthouse, red paint chipping, upper windows broken, light still out, even all these years later. She kept walking further and further until she didn’t recognize any of the weather-beaten houses to her left. When she finally came to a stop it was only because her toes were now throbbing from the rough sand and the freezing waves. Her frail arthritic fingers were still wrapped around the bottle’s neck, but almost all of its content had spilled out. The soiled label now barely read “alcohol.” Memories of dark lonely hotel rooms rushed through her head much like the waves rushed up over her pale feet. Her heart began to beat faster as she scanned the cold bottle. Empty and broken. A 23

Kirsten Rydell feeling she knew all too well, which fifteen years of sober waves could not wash away. Her hands shook and heart pounded, cheeks burned red like a hot stovetop. Benjamin’s words “you’ve been sober so long” echoed over and over as she gathered herself, drew her arm back and in one swift motion watched as the bottle flew far from where she stood and was swallowed by the Pacific Ocean, and with it washed away the last of her temptations.

Regrets Samantha Lesch Wilson High School Lorraine Bahr CHARACTERS: Laura Hamby, has been dead for six months and is narrating from beyond the grave Kennith Grey, 89 years old Jenna Hamby, granddaughter, 30 years old SCENE 1 AT RISE: Kennith Greyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bedroom. Conservative. Beige walls, white carpet and ceiling. White ceiling fan. Brown dresser with photos on top. Photos appear to be old and of a young man with a family of two others, a young woman and a baby with a bow on her head. Twin-sized bed with light blue sheets. They are the only real color in the room. Next to the bed is a small table that has a lamp and a digital clock. Kennith is laying in bed. KENNITH (He sits up suddenly from his bed. He glances at the clock on the bedside table and then rubs his eyes with the middle finger and thumb of his left hand. He slowly swings his legs over the side of and out of the bed and sits for a few moments. He then stands up and stretches. He is about six feet tall and an older gentleman. He has a scar that runs across the middle of his back from right to left. His facial features were probably handsome at one point but now have been worn away by age and time. He has green eyes and a slightly pointed nose. He has not lost a lot of his hair and it is a medium length and snowy white. He has a gaunt face and cheekbones that stand out. He is wearing a pair of shorts and a thin and baggy T-shirt. After standing, he hobbles over to his dresser and his gaze lingers on the photos for a few seconds. He then shakes himself and starts to pull on a nicer shirt.)

NARRATOR (Narrator is an older woman standing to the side if the stage. She is wearing all white clothing and has short gray hair.)

(As Kennith is pulling on his shirt)

Kennith Grey has lived a long life. It had been filled with ups and downs, just as any life is.

(Kennith pulls on pants over the shorts) 25

Samantha Lesch Kennith is aware that his time is ending, that his trail of footsteps on this beach called Earth is about to be washed away by the black sea of oblivion. Life was never meant to drag on forever, and Mr. Grey is probably one of the few people on this planet to know that best. KENNITH (Kennith walks out of his room and into the hall. There is a mirror on the wall just outside of his room. Kennith glances at it. The walls of the hall are light green, and the carpet is a cream or a light beige. There are two other doors in the hall other than Kennithâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bedroom door. They are both white, and one is on the left side of the hall and the other at the end, presumably leading to a bathroom and a spare bedroom. On the right side of the hall there is a set of carpeted stairs that lead down. Kennith walks down the stairs in a slow manner, but still looking spry for his age.) NARRATOR

(As Kennith is looking at himself in the mirror and walking down the stairs)

Kennith was born in the 1920s in the small town of Baker, Nevada to Jonathan and Marie Grey. He had six siblings, but the ones who had lived past twenty-one had all passed away in the last twenty years, leaving Kennith on his own. KENNITH (Enters kitchen, which is basically black, white, and brown. It is very conventional, and has everything you would expect a kitchen to have. The counters are black and white, and the cabinets are a light brown. It looks user friendly. There is a small wooden table to the left, right by a window. Many chips and dents mar its surface. One place setting sits on top, and a small salt and pepper-shaker sits in the middle with a cow on it. Kennith pulls out a box of cereal down from a cabinet and a bowl. He pours himself a moderate amount of cereal and replaces the box. He pulls out a spoon from a drawer by the sink and walks over to the fridge and pulls out a carton of milk. He pours some into his bowl and puts it back in the fridge. He then picks up his bowl and spoon and brings them over to the table where he sits down and begins to eat. He looks lonely and a little bit sad.) NARRATOR

(While Kennith is making and eating his breakfast)

Kennith Grey is good man, but he has definitely made his share of mistakes in life. They had really begun when he signed up to fight in World War II. When Pearl Harbor was bombed in 1941, one of his brothers, Jeff, had been serving on a boat in the Navy. He, as well as everyone else serving on his ship, had been killed. Kennith, filled with anger, rage, and grief, had signed up for the Army immediately. But before the bombing in September, he had met a woman called Angela Taylor. They had fallen in love, and as Kennith was serving in the Army, Angela had waited for him. As he 26

Samantha Lesch was serving the United States, however, Kennith had seen and done things that would haunt him for the rest of his life. He returned to America a very changed man. He and Angela still loved each other and got married, but it just wasn’t the same. Things always had a tense underlying theme, it seemed. Still, they never got a divorce, and they had a daughter named Laura, who grew up and married for herself. Six years after she married, Angela was killed in a drunk driving accident, and the relationship between Kennith and Laura fell apart. They haven’t spoken since the funeral thirty-four years ago because Laura blamed Kennith for not caring enough about her mother and not stopping her drinking habits (Angela had been the drunk driver in the accident). Kennith had been angry about these accusations, as they just added more hurt to an already broken heart. Throughout the years, Kennith has become more and more regretful that he let the relationship fall apart and never made any attempt to get back in touch with Laura. Even though she had hurt him, with every passing year, that hurt faded to be replaced with regret. She was still his daughter, and he had loved her as any parent loves their children: with everything that they have. KENNITH (He picks up his bowl and spoon and carries them over to the sink. He places them in the sink and washes them, then places them in the cabinet and drawer. He dries his hands with an old towel that was hanging by the sink, and then looks over at a clock hanging on the wall by the doorway. He sighs and walks out of the kitchen and by the door leading out of the house. He sits down on a chair by the door and pulls on a pair of old, white tennis shoes that look like they have seen better days. He then pulls on a red and black plaid fleece coat and picks up his keys, which lie in a chipped off-white bowl by the door. He walks out the door and after a few seconds, you can hear the sound of a car driving off.) END OF SCENE 1 [. . . .] SCENE 4 AT RISE: Projected lights on the curtain say “Two days later.” The curtain then opens. Kennith approaches a house with a red door from the left of the stage. The house itself is painted white, and the audience can see the rooms of the house from the side. There are two beds of flowers on either side of the door, full of red and white roses. Inside the door, there is an entryway where coats are hanging and shoes are stored. There is a short hall from there into what looks like the living room. In the living room there is a big couch and some comfortable chairs situated around the room. There is a coffee table, and another table right by the arm of the couch. A widescreen TV is located across the room from the couch. On the back wall there is a doorway that leads to the kitchen. A sink and part of a table are visible. Kennith knocks on the door and then shifts from foot to foot nervously. After a few moments, the laughter of children is heard, and Kennith looks confused. JENNA

(Shouting from off stage) 27

Samantha Lesch Just a moment!

(KENNITH stands awkwardly for a few moments) JENNA

(Walks through the kitchen door in a hurried manner. She is about 5 foot 4 inches, with short black hair. She has nice features, and is on the thinner side of things. She is wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Opening the door) Can I help you? KENNITH

(Looking nervous)

Umm, yes, I hope so. Does a woman named Laura Hamby live here? Her last name might be Grey now. JENNA

(Looking slightly confused. A crease has formed between her eyebrows.)

No, not anymore. Why are you asking? KENNITH (Startled) Oh, umm, I’m just a relative— What do you mean by she doesn’t live here anymore? Did she move? JENNA

(Also slightly startled)

Relative? KENNITH Yes. It’s been awhile since we last spoke, though. I just wanted to… catch up. Could you tell me where she lives now?

Samantha Lesch JENNA

(Pausing, looks troubled)

Well, obviously it has been awhile since you last spoke. She was diagnosed with lung cancer two years ago and died just six months back.

(KENNITH is standing stock-still and a shocked expression his face)

(Silence for a few seconds) JENNA

…Sir? KENNITH

(Still says nothing for a moment. Stuttering)

But… that— that can’t be… JENNA

(Looks down at feet)

Yeah, well… KENNITH

(Runs hand through hair and looks around, then looks back at Jenna)

Are… Are you sure? JENNA

(Studying his reaction)

Yeah, very. Who are you anyways? I thought I sent out notices out to everybody. KENNITH I’m… well, I guess I was, her father. And you sent out the notices? JENNA (Shocked) 29

Samantha Lesch You’re who?! KENNITH I was her father. I guess we fell out of touch… for thirty years.

(Short pause) JENNA

(Abruptly) You want to come in? KENNITH Uh, okay. But why did you send out the notices, and not her husband?

(Walks through the door, JENNA closes the door behind him.) KENNITH

(Looking around the house)

So why you?

(Sees that Jenna is looking at him)

What is it? JENNA

(Ignoring questions)

You want something to drink? KENNITH

(Looks at Jenna with a frown)

(Hesitates) …Sure. Some water, please.

(Follows Jenna into the living room and sits down on the couch gratefully and with a sigh 30

Samantha Lesch while Jenna rushes into the kitchen to get him a glass of water. While she is doing this, Kennith glances around the living room. A flash of pain crosses his face. As he is rubbing his temples, Jenna comes back into the room and hands him a glass of water.) KENNITH

(Looks up at Jenna and accepts the glass)

Thanks.

(Notices that Jenna is looking at him again with a strange expression)

What is it? Are you okay? JENNA (Hesitating) It’s just that…. I never thought that I would get to ever meet you. KENNITH

(Confused and slightly angry)

Why? Who are you? JENNA

(Pausing again)

I was… well, I guess I am your granddaughter.

