VOICES
WITS Digital Chapbooks 2012-2013 Vol. II
VOICES
Vol. II
VOICES 2012-2013 Digital Chapbooks Vol. II 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, Executive Director Jenny Chu Lydah DeBin Susan Denning Jennifer Gurney Mary Rechner Evan P. Schneider Mel Wells
WITS Interns
Acacia Blackwell Eleanor Piper
Board Of Directors
Susheela Jayapal, Chair Betsy Amster Rick Comandich Alice Cuprill-Comas Rebecca DeCesaro Theo Downes-Le Guin Marie Eckert Robert Geddes Pamela Smith Hill Amy Carlsen Kohnstamm Frank Langfitt John Meadows Jessica Mozeico-Blair
Amy Prosenjak James Reinhart Barry Sanders Jacqueline Willingham Thomas Wood
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
Digital Chapbooks Staff
Editors: Mel Wells Designer: Rebekah Volinsky 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 Support Introduction Silent Heart
Trask Dawley
French Restaurant Sami King
My Neighbor is a Dead Window Replacer Kai Russell
Lost Boys, Lost Girls: Watching the World Burn Aydan Foster
December
Jasmine Peters
Daniel Berrigan Gabriel Lakey
A Funny Way to Get Back at You Hana Warmflash
Snooper No Snoopin’ Robby Wilson
The Victorious Tank James Dawson
Insignificant Breaths
Kendall Marlia-Cooper
My Eaten Demon Kathryn Gomez
Deplored Relations Kari Mann
The Brony
Alexis Lytle
The Darkstride Chronicals: The Initiation Zachary Bancroft
vii ix xiii
15 17 19 21 23 25 31 33 35 37 39 41 45 47
Without my P.F.
Guirena Santa Cruz
The Final
Daniel Kelley
Unknown Outcomes
Angelic Plata Delvalle
We Are Viewed
Tihanne Mar-shall
Jump
Zoey Dickson
Being Lenient Simon Chau
Girl Misjudged Lilly Lee
The Mask
Kario Galash
Kuebiko
Nicholas Rodriguez
Buffalo, Buffalo Alex Vischer
The Years
Luna Helus
What’s In The Box? Roy Wyss
Library
Trystan Stephens-Tregarth
Exile
Gloria Alvarez
This Poem Is Not Allowed Michael Watson
Settling Matters
Xander Ahumada
Portland, Oregon Allison Dietz
Body Bag
Carlos Figueroa
If The War
Cullen Recktenwold
Bridge
Leonardo Hernandez
Obsidian Death Andy Lower
Injustice
Mongzong Lo
49 51 53 55 57 59 61 65 67 69 71 73 75 79 81 83 85 87 89 91 93 95
Dead Men Walking Stephen Kennedy
How To Take Care Of Kids Christian Nine
Two Different Lives Tom Nguyen
Writers in the Schools
97 99 101 103
Writers In The Schools
Writers-In-Residence
Carl Adamshick, Lorraine Bahr, Carmen Bernier-Grand, Chuck Carlise, Lisa Rosalie Eisenberg, Elyse Fenton, Amanda Gersh, Cindy Williams GutiĂŠrrez, Javier Hernandez, Jonathan Hill, Hunt Holman, John Isaacson, Sara Jaffe, Ramiza Koya, Jennifer Lauck, Amy Minato, Laura Moulton, Mark Pomeroy, Ismet Prcic, Joseph Rogers, Desmond Spann, Matt Zrebski
Visiting Authors
Sherman Alexie, Nikky Finney, Stephen Greenblatt, Javier Hernandez, Anis Mojgani, Jeffrey Toobin
Participating Teachers
Amy Ambrosio, Gene Brunak, Sandra Childs, JoAnna Coleman, Stephanie D’Cruz, Jerry Eaton, Jennifer Edelson, Bianca Espinosa, Lise Flores, Stefanie Goldbloom, John Golden, Ben Grosscup, Jordan Gutierner, Emily Hensley, David Hillis, Cindy Irby, Tom Kane, Stephen Lambert, Dylan Leeman, Barb Macon, Darryl Miles, Irene Montano, Steve Naganuma, Amanda-Jane Nelson, Michele Potestio, Mary Rodeback, Alicia Smith, Kris Spurlock, Norman Stremming, Dana Vinger, Virginia Warfield, Elisa Wong, Tracey Wyatt
Participating Principals
Petra Callin, Carol Campbell, Peyton Chapman, Brian Chatard, Kelli Clark, Paul Cook, Shay James, A.J. Morrison, Vivian Orlen, Macarre Traynham, Charlene Williams
District Liaison Melissa Goff
Support The following individuals, businesses and foundations made Writers in the Schools a success in 2012-2013:
Sponsors
Lisa C. Alan Carole Alexander Sally & John Anderson Anonymous Ray & Jean Auel Cari Bacon Flick Bill Bagnall & Clayton Lloyd Kimberly Bakken LinaBeth Barber Rosemary Barrett Tom & Molly Bartlett Kim Batcheller Dianne Bocci Diane Boly Boora Architects Tom & Kristen Boothe
Gloria Borg Olds Nancy & Roderick Boutin Evie Brim Kathleen Bristow Richard L. Brown Richard T. Brown & Ruth Robbins Peggy Busick Karyle Butcher Petra Callin Claire Carder Victoria Carey Doris Carlsen Amy Carlsen Kohnstamm & Kevin Kohnstamm Christine Carr Elizabeth Carter & Cary Sneider Santha Cassell Nicole Castonguay Brent & Barbara Chalmers Peyton Chapman Clark & Susan Chipman Jan A. Christensen Joan Cirillo & Roger Cooke Olivia Clark & Dennis Mulvihill Ava Jan Clements The Collins Foundation Rick Comandich & Maya Muir Anne Conway Mary Louise & W. Bruce Cook Deborah & Jim Coonan Tom & Barbara Cooney David & Denise Corey Neale & Marian Creamer Alice Cuprill-Comas & Richard M. Short Eloise Damrosch Michael E. Davalt Cheryl & John Dawson Charles H. Deaver Rebecca & Michael DeCesaro
Becky Denham, M.D. Susan & Michael Denning Loree A. Devery & Robert J. Trachtenberg Margaret Dey David & Julie Dietzler Terrence Dolan & Catherine Blosser Theodore & Nancy Downes-Le Guin Anne Draper Veronica Duczek Paul & Francesca Duden Carol Duncan Justin Dune & Carol Sanders Jo J. Durand Heidi W. Durrow & Darryl Wash Broadway Books Ann P. Edlen Tina Edlund & Sydney Edlund-Jermain Sheila Edwards-Lienhart Sue & Ed Einowski Nancy Ellis Susan Elmer Ann & Ron Emmerson Et Fille Wines Laura Evans Kendra & David Farris Jeanette Feldhousen Myron Filene Stephanie Fine First Tech Federal Credit Union Nancy Fishman Liz Fitzpatrick Ellen Fortin & Michael Tingley Frederica Frager Jacqueline Frank Holley & Richard Franklin Richard Frantz Julie Frantz Terri Freeman Marilynn Friley The Heathman Hotel Bob Geddes Janice Geier Diana Gerding Jane Glazer Barbara Hall Philip S. Harper Foundation Virginia Harris Scott Bianca Hart Susan Hathaway-Marxer & Larry Marxer
Jane Heisler Betsy Henning Edward & Leah Hershey Nancy Hogarth The Holzman Foundation, Inc Terri & Robert Hopkins Mary Jo Hurley & Lynn Miller Kurt Hutton & Melissa Burch Irwin Foundation Paul & Jane Jacobsen Shay James Susheela Jayapal & Brad Miller Brita Johnson & Allen Poole Grant & Elaine Jones Lisa Jordan & Judith George Elizabeth S. Joseph Juan Young Trust Marjorie Kafoury Diane Kendall Anne Kepner Kate Kilberg Kinder Morgan Foundation Marianne King Margaret King Barbara Kingsolver Tamara & Ronald Kizziar Knowledge Universe Susan & Rick Koe Cathy Koerner BettyLou Koffel Jon & Karen Kruse Laurie LaBathe Tracy Laidley James Lain Maude Lamont Susan Lane Frank Langfitt & Mary Janet Steen Linda Larsen-Wheatley Irwin Lavenberg Ursula & Charles Le Guin Graeme & Martha Leggatt Kirsten & Christopher Leonard Shannon Leonetti Jane & Robert Lightell Anne Lipsitz Melissa Maag Kathryn Madison & Jeffrey Wertz Phillip M. Margolin Carolyn & Thomas Marieb
