New Castle, Kent and Sussex Counties’ Teen Magazine IMAZINEIMAZINE 20142014 vv o o l l . . 4 4

cover: Mask by Sierra R. Age 17 IMAZINE 2014 Table of Contents Pg # Title Author cover Mask Sierra R. 5 Wordy Writers Rachel W. 8 Eris's Mirror Taylor B. 9 Forever Bethany F. 11 The Scream Sierra R. 12 Little Lawler John F. 13 Broadway Bustle Taylor B. 14 My Gravelly Grave Rose D. 16 Life is Like a TV Show Anna S. 17 Dreamless Jared G. 19 Misty Blossoms Allen W. 20 Weeds Bailey R. 21 The Good-Luck Song Taylor B. 23 Lips Bailey R. 24 Catgazing Sierra R. 25 Meerkat Warriors Ana Lane 27 Alright Father Brianna T. 28 Glimpses Sierra R. 29 The Darkness Donovan T. 30 Urban City Julian I. 31 Milky Way Allen W. 32 That's When We Know Sierra R. 33 Strike in Sea Rock Ishraq A. 35 Stand Still Bethany F. 36 Echoes Sierra R. 37 The Lighthouse Donovan T. 39 Outcasts & Pie Taylor B. 40 The Monster Under My Bed Rebekah M. 41 Dragon Nyree P. 42 Bonfire Allen W. 43 Foot Steps Rachel W. 46 Owl Nyree P. 47 A New Morn Taylor B. 49 Forever, Love Taylor B. 50 Midnight Walks Rebekah M. 51 Title Transposed Anonymous addition of online submissions from here: 53 Silver Dandelions Taylor B. 55 Unnoticed Rebekah M. 56 Man Overboard Julian I. 58 Reincarnation Taylor B. 59 The Summoning Pts Will J. 60 Window Bailey R. 61 The Mysterious Mansion Donovan T. 62 My Verse Anna S.

Wordy Writers by Rachel W. age 17

Rather than starting a fresh new page I find myself delving back into the past; Booting up every disk drive, Every CD, Scouring every email to find words that I had previously written,

There is strength in what has already been done, Too much uncertainty in what might come a new,

My work fresh has not ripened in the same way these others have, My poems and my language I have spent hours studying, Nights thinking about, And days etching into the back of my eyelids- I like to feel in control. I like to pull out the big shots- And by big I mean well oiled- I mean well edited- I mean well dictated, Well read, Well thought over, Well-accepted pieces of my work. My world. My self. I know that my poetic sense is only a fraction of the way I communicate But it is an identity all in its own, And lately I’ve been realizing that I have so few spaces where I am free to express my true thoughts that maybe There is no point in even writing If it has nothing to do with me. I get the point of fiction, I have characters so lifelike they’d fool you, I have plot lines so intense you’d be hooked- line and sinker; I have worked in cliche s to the point where I know you won’t see them coming, I have hidden in my words.

Wordy writers find hope in extra verbage, We reread and reread and reread to feel safer, We hope that our vocabulary will hide how we really feel, We rely on the few masterpieces we crafted,

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We are afraid to get messy, Afraid to make mistakes, Afraid to break away from our boxes, We write in the terms “we” rather than “I”, We make plural what is singular, We invent bodies to identify with, We fail at doing ourselves justice, We forget what our own thoughts can do, We look back onto CDs and disc drives for what we know is safe, We imagine other wordy writers sitting at computers, Laying asleep at night, Fumbling with half dull pencils to scratch out half thought-out words, We limit ourselves, Make spaces for ourselves, Return to our work and ignore our own world- It is easier to jump into our rhythms than create a new one- We find it is easier to let palpitations take over than try to discover why our heart is beating that way- We write and we write and we write and we start new pages and erase it all, We write and we write and we write and it isn’t good enough- isn’t eloquent enough- isn’t structured enough- isn’t “us” enough- until we come to the realization that nothing in this world except our own words can define us, And we break away from the pattern, have a moment of clarity, dirty the page, type the forbidden words, worry less about eloquence and more about substance and we write and we write and we write and we write until our brains can no longer handle the words of our world- rushing by so fast they make us blind- too quickly for our not so nimble fingers to dictate- too sickingly beautiful to grab before they are gone- and we write and we write and we write-

And then we read. And then we question. And then we format, And then we edit. We censor, And clear away the blemishes, We show it around to a fake cast of characters, What will my mother think What will my teacher think What will my friend think And what will I think of this at a 2 am when I can’t sleep? Will this poem be enough to etch into my eyelids?

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Will this poem be enough to send away for someone else to read? And maybe we forget that in that moment We mask “is it good enough” With “is it too real”? Is it telling them Something about us We could never let them know Will they discover That we don’t sleep well at night, because our minds won’t shut off, Will they see how we hide behind our words, Will they see how much their opinion matters, Will they see how we click through the well-rehearsed works? Find them in the Disc drives, Pull them off of the flashes, Download them from old edited emails, Will they see how we find comfort in what they already know? Will they- the world- see the truth-

That we talk in “we’s” and “they’s”, When what we truly mean is just “I”?