(Pause. KENNITH opens mouth, then closes it. Takes a deep breath)

[. . . .] JENNA

(Finally turning to look at Kennith. Kennith looks up)

So… I don’t really know anything about you. Mom never said anything about you voluntarily. I asked about you a couple times, but the only thing she would say was that you guys hadn’t talked since Grandma’s death.

Samantha Lesch KENNITH

(Looking sad)

Well, I guess that isn’t too surprising. (Sighs) JENNA What happened? KENNITH

(Leaning back in his chair and sighing again)

After the war-JENNA (Interrupting) Was that WWII? KENNITH

(Looking slightly hopeful)

Yes. Did Laura tell you? JENNA Oh, sorry, no. There was just one of your medals in a box in the attic that I found once. KENNITH

(Now looking slightly disappointed)

At least she didn’t throw it out.

(Pauses for a second and rubs eyes)

Sorry, I’m really tired. Haven’t gotten much sleep recently. Anyways, after the war, I came back a very different man. Any veteran you ask will tell you that war changes people, some for the better, but many for the worse. When I had signed up, I had lied about my age, so I was basically a boy when I started to fight. When I returned, Angela, your grandmother, was so happy to have me 32

Samantha Lesch back, but she loved more than I could love her. There were many days when I didn’t speak at all. And it crushed her. She mostly raised Laura on her own. After Laura moved out, Angela and I were still living together, but we never talked anymore. We would go days without seeing each other. I suppose that we still loved each other, but it was never like it had been before the war. Angela started drinking. I was aware of her problems, but I didn’t do anything about them. That still haunts me. One day, she had a bit too much to drink and was driving home and drifted into the opposite lane on the freeway. After her funeral, Laura and I had a huge fight.

(Looks down at lap)

She blamed me for not caring enough about Angela to help her, that she had only started drinking because I didn’t love her enough. My pride lashed out and said that this was all Laura’s fault, even though I couldn’t think of a reason why it would be. I never talked to her again. Now, looking back on it, I can’t believe that I said that. I was such a fool. JENNA

(Silent for a few moments)

I have to say, I’m on Mom’s side. KENNITH

(Still looking down, lets out small snort and has small smile on face)

Yeah, I am too.

Enemy Marion Baker Madison High School Mark Pomeroy Why do you always mock me, try and make me cry? Are you really that big of a bully? I never did anything to you, to make you hate me. You say that you’re playing around yet why do you still do it? It’s not funny, you have always hated me, don’t you think it’s time to stop? Marion, you are so naive you always think I’m mocking you, you can’t take a joke. Do you always believe everything you hear? Why don’t you just grow up? You need to see past this, it’s you who makes things harder on yourself and you think it’s me, so why don’t you just stop.

Careful What You Wish For Aittan Le Franklin High School Jonathan Hill

Aittan Le

Baseball Keegan Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill Metropolitan Learning Center Carl Adamshick It is not just any ball Or sentimental artifact As historic as the pyramids When gazed upon you can see all sorts of things How Bill Buckner made Boston cry And how he made the world believe in curses and voodoo For 28 more years The ball is perfectly clean, but you can see it is made of, Babeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sweat, dirt and love But this ball tips its hat to Farrell, and Gives a bow to David David who slayed Goliath It is off the hands and beard of Mr. Jonny Gomes This ball was part of the greatest holiday a young boy has ever had But it is not the ball that created it While the ball means so much and is absolutely amazing It is not the best part of the situation Because that boy is happier than anyone in Boston

Red Sand, Clear Water Rees Rosene Grant High School Serena Crawford “Damon, Damon wake up!” It was a freshman from Damon’s frat, his name was Leon, or Trevor, or something. Small and scrawny, sandy blonde hair. With a grunt Damon woke up and gave Troy, or whatever his name was, a stern talking to about waking him up at 10 on a weekend. It was a year, almost two since he had left his home in England. He left to attend the University of Miami, not a prestigious university, but it was for undergrad, so it didn’t exactly matter. He was happy that he could continue surfing, and maintain a somewhat similar lifestyle. As each day passed, he loved more and more about Florida. The humid air wasn’t quite musky, but it felt tropical all the same. He didn’t really mind his classes, he even had fun in biology some days. His eyes burned as he walked out into the sunlight. The hangover was one of the worst he’d had in a while. With a ringing in his ears, he walked out into the quad. Palm trees everywhere, gulls calling, the 94-degree heat of May beating down. It was Sunday, his favorite day to head down to the beach and surf. He knew that his balance was completely off, so he just decided to take a long walk and enjoy the sun. Hopefully he wouldn’t get completely burned. The sand was white and warm, the beach oddly clear of the usual pedestrian traffic. There were still the usual families on vacation, probably from the Midwest judging by their pale skin and… rotund appearance. Also the usual beach bums would occasionally wave or call out to him. He continued walking for what seemed like hours, passing into a more tree-lined area on the beach. He took a seat in the sand near the water, and slowly dozed off into a daydream. A dark shadow seemed to cover the sun, a shadow with arms and tattoos. More than one shadow. It was then that he felt his wallet yanked out of his pockets, and in a blur of punches and kicks, he was left on the ground, no longer conscious. As he woke up, he felt blood trickling down the side of his face, staining the pure white sand of the beach. The sound of gulls and crashing waves made it feel like a day on the beach, like the ones he would have with his family when they went on holiday to a beach in England every summer. The rank smell of seaweed crossed over his nose, and it was awhile until he realized the tide had almost reached him. He stood up and limped away with great struggle, leaving a sanguine trail of blood behind him. He trudged into the tree line in search of some shelter. The light seeped down in between the leaves of the tropical trees. Exotic fruits were on display in the canopy, as if it were a Saturday market. He missed everything about those comforts he had back home. The vines seemed to grab at him as he walked deeper and deeper into the thick lining of trees that began to encompass the beach. It was only then that he realized that his pack had made it through the whole ordeal, and was still on his back. He sat and stared into the pouches nostalgically, each one had its own story. The small pouch that saved his life at school, with the one note from the one person who ever seemed to care. The big pouch that had food in it every day of primary school and into his secondary education. The six-inch steel Gerber knife that had always put his mind at ease when he walked home at two in the morning. It was at that moment that he felt hot tears roll down his face, a sight of despair not often seen on his face, even in his most trying moments. Even as a child, he 42

Rees Rosene never cried, just got up and walked away angrily. Now things were different. The tears felt like they were going to singe his face. Never before had he felt so lost. So unsure. The island encompassed him like a cage, but this time there was no key, not even a lock. Nothing to make him believe that there was a way out. He took out his knife and trimmed off the cuffs of his pants, fashioning a bandage out of the cloth. The sound of a river tried as hard as it could to relax him, and coax him to it. He waddled up a small incline, nearly a ball of bloody flesh at this point. He collapsed at the top before he could look over the cliff and on to a cove of limpid water. For two days he lay still, unconscious, not worried about the men who had mugged him. He knew who they were. As he regained his consciousness, he looked over the cliff, and with a pensive glance, plunged into memories. The men were bullies who had greeted him on the very first day he had moved on to the campus. He sifted through memories of various “tasks” he had to perform for them to let him into the frat. He hadn’t forgotten the pain he was still in from the trials of Phi Beta Mu. Apparently they weren’t ever going to stop. The oddly perfect water only brought out more emotions, but this time he didn’t cry, he just stood up and ran. The same action he always took when he was a child. He ran at a blistering pace, leaving his entire world behind. The words had grown all too painful in his mind, and the scars weren’t leaving soon enough. All that he left behind was the note from his younger brother. Scribbled across the scratch paper were five words that saved his life a year ago, I’m proud of you bro.

My Boo Thang Elizabeth Gomez Wilson High School James Gendron My boo thang His sense of humor of I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know My love his soft hands of Melted butter My love his mesmerizing eyes of Blinking stars in the sky My love his voice of A ferocious lion My love his face of Faded mystery

Something More Nehemiah Rude Madison High School Kathleen Lane “Mornin’ Jesse!” “Hey, good to see you again, Frank! What’ll it be today?” “Oh, I just need this comforter dry-cleaned and pressed,” Frank says as he hands him a quite large comforter. “Can you do that for me, Jesse?” “Won’t be a problem, Frank. You can come by Friday to pick it up.” Jesse tears off a ticket and hands it to Frank. “Sounds good. See you later, Jesse.” “Bye, Frank.” Jesse was the local laundromat owner. He ran it with his two friends, Michael and Gavin. He had been doing this for quite some time now. It was actually kind of a lifesaver for him. He was down on his luck, with not that many options, and when he noticed an old laundromat was for sale, he figured it was the way to go. But now that it’s a somewhat big success, Jesse feels incomplete, even though he has a pretty good thing going. “Hey, Gav, hey, Mike, can one of you guys throw this comforter in the dry-cleaner? He also wants it pressed,” Jesse yelled into the small break room. “Sure thing, Jesse,” Gavin responded. “ Hey, you want a bev?” “Why not,” said Jesse. “Get me one too!” shouted Michael. And that’s pretty much how they spent most days at the laundromat. Sitting around their little break room, drinking a couple beers, and occasionally helping a customer. It was like clockwork, day in and day out. It was actually quite enjoyable for Mike and Gav, but Jesse had other things in mind. “Closing time!” cheered Michael. “C’mon, let’s lock up and head home,” said Gavin. “I’m coming, just give me a sec,” said Jesse, in a not-as-ecstatic voice. Jesse needed to bring this feeling up with his friends, because after they might encourage him, maybe they’d even be willing to help out. It was definitely worth a shot. So Jesse, Gav, and Mike walked the three blocks back to their apartment, walked up the two flights of stairs, and just like that, they were home. They had a pretty nice apartment. The rent was a steal considering the size. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms. And in the living room, their 42” TV and their Xbox 360 gaming console. They would stay up until all hours just getting hammered and playing video games. Could we make some type of career out of this? Jesse thought. I don’t see why we couldn’t. I should bring it up with the guys. No, they’d think it was stupid. I know, I’ll bring it up when they’re really drunk! It’s the perfect plan! And that’s what he did. He filled them with as many drinks as he could, and played video games with them all night. Luckily, the next day was Sunday, which is the one day of the week 45

Nehemiah Rude when they close the laundromat, so he didn’t have to worry about not getting sleep and being hungover and whatnot. The night went on. Michael and Gavin woke up, hung over on their couches, dazed and confused, wondering how they got so drunk in the first place. “Did we play video games all night?” asked Gavin, looking at an overheated Xbox and an empty case of beers. “What’d Jesse do to us?” Michael asked, just as confused as Gavin. “Rise and shine, gentlemen!” exclaimed Jesse as he walked out of his room. “You guys enjoy last night?” “Enjoy?” scoffed Michael. “I can’t even remember half of what happened last night. What’d we do? What’d you do?” “I got you guys drunk so you would consider my proposal.” “What proposal?” asked Gavin. “Well,” started Jesse. “I want to start a type of company, where we can record ourselves playing video games.” “That…” Michael paused. “...is a pretty incredible idea.” “I agree!” said Gavin. “Let’s make this happen!” With time, they gathered together the necessary equipment needed to record gameplay, commentary, and get smashed. They were going to be a hit.