Linda Marshall Mary Martinez Robert Matheson Carol Mayer-Reed & Michael Reed Monique McCLean & Lars Topelmann William & Susan McConnell Pete McDowell Brad & Julie McMurchie John Meadows & Libby Barber Brenda L. Meltebeke & Scott K. Stuart Rob & Kate Melton David & Debbie Menashe Toinette & Victor Menashe Anne Mendel & Mark Henry Courtney L. Mersereau Dr. Elizabeth & Dr. Brock Metcalf Ruth & Arnold Metz Lora & Jim Meyer Kelly Middleton James F. & Marion L. Miller Foundation Deidra Miner Fern Momyer Douglas & Candace Morgan Connie Morgan Margaret Morton Mona Mozeico Jessica Mozeico-Blair & Jordan Blair Multnomah County Cultural Coalition V. Annette Murphy The Nara Fund Elizabeth Neely Joanne Nehler Tom & Chris Neilsen Jennifer Neilson Johanna Nelson & James Bohem Amy Nist Katherine O'Neil & Toby Graff Jan & Steve Oliva Carol Olwell Irja Orav Mary Oschwald Jo Ellen Osterlind Pacific Northwest Law, LLP Ellen Payne Bonnie Peterson Andie Petkus Photography Nita Pettigrew Nancy Phillips Heather Pinney & George Penk
David Pollock Nancy & Dick Ponzi Portland Monthly Amy Prosenjak Michael & Alisa Pyszka Wendy Rahm Bonnie & Peter Reagan Leslie Rennie-Hill & Ken Hill Michelle Reynolds Rae Richen Robin Roberts & John L Backes Rosemarie Rosenfeld Ruth Roth Halle & Rick Sadle Janet Goetze Sanderson Harold & Arlene Schnitzer CARE Foundation Donna Kay Schreiner Anne Scott Sue Sell Norm & Barbara Sepenuk Natalie & Joel Serber Gail Shaloum Manya Shapiro Martha Sharman Stephen & Micky Shields R. Philip & Barbara Silver Lori Singer Shirley A. Skidmore & Ronald E. Quant Kaarin & Van Smith Marjorie M. Smith Shauna Smith Merri Souther Wyatt Barbara Spence Jean Stadamire The Standard Dennis & Ann Stenzel Katherine Stevens Lee Stewart & Chris Sherry Sharon Stewart Micah D. Stolowitz & Shauna Krieger Patricia & Marvin Straughan Greg & Martha Struxness Roslyn & Donald Sutherland Target Herbert A. Templeton Foundation Macarre Traynham Victor Trelawny Elizabeth Tsao U.S. Bancorp Foundation
U.S. Bancorp Foundation, Employee Matching Gifts Ann & Tom Usher Karen Van Vleck Alice Vaux Julie & Ted Vigeland Carolyn Vinton Nancy Walker Kristi Wallace Knight & Eric Wallace Anne Warner Emma Lee & John Weibel Wessinger Foundation Dara Wilk Carolyn Williams Charlene Williams Dr. Diane Williams Janet Williamson Jackie & William Willingham Christina & Reed Wilson Norma L. Winemiller Lynn & Paulette Wittwer Jeff & Lynn Wolfstone Tom & Marcia Wood Steven E. Wynne & Deborah J. Hewitt Linda M. Wysong Dr. Candace Young Morton & Audrey Zalutsky
Community Partners
Annie Bloom’s Books Bipartisan Café Broadway Books Girasole Pizza Glimmer Train Lewis & Clark College Multnomah County Library Oregon Public Broadcasting Portland Art Museum Powell’s Books Reed College Tabor Space Tin House University of Oregon Wordstock Workshop for Teen Artists + Writers at Marylhurst University
Introduction
Dear Reader, The Writers in the Schools program has been serving Portland’s public high school students with creative writing residencies since 1996. In recent years we’ve begun providing additional literary experiences for students off campus. To learn more about Students to the Schnitz, Verselandia! and our College Essay Mentoring Project, go to www.literary-arts.org/wits-home/projects. Last year, 1,124 students participated in semester-long writing residencies taught by local, professional writers during the school day at 11 of the city’s public high schools. Poets, playwrights, journalists, fiction writers, memoirists, and graphic novelists modeled the disciplined passion of a creative life in 44 classrooms. Residencies were planned to deepen existing curricula, and designed to meet state and national standards for the arts and language arts. During the residencies, students wrote, revised, edited, and had the opportunity to publish their writing in our print and digital anthologies. Many also shared their work throughout the city, thanks to our community partners: Annie Bloom’s Books, BiPartisan Café, Bluehour Restaurant, Broadway Books, Girasole Pizza, Portland Art Museum, Powell’s Books, and Tabor Space. You’ll find the three volumes of digital chapbooks brimming with moments both heroic and intimate. I’d like to thank our editor Mel Wells, Literary Arts’ Program Coordinator, along with WITS interns Ellie Piper, a student in the Portland State University MFA program, and Hannah Femling, a student at St. Olaf College. Our digital chapbooks are beautiful due to the work of design intern Rebekah Volinsky; 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 our website where you will find more information on how to give. Mary Rechner Writers in the Schools Program Director
Cleveland High School
I believe in the smell of rain on concrete, the sound of the ocean at night as I remember the face of a person I love, the perfect synchronization of a choir that defines the beautiful and forgotten ancient places of nature, the rush of energy when I’m motivated, the music I listen to that brings sadness as I journey back in time remembering the comfort of childhood as I walk to a forgotten home
Mark Pomeroy
Silent Heart Trask Dawley
15
Lincoln High School
17 Amanda Gersh
French Restaurant Sami King Customer enters nice French restaurant in a nice suit WAITRESS: Hey! Welcome to La Maison. My name is Crystal and I will be your server this evening. Are you ready to order? CUSTOMER: I’m not quite ready to order my entrée but I’ll take the house salad and a Coke to start please. WAITRESS: Ok...um, how do you spell salad? CUSTOMER: Um, S-A-L-A-D? WAITRESS: There is no “E” in it? CUSTOMER: Um, no. WAITRESS: Okay, and do you want the powder form or injection form of coke this evening? CUSTOMER: Excuse you? Are you talking about what I think you are talking about? Why would you think I meant a drug? I was talking about the soda, Coca-Cola? WAITRESS: Oh...oh right! I forgot that was what the soda can be called. Please forgive me, ma’am, for the confusion. Waitress exits Waitress reenters with food and drink WAITRESS: Here you go; have you decided on your entrée? CUSTOMER: Yes, I will have the steak frites. WAITRESS: Enraged What did you just call me? Frit? Are you trying to imply I’m lonely and single? CUSTOMER: NO! It means french fries in French! Puzzled You work in a French restaurant and you don’t know what the choices on the menu mean? How do you not know that? WAITRESS: Oh sorry, I’m new. It sounded offensive. So what type of steak would you like? CUSTOMER: What do you mean?