7 Eris's Mirror by Taylor B. age 18

8 Forever by Bethany F. age 16

It was said that the river was haunted. Ennis Isle was a small port, forgotten by everyone except the few unlucky enough to live there. It was a sleepy little town, cloaked in shades of blue and gray. Time moved sluggishly. The rusted hand of the clock slowly inched along, awaiting the arrival of ships. The people were even slower, shuffling along the cobblestone streets in the cold January air. Everyone repeated the same dull, monotonous tasks― gutting cod or carving fishing hooks― as their lives drained away. Killian McCrae peered from his frosted window as it all unfolded below him. He watched the baker marching to and from the oven; watched the solemn schoolgirls file away from the schoolhouse; watched the seagulls circling overhead. The sky was bleak, a melancholy canvas blanketing the town. Killian’s gaze kept returning to the river, a silver thread cutting through the dreary landscape. There was something about the way that the water moved that called to him… Killian shook his head and let out a sigh, his breath visible. He shivered, pulling his seaicead tighter around him and knotting his hands together. Under normal circumstances, he would be down near the wharf, hauling in nets of fish from the sea, instead of moping about his dingy cottage. But these were no ordinary circumstances. Rumors followed him every waking moment, whispers plaguing his mind. He was the talk of the town― the bearer of sympathy and grief. Everyone felt sorry for the young man whose bride drowned on their wedding night. Killian dragged his hands across his face, over sharp cheekbones and tired eyes. He hadn’t slept in days, kept awake by visions of his beloved bride. His lovely, radiant Aisling― with her honey hair and eyes that rivaled heaven’s stars. His beautiful Aisling, who grinned at him from over the pages of her book and danced with him under the moonlight. Aisling, who was supposed to be his forever, now forever gone. Killian could still remember when they had met, her angelic image seared in his memory. He was a poor fisherman, relying on the goodwill of the waters, and she came from a wealthy Irish clan. From the moment that he laid eyes on her, he fell madly in love. All that Killian knew was, in that moment, she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen, and he gave his heart to her completely. They were in love as anyone could ever be, linked by an everlasting, unrelenting bond strong enough to gain the envy of angels. He gave her everything she wanted, and she made him never want for anything. She was his entire world. Two lovers of different backgrounds, brought together by chance and entwined by fate. Until the world was ripped away, and the future crumbled to dust. Killian gazed out of the window, trying to ignore his gaunt reflection. Whenever he closed his eyes, he could still envision Aisling floating in the river, lips tinted blue and hair drifting around her. She had looked like she was sleeping, but she never woke up. Such a waste. They were to spend their whole lives together, a little speck of color in a gray and blue world. Instead, he was breathing stale air and she was not breathing at all. He kept watching the river, desperately trying to forget his lovely Aisling enveloped by the waters. Everyone said that the river was cursed by the gods. Many sailors had drowned over the years― some had been murdered, while others had simply disappeared. Everyone tried to stay far away from the river; it was an unspoken terror. Everyone, that is, except for Aisling; she had found the river peaceful, and would spend hours gazing at its crystalline face. Suddenly, a distant, familiar laugh sounded, tinkling and lyrical. Chills raced down Killian’s spine and he whipped around, expression a mixture of disbelief and longing. “Aisling?” he called out, voice echoing through the cottage. The only reply was the laugh, growing in volume and beckoning him closer. Killian glanced back at the window, the river calling in the distance. The laugh sounded again, and he could almost make out Aisling’s image, endlessly twirling around the room.