If This Applies to You! Tim and Margaret Fogerson Grant High School Carter Sickels Dear Geeks I know life is hard. You get teased because of your decision to actually do your work but you enjoy it turning your brain into a computer having the complex ways of circuit endings. I know you guys and girls are outcasts because of your love of computers and your social awkwardness though just remember that life does in fact get better. Dear Gamers I know life is hard. Because of people calling you no lives. Trust me I’ve been there done that and got the T-shirt Just remember to carry on and get to the next level of this terrible game known as life. and get that achievement Dear Otakus and weeaboos. You may not be able to get to the place that you love so much but remember that there are other people that are like you Search for these people and declare them as your safe haven read the fan fics and draw the fan art cosplay and get the telekinetic cat ears because who cares dear homophobes first of all shut the hell up, your holy book is not tattooed across my forehead, my family does not sing your hymns, you are the reason people look over us like we don’t exist and having people riot in the streets for their basic human rights all men are created equal dear people who don’t understand us we are the nice people that the world will have to fall onto cry on our shoulder because maybe you iPhone stopped working or Xbox crashed but do not come to us your mainstream life crashes and burns around you because you didn’t realize the virus on your computer having your character die right there not being able to respawn Dear popular people What gives you the right to look down on people? Just because you have a lot of friends or “cute” or “cool” clothes doesn’t give you the right Why must you people force the outcasts to stay away from you? News flash we are people. not only are we people but we are the next gen star trek we are the future

Scary Story Amina Ahmed Wilson High School Amy Minato The first day of middle school, I had plenty of friends from elementary school. I wasn’t scared because I knew half of the people that went there. But during the first month of school in October, I moved in with my grandma and had to switch schools. I was pretty excited to go but kind of sad I had to leave my friends. My first day of school at Jackson Middle School was different. It was hard making new friends; everyone thought they were too good to be friends with the new girl. Some girls thought they ran the school – bossing everyone around – but to me the word popular didn’t even exist. On Halloween I usually go trick-or-treating with my friends, but that year I decided instead to go to a haunted house for the first time. There were pretty scary weird things there. When I walked through the dark haunted hall I couldn’t see anything. Candles kept falling down by themselves. The clock went tick-tack-tick. A candle fell on me. I yelled for help. I bumped into girls that went to my school. They laughed at me because I was freaking out. They told me to calm down and that I was okay. Ever since that day they became my best friends.

The Rift Eddie Kelly Madison High School Kathleen Lane Chapter 1 Many years ago, at the time of the sword and shield, there was a boy at the age of fifteen; his name was Milo and he was the guardian of the temple rift, a magical energy source. His job was to guard the rift from the monsters of the dark. But as time passed he had a kid, a baby boy, and as he turned the age of fifteen he turned into the new rift guardian. And now generation after generation the job landed to me so there I was the new guardian of the rift standing there with the equinox sword (a sword that was stabbed into the rift). All the people that are going to read this are going to be like “dude that’s so cool to stand near a magic rift holding a magic sword” and to tell you the truth it’s not cool because I wake up, go to school, yah I know school, sucks right, but anyway go to school then come home and guard that damn rift. But as time wore on I made some friends: Tony a tall and strong kid, with the power uno the god of everything, and Eli, a small and energetic kid, he has the power of speed. Then there is me, my name is Edward, the protector of the temple rift, and the power to move objects with my mind. We have been friends for two years. The reason I’m writing this story is because I might not be able to write it any other time. And now the story begins. Right now we are in the middle of history. “Psst, I need a pencil,” said Tony. We both hate history. “Here but you need to sharpen it,” I said. “What! The point of asking you for a pencil was so that the teacher won’t notice,” said Tony. “Oh well, sucks,” I said with a touch of annoyance. “If I get in trouble I blame you,” he said “You always do,” I said. “Whatever,” he said angrily. As he stood up the teacher, Miss Neil, yelled, “Sit back down!” Tony replied, “I’m sharpening my pencil.” “I don’t care, you can fail the test,” snapped Miss Neil. After the end bell rang we both met up with Eli, and split ways, me to the bike lock, and them two to their lockers. After about ten minutes we met up at the skate, park me with my bike, Tony with his board and Eli with his scooter. After about two or three house we went to our homes. I went home to find that it wasn’t there. I mean it’s gone–poof. After about two minutes my phone rang, it was Tony, “Dude, holy shit you’re not going to believe this but… my house is gone.” “Yah so is mine,” I said. After that we walked to Eli’s to find that he was sitting on the sidewalk crying. We walked up to him and said, “It’s all right, if it makes you feel any better our houses are gone to.” Ok, I 49

Eddie Kelly don’t know about you, but I wanted to tear someone apart. But we have a problem my house, food, parents, TV, and more importantly, the rift. Chapter 2 Two days later we got a hint that the para (black panthers with big bee-like wings) took our houses and the rift, which means that there in the heart of the forest where the arcane rift is located (opposite of the temple rift, it’s full of dark energy). For those of you who don’t know what a para is (about all of you I guess) it’s a beast made of dark energy, and looks like a shadow; they’re bloodthirsty and savage. Their only weakness is temporal energy, henceforth the equinox sword was made, a sword full of temporal energy (light energy). We were all staring at a map of the forest. “Look right there is wear the arcana rift is located,” I said. “Yah we know but how do we get there,” asked Tony. “We fly over,” I said with an all-knowing tone. Tony and Eli looked at each other, and then to me “What!” they both said. “I can lift objects remember!” I yelled. “You’re not strong enough to lift all three of us,” was his reply. “It’s worth a shot,” I snapped back. “Ok but if we die I’m going to kill you,” he said in a defeated tone. “Good we go on the morning.” After that we went to our hideout, “the place,” it’s pretty cool and has electricity so we plugged in a heater and lamps and stuff. We woke up at 11 or so when I yelled, “You guy’s got your stuff all set?” “Yep,” was their reply. “Good were leaving in ten minutes,” I said. Now it’s my turn to pack. I go to the room I sleep in and pull my sword out from under my bed, and pull it out of its sheath; it glows its weird iridescent blue. This sword is awesome with its slightly swerved temporal steel blade and black-asnight hilt. I strap it to my back, go to the living room, and say, “Lets hit the road.” After twenty minutes or so we are back at the big rock. Tony puts his hand on my shoulder and whispers “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” “We have to try, Tony.” “Ok ok,” he said. “You two stand there… ok get ready” I said, closing my eyes soon after the same iridescent blue but this time smoke started to curl around me, I snapped my eyes open they’re the same color, I use my mind I think ‘lift’ then thrust both of my hands towards Eli and Tony. The same blue smoke swirls around them lifting them up into the air, then me, sweat on my brow I move us forward. After about ten minutes we landed some fifty-odd yards away from the clearing. “Eli, zoom around the clearing,” I commanded.

Self-Acceptance Sarah Braaten Grant High School Apricot Irving You think that you’re fat. You think that you’re ugly. You think it’s o.k. to go a day or two without eating. You think it’s o.k. to make yourself vomit after a meal, or even a snack. You continue to torture yourself so you can achieve the unrealistic figure of a woman in a magazine. You’re stomach aches as it rumbles and grumbles telling you it’s hungry. You smell freshly baked cookies coming from the kitchen. For a brief moment you crave one, maybe just one, but the craving quickly subsides when images of skinny women flash in your mind. There’s a lot you don’t seem to understand, however. You don’t understand that the human body is as precious as a delicate rose, without the proper nutrients it will never blossom. You don’t understand that there is more to yourself than your body. You don’t understand that there are other options. You can achieve a more realistic goal for yourself without throwing up and being starving all the time. Truthfully, you can only ever look good if you feel good. And hurting yourself like this must not feel good at all. Start doing the things that make you feel good. Eat dessert before dinner then go on a jog. Make chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast then eat healthy the rest of the day. Keep chocolate in your purse for emergencies. Keep workout clothes in your car so you can go to the gym whenever you desire. This way you will feel good about yourself. And once you feel good about yourself, you will accept your body.

First Day of School! Hani Hussein Wilson High School Amy Minato In second grade I started a new school. I was kind of excited at first but when I entered the building I got scared. My father took me to the principal’s office. After that the principal took me to my new class even though she knew how scared and shy I was. She asked me with her high heels clacking: “Hani Hussein are you afraid of this new school and your new classes?” I was too scared to even reply so I just said, “Yes.” Then she opened the door to my new class! EVERYONE was staring at me and only me. The principal introduced me to EVERYONE! All the guys were sad because I wasn’t a girl and all the girls were excited because I was in fact a girl. So the teacher assigned me to my new seat and still EVERYONE was still staring at me so I sat down. The teacher told me her name was Ms. Wells. I felt much better when the teacher told my new classmates to stop staring at me. I was happy now because my teacher was so nice!