WAITRESS: You know, chicken, pig, lamb, cat, or cow. “Cow” pronounced “koh” CUSTOMER: Koh? WAITRESS: You know, koh? They go MOO!! Said really loud CUSTOMER: Ohh...You mean cow? Pronounced correctly WAITRESS: No. Koh. absolutely serious CUSTOMER: Okay...I guess I will have the...koh? WAITRESS: Sounds perfect, you just wait here. Scary tone Don’t move. Waitress exits CUSTOMER: Ok.Weird. Drinks soda Waitress reenters WAITRESS: I told you not to move! Why did you move? CUSTOMER: Umm, I was thirsty? WAITRESS: Oh. OK! No problem. Enjoy your soda. Waitress exits CUSTOMER: I’m out of here. Customer exits
Franklin High School
Lisa Eisenberg
My Neighbor is a Dead Window Replacer Kai Russell
19
Meek Pro Tech High School
Jeff sat at the foot of someone’s lawn, staring at nothing. He was completely involved with his own mind. He thought about everything that had happened in the past six months. He felt like he was nothing. Worthless. Nobody. Empty. His hair had got progressively more wet as he sat. It wasn’t raining so much as water was lightly coming down. You could hardly see it, but it was definitely there. “You couldn’t see it, but it was definitely there,” Jeff thought to himself. He didn’t like being on the street. He wanted to go back, not just home, back with the people he loved. He knew he couldn’t, though. He saw nothing but sadness in those streets now. He remembered the last thing his uncle, Rob, told him a month after he stopped going to school and right before he left Berkley. Sitting in the midday fog, Jeff leaned against a building, huddled in his leather jacket, when Rob walked towards him. “Jeff, you’re still alive?” Rob always had a smug, sarcastic tone in his voice, especially when criticizing, “I expected you to have been stabbed by now or at least arrested. Do you plan on going back to school anytime soon? Ha, of course not; you’re too rough for that. Let me tell you something, Jeff, you aren’t hard, or tough; you’re nothing. All you ever have been is nothing. I expected you to be more than this … I expected you to drop out and at least work at a gas station. Your mother would be so disappointed. Have a nice life now.” Jeff always hated him. But he knew he was right. Jeff was now sitting in the same position as he was when Rob kicked the last breath out of his soul, though in probably a more pathetic location. He was at the foot of someone he didn’t know’s lawn in a town he didn’t know of in a state he didn’t know. Jeff didn’t care though; he didn’t have any real plan when he left, so the location didn’t matter. The memories of his uncle floated through Jeff ’s head, his loud, critical voice echoed until he remembered one particular moment: Jeff and his mother were at a dinner with her and Rob’s parents, Jeff ’s grandparents. Rob had been rambling on about how he believes children go wrong without a “proper beating,” and he eventually pointed at a fifteen-year-old, hella punx Jeff, “I mean look at this fucking kid, Ma. Hannah, I bet you’ve never laid one hand on him. See how he turned out.” Rob took a bite out of his chicken leg, but was interrupted by, “Fuck you, Rob.” He looked up from his food and focused his evil, sneering eyes on Jeff and replied, “What did you say to me, you little shit?” Jeff sat up from his slump and repeated slowly, “Fuck you, Rob.” Everyone else at the table was silent. “You have no right to talk to me that way, you little faggot!” Rob’s face burned red, his eyes bulged out of their sockets. “I have every right to talk to you that way, you pathetic, abusive, free-loading waste of space. By the way, how’s your job-hunt goin’? Are you going to be staying here another year or two?” Rob stood up, “That’s it, I’m gonna beat this little disappointment myself.” He moved around the table towards Jeff, but Jeff ’s mom stood up and grabbed him. “You will never lay one finger on my son!” Rob stared furiously into Hannah’s eyes, then pushed past her and stormed out of the house.
Laura Moulton
Lost Boys, Lost Girls: Watching the World Burn Aydan Foster
21
In the car ride back, Jeff slumped into the car seat and remained silent, as he had been most of the night. At a stoplight, he stared into nothing, when he felt his mom’s finger push into his cheek. He looked at her, smiling widely at him and told him, “I’m so proud of you.” Jeff couldn’t help but smile back.
Open Meadow High School
December, as cold as the ocean Winter, the month I will take my first breath. I am the cause of my mother’s feet swelling, the cause of her weight gain. I can hear her heart beat like the bass in a song Her voice likes listening to headphones with music on loud, I can feel the touch of hands on her belly. I kick. There is the touch again. A hand on my home. I can feel her pain By the sound of her voice Like the screams of someone Being stabbed and cut open, it gets colder. It gets bright. My mother. My father. All that pain. December, it’s as cold as the ocean, Her arms, as warm as the sun.
Elyse Fenton
December Jasmine Peters
23
Franklin High School
Lisa Eisenberg
Daniel Berrigan Gabriel Lakey
25
Dear Mom, We stood together, not as individuals but as a group. A group of eight men and one woman. As I walked up the stairs and towards the doors of the Catonsville Draft Board office, I could see the frightened faces of the receptionists and workers, and it gave me confidence. I was the first one to look around the dull building and take in its surroundings. The walls were white and it looked like a box filled with a a bunch of awful furniture. I saw a case filled with draft files and I walk over to them. I started pulling them out and throwing them into a pile. All nine of us started building a mountain of draft files. I heard the voices and felt the stares of the workers as we continued. Thomas Melville and my brother Phillip Berrigan were the first ones to start picking up draft files and carrying them out the door. Then we all joined in, and with wide arms we carried what we can to the parking lot. Some of the workers follow as we continue carrying draft files. Josh Nogan and Tom Lewis brought over the homemade napalm and started pouring it over the draft files. We made a half circle around the mountain of paper. I pulled the box of matches from my pocket and took a match out. I took a deep breath as I struck the match. As soon as it was lit I dropped it onto the files and we all stared at the fire in awe. We all took our own time looking at what was becoming of the files. Some, including my brother, left before others, worried that the police would show, but others stayed awhile with pride in what they had just accomplished. I knew that the police would arrive soon, but I stayed there as long as I could. As soon as I heard the sirens I dashed in the opposite direction, assuming the worst but hoping for the best. As I ran I saw all the confused people as I passed them by. It felt like I ran for hours before I stopped. I could only hope that the rest of my friends had escaped. I went to a friend’s house to find Philip already there. We had to stay there a few days to make sure the police couldn’t find us. Later that night, as I was just finishing dinner, and I heard Philip call my name from the television room. I went and looked at the television to see my picture and name on the FBI’s Most Wanted. I saw that some of my friends had already been caught by the police. After two days of staying at our friend’s, we had to move locations. As we drove we made sure that we weren’t being followed. We passed a courtyard where we saw a bunch of people protesting the Vietnam War. It took every ounce of my being not to get out of the car and speak my mind with them. As we got to our other friend’s house, we made sure to turn on the televisions to hear if any of my other friends had been caught. After ten days on the run, Philip went to go get groceries without me knowing. Within minutes of this discovery, I heard his name mentioned as one of the captured on the FBI’s Most Wanted. I felt angry, unsettled, and sad to hear about it. I decided to take action. I drove around the town until I found a group of protestors. I got in front of them and I let it all out. I let out how the war is awful and questioned how America could dare to participate in it. I felt like I didn’t need to think of what I was going to say; it all just came out. I then heard a protestor yell, “Cops!” and I bolted for the car and started driving. I drove all around Maryland looking for every group of protestors to speak my mind. Half the time I forgot I was on the run, but I was on a journey to speak my mind and boycott the war in the presence of anyone who would listen to me. After two months on the run, I was captured. I may have become a prisoner, but in my heart I remain a free man. I’m here in jail writing to you now and I have decided to write poetry books to pass the time. It brings me solace. I love you, Mom. Sincerely, Your son, Daniel Berrigan
Cleveland High School
June I know that they stare at me. I get it, I’m different. I dress differently, I act differently, I like different things, I just don’t really fit in. High school just isn’t a good place for girls like me. But for them, it’s a whole new story. The popular girls: boys follow them around, girls want to be them, and they basically get whatever they want. They look down on us outcasts and yet we still look up to them. That’s just what high school is. But back to me. I’m June, the biggest class outcast. I definitely don’t fit in with the popular kids, not the smart kids, the drama freaks, the band geeks, the jocks, the gamers, or the drop-out losers. I’m just me. I’ve tried making friends but it doesn’t work. Most of the time I wish that I could just be left alone with my weird habits, like my rye bread, mayo, tomato, pickle sandwiches. Yeah, people don’t seem to appreciate that one very much. Like I said, I just don’t really fit in, and the other students take that to mean that I’m stupid. They literally talk to me like I can’t understand what’s happening in class. Like, for real? Just because I don’t like to talk to them means I’m not smart? Even little miss popular, Clara Michelle, who can’t even spell her name correctly half the time, talks to me like she knows more than me. Like last year, back in our eighth grade Spanish class, we were assigned to work on a project together, so she comes up to me and says: mi yah-mow es Kuh-lare-a. And I had to deal with her terribly enunciated speaking for a whole week. Then, when I, yes me, by myself, did the project, she went and presented it, took all the credit, thanked our teacher for teaching her such ‘good Spanish’ and the worst part is, the teacher congratulated her on helping a struggling student (me) and she was given a standing ovation in class. How does this stuff even happen in real life? Now the whole grade thinks I’m dumber than a pile of poo, because that Barbie-doll helped me, so, I decided that if I ever came across a chance to get back at her, in just a small way, I’d take it. And that’s why, when I saw my opportunity at the grocery store, I took it. See, I was just walking along, singing quietly under my breath as I listened to my iPod, looking for some food, when I saw her watching me out of the corner of my eye... Clara’s just standing there, looking at me, and when she calls my name a plan starts to hatch in my mind; it’s not much of a plan, but I would definitely laugh. She calls my name again, so I walk away, still singing, hoping she’ll follow me, and she does. It was really that easy. Clara So this weekend, I was over at a friend’s house. There were a few of us over and we started to get hungry, so we decided to go to the grocery store. We got there, and being the immature teenagers we are, we started to run around, collecting all sorts of stuff. As I passed an aisle I heard a voice talking, barely speaking, just above a whisper. The voice sounded familiar so I turned into the aisle. It’s her, the weird girl from school, June, I remember, that one girl I helped. She’s just pacing, talking under her breath, all alone. I can’t make out what she’s saying. I just don’t get what’s up with this girl. You see, she sits over in the corner of the cafeteria everyday, and eats her sandwich. Every time it’s the same, two slices of rye bread, slathered with mayo, tomatoes and pickles plastered to the sauce. I don’t
Sara Jaffe
A Funny Way to Get Back at You Hana Warmflash
31
understand how she can eat that, it’s just so gross. Each day she sits there, alone, the class outcast. It’s not like people don’t like her, she’s super pretty, and she was really nice when we worked on that Spanish project together back in middle school. I helped her and presented it for her because I know she’s really shy and doesn’t like to do that. Plus, I really helped her with her Spanish (because it wasn’t very good) and she seemed appreciative. Yet every time I make eye contact with her, she quickly turns her head away. I’ve tried being nice, like, I told her I liked her outfit, when really I didn’t. I just don’t get it, why she looks at me weirdly afterwards; it’s a compliment, duh… “Hey June!” I say. “ Whatcha doin’ here?” She doesn’t respond; instead she walks out the other end of the aisle, still talking to herself, leaving me standing there alone. Maybe she just hadn’t heard me; I doubt she was trying to be rude, so I follow her. “June!” I repeat. “Hey! Wait up!” But she just keeps on walking. I see her get to the produce section. Slowly she walks past the huge assortment of apples, past all the lettuce and vegetables in the compartment that sprays them with water. Then she comes to the tomatoes. She takes her time just standing there, staring. I can’t stop watching her. One by one she picks up each tomato and inspects is. She tests them by sniffing each one, holding them up to her ear. “Hey, what’re you doing?” I ask, standing right behind her. “They’re talking to me.” Ok, now she’s just messing with me; she must have heard me back there, right? “Uh, well, ok then...I’ll just be going now,” I say. “Wait!” She calls after me. I walk back and she holds the big, red tomato up to my face. “Listen to it,” she commands, holding it up to my ear. “Listen to its little voice, speaking, asking to be eaten.” I hold it up to my ear, just playing along, trying to be polite. “Eat me… Put me in your sandwich and eat me.” I scream! The tomato was actually talking to me! That’s when I hear her laughing; it was her all along—she was messing with me. I knew it! That little brat! All those times I’ve tried to be nice to her, what do I get? As she starts to walks away, I grab a tomato, turn around, and throw it right at the back of her head. June SPLASH My head whips forward as something hits my head. I reach back and feel this gloop, filled with tiny little seeds—a tomato. I turn around to see Clara, left hand on hip, with another tomato in hand, ready to fire. I run over to the eggs, open up a carton, and start whipping them at her. Soon enough, fruits and veggies are flying, both of us are covered in condiments, raw meat is everywhere, and I’m laughing. I can’t hold it in any longer; I fall to the floor laughing. She comes over, looking at me like I’m crazy, which might not be untrue at the moment. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out, “I just thought it would be a funny way to get back at you.” “Ge-get back at me? For what?” she asks, shocked. “Remember that Spanish project we did last year? Well, you treated me like I knew nothing, took credit for my work, and then the class applauded you. I was annoyed and so when this opportunity came along I went for it. I’m sorry.” “Oh, I didn’t know that. I…I just assumed…” She trails off. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “Everyone does. I just need to speak up for myself a little more. We good?” “We’re good and I’m sorry too, and I’m sorry we got into this huge mess.” She laughs. “We’re probably in so much trouble.” “You got that right, kid.” A squatty man says. His nametag says Manager. Clara and I look at each other and burst out laughing. After he yells at us for being disrespectful, we follow him to his office and the rest I’d rather not repeat… Let’s just say we got in a lot of trouble, but we both came out of it with a new friend and a good story.
Roosevelt High School
Robby Wilson
Jonathan Hill
Snooper No Snoopin’
33
Open Meadow High School
I see far with my hazel eyes Into the shimmering light I see clearly all the wrongs As I vision all the rights That I’ve accomplished in my life I never give up the life-fight I just lift my steely will To express my immense might With my fury and strength There is no length That I won’t take I am the mighty tank Sky bluer than emotion Big enough to fill an ocean
Elyse Fenton
The Victorious Tank James Dawson
35
Cleveland High School
In and out. Small insignificant breaths. The only movement the man made with his mouth. Leaves turn, roll, and topple, to the beat of his breath; to the man this was worth it. No television, no radio, just a rocking chair on the porch and a road. He watched as a young couple walked up his driveway. “Sam, I can’t believe it.” The woman stared up at the man. She was beautiful, with her favorite white dress complemented by a wicker hat. He in his Sunday’s best. “Dorothy, darlin’ today is going to be the start of them all.” Arms spread out as he presented the house to her. He turned and kissed her. Leaves rolled across her feet and the wind blew her hair across his nose in a tickling fashion. “This is our home, all of it. Darlin’ today is the start of us. The death of I, the prospect of family.” Her smile and teary eyes said she was always amazed by his way with words. They walked up the porch. Side by side. “Do you think a chair could go nicely here?” the young man stared down the blank porch. “Sure, hon, take my chair,” she sarcastically jeered at his idea. The old man took another breath, sitting and thumbing a dated paper with a beautiful woman, in a wicker hat, on the cover. Each breath significant. The young couple ducked inside, followed by the whine of the screen door. The house was empty, and clean. A box here, one there, one for her clothes, one small box for his ties and watches. No bed, no color TV set, just a suitcase and a chair. Inhaling another breath of fresh air, the old man went inside his home. TV set, radio, his mother-inlaw’s coffee table, that rarely supported coffee, he neglected them all. Just laid on his couch and continued to watch the young couple. Cracking smiles, and puffing air out of his nose when he saw the couple tease one another. The situation was tight, as was the young Sam’s back after a rest on the hard suitcase. “Darlin’.” He shook the lady curled up in the chair’s shoulder. “It’s morning, we have to get going.” She smiled then stretched her arms out. The old man was still watching the couple from his post on the couch. Like a general watching over his troops. He watched and nodded in remembrance as the young boy turned to young stud before his eyes. Hair now of a greasy texture, slick likewise as that of his only suit. Black, simple, mature, this suit was Sam’s lottery ticket, his escape. His one-way ticket from a suitcase to a bed, a bed with warm cotton sheets. That was the best outcome of his investment, a bed with sheets, the girl of his dreams, and maybe a color television set, perhaps in the same room, together. The old man watched and smiled, kissed the photo of his wife, and closed his eyes.
Sara Jaffe
Insignificant Breaths Kendall Marlia-Cooper
37
Franklin High School
Lisa Eisenberg
My Eaten Demon Kathryn Gomez
39
Madison High School
CHARACTERS MOTHER: fifty-three years old, judgmental, envious DAUGHTER: fourteen years old, quiet, timid SCENE 1 The time is 2010. The setting is the living room. Daughter sits on a plaid couch, Mother stands across from her with her arms crossed DAUGHTER: This is stupid. MOTHER: Shut up. DAUGHTER: Sorry. MOTHER: Sorry doesn’t do anything. pause You can’t date. DAUGHTER: You just don’t like her. MOTHER: You’re too young. DAUGHTER: I dated that guy a year and a half ago...you were okay with that. MOTHER: That was different. DAUGHTER: No it wasn’t. MOTHER: Yes it was. pause DAUGHTER: It’s because she’s a girl, isn’t it? MOTHER: No. DAUGHTER: You’re lying. MOTHER: Be quiet. Silence
Matthew Zrebski
Deplored Relations Kari Mann
41
DAUGHTER: I love her. MOTHER: No you don’t. DAUGHTER: Yes I do. MOTHER: It’s just a phase. DAUGHTER: One year isn’t a phase. MOTHER: One year? pause She’s a bad influence. DAUGHTER: She saved me. MOTHER: She’ll ruin you. DAUGHTER: No, she saved me. She’s helping me. MOTHER: From what? How so? DAUGHTER: From being left alone and sad. She helps me feel happy. MOTHER: Why do you like her? DAUGHTER: She’s amazing. She’s sweet but tough, caring but protective. She stands up for what she believes in and is stubborn yet cute. She’s protective and loyal, and can always make me smile or laugh. She picks me up when I’m down, and will do whatever she can to comfort me. She’s always there for me. MOTHER: I’m always there for you. pause And why does she love you? DAUGHTER: What? MOTHER : Why does she love you? silence DAUGHTER: I...don’t know. shifts in her seat and looks down in thought MOTHER: She’s a liar. She doesn’t love you. DAUGHTER: Be quiet. MOTHER: She’s a bad person. DAUGHTER: Shut up. MOTHER: You shouldn’t see her. DAUGHTER: But I will.