Back in the Day Katiah Wagner Madison High School Casey Fuller Back in the day you didn’t have to worry about much, it was a smooth sailing kind of era. Men came home after work to hot home-cooked food on the table. Now you’ll be lucky to get anything; let alone a hot meal. Back in my day women had class, morals, and brain. Now these girls will be lucky enough to graduate high school Back then people had respect for their elders You got your money’s worth you didn’t have to worry about locking your doors or windows you were safe inside your home. I’ll never forget back in my day; because those were the days.

Untitled Never Retalleck Franklin High School Jonathan Hill

Never Retalleck

Sneaking Out from Sam’s Sam Knox Grant High School Apricot Irving There was thunder above our heads as Sam came stomping down the stairs, each boom louder than the last. “My dad said no,” he murmured. We just kept staring at the screen. Sam was perturbed by our indifference and sat heavily into a beanbag, setting his glasses askew. He fixed his glasses and peered through them with slanted eyes. I felt his gaze like hot coals on my back while he waited for a reply. Silence, still. The calm before the storm. Sam finally broke it, disjointed and jarring: “So... uhh what do you guys want to do now?” Michael stood up, quick as lightning, and towered over Sam, “What do I want to do now? I want to eat food, Sam. I’m starving, Sam.” He put emphasis on each Sam every time he said it, like he was uttering a dirty word. “Your dad didn’t feed us, and now he won’t let us get food for ourselves.” Sam stood up too, but Michael still loomed over him, “It’s 12 o’clock, it’s not my fault my dad said—” “We knew he’d say no.” “It’s still not my fault.” Michael returned to his seat begrudgingly, plopping down on the weathered sofa, eking out an eerie creak from the ancient springs. I could tell Sam wanted to ask what to do again, but he shrunk back from the idea, fearing another diatribe. It took another couple minutes for any substantial conversation to be made, other than our stomachs growling at each other. Finally I stood up and spoke, “Alright, let’s do this. We’re rolling out.” “Where?” “7-11? I don’t know.” Sam sat up a little straighter, gears turning in his head. He rose quickly and padded his bare feet against concrete, scurrying over the unfinished side of his basement. He beckoned us over, pressing a lone finger to his lips. In front of us were old wooden stairs, splintered, rotting, and littered with paint cans. The room smelled like an abandoned art studio. Sam went first, crawling like a squirrel over the paint cans, deftly and muted. Next lumbered Mike, and finally me, until Sam eased open the backdoor. The cool night air hit us like a brick wall, it was fresh, and it tasted like rain. Silent as mice, we tiptoed to the gate wrought from crisscrossing iron bars and gently tugged it open. One by one we slithered out and into the street, free at last. The outside world was dark and quiet. We finally reached the store. Inside sat an old disinterested Indian man behind the counter. In an aisle, a tall man with a full trench coat and backwards trucker hat cradled several bottles of Mountain Dew. A few aisles down was an old woman, wearing too short of a short skirt, and a skintight gold-sequined vest, who did nothing but stand there and mutter to herself. Then there was us, 60

Sam Knox a couple teenage boys wearing Nike sweatshirts and shorts, and no shoes. These were the midnight patrons of 7-11. We nervously grabbed lemonades, bags of chips, any sort of delicious snacks we could find. Sam got a donut. We piled our junk food high on the counter and the cashier rang it up, never once looking at us. With our food in hand, we took off into the night delighted that our daring heist was almost over. We returned to the basement soon and that’s when we saw him. It was like in the movies: he sat in a chair facing us, dog at his feet, his eyes surveying us through slanted lids. “Where were you guys?” said Griffin, Sam’s little brother. “None of your business, Griff.” “I’m gonna tell Dad.” Sam had to sacrifice his bottle of lemonade to pay him off so he wouldn’t tell Dad. I finally took a sip of my own. It tasted like victory, like independence, and freedom. I downed it quickly, and shot it into the trashcan with a satisfying thwump.

Simple Jasper Shults Wilson High School James Gendron My love her hair of time that pulls me in, never to think again. My love her face a work of art. My love her legs of tables that always attract attention, for dancing tables are a sight to see. My love her breath like that of heavenly wind. My love is tall like Lego buildings of great heights on the brink of collapse. My love her arms embracing my heart giving me a place to feel safe in this world. My love her skill that can rival stonesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; ability to do nothing, even when against great wind. My love gives me great joy each day when I see her face. My love her ability to hide like my shoes every morning, Before work, even when in plain sight.

Not That I Matter Matthew Daniels Madison High School Kathleen Lane A world without me is a world with glee and understanding, endless money and no problems. Everybody agrees, works together, and they’re happy. There is no sin, only perfection and more perfection. Everything is solar powered, pandas aren’t endangered, John F. Kennedy is still alive. The 9/11 attacks never happened. There are 12.5 billion people on the Earth and that’s because there is no war and no disease. We found the cure to cancer, we have a surplus of mechanical organs and body parts in case something in us fails, and the life expectancy is 150 years. The fly I killed when I was seven still has great, great, great-grandchildren that are buzzing today. My friends are happier and better off, my neighbors still have all the money they gave me to support my sports team locked up in a retirement fund. My school is rich and has iPads and laptops for everyone. Teachers are paid as much as professional football players, and every classroom has a touchscreen TV. My sister lives the perfect life of an only child. My family lives in a bigger house with a bigger yard and everybody gets their own bathroom. They have the latest technology, 90-inch TVs in every room, nice leather couches and a maid to keep it all clean. A chef to cook, a butler to serve, and a dog to eat your vegetables. There’s an Italian sports car, a Mercedes, and one that looks like the time machine from Back To The Future. A four-car garage big enough that a family could comfortably live in it, as well as a grandfather clock that rings at 11:30am to let you know that brunch is ready. Without me the world is a better place, or maybe a much worse place... How could I know? The lives of everybody could be so different that they would no longer be recognizable to my nonexisting self. Maybe that’s not what it would be like. There are millions of people that don’t exist and we don’t see a difference because there is nothing to differ from. Without me the world would hardly change; my mom might just have a better car since they have a little extra money without me, or maybe the world goes into World War III. It’s impossible to imagine yourself not existing, because your imagination is only there if you exist. You can only guess what the world would be like. “To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.” Oscar Wilde.

The Chicken Coby Hart Wilson High School Lorraine Bahr CHARACTERS: Jacob Romo 11 Isaiah Romo 16 Rico Romo (Father) 40 Jenny Romo (Mother) 39 TIME: Present day PLACE: Galveston, Texas, in a minor-hurricane-damaged neighborhood. SCENE 4: AT RISE: Same setting as the beginning of the play: the old lot filled with just a tree and some dead grass. Isaiah and Jacob are throwing rocks around. ISAIAH

(Throws a rock at Jacob and misses) So I heard you got in trouble today at school huh?? (Jacob looks at him quickly and gives him an aggravated look) (Throws a rock back at Isaiah) How did you find out?

JACOB

ISAIAH I heard the call from the school. Don’t worry, kiddo, I answered it so mom didn’t hear it. Your secret is safe with me. (Isaiah smirks and laughs on the inside) JACOB You better not tell mom about it Isaiah! Please! I’ll do anything! (Jacob gets on his knees and begins to cry) Isaiah! Please!

Coby Hart ISAIAH Really? Begging again? All right! I won’t tell mom (Pause) But what’s in it for me? (Squats down and looks at Jacob in the eyes) Do you know what heaven and hell are? You have to know, man. I think so? Not really no one’s ever told me. (Jacob looks up) What are they?

JACOB

ISAIAH What!? Well…. (Pause) Heaven is a place you go when you pass, where all the good people go, and by good people I mean little boys who have helped out their big brother a lot and obeyed them well. (Jacob tilts his head to the left looking confused; Isaiah begins to smirk) And hell…Well, hell is where all the boys who just sat around and did nothing for their brothers all day. Heaven is the place you want to go, where all the angels are, and you can get whatever you want! Hell is a dark fiery place and the Devil rules all of it, and he makes all the little boys his slaves! How do you know this Isaiah? (Looks at Isaiah) Because I’m your older brother. I just do. All right….I’ll do whatever you want.

JACOB

ISAIAH JACOB

Mrs. ROMO (Not on stage) JACOB!!!!!!!... Where are you! (Enters the stage) What was that phone call I got from the school!? JACOB (Looks at his mother with a fake confusion) What phone call? Why would the school call? (Walks over to Jacob) You tell me, mister!! (Isaiah slowly exits the stage)

Mrs. ROMO

Coby Hart

I seriously didn’t do anything!

JACOB

Mrs. ROMO (Looks at a small piece of yellow-lined paper and back at Jacob) I’ll tell you what you did then! The school called me and said you beat up a kid at school.. (Pause) With a fire extinguisher! Jacob! I can explain…Please, Mom! I really can. Then go ahead!

JACOB Mrs. ROMO

JACOB (Jacob sits down on the dirt) One of my friends was being bullied at school, and not just teased but another boy was punching him. So I wanted to help by asking kindly… (The mother quickly interrupts) Jacob! Are you an idiot?

Mrs. ROMO

JACOB No, Mom, I tried to get him to just back off kindly and slowly but he attacked me and I was luckily pinned next to the fire extinguisher on the wall. You can understand! Right? Mrs. ROMO

(whispers,) I never wanted you, Jacob. (Pause) You should have let that kid beat you and your friend up—one less child in my life I’d have to worry about. It would cost me less, and now you’ve been expelled from the school. I am going to have to pay for this stupid mistake of yours, Jacob. (Mrs. Romo gets really close and squats down to look Jacob in the eyes. ) (Whispers next line) If you step out of line mister, one more time! Ooh you are in for a world of hurt! I might have to send you away. (She looks even deeper into Jacob’s eyes with hatred; she swings her hand as if to slap Jacob but she stops abruptly and gets up then starts to exit the stage) And next time Jacob… (Pause) My hand will meet with your face, harder than you could ever imagine. You were a mistake. A big, big mistake. (Mrs. Romo leaves as Isaiah enters the stage from the other side) 66

Coby Hart

(Isaiah grabs Jacob’s shoulder) Hey, Kiddo, I’ve got something to show you. (Isaiah lifts Jacob to his knees) Come on!

ISAIAH

JACOB (Slowly getting to his feet) I’m coming, calm down! What do you need to show me? ISAIAH

(Isaiah looks around cautiously) (Whispers next line) I stole a car Jacob. (Both Isaiah and Jacob look around then get lower to the ground) What?! Are you kidding? You have to be!

JACOB

ISAIAH I really did, Jacob, now come with me; we are getting out of this god-awful home. (Motioning Jacob to follow) I know you hate it here. Dad doesn’t care about any of us, and I see how Mom treats you. She’s always treated you like that. Mom and Dad never wanted you, so you shouldn’t want them. (Pause) Why didn’t they want me?

JACOB

ISAIAH You just aren’t what they expected. Mom wasn’t supposed to have you. But don’t worry I’ve got your back, little bro. You help me, I help you. Now let’s go! (Jacob and Isaiah exit where Isaiah came on. A car engine and chicken cluck noise starts as the lights go out.)

Teenage Girl in an Unpredictable World Kaija Bross Grant High School Apricot Irving Vanity and income, these are the things that take over my meager mind. I have no control of the things I see and the image I place upon myself. In today’s world it’s done for me, in a single page in a single magazine I can get a bold idea of what society thinks my body should look like and what I should place upon it. Prada, Vera Wang, Louis Vuitton, can you afford those things because I know I can’t. In fact, I know no normal teenager that comes from a middle-class family can afford that. The girls on the magazine are wearing it though, and if I want to be cool, I have to have it. That’s what the social media does to us. We are so young and fragile, yet we try to look so old and mature. Fifteen and sixteen year old girls look like they are in their late twenties these days and it’s simply because that is what they are taught in Cosmo and Us Weekly. These kids barely know left from right yet and they are hanging out in bars and showing off more skin than a hairless cat. Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, and Twitter, if these four things didn’t exist I would actually be able to have full trust in my relationship with my boyfriend. These days you never know, a Snapchat could contain a single three second picture of a young girl’s naked body, but it’s ok because they can only see it for three seconds, right? And then it is lost in cyberspace forever, wrong. Now they have apps you can download that will save Snapchats and the sender will have no idea. Snapsex is now a thing, yes it is a thing. Young naive kids think its ok because again, it’s only one to ten seconds long, wrong again. What my generation just does not get is the simple law that Sir Isaac Newton created pertaining to motion: For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. That has to do with life in general especially in this day and age. Everything you picture you upload to Instagram and every tweet you send off and every snap that you chat will be in cyberspace forever. You may not think so but it is the truth. My mother always told me that I can do anything in this world that I want to do, anything, as long as I was willing to accept the consequences for my actions when I’m done. I live by that; kids these days think they are invincible and that the things the send out and the places they go and the things they do will be ok and they aren’t in the wrong. No, when my mom was a kid they didn’t even have cell phones, let alone Instagram. Her biggest social issues were what time her friends were going to meet her to ride their bikes to easy shop and all around Portland. I got to walk the four blocks that it takes to get to my middle school from my house for the first time, alone, when I was twelve years old. Twelve. Years. Old. My mom was riding the bus and biking all the way from Laurelhurst Park to Columbia Blvd. with her friends when she was seven. She felt safe, I don’t. One never knows what is going to happen next. People weren’t running into schools with machine guns killing innocent men, women, and children back then. The world is slowly being turned into a warzone. The Internet and cellphones and schools are war-zones. Innocent kids are getting bullied and brought to their own demise on their own account because of the volatile things that are said to them by their peers. This world is a hard one to live in as a teenager right now and every day feels like it is a new opportunity for drama and wrongdoing.

The Love Poem Destiny Boaldin Wilson High School James Gendron I love you as a cowgirl from Kansas Wrangling a raging bull with Her homemade lasso and her trusty whip. I love you as the many stars that you Can count in a summer nightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sky. The stars represent how many years I want to spend with you. I love you as a phone rings with Texts from you. Each text from you makes my heart flutter And my mind go blank. I love you as much as you will let me love you. I only love for the one who gives me A reason to love, a reason to laugh and Smile, a reason for me to act like me Instead of someone else. I love you as much as I use my knife To eat an apple.

Like Mother, Like Daughter Alex Ly Madison High School Kathleen Lane In 2001, Los Angeles, California, a woman jumped off her apartment complex and died right on the spot. It was horrifying. Blood covered her face and body, her limbs were twisted. Her name was Jennifer and she had a daughter named Kayla. A couple of months before she jumped, Jennifer was driving home from work with her daughter in the car. A car ran a red light, which T-boned into Jennifer, causing the car to flip. Jennifer survived the crash with cuts and bruises, but unfortunately her daughter Kayla died. For many months after the accident, Jennifer couldn’t stop crying; she couldn’t believe that her daughter was gone. Devastated, Jennifer committed suicide by jumping off the roof from her apartment. People have said that Jennifer walks around at night looking for her daughter, Kayla. 2010, nine years after Jennifer’s death, a girl named Sophia was walking home at 10pm from her friend’s house. She was sixteen years old, had black hair, very tall. When she was twelve, her mother died from breast cancer. Sophia was sad about her about mother’s death; she was on the verge of committing suicide but realized that there were other ways of coping. Sophia was passing the street where Jennifer died. Usually many people were out in this street at night, but for some reason there was nobody around. It was so quiet you could hear crickets chirping and the wind blowing the trees. She was scared. She continued walking while looking down. When she saw a shadow, she looked up and saw a woman in a white dress walking in front of her. The dress was covered in blood, and the woman’s hair was a mess. Sophia stared at her while she walked. The woman noticed Sophia. She stopped, turned around and looked at her. Blood was running down her eyes. The woman in the dress was Jennifer. Sophia was terrified. Her body couldn’t move, sweat was coming down her cheeks. She had goose bumps on her arms, and her heart was racing. Jennifer asked in a raspy voice, “Where is my daughter?” Sophia wanted to get away from her and decided to lie. She took a deep breath and swallowed. “She is over there,” she said. She pointed in a direction where Jennifer could be far away from her. Jennifer looked toward where Sophia pointed and walked away. Still terrified, Sophia needed to go to a place that had people around. She started walking the opposite direction of where Jennifer walked. Not caring to look behind her, Sophia walked fast until she heard a loud scream. She turned around and saw Jennifer chasing after her. “My daughter is not here!” Jennifer screamed. “I don’t know where she is! Leave me alone!” Sophia shouted. Sophia ran as fast as she could, eventually outrunning Jennifer. When she turned around, she saw Jennifer on the ground crying. Even though Sophia was scared of Jennifer, she felt bad and walked toward her. She sat down beside Jennifer and put her arm around her. “Everything is going to be okay,” Sophia said. 70

Alex Ly “No it is not! I can’t find my daughter!” Jennifer shouted. Sophia heard about Jennifer before, how her daughter died and how she committed suicide because she was sad. Sophia stayed and talked to Jennifer about how they were similar, losing someone that they loved, Sophia losing her mother and Jennifer losing her daughter. Sophia said that she was almost going to commit suicide, but had learned to forget about the past and keep moving forward in her life. Jennifer listened to Sophia’s advice and was happy. Then suddenly a light appeared on Jennifer. She floated in the air and started fading away. Before she disappeared, she said in a peaceful voice, “Thank you.”

Fallout Lucas Cansler Grant High School Carter Sickels Elko, Nevada, 2064 Boom! Boom! Even though he was ten stories below the ground, the sound of the bombs filled every corner of his room. With every deafening explosion, his hope faded. He never would see his family again. Never again. Joel quickly got out of the small, sleek, and futuristic plane. As he stepped down the black, grated ramp, he thought about that damn person on the plane. The man had the nerve to ask Joel to move out of his first class seat to accommodate more people. Joel had almost lost it. He had stood up, faced that baby-faced bitch of a man, and almost punched him. But luckily for that man, he didn’t. Maybe I should have, thought Joel, Whatever, and ignored it Joel then went to go get his bags from the claim. Outside, the air was muddy and smoggy. Inside, it was even worse. The air was filled with the smell of hundreds of tired, stressed people. Though the temperature outside was a cool fifty-five degrees inside, the air was superheated by all of the people. Joel had to shove his way through crowds of people of all colors, shapes, and sizes. By the time he had navigated the crowd, Joel had received death threats from at least ten people. Finally, he got to the rubber spinner that would deliver him his precious cargo. Joel quickly went around many other grasping hands to get his black and nondescript bag. He had specifically chosen that bag to blend in. He didn’t want anyone to even think about searching it. Not because of any unsavory items in it, but because the bag held the tools of his job; they were sleek, black, silent, and deadly firearms. He had handpicked these guns for what they needed to do—kill silently. He had been hired this time by an anonymous person to kill a military official visiting Elko, Nevada. The person had prepaid him, so Joel was eager to do the job. Finally, Joel found his bag throughout the clutter of hundreds of bags. Well now, he thought, let’s be off. Joel navigated through the empty hall at the back of the airport. These were for cleaning crews, but he always used them to quickly get to his destination. This time, his destination was straight into a cab waiting for him. Rain poured around him for the split second it took to get into the car. As soon as he got in, the tall, black-haired man driving the car took off. 24 Hours Later It was time. The past day was well spent scouting for the target. Joel preferred not to know anything about them, just where they were going to be. For this target, his destination was a coffee shop. The target was scheduled to meet another official outside of the shop. The plan was for Joel to find a high location to kill him before the other official arrived. And that was exactly what Joel was doing. Joel climbed up the orange, rusty ladder to the top of the water tower. Normally, this would be a terrible position because he would be exposed from all sides, but Joel had found one with a dark cover that wrapped around the walkway, covering up anyone walking on it. So this position 72