MOTHER: You shouldn’t. DAUGHTER: I will, Mother. I will see her. MOTHER: I don’t like her. DAUGHTER: I don’t care. MOTHER: I want you to be happy. DAUGHTER: She makes me happy. MOTHER: sighs and unfolds her arms She’ll abandon you. DAUGHTER: You don’t know that. MOTHER: But she will. DAUGHTER: Possibly someday...but not anytime soon. MOTHER: Leave her while you still can. DAUGHTER: No. MOTHER: Why? DAUGHTER: It’s too late. MOTHER: No, it’s not. It’s only been a year. DAUGHTER: That’s all it took. MOTHER: For what? DAUGHTER: For her to capture my heart. MOTHER: looks disapproving; she runs her hand through her hair You’re being dramatic. DAUGHTER: But she’s amazing. MOTHER: Don’t say I didn’t warn you when she leaves you. DAUGHTER: She won’t. MOTHER: It’s bound to happen. DAUGHTER: We’re in love; it won’t happen. MOTHER: Love can be deceiving, and so can she.
DAUGHTER: You don’t know her. MOTHER: I know enough. Daughter looks irritated; she shifts again on the couch Why does she love you? DAUGHTER: I already said I don’t know. MOTHER: Maybe you should ask. DAUGHTER: Maybe I will. Mother and Daughter go silent. Daughter stands up and walks past Mother. MOTHER: Don’t trust her for an instant. DAUGHTER: There’s no reason why I shouldn’t. MOTHER: Yes, there is. Daughter stands in the hallway, holding onto one of the walls as she looks at Mother. I’ve seen this happen to your sisters. DAUGHTER: I’M NOT LIKE THEM! You always compare me to my sisters, and you always tell me what I should and shouldn’t do! Why can’t you let me be my own person? You’ve even tried to tell me what career I should get in the future—you said it like it was going to happen—like I had to do it. You may be my mother, but you cannot tell me who I will love and how I will lead my life; you have no control over it whatsoever, so stop trying to tell me who I can and can’t have relations with. It might be what you want, but it’s surely not what I want! Daughter looks unsure—almost worried—but stern. She leaves the stage through the hallway. END OF PLAY
Madison High School
Rowan Reynolds may be the first dude known to society who admits who he really is: a brony. A brony? Well, it’s simple. It’s a group of guys who watches “My Little Pony” episodes. Rowan believes there may be more than a million bronies in the world. Shocking that here at Madison High School we have our very own. “Episode 4 of Season 3 came out Saturday, November 24th,” Rowan recited excitedly one recent day. Rowan is a lucky brony, but he seems to have had no luck in sports. He played soccer for three years (third, fourth, and fifth grade), not the best choice for him, but he stuck with it. He also played basketball. Even though he made air balls to the net and missed every free throw, he tried his best to stick with the team. With high school came the embarrassment of failure in a sport that wasn’t to his liking so he quit and never gave it second thought. Video games were more to his liking. He is a self-acknowledged “big nerd” when it comes to Halo 2. For a quiet person, he admits he really likes the violence of video games. When he and his older brother fight, they take it out by playing shooter games. But for the most part, they get along well. “I look up to and always go to him for anything,” Rowan said. Rowan attended private school here in Oregon, or as he likes to call it, “stuck-up and white-ass school.” He didn’t enjoy it much since the teachers were strict and he had to wear uniforms and follow rules that pretty much made no sense to him. Maybe they made sense back then when kids knew nothing about sex and drugs, he thought, but nowadays those rules are outdated. The chaos of moving from one school to another settled when high school came around and Rowan finally had a break from moving. He described high school as life-changing. “You can’t just breeze through,” Rowan said. It made him a better person and changed his perspective on many issues, and he made many new friends. Mr. Museaus, one of Rowan’s English teachers at Madison, said Rowan had a “non-traditional approach.” “He’s as bright as they come,” he said. In other words, Rowan is a smart kid but he puts his own spark into it.
Javier Hernandez
The Brony Alexis Lytle
45
Franklin High School
Lisa Eisenberg
The Darkstride Chronicals: The Initiation Zachary Bancroft
47
Roosevelt High School
My pendulum has an important symbol in my life. It gives me strength and confidence. The color is a soft pink with some white on it, the top is flat with a thin chain made of silver embedded, and the bottom ends in a vertex tip. The name of the stone is Amethyst. As this pendulum, my family has the same symbol for me. They are my support, my friends. Many families have something to tell, like experiences full of mystery and love, my family has a fusion of ingredients: emotions, ideologies and my complement to survive. They give me the tools to believe, to be me and not be what others want me to be. I receive their knowledge and love, the meaning of a family union, the effort and solidarity. They teach me to fight, fight for my rights, for the equality, my education and my dreams. I can list all the positive things and turn my life to a pure, perfect life, but that won’t be life. I saw fear in our expressions, I felt angry and devastated because even if the communication was present, the distance will break it, because every time we were together our love were not be demonstrated. Without my pendulum and without my family I will feel empty like the night without the moon, like the present without the past or as the earth without nature and humanity. I will be a person devoid of identity.
Ramiza Koya
Without my P.F. Guirena Santa Cruz
49
Grant High School
Our eight-man boat made it to the finals at the 2013 Brentwood Regatta. The water mean and harsh and the rowers tired and achy. We lined our boat up at the starting line next to six other A boats in our final. Each of us glaring at our competition. Coxswains yelling commands: “Two seat row,” “Three seat scull two seat.” When we were finally aligned, all crews rolled up to the ¾ catch and dropped our oars in the water, tensed for the start of our 1500. “Attention … GO!” The official calls through the microphone. We make our first connection and press to the finish. Crews scramble to pull ahead of the others thrashing and crashing through their strokes. “High ten, let’s go!” Our coxswain thunders down the boat. We pull ahead of the Sammamish and Brentwood and know they are out of the race. Greenlake, to no surprise, is leading the race with their boat packed with huge juniors and we have accepted not getting first. At the 1000-meter mark, we feel the burn each stroke we take but our desire to finish keeps us going strong. By the 500-meter mark Everett and Rose City (us) have lined up and each of us is grunting and kicking just to get the inch we need to get third. We push ahead of Everett and gain for second place. Behind me I hear a whoosh and clap of third seat’s oar. Third seat loses control of the oar and it flails off the side of the gunnels. All of us stop in sheer terror as Everett passes us and we are stuck in fourth. We scream back at third seat telling him to “get his fucking oar out.” He panics and struggles to gain control and we uncoordinatedly start rowing with rage. By now we have lost a precious ten seconds. We push with newfound passion and anger, and gain speed. We find our position in fifth place and power through easily to passing to fourth. Our crew goes by the screaming crowds in the stands and realizes we are nearing the finish. The beep sounding the finish of the race echoes and we collapse, panting. Each one of us is exhausted and very disappointed and is quick to blame 3rd seat for our loss of 3rd place. When I cooled down from the race I realized the hardship and pain of third seat, of feeling like he let down the boat when he crabbed. “What if I was in his position?” I thought. Its not like we never messed up. When we got out of the boat on the dock, I noticed third seat’s face was wet with tears and I knew our anger had hurt him and that we failed more than a race.
Amy Minato
The Final Daniel Kelley
51
Meek Pro Tech High School
I’m not afraid of dying I’m afraid of what’s gonna happen afterwards, I’m not afraid of loving I’m afraid of my heart getting broken, I’m not afraid of the stage I’m afraid of dishonest applause at the end, I’m not afraid of growing up I’m afraid of what’s following behind, I’m not afraid of the future I’m afraid of the past following me. I’m not afraid of being me I’m afraid of being forever alone, I’m not afraid of nightmares I’m afraid of them coming true, I’m not afraid of heights I’m afraid of what might be the fall, I’m not afraid of what I can’t see underneath, What makes me afraid is what describes me in and out, but if you only knew the reasons why those things frighten me down to the core. I’m afraid of the afterlife, my heart getting broken, never showing my talent, the past that can haunt me, dying alone, my nightmares becoming reality, and what’s underneath me, most of all I’m afraid of the unknown outcomes.
Laura Moulton
Unknown Outcomes Angelic Plata Delvalle
53
Benson Polytechnic High School
We are viewed as the ideal country But there are still people with the late night munchies! Older siblings have to take care of the rest In school they are not doing their best We’re confused as to why life is a test As life goes on nothing seems to progress Mom and pop ain’t on top, only hitting the hot spot Kids eating chicken nuggets and tater tots
Desmond Spann
We Are Viewed Tihanne Mar-shall
55
Lincoln High School
We are all here for a purpose. It is our intention to not just be, but to live. To find life in this avid world. To love, to lose, to love again. To conquer, surrender, but to fight again. To climb, to stumble, but to reach the top, and we fear the fall, so we jump— and in that moment we are flying, in that moment, we are living, in that moment, we find our purpose.
Cindy Williams-GutiĂŠrrez
Jump Zoey Dickson
57
Benson Polytechnic High School
Up ‘til now, my life has been not even a fragment of what I had been, but an indication of what should have been. Leading up to the days of my grandfather’s passing, he had the most important message he wanted to tell me. As I sat on the green-carpet floor, he earnestly implied in words to become more outgoing and less of a pushover. At the moment, I didn’t realize how significant it was for me to follow my grandpa’s message. However, I began to revisit his words in my head and realized that as I grow older, I need to establish myself as an independent and productive person. Broken-hearted of my grandfather’s passing, happy times turned into uneven times. Everyone in my family was upset, but we all took the initiative to move on and revamp our lives. I worked even harder at school, became more engaging and prominent, resourceful, and highly exceeded all expectations. As a young boy, my grandpa carefully studied me closely because of how different I was compared to my brothers. He knew how I would turn out to be and how promising my life was going to be, only if I live up to what he told me. Our family cared dearly for my grandparents and we know they love us, despite all the chaotic yelling because I know how LOUD this family can be. (Notice I said yelling instead of shouting.) Through the years of my childhood up to my pre-teen years, my life couldn’t have been even more degrading. Everybody and I mean anybody, including my two brothers took advantage of what I call “me being a wuss.” I love hanging out with people, but when a situation pops up where a group of us can’t all have something, I immediately back off and simply allow them to have, even though I may want it also. Life felt like a lost kitten: disheartening, terrifying, hopeless, and in wonder. However, it would also become like an open wound: hurtful and permissive, but endurable and yet sensational. Nothing could have been better as I entered reality. My parents enlisted me and my two older brothers to a Kung Fu School, where I began my journey towards fulfilling both mine and my grandpa’s wishes. As a young chubby boy, I disliked learning Kung Fu because it was out of my comfort zone and it wasn’t something I enjoyed much at the time. My focus, however, was playing, imitating, and watching basketball. I felt so free and alive because everyone praised me for being such an incredible shooter. But things began to change as my dream of becoming a basketball player faded. With an undeveloped brain, I believed my life was going to be easygoing. I believed I would get what I want without putting in the effort others had to in life. Realizing I had been wrong the whole time, I shifted gears towards Kung Fu; and boy was it the best decision I ever made. Going to Kung Fu School is probably one of the most important things my parents have ever done for me. Kung Fu does not only teach you how to fight physically, but how use it efficiently and productively mentally. To learn Kung Fu you must have respect for not only yourself and that one person, but everyone around you. As a result, Kung Fu embraces what life is about, toughness, perseverance, challenging, and rewarding. Through my years of learning Kung Fu, my second older brother and I were able to achieve our second degree black belt. Mentally and physically worn in such a small time span of less than five years, my brother was able to get his black belt before graduating high school and I became the youngest second degree black belt at the school at the age of 16. Taking in my grandpa’s words and experience in Kung Fu, I became more outgoing, forceful, and a leader. Unsatisfying as my childhood seemed, I never hated it. With my family and friends providing endless love and care, I could never despise what I had. To an extent, nothing ever came in my way besides myself.
Ramiza Koya
Being Lenient Simon Chau
59
As a lenient child, I gave into others and allowed others to trample over me. In my case, weak is to be fragile, as independent is to be commanding of one’s own actions. Nobody is always going to be there when you need them, for life prohibits so. Slightly discouraged but undamaged, I took it upon myself to take the lead and succeed for my loved ones. No longer condemned of my past times, I look to become even more of a great leader and develop into a figure of inspiration and as an achievement of my grandpa’s wishes. I suggest we should all give more of an effort to pursue our dreams as well as undermine hardships for the better of ourselves and everyone around us. Besides, YOU ONLY LIVE ONCE.
Roosevelt High School
Jonathan Hill
Girl Misjudged Lilly Lee
61
Lincoln High School
Our eyes met in an instant: a chilling sensation took over my body— it was almost as if the mask was alive. This history of the mask poured out: in his eyes, I could see the pain of his people, the sorrow of the craftsman as he tells the story of how our eyes met.
Cindy Williams-GutiĂŠrrez
The Mask Kario Galash
65
Lincoln High School
This cruel world is finally dead. This poor planet is so abused. Four point six is many an aeon; it’s about time for life to be gone. None to compose another cleft; this dying flower—all that’s left. No more joys, no more tears. No more hopes and no more fears. Black and brown mask the light. HE did this, out of spite. Now just a rock, no longer a bastion, it’s much too late to take action. All existence will come to a halt, and it just so happens, it’s all our fault. Because in this plane, we are but toxins.
Cindy Williams-Gutiérrez
Kuebiko Nicholas Rodriguez
67
Grant High School
PROLOGUE The floccinaucinihilipilification gregariously transcended pepperoni tacos. Blue-purple-brown-pink bunnies build strong wilderness related electromagnetic force fields that repel bacon sandwiches. The rainbow was jealous of the bacon sandwiches having breakfast-in-bed so the rainbow paginated a snake into an idiosyncrasy. Then a T-Rex ate the kerfuffle leaving Franz Kafka to the whirling vortex of lightning. The splinter sprinted lickedy-split and went splat on the pot roast roasting boastfully over a cockroach. The rainbow won in the end. The end. Is near. 2012. Oh wait. That. Already. Happened. CHAPTER 1 Checkers—cheese pizza—blue treble clef—paper cut monster eats a purple. It blew up and stubbed its toe on a light-saber. CHAPTER 2 A chair is a chair is a chair is a chair is a chair. Then Gregor ate a bug and turned into a dragon and died. CHAPTER 3 The hero cycle nostalgically digressed into a kudos. Teriyaki. Buffalo buffalo, buffalo buffalo buffalo, buffalo buffalo buffalo. Buffalo. Buffalo. Buffalo.
Mark Pomeroy
Buffalo, Buffalo Alex Vischer
69
Franklin High School
Before the Years when I’m home alone just watching TV on the couch with you, I’m doing everything to make me happy is the feeling I see in your large black pupils surrounded by the deep umber iris that matches the dirt on the feet that won’t stop running with you, or playing with you under the tree with the chicken you got when you were three weeks old. Over the Years our emotions have changed, our appearance has changed, our outlook has changed but in your black pupils you still say “mama I want food” when you look at me under that tree that is now old and fallen with your old chicken now sewn together by old string by the old needle that pokes you in the hip when you try to jump on the couch to watch TV with me. You caught the house flies, cried and licked my tears, dealt with the bullshit I gave you for chewing on the shoes and you still came back to call me mama when I came home to hug you and love you and I never left you. So you have always been with me.