Lucas Cansler was perfect. As he got to the top, he raised his suitcase above his head and set it down on the grated surface. He stayed on his knees, crawling to his position. After about five feet of crawling, he decided this was the spot. Joel pulled out his switchblade, flicked it open, and swiftly cut a circle about a foot wide in the dark mesh cover. Then, he set to work. First, he took out the gun, an MK 20 SSR. It was Joel’s favorite semi-automatic rifle. It had the range of a much bigger gun, while staying compact and light. It was accurate up to 1,000 meters, far more than he needed. He grabbed the gun and set it lightly down on the grated ground. Then, he took out his attachments. His 7x magnification scope, his bipod, and the huge silencer that was needed to be stealthy. He expertly screwed the attachments on, knowing he had more than enough time. He had at least two hours before the target was arriving. After Joel had finished preparing the rifle, he set it again on the ground, careful not to damage anything on it, especially the scope. Then he reached into his suitcase and withdrew the last item in it, a foam pad. He laid it on the ground and prepared to watch the shop. Joel checked his watch. He knew it had been about an hour and a half since he first started watching the shop, and he was right. Only fifteen more minutes until the target was coming. The minutes wound down very fast. Before he knew it, a shiny black government car drove up to the coffee shop. Joel remained calm, controlling his breaths, slowing his heart rate. He saw the target, a man with a dark curly moustache and short trimmed hair. Joel knew he only had a few seconds before the man would go inside. Joel quickly inhaled, and slowly exhaled, about to release the trigger. But then, a harsh noise pierced his ears. The noise rose and fell in pitch and intensity. His concentration was lost. He abandoned the shot. He was very confused about what the siren was about. Elko was not in tornado territory. Right as he thought that, a very official voice came from the loudspeakers answered his question. “This is Major Nelson with the US Army. We have been informed that a rebel organization that has recently taken over Russia’s government has launched nuclear missiles into our homeland. We have five hours until they reach this area. Please, quickly grab one suitcase full of belongings and go to the nuclear fallout shelter. It is located on NW Burns and 32nd. Please do not waste any time. The doors will be closed promptly at 8 PM. We will not tolerate lateness.” Joel couldn’t even comprehend what had just happened. His mind was racing, but it was impossible to make out a singular thought. He started acting without thinking. He started to run towards the address given. All of the sudden, he was on the ground My head hurts so much. Why can’t I move? Why are there screams? What is going on? Questions soared through Joel’s head. Finally, his moment of confusion cleared. All of the sudden, everything came back to him. The siren, the warning, the chaos. Quickly he sat up, his eyes slowly focusing. As his vision cleared, he saw a scene of terror. Screaming filled the air. Children crying for their parents. Parents desperately searching for their kids. Everywhere, there was panic. 2 Hours Later Joel arrived on a packed transit bus that was destined for the fallout shelter. He gripped his black bag tightly, knowing that its contents were vital to his survival. He stepped off the bus, while people were pushing him from all angles. He slowly walked towards the giant entrance, no panic in 73

Lucas Cansler his actions. He waited patiently as crowds of people elbowed each other, desperate for the solace of the shelter. He quickly queued up in the quickly forming line, which was monitored by armed officials. As he got closer and closer, the intensity of the situation became more evident. All around him, he sensed a fear of hopelessness. After around an hour of waiting, Joel managed to get to the front of the line. “Papers, please,” demanded a short stocky man. Joel promptly handed over his credentials, eager for safety. “Hold out your hand.” As Joel began to lift it up, the man grabbed his arm and shoved a strange device upon his arm. A sense of burning came onto him, then it faded. Once it had gone, the man put away the strange machine and beckoned Joel down the many flights of stairs Joel quickly began to descend into the depths of the earth. Then, he stopped, turned around, and looked one last time at the beautiful world outside. The air was fresh and clean, the land pure. Joel knew it was never going to be the same again. 7 Years Later It was the day, finally the day. Joel woke up well before the alarm sounded throughout the halls, waking everyone up. He knew he had about two hours to prepare to leave. He had decided long ago that he couldn’t survive without his family. He had to see them, even if they were just ash in their dilapidated remains of the house. It was hope that drove him. It was hope that inspired him to take this dangerous three-week journey to Seattle, just for the idea of seeing his family. He quickly packed his bag, making the most of the space. He stuffed in the huge backpack, his sleeping bag, hatchet, knife, radiation pills, enough food for three weeks, water, Advil, his P250 pistol, his MK 20 SSR, and as much ammo as he could carry. It was all he needed for his threeweek odyssey. He quickly unpacked and repacked everything, checking every item. Then, he collapsed on his bed and a wave of emotions passed over him. His feet and hands were aching. His body yearned to survive. His brain was calculating every aspect of his journey. But most of all, his heart longed for his family. Even the hope of them being there was enough to drive him. He let the emotions take over him, exhausting them until his mind cleared. Once it was clear, he relaxed. BEEEEEEP! Joel quickly sat up. His heart racing and his eyes alert. The mere thought of him being late destroyed his mind. Luckily, it quickly cleared as he realized he wasn’t late Thank God, he thought, waves of relief washing over his body. Then, after his mind settled, he resumed business. Joel opened his backpack, and started towards the door. Then he stopped. He looked back at this room, and he realized all the emotions in it. He had spent seven lonely years in it, each day living in the past. Every day wishing he could be with his kids. Every day wishing this never would have happened. And today, today would be the day he starts living in the present. Joel took one last sweeping view of the small room, and then walked out, this time for good. John strolled through the metal corridor of the bunker. He looked around at the bare walls, the non-descript doors, and the harsh creepy light that filled every inch of the hallway. John was going to miss this place in the strangest way. He never liked it, but it was his home 74

Lucas Cansler for these long years. It was the place where he stayed. It was the place where he made some of the first friends that he had had in a long time. That was what he was going to miss mostâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;his friends. Last night, he had said a heartfelt goodbye to each and everyone of them. It was one of the hardest moments ever for him. Saying goodbye to all the people he had shared experiences with, but Joel knew he had to leave. He had to go see his family. He needed to go see them. After taking his last walk through that desolated hallway, he went up the several flights of stairs. At last, he came to the bunker door. This small door was the barrier between his past life and his new life. Joel was determined to make the most of his journey once he stepped outside this door. With one last final glance behind him, Joel rested his hands on the hatchâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s giant wheel. He rested for a second, ready to leave it all behind him. Then, will all his might, Joel twisted open the hatch. This is it, he thought, no going back. He pushed open the door. A blast of air first knocked him off his balance, then filled his lungs with fresh air. After taking a deep breath in, Joel opened his eyes to finally see the outside world. What lay before his eyes was a scene from hell. With each step he took, Joel felt the grainy sand of a nuclear wasteland cover his entire body.

Love Ya No Matter What Emma Gagliano Wilson High School James Gendron I love you as a polar bear That searches for a needle in a haystack For a sewing project. I love you as space that expands Its unknowingness and drinks lemonade. I love you as a pine tree That can hug the world at once While yelling at the moon to be quiet. I love you as a goldfish Which won’t listen to anyone. I can’t imagine right, I’m only Thinking wrong, But I love you as an underwater Ocean with nowhere to go. I love you as time, But time doesn’t have enough, So it will just eat some yogurt Instead. I love ya no matter what.

Nonsense Samantha Lonie Madison High School Kathleen Lane You are standing on the edge of a vast body of water, your bare feet just one small inch from touching it. This means that whatever you do, don’t move forward. You are not allowed to touch that pure blue beast, ever. In fact, you should probably back away slowly, before it tries to lick you. That’s it, farther, farther, stop. You’re good. Now, you have listened very well so far, but this is only the beginning. In order to continue on safely through this journey, you must follow my instructions very carefully, until the end. If you fail to do so, then there is no telling what your fate will be. Got that? What? Oh, no no no, dear, that’s a surprise. Only after your journey is complete will you know what it was for. Okay, come along now. We are wasting time with this unnecessary chitchat. First things first. We need to figure out how to get you across this water without making contact with it, which, I admit, may be a little tricky. Let’s observe the surroundings, shall we? See anything useful? Nope? Look harder. Still nothing? Jeez, you are bad at this game. Come on, use your imagination. Think! The answers aren’t always going to be obvious. What’s that you say? You don’t want to think? Well if that’s the kind of attitude you’re going to have, then get out of here! You failed! Bye! Try again later! Hey, where are you going? Come back. I’m just messing with you, kid, goodness gracious! This sure is going to be a long trip. But seriously, use your brain. No, I can’t help you. Okay, I guess I can give you a little hint. What you see is what you need. Yes, that’s the hint, and no, I’m not kidding. Now now, no need to get frustrated with me. I’m sorry, but that’s all the help I can give you. Don’t worry, you’ll figure it out eventually. Hopefully sooner than later though, because frankly, we are wasting precious time here. Huh? What?! Where am I?! Oh, I must have dozed off there, sorry. What’s that you say? You figured it out? Well, it sure took you long enough. Never mind that, let’s get a move on. Wait a minute, we already made it across? Spectacular! Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, it’s okay. No need to bore me with the details. All that’s important now is that we keep moving forward. Got that? Never look back because it’s all about what’s ahead of you. So, here is where your adventure gets interesting. Unlike the first part, challenges are constantly going to be hurled your way, one after the other. This is why it is very important that you stay calm and collected. Are you listening to me? We don’t have much time before they start and you need to hear these things before they do. If you see something, don’t see it. If you hear something, don’t hear it. Don’t stop, don’t hesitate. If you do, then they will grab hold of you tight and never let you go. Like Dory says in Finding Nemo, “Just keep swimming, just keep swimming.” You know that movie? No? Really? What a shame. Anyways, do you understand the rules? Good. Ah, here comes the first challenge now. Better start running. Go, go, go! Faster, faster, faster! Please, hurry! Run, jump, do a somersault, I don’t care! Okay, not to alarm you, but this is turning into a dire situation. You have exactly ten seconds to get there before it’s too late. Don’t panic! I told you: whatever you do, don’t panic! Come on! You can do this! You are almost there! Just a few more steps, and . . . you made it! Phew, what a relief. That 77

Samantha Lonie was definitely too close for comfort. Okay, get up, no time for a nap. Next task: You see that lumpy round thing on that hook over there? Grab it. Reeeeeeaaaaaach. Come on, you’ve got this. It’s so close. You have it in your fingertips, just a little bit mooooorrre. Ah! You dropped it! Calm down, it’s okay. You made a mistake, yes, but I assure you, we can recover from it. All you have to do is not let this faze you. There may be consequences, but just accept them with gusto and move on. Nope, I’m already past that, and you should be too. Look, it’s the end of your journey just around the bend. Quick, go take a peek at the treasure. What? It’s just a stupid ol’ mirror? Are you sure? There’s no hidden treasure box or anything like that? No? Just an empty cement room with a mirror in the middle? Hm. Well, you know what that means, right? No, silly, it means that you are the treasure. Everything that you needed was within you all along, so basically you were just searching for yourself the whole time. Pretty mind blowing stuff, huh? No? Too deep for you? Ah, it’s okay. Hey! Now I know you are upset, but that’s no reason to talk to me like that. I don’t control what lies at the end, I’m merely the guide. If you have a complaint, take it up with headquarters. Also, although you may think that you just wasted all that time and energy on nothing, it’s not true. Trust me, one day you’ll understand and appreciate what this journey was all about. Well, hopefully you will, because otherwise you did do all that stuff for nothing. For now, just go to bed and get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning. Maybe.

The Dealer Tamdin Lathsang Grant High School Serena Crawford Matthew Fallon Helkey opens the door to his rickety two-story house on Powell and 82nd and walks out as if he has no control of his legs and with two bulging sanguine eyes. To anyone walking past his house for the first time they would think that he was just having a bad day or that he had no control over his life, but to the people of the neighborhood this was a pretty normal thing. Matthew walks through his once-white fence and over to his Lamborghini Veneto, where he opens the door and puts a parcel that is hidden under his arm in the passenger seat. He puts his car into drive and is ready for his routine day at work. As Matthew drives down 82nd then turns onto Sandy, he takes a joint filled with marijuana and lights it. He inhales from the joint three times, and then exhales all the smoke through his nose with a little chuckle coming out like Lil’ Wayne. Matthew quickly speeds down Sandy, turns right on 39th, and then pulls into McDonalds, coming to a complete stop. Matthew steps out of the car now in a black trench coat with his parcel tucked in the inside pocket of his trench coat. He walks down Tillamook until he gets to Grant Park where he waits until 12:45 on the dot. At 12:45, an all-black Cadillac pulls up right in front of Matthew and a five foot eleven inch white man steps out of the car with the same sanguine eyes as Matthew had had when he left his house. The white manpower walks to Matthew and in a shaky voice said, “Is it legit?” Matthew acknowledges him with a nod and gets his hand out of his pocket to signal that he wants the money. With a trembling hand the white man digs through his jean pockets until he comes across a roll of twenty-dollar bills and hands it to Matthew. “It’s all there, all $1250 of it is all there,” the white man says while nodding his head vigorously. Matthew looks at the money for a while and hands the parcel to the white man who grabs the parcel and drives away as soon as he got what he wanted. Matthew walked back to his car thinking about his past at Grant High School as the basketball and football superstar, what he is doing with his life at the moment not having an actual job, and where he might be in the near or distant future, maybe in jail. Instead of going home after his delivery, Matthew decides to take a little stroll through Martin Luther King Blvd. Matthew rides down MLK until he comes across all the drug addicts. Matthew has been doing this same thing almost every day for the past thirteen years. He pulls up in a no parking zone, gets out of his car and smiles at all the drug addicts. He walks over and gives all the potheads a hug, all the cocaine addicts a little wave, the heroin addicts a high five, and all the shroom heads a fat wet kiss on the cheek. Matthew gets back in his car and drives down MLK when he sees a basketball hoop that looks as if it hadn’t been used in years lying on the ground. He comes to a stop and walks over to the hoop and gives it a little push putting it back upright and walked back to his car and started to drive to the cleaner part of town. Matthew drives through the cleaner neighborhood as if he had driven through it a million times until he pulls up to the biggest house in the whole neighborhood. As Matthew pulls up the world-famous Jack Johnson walks out and greets his old friend with a loving hug and invites him 79

Tamdin Lathsang inside. As they walk into the 3,000,000 square foot house Matthew trips on Jack’s $300,00 bust and shatters it. Jack waves it off and they continue to walk to Jack’s secret room behind his thirty by forty foot portrait of him. Inside there are millions of parcels just as Matthew had given to the white man just that afternoon. Matthew hands Jack the $1250 he got from the white guy, and Jack gives Matthew three 100 dollar bills that he shoved in his back pocket. As usual, Matthew would get another parcel and make another delivery as he had done since he graduated from college with a degree in finance, but today was a little different. Jack walked into his secret room, but instead of returning with another parcel he came out with a 9mm steel plate revolver from 1923. “I have a big shipment coming in from Puerto Rico, and I need your expertise to do the hand off to my next client. You’ve been with me for a long thirteen years Matthew,” Jack said with the revolver spinning on the tip of his finger. “This will be your last job, so if you can pull this off, Matthew, then I’ll look after your family for the rest of my life and put them all in my will right after the transaction is made.” “But if you don’t,” he said pointing the gun at Matthew, “Then I’m going to have to kill every single person that is in your family whether it be your great grandma to your youngest child. I’ll kill them all with the gun that’s in my hand right now. So make me proud with this last shipment, alright, Matthew?” With that Matthew ran to his Lamborghini, put it in sport mode, and sped off as fast as he could. The next morning Matthew woke up with his bed soaking wet; at first he thought that he had wet his bed again, but it turned out that he had just been sweating a lot in his sleep. He took a shower thinking about what he was actually going to do with his life after the shipment was delivered, and decided on what his dream jobs were going to be. He walked out of the shower, hugged his four-year-old son Konjo, kissed his wife Lashona, and drove off to make the last delivery of his life with a different parcel under his arm. The shipment wasn’t as bad as Jack had made Matthew feel as though it was. He just had to hand off 2000 pounds of cocaine to one of the richest people in Portland: Mark Zukerburg. Matthew received the $3,000,000 from Mark with a check and gave the check to Jack. Now it was time for Jack to hold his end of the bargain. “You’ve made me a proud man Matthew, now I’ll just put everyone in your family in my will.” Jack wrote Matthew’s, Konjo’s, and Lashona’s names in his will and Jack gave the three of them a huge hug as if he was their father or grandfather. Konjo and Lashona left the room to make some cornbread for dinner. When they were far away enough Matthew pulled out his special parcel which contained a 10mm iron plated automatic with a silencer. Matthew held the gun up to Jacks temple, “You were like the father I never had, but now I know the reason that I never had a father. It was because he did all the jobs I did but after his last big job you killed him with your little revolver, but now it’s time for you to die,” and Matthew pulled the trigger. Since Jack died and the only people on his will were Matthew, Konjo, and Lashona they got all his money, his business, and everything else that he owned. Matthew is now a football and basketball coach at Grant High School so he can help all the young high school students live out the dream that he could never get to. And that was the end of Matthew Fallon Helkey’s ties to anything illegal including the usage of drugs.

How to be a Basketball Star Dylan Blazevic Wilson High School James Gendron You’ve forgotten where Your skills are, huh? Did you Check the gym? Or maybe The fridge, a piece of some Milk would help; or the Bathroom…or even the Football field, runnin around Hitting people. But if you really Want to be a basketball Star, you’re gonna have to Eat a lot of junk food And sleep in the washing Machine with lions and tigers And bears oh my!

Sith Anguish Mason Sykes Metropolitan Learning Center Carl Adamshick I wake up to the taste of blood in my own parched mouth. My throat burns from the screaming…the screaming! Memories return, The massacre, The fight, The lava. Damn you, Obi-Wan, You were the closest thing I had to a father, And now you’ve betrayed me, Along with all the other Jedi The Jedi that now lie dead in the temple Or on various worlds. I feel the searing, scorching, stinging after-burn Of that infernal lava, You cut off my legs and left me to die A slow, painful death, Obi-Wan. I taste something metallic That’s not blood. Wait, what? I open my eyes, I must be bleeding out, The world is tinted red, Then my eyes come into focus And I see the yellow HUD icons And the cold, clinical, sterile, Grey-toned med bay, And Palpatine, my new Master. But where’s—Wait! Another memory surfaces, My eternal love lying dead on the floor, I speak. “Padme. Is she all right?” I reel at hearing myself, This cold, synthetic, deep semi-monotone Coming from my hoarse throat 82