Chuck Carlise
The Years Luna Helus
71
Roosevelt High School
Jonathan Hill
What’s In The Box? Roy Wyss
73
Madison High School
CHARACTERS GIRL: seventeen years old, nice and easily embarrassed BOY: sixteen years old SCENE 1 The time is now. The setting is the library. Boy and Girl sit at a table with a bookshelf behind them. BOY: This math is really hard. Throws his pencil down GIRL: Uh, no it’s not; you’re just stupid. BOY: I’m really smart, it’s just, SQUIRREL!!! Looks at her, head shoots towards window GIRL: What? Looks at him and rolls her eyes BOY: Hi, my name is Boy. What’s yours? GIRL: Um, well, my name is Girl. blushes and covers her face BOY: Why do you think it’s easy? GIRL: Well, I’m in precalculus and you’re in geometry. BOY: Oh, okay, well, why am I stupid? GIRL: I was being funny, silly. BOY: Oh, PUMPKIN PIE! GIRL: So why did you say squirrel? BOY: I don’t, OH CAR VROOM VROOM! Points at a car GIRL: There you go again, saying something random. BOY: No, I didn’t I just said I don’t know, how is that random? GIRL: Never mind. Sighs really loud
Matthew Zrebski
Library Trystan Stephens-Tregarth
75
BOY: Hey, what school do you go to? GIRL: Why do you want to know? Starts to blush but covers it up BOY: Because I just do FISH GUTS! GIRL: Well, I go to Blake High School. BOY: Whoa, no way, so do I. GIRL: Really? I never noticed you. BOY: That’s because no one CHICKEN!! GIRL: What? Oh never mind. BOY: The people just don’t like me, CAUSE I’M BATMAN! GIRL: Why? Looks at him sincerely BOY: They think I’m crazy and weird. Makes a crazy movement GIRL: No, you’re not weird. Blushes BOY: Thanks. Almost everyone I meet says MAGIC BANANAS! Points at computer screen GIRL: What time is it? BOY: Well, it’s 3:40 DOUBLE RAINBOW!! Pulls out phone GIRL: HUH BOY: What? GIRL: Well, I have to go. BOY: Why do you have to go? GIRL: Well, I have to get to work. BOY: Where do you work? GIRL: I work at Jumper. BOY: Oh, that place. So what basketball shoe gives you the most height? GIRL: Well. I don’t know.
BOY: Oh, okay. GIRL: Well, it’s 3:50 so I have to leave; my shift starts at 4:15. Starts to get up BOY: Wait, don’t leave yet. GIRL:Hey, if you ever need a friend to comfort you or help with math, call me. Hands him her number on a sticky note. BOY: Thanks. GIRL: You’re welcome. BOY: I have something to tell you; don’t go WAIT. AIRPLANE, SHOE, DOG, BOOKS, GRAPE, APPLE, COW, PIG , DONKEY, FRUIT FLY, SPORTS, WATER, FISH, CAT, MUD, PIE, ORANGE, TRIPLE RAINBOW, MONSTER TRUCK, BANANA PEEL, TRAIN, MAP, DORA, CAPE, HERO, SUPERMAN, BATMAN, MONKEY BUTT, MONKEY, APE, ZOO, ZEBRA, ELEPHANT, I I I I I I ... LOVE YOUUUUUU. Gets up and runs away GIRL: I love you, too. Gets up and runs offstage after him END OF PLAY
Open Meadow High School
Screams of agony and pain are heard, Begging and pleading, To stop the madness that has come Of the situation Begging and pleading No one hears Of the situation No one cares No one hears They are trying to protect themselves No one cares Those they care about They are trying to protect themselves Not to become someone’s hero But to save themselves To leave the place they called home Not to become someone’s hero but To stop the madness that has become The sadness that hangs in the air Screams of agony and pain are heard.
Elyse Fenton
Exile Gloria Alvarez
79
Open Meadow High School
This poem is not allowed This poem is ignored This poem is kicked out This poem went over the edge This poem is ignored This poem is no longer welcome This poem went over the edge this poem is a shame This poem is no longer welcome This poem had it all now this poem is lame This poem is a shame this poem has potential and also a brain This poem had it all now this poem is lame But this poem was lazy and bent out of shape This poem has potential and also a brain So this poem gave up and surrendered its fate But this poem was lazy and bent out of shape This poem is kicked out So this poem gave up and surrendered its fate This poem is not allowed
Elyse Fenton
This Poem Is Not Allowed Michael Watson
81
Lincoln High School
By the stone path leading to the fountain, Felix stood there for a moment as nostalgia set in. The flimsy plastic incarnation of entitlement lay in his scarred palm. Turning it over, he inspected its back side, rubbing his thumb over a small nick in the coating. Adjacent he read, “This card is a valid form of compensation for all transportation services in the NYC metropolitan area. This includes but is not limited to bus services, subway, tram, and all registered taxi transportation services in the NYC area.” Felix grinned at the thought of the poor bastard who wasted his talent behind a desk, senselessly typing away as the dawns turned to dusks and contentment turned to anguish. Twelve months wasted. This petty card had resided in his stained leather wallet for ten months and yet the notion had only occurred to him now. “Why now?” he wondered as the last coroner’s van passed by, the tires revealing the black asphalt from under the blanket of fine gray dust. Felix placed the card into his pocket as he crossed the street, nudging his way through the crowds of blank faces. Some held bouquets and candles while others held photos and fliers, desperately wandering, in search of what their optimism could not accept. It troubled him. They claimed to be oblivious to their whereabouts, although Felix knew that somewhere, deep down, that they all knew where their beloved were. Empathy wasn’t exactly an emotion Felix was content with and the feeling was mutual. Empathetic responsibility had always challenged his moral ambiguity in the worst of contexts. In accepting his humanity, Felix found that he’d inevitably be standing over another one of his colleagues as they lay pale and at attention on a stainless steel slab. Felix had reached his destination; Catherine’s Inherited Antiques. The scent of White-out filled his nostrils as he entered. According to the clerk’s mug he was the World’s Best Dad. Felix snickered as he handed him the nicked card. “You’re late.” Disregarding the comment, Felix sternly proceeded.
Joe Rogers
Settling Matters Xander Ahumada
83
Meek Pro Tech High School
Portland, Oregon, so beautiful. Her weather constantly changing. Famous for her simplicity, art, scenery, and general weirdness. In Portland, the 90’s are alive and putting a bird on something makes it art. Her people, her family, respect her by making and keeping her as one of the most green cities in the United States. The true PDX lovers love her, clean or dirty, and always have and will respect her as Their home. In Portland there is no need to have a car. Her streets are made for bicyclists, early morning runners, MAX trains that can get you wherever you Need to go. The eco-friendly way, Portland’s way. Us Portlanders will not let her weather stand in our way. Rain. Shine. Snow. Ice. Wind. Or any other thing she might try to throw at us. We stay. Though her shine is not always so bright, covered by clouds, or even present. It is always greatly adored and used to its full advantage when it is present. When she is cold, windy, and wet. She still can impress you with her stunningness. Portland, Oregon is my home. She has watched me grow, watched me become who I am today as a person, as a Portlander, as an Oregonian. Portland is my city, the one place I will never hesitate to call my home. Born and raised. Here to stay. PDX kid today and always. Portland, Oregon.
Laura Moulton
Portland, Oregon Allison Dietz
85
Benson Polytechnic High School
I will live and leave as a body bag of thoughts. Success is not sought out through what I love. Leave me. Living to think is pointless. Music consumes I, I am abused during its silence. I see you, I don’t think. Writing steers my natural reflex to blink. But I don’t. I pour out. Let the blood move the hand I used to hold out the pen that stains the page with ink. We turn our backs together towards what hurts. My words and I, we leave and I forget. I forget. I forget the lies, the misconceptions. I forget my misdirection. There’s sharp turns and never time to turn back. Sometimes I sit inside the past. Then I see that life is but a dream, and dreams do not exist inside our past. Only the future. But I will live I promise. If the page seems to fail me, I’m lost. I’m leaving though, as a body bag of thoughts.
Ramiza Koya
Body Bag Carlos Figueroa
87
Franklin High School
Lisa Eisenberg
If The War Cullen Recktenwold
89
Lincoln High School
Cindy Williams-GutiĂŠrrez
Bridge Leonardo Hernandez
91
Lincoln High School
The sharpness of the blade eats away at my mind the thought of how much death it has brought. The blood of enemies, the blood of innocents, the blood of men, women, and children: all who have been felled by this obsidian blade. By this obsidian blade all who have been felled: the blood of men, women, and children, the blood of innocents, the blood of enemies. Death it has brought; the thought of how much eats away at my mind— the sharpness of the blade.
Cindy Williams-GutiĂŠrrez
Obsidian Death Andy Lower
93
Benson Polytechnic High School
It all began when the door swung out of the way Luckily, there were students or I would have felt astray The sun was up, and I knew it was gonna be a good day There was nothing that would stop this sun ray But that all changed during recess I climbed the stairs, but hear something amiss It was something I didn’t want to miss But soon I was sucked into the abyss There I stared, gazing into marbles full of brown It was a girl and she wore a frown She was so cute I was looking down I didn’t realize that my fate was sewn Beside her stood a teacher The girl said I pushed her All of a sudden I was full of anger I realized I was tricked by a deceiver Now I knew, this girl is a fox She trapped me inside a box I felt as if I had chicken pox So I try to get out of that box But there was no one to rely But I had to try But all I had was to deny So the teacher didn’t comply Now I sit, on a wall I did nothing at all I wanted a judge But I wasn’t one to hold a grudge
Ramiza Koya
Injustice Mongzong Lo
95
Lincoln High School
A path, grey and distorted, cracked and drudged along. The sky’s reflection, unmerciful, the sun hidden under stone: Grotesque figures, dead men walking, no longer strong Carry their worldly possessions on wooden wheels home. Rotted buildings and torn towers over the cold road. The struggle to bring their worthless items, their sadness: A woman, sickly and old, leans down, her arched back a bow; Her brothers press on, a cart of crates and bags. Bleakness.
Cindy Williams-GutiĂŠrrez
Dead Men Walking Stephen Kennedy
97
Cleveland High School
John Isaacson
How To Take Care Of Kids Christian Nine
99
Madison High School
Amy Minato
Two Different Lives Tom Nguyen
101
Well! This is a story about the couple that they never think that they would be in a complicated relationship like that. The girl name Kate and she is a beautiful girl and was a cheerleader in high school at that time. But she is a careless girl, all she care is about money, hot boys and beauty. The boy name Kelvin and he is a cheerful and hard study boy. He always care about Kate and he had been fail in love with her while they were in high school, but Kate never realized or notice about Kelvin’s presence. It was one time that Kelvin brought rose and chocolate to Kate in valentine event. And the story had been start from here, Kate threw everything to the trash bin right in front Kelvin. She said that she did not accept his love because he was not a hot boy or anything to show that he was rich. It was broke his heart and made him had another goal for his life. After high school, Kelvin had accepted for a big university and had scholarship by good and successful company name Apple. Kate fail with her life and she left college right after first year and she started work for a coffee shop with low salary. She thought about Kelvin and why she did not accept him even he had nothing at that time. Until one day, Kelvin came to Kate’s work place and she really surprised that Kelvin had been changed a lot form high school. He looks like a successful guy with luxury car and expensive phone on his hand. He looks totally different than high school and now Kate had realized that she was wrong. Kelvin invited Kate for dinner and they had a great time that night. After that she tried to ask him out and he said he need time to thinking. Then Kate got a message from Kelvin and he said that: “ thank you for everything! You had been teached me a lot of thinks after that time. I learned that love could not be compares with money or any hot boys. Even I still have feeling with you but it just a feeling of friends”. Both of Kate and Kelvin had a good lesion for their own now.
103
Writers-in-Residence 2012-2013 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.
Carmen Bernier-Grand is the author of eight books for children and young adults. Her César: Yes, We Can! ¡Sí, se puede! and Diego: Bigger Than Life have been Oregon Book Awards finalists. Those biographies and her Frida: ¡Viva la vida! Long Live Life have received Pura Belpré Author Honor Awards. Bernier-Grand also teaches writing in the Whidbey Island Writers 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. In 2010, she received an Oregon Literary Arts Fellowship to research her book Picasso: I the King, Yo, el rey, published in 2012. Her latest book, Alicia Alonso: Prima Ballerina, received starred reviews from Booklist and Publisher’s Weekly. She lives with her husband, Jeremy Grand, and Maltese dog, Lily, in Portland, Oregon. Chuck Carlise was born in Canton, Ohio, on the first Flag Day of the Jimmy Carter administration, and has lived in a dozen states and two continents since. He is the author of two chapbooks, A Broken Escalator Still Isn’t the Stairs (Concrete Wolf Poetry Series 2011) and Casual Insomniac (Bateau 2011; “Boom Contest” winner). He recently completed his PhD at the University of Houston, where he was awarded the 2012 InPrint/Paul Verlaine Poetry Prize and served as Non-Fiction Editor of the journal Gulf Coast. His poems and essays appear or are forthcoming in Southern Review, Pleiades, DIAGRAM, Best New Poets, and elsewhere. He currently lives in Portland, Oregon, and Santa Cruz, California, where he teaches part time at UCSC. Lisa Rosalie 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 self-published 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. Elyse Fenton is the author of the award-winning poetry collection Clamor. She has published poetry and nonfiction in The New York Times, Best New Poets, American Poetry Review, and Pleiades, and has been featured on NPR’s All Things Considered. She received a BA from Reed College and an MFA from the University of
Oregon and has worked in the woods, on farms, and in schools in the Pacific Northwest, New Hampshire, Mongolia, and Texas. She currently teaches at Portland Community College.
Amanda Gersh is a South African-born writer of fiction and humorous nonfiction. Her stories have appeared in Tin House, One Story, Open City, The Believer, and The Mississippi Review. Writing as Amanda Howells, she is the author of a Young Adult novel, The Summer of Skinny Dipping (Sourcebooks, 2010). Amanda has an MFA from Columbia University and has taught fiction writing at PSU and Gotham Writers’ Workshop. Poet-dramatist Cindy Williams Gutiérrez collaborates with musicians, thespians, and visual artists. Her collection, the small claim of bones, is forthcoming from Bilingual Press/Editorial Bilingüe (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,” re-imagines Aztec poetry accompanied by pre-Hispanic music. Her plays have been produced by Miracle Theatre Group and Insight Out Theatre Collective. Cindy earned an MFA from the University of Southern Maine.
Javier Hernandez is a journalist. He most recently worked as a staff reporter for the New York Times,
where he wrote about everything from the unknown risks of government cancer-screening programs to the lives of nighttime beach wanderers. A graduate of North Eugene High School, he studied government and music at Harvard. He has appeared on national and international news programs, and his work has been quoted by US President Barack Obama.
Jonathan Hill is a graphic novelist 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 his next graphic novel, The Searchers. Hunt Holman is a playwright whose Willow Jade premiered at Portland Playhouse and received a 2010 Drammy Award for Outstanding Original Script. His other plays include Spanish Girl, which premiered offBroadway at Second Stage Theatre in their New Plays Uptown Series and was published in the anthology New Playwrights: The Best Plays of 2003. His play Gun Club was developed in Cherry Lane Theater’s Obie award-winning Mentor Project and later premiered at Hypothetical Theater, and his play The Dawn Patrol received a staged reading at Williamstown Theater Festival. Hunt graduated from Columbia University’s School of the Arts. 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. Sara Jaffe is a fiction writer whose short fiction has appeared in numerous publications, including Paul Revere’s Horse, NOON, Fourteen Hills, and Encyclopedia. She is co-founder and co-editor of New Herring Press, a purveyor of innovative prose chapbooks, and also edited The Art of Touring, an anthology of writing and visual art by touring musicians, available from Portland’s Yeti Publications. She received her MFA from the University of Massachusetts Amherst. 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.
Jennifer Lauck is a three-time Oregon Book Awards finalist and has penned three memoirs, including the New York Times bestsellers Blackbird, Still Waters, and Found (March, 2011). She has a collection of essays titled Show Me the Way, worked nearly ten years as an investigative reporter in TV news, and has a BA in journalism from Montana State University. Lauck received her MFA in creative writing from Pacific Lutheran University in 2011. 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.
Laura Moulton is the founder of Street Books, a bicycle-powered mobile library that serves people who live outside in Portland, Oregon (streetbooks.org). She has taught writing in public schools, prisons, and teen shelters, and is an adjunct professor at Marylhurst University and Lewis & Clark College. Her social art practice projects have involved postal workers, immigrants, prisoners, and students. She earned an MFA from Eastern Washington University. For more information, visit lauramoulton.org. 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. He lives with his family in northeast Portland, where he’s at work on a novel.
Ismet Prcic is a Bosnian-American writer, teacher, and theater artist. His debut novel, Shards, won an L.A. Times Book Prize for First Fiction and was a finalist for the Dayton Literary Peace Prize. Ismet is the recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts Literature Fellowship for fiction in 2010. His work has appeared in McSweeney’s Quarterly Concern, Bat City Review, Faultline, Prague Literary Review, and elsewhere. He is an adjunct instructor of theater arts at Clark College. Joseph Rogers is an award-winning writer whose work has been published in places such as Pindeldyboz, Opium, Bridge, Verb, Exquisite Corpse, and Painted Bride Quarterly. He has an MFA from Brooklyn College, where he taught fiction for five years before heading west. When he's not teaching at Portland Community College, he writes stories and songs that are rarely performed. 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.
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.