Mason Sykes Hoarse from repeated screaming. I notice the smell, The stench Of burnt flesh, Burnt hair, And scentless filtered neutral air With extra oxygen added. I hear Master reply, “It seems that, in your rage, you killed her.” NO!! That can’t be! Flash of anger, She was alive! I felt it through the Force! “No! She’s alive! I felt it!” I snap, “She is dead,” Master replies. The red-tinted world goes blurry as an underwater photo, Blurry with whatever tears that weren’t scorched away Making their final bid for freedom, Blind rage, glass breaks, Newfound dark force shatters vials, beakers, and medical droids, Self-loathing over Padme’s death, Wordless, indescribable anguish, Faceless anger at this cruel galaxy, Anger at Obi-Wan, it must be his fault, It must be, it must……… NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Writers in the Schools Carl Adamshick is a poet who recently won the Walt Whitman Award and the Oregon Book Award for his collection of poems, Curses and Wishes. Lorraine Bahr is an award-winning actress, playwright, and director. She teaches Acting at Portland State University, Washington and Oregon high schools, and at Young Musicians & Artists; she is co-founder and Associate Artistic Director of Sowelu Ensemble Theater in Portland. Lorraine is also a regular performer for Portland Playhouse. Her produced plays include Life Alone, Bottomless, Count Time, Charlie Stone, and Live Nude Fear. Her monologue, “Eight Break-ups” has been published in Poetry Northwest. Alex Behr is a writer, editor, and musician. After receiving an MFA in creative writing from Portland State, she taught creative and technical writing at Saturday Academy, Portland State, and Chemeketa Community College. She dredged up embarrassing sections of her teenage diaries for the comedy show Mortified, performing in various U.S. cities. Her short stories, interviews, and essays have appeared in Oregon Humanities, Utne Reader, Tin House, The Rumpus, Lumina, NPR.org, Boneshaker, and Propeller Quarterly. Alex has had a long career in educational publishing. Recently, she ghostwrote numerous adventures, romances, and ghost stories for struggling readers. Carmen T. Bernier-Grand is the author of eleven books for children and young adults. Three of her biographies have received Pura Belpré Author Honor Awards. She teaches writing at Wordstock, Writers in the Schools, and the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts MFA program. In 2008, the Oregon Library Association’s Children’s Division gave her the Evelyn Sibley Lampman Award for her significant contributions to the children of Oregon in the field of children’s literature. Bernier-Grand grew up in Puerto Rico, but now lives with her husband and bilingual dog in Portland, Oregon. Serena Crawford’s fiction has appeared in Epoch, Other Voices, Ascent, Another Chicago Magazine, The Greensboro Review, Nimrod, Hawaii Review, Sonora Review, The Florida Review, and elsewhere. The recipient of fellowships from Literary Arts and the National Endowment for the Arts, she holds an MFA from the University of Oregon, where she also taught creative writing. Lisa Eisenberg is a cartoonist and illustrator. Her comics have appeared in the anthologies Papercutter, So…Buttons, Bearfight!, Digestate, Runner Runner, and The Strumpet. Since 2008 she has selfpublished the series I Cut My Hair, a collection of fiction and nonfiction comics. She is a teaching artist with Young Audiences and a Comics Certificate Program Advisor at the Independent Publishing Resource Center. Lisa has also taught comics classes at Open Meadow Middle School, Stumptown Comics Fest, and Caldera. She is currently at work on a graphic novel. Casey Fuller has worked as an auto detailer, burrito roller, fruit vendor, note taker, office worker, and most recently as a forklift driver in a warehouse where he wrote poems during his breaks. He 84

received his MFA from the Rainier Writing Workshop at Pacific Lutheran University in 2009. His poems have appeared in Crab Creek Review, The Portland Review, Two Hawks, PALABRA, and other places. He is the winner of the Jeanne Lohmann Poetry Award, a Here Today art grant, and the Floating Bridge Chapbook Award for his book, A Fort Made of Doors. He currently lives in Portland, Oregon, with his wife Katrina, and two cats, Monty and Garcia Lorca. But he is originally from Olympia, Washington, which means he has a somewhat adversarial relationship with Portland, as Portland stole Olympia’s best bands. James Gendron is the author of Sexual Boat (Sex Boats) and the chapbook Money Poems. He was born in Portland, Maine, and lives in Portland, Oregon, where he teaches writing at Portland State University. Jonathan Hill is a cartoonist and illustrator. His first graphic novel, Americus, a collaboration with MK Reed, has garnered a handful of accolades including YALSA 2012 Best Graphic Novel for Teens Nominee, ABC New Voices 2011 Title, Graphic Novel Reporter Best of 2011, and the 2012 Carla Cohen Free Speech Award. He currently freelances, teaches comics classes at the Oregon College of Art and Craft, and is working on two new graphic novels and a children’s book. John Isaacson is a cartoonist and writer whose comics and journalism have appeared in the Willamette Week, The East Bay Express, The Santa Barbara Independent, and the Side B and Bridge Project anthologies. His first graphic novel, Do It Yourself Screen-Printing, was published in 2007. He currently self-publishes a mini-comic, Feedback, which reviews concerts by local bands in comic form. Apricot Anderson Irving is a writer and audio producer whose work has appeared on This American Life as well as in Granta, Tin House, Oregon Humanities, MORE Magazine and The Best Women’s Travel Writing. She is the founder and director of the Boise Voices Oral History Project and the recipient of a Rona Jaffe Writer’s Award and a Literary Arts Fellowship. She teaches Creative Nonfiction part-time at PSU, has lived on three continents and loves adventures with her wild, inventive boys. Ramiza Koya’s fiction and nonfiction have appeared in publications such as Washington Square Review, Lumina, and Catamaran, and she has been a fellow at both MacDowell Colony and Blue Mountain Center. She has both a BA and an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College, and has taught in Spain, the Czech Republic, and Morocco. In addition to teaching composition courses, she also works as a freelance writer and editor. She is currently an adjunct instructor at Portland Community College. Kathleen Lane is a fiction writer, visiting artist at Pacific Northwest College of Art, and co-creator of the art & literary event series SHARE. Her stories have been published by Swink Magazine, Chronicle Books, Poor Claudia, Coal City Review, and others. Before Portland she was a staff writer for Wieden + Kennedy Amsterdam and co-founder of ART 180, a nonprofit in Richmond, Virginia that gives kids living in challenging circumstances a voice through the arts.

Timothy S. Lane graduated from the University of Oregon with a journalism degree and worked as a sports reporter for The Molalla Pioneer before pursuing a career in publishing in New York City. His writing has appeared in The Good Men Project and Pology. He lives with his wife in Portland, Oregon. Amy Minato is author of a memoir, Siesta Lane, published in 2009 and a poetry collection, The Wider Lens, published in 2004. Her poetry has appeared in Wilderness Magazine, Poetry East, Windfall, Cimarron Review, and The Oregonian Poetry Corner, and has been recognized with a 2003 Oregon Literary Arts Fellowship. She teaches creative writing independently and through Fishtrap, Breitenbush, Sitka, and Opal Creek. Lee Montgomery is the author of The Things Between Us, Whose World Is This?, and Searching for Emily: Illustrated. The Things Between Us received the 2007 Oregon Book Award in creative nonfiction and Whose World Is This? received the 2007 John Simmons Iowa Short Fiction Award and was a finalist for the Ken Kesey Award in Fiction in 2008. Montgomery’s work has appeared in publications such as the New York Times magazine, Glimmer Train, Black Clock, Iowa Review, Denver Quarterly, Story Magazine, Alaska Quarterly, the Santa Monica Review and the Antioch Review, among many others. Montgomery has also worked as an editor. She was the fiction editor of the Iowa Review, the editor of the Santa Monica Review, senior editor for Dove Books, executive editor for Tin House magazine, and the associate publisher and editorial director of Tin House Books. She lives with her husband and daughter in Portland, Oregon. Mark Pomeroy grew up in northeast Portland. He has received an Oregon Literary Fellowship for fiction and a residency at Caldera Arts. His short stories, poems, and essays have appeared in Open Spaces, The Wordstock 10, Portland Magazine, The Oregonian, the Waco Tribune-Herald, and What Teaching Means: Stories from America’s Classrooms. A former classroom teacher, he holds an MA in English Education from Teachers College, Columbia University, where he was a Fellow in Teaching. He’s also an editor for Spoonwiz, a culinary website, www.spoonwiz.com. He lives with his family in northeast Portland, where he’s at work on a novel. Melissa Reeser Poulin is an award-winning poet and writer. She received her MFA from Seattle Pacific University. Her work has appeared in Calyx, Catamaran Literary Journal, Ruminate Magazine, Sugar House Review, and Water~Stone Review, among other publications. Melissa has worked on organic farms and is currently editing an anthology of new writing on bees (wingedbook.com). Carter Sickels is the author of the novel The Evening Hour, a Finalist for the 2013 Oregon Book Award, the Lambda Literary Debut Fiction Award, and the Publishing Triangle Edmund White Debut Fiction Award. Carter is winner of the 2013 Lambda Literary Emerging Writer Award, and the recipient of a 2013 project grant from the Regional Arts & Culture Council. Carter has taught creative writing classes for the Attic Institute, Hugo House, and Gotham Writers’ Workshop. He is currently Visiting Faculty for West Virginia Wesleyan’s Low Residency MFA Program. Carter lives in Portland, Oregon.

Desmond Spann is on a mission to motivate and inspire positive changes in people’s lives while having a crapload of fun. Under the name DLUXTL (TL=The Light) he performs spoken word, plays keyboard with Hip-Hop fusion band Speaker Minds, emcees (rap), and produces. He has dedicated his life to creating more passionate people who express themselves freely. Desmond uses rap, poetry, and performance as vehicles to encourage students to be bold in finding their unique voice. Poet-dramatist Cindy Williams Gutiérrez collaborates with musicians, thespians, and visual artists. Her collection, the small claim of bones, is forthcoming from Bilingual Press (Arizona State University). Poems and reviews appear in Borderlands, Calyx, Harvard’s Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion, UNAM’s Periódico de poesía, Portland Review, and Rain Taxi. Her CD, “Emerald Heart,” reimagines Aztec poetry accompanied by pre-Hispanic music. Her plays have been produced by Milagro and Insight Out Theatre Collective. Cindy earned an MFA from the University of Southern Maine and teaches youth through the Portland Art Museum, Right Brain Initiative, Wordstock, and Writers in the Schools. Matt Zrebski is a multi-award winning playwright, composer, script consultant, teaching artist, and producer-director whose career has been defined by new play development. As an Artistic Director, he mounted over 40 world premieres, and has had several of his plays produced, including Texting the Sun, 1 ½, Big Sis, and Ablaze. As the Resident Teaching Artist at Portland Center Stage, he teaches playwriting through Visions and Voices, and is on staff for Acting Academy at Oregon Children’s Theatre. Zrebski holds a BFA in Theatre from the Meadows School of the Arts at Southern Methodist University.