9 The air was bitter when he stepped outside, turning Aisling’s engagement ring around his long finger. The ground crunched and cracked beneath his feet, the earth freezing as he trailed after the laughter. It reverberated off the trees as crows cried out, repeating an otherworldly hymn. The laughter echoed around Killian, stumbling in his haste to get to the river. The sound was so unmistakable― there was no doubt in his mind that it was Aisling. She was calling for him, for her eternal love, and they were going to be reunited! He would get to hold her in his arms and press his lips to hers, just once more. All he wanted was to hold his beautiful Aisling, just one more time. He could feel the water stirring in his blood, the waves crashing against his heart. The laughter was all around him now, converging on him, with no way to tell where one sound ended and another began. An apparition danced in front of Killian, urging him on. Heartbeat hammering, he reached out for her. The ghostly figure glanced back and smiled before vanishing completely. Killian froze in place, his blood going cold as he realized it was silent again. There, merely feet in front of him, the river lapped at the sand. Dread slowly crept through Killian’s veins. The sun had set, casting everything into darkness. Trees loomed up ominously and crawled towards him, reaching for his ankles. His heart beat so fast he thought he might shatter, his breath stopped by the sight of the river Some distance away, a figure rose slowly out of the water. Her blonde hair streamed down her back, dripping as she emerged from the depths. Her lips were stained blue and her dark eyes were full of light. She was clothed in all white, her body wrapped in carrickmacross lace. She looked just as she had on their wedding day. Fear gripped hold of Killian as Aisling made her way towards him, her feet never touching the ground. His eyes flitted to the violet bruises encircling her neck. “Killian, my love,” Aisling crooned, her voice soft and intimate. She brushed her cold palm across his face. He shivered, but covered her hand with his own. He could not hide the longing in his eyes, and tried to control the trembling in his voice as he spoke. “Aisling, my beautiful. I have missed you with all of my heart.” He pretended that the nervousness in his voice was happiness in seeing her. “I have missed you as well,” she whispered, and her slender fingers pulled him closer, tempting him. “I have been dying to see you again, to have you just once more.” She smiled then, but it was not the tender expression Killian was accustomed to seeing. It was positively sinful, her skeleton showing through her flesh. Her skin crackled, the color fading until she was blue and gray. A menacing cackle erupted from her lips, and Killian realized this was not his Aisling. This was not the woman he had fallen for. “No,” he murmured. He tried to break her grip, but she was not moving. “Aisling, please!” “You did this to me!” she screeched “I loved you! I gave myself to you and you killed me!” “I am so sorry,” Killian begged, desperate. “My love, it was an accident! I would never intend to cause you pain, and it kills me that I hurt you.” She paused, her grip loosening slightly. Killian’s eyes widened with realization and he stammered out, “Aisling, my love, I love you with everything I have and I am so terribly sorry…” But Aisling was not listening, joy coloring her lips. “Killian, I love you more than all of the clouds in the sky. I love you more than life itself. I am your bride and you are my love― forever.” “Aisling―” he warned, trying to escape from her iron grasp. He had wanted to hold her and kiss her just one more time, but all he could feel were his hands around her neck as the warmth faded from her body. He recalled his guilt and his grief as he watched his bride drift away on the forsaken river. “Shule aroon. Come away with me, my love,” she implored, burying her face into his neck. She wrapped her arms around Killian, ignoring his protests as she dragged him to the water. Cloaked in her wedding gown, she whispered her vows in his ear. “May God be with you and bless you. May you see your children’s children. May you be poor in misfortunes and rich in blessings. May you know nothing but happiness from this day forward.” They dove below the water and she was his entire world.

10 The Scream by Sierra R. age 17

Would you cry for me? Would you shake your head and say what a pretty young thing I'd been and it's too bad, just too bad? Would my friends tell stories and weep, just openly weep as they engrained me in their minds so I will be with them for eternity? ? Would my name nestle into your soul and make you pause, just pause for a second and think of me, every time you hear it? Would everyone lean on one another and grieve, just grieve for me because they would recall all the things they had said that were wrong? Would you remember my smile and my laugh when I was a happy girl, just a happy girl before the end? Would the world stop for just a second, just one second, to mourn the vital young life that had been snuffed out? Would your heart fill, just fill with emotion as mine emptied of life? Would there be an angel hovering above my grave watching, just watching, as I am laid to rest? Would one drink, just one less drink have made a difference before your car hit mine and I screamed?

11 Little Lawler by John F. age 13

It was a hot, and sunshine filled day for Wyatt Lawler. His mother was upset, yet he did not understand why. All he knew was that a man came to the door, and handed her an envelope. It wasn’t until 7:30 that his mother had started to be herself again. She asked him if he wanted ice cream, from the parlor on the corner. They walked on to the edge of the road, passed the church and the park. They found the parlor, and stepped in, through a yellow screen door. Wyatt ordered a Rocky Road, his favorite. He asked it to have extra fudge, with jimmies, with a cherry on top. His mother ordered a Mint Chocolate Chip, with whipped cream on top. Wyatt and his mother went outside to eat their delicious treats. They sat on a wooden bench, perfectly positioned to be right in front of the sun. Wyatt was eating his ice cream, when he thought of his father. He remembered him fondly, and missed him very much. "When's daddy coming home?" Wyatt's mother paused. She went cold, and still. "The United States Army needs him, Wyatt. I don't know when he's gonna come home," she replied. A single tear went down from her eye. A lonely, depressed look filled her eyes. "I hope it's soon. I miss him." Wyatt replied. "Me too. Me too," said Wyatt's mother.

It was a cold and dark day for Wyatt Lawler. He was wearing his "Sunday Best", and so was his mother. A few tall men, with rifles, shot into the air. A large flag was folded. A rather large coffin, lowered into a hole. A pic- ture of Wyatt himself, taped to the very top. He again asked his mother. "When's daddy coming home?" "I don't know Wyatt..."

"I don't know."

12 Broadway Bustle by Taylor B. age 18

13 My Gravelly Grave by Rose D. age 17

It should be said that I am a good driver. I also happen to really enjoy driving. I love having control of the car as I glide down a smooth little back road. It just feels nice. I have practiced (and loved) being in the driver’s seat since the first time my mother let me have control of the steering wheel, while we attempted to park in an empty Zingo’s parking lot at age 7. So, when I drive now, it almost feels natural. However, it should also be said that no one is a good driver when they are tired. No, not even me. My mother, dad, sister and I were going for a relaxing weekend in the Poconos. This was about two weeks after my birthday, when I had easily driven my dad home from the DMV after receiving my driver’s license. We started our long drive up to the Poconos after 5:00 pm. I slept for the majority of the ride, and on- ly woke when the car stopped for the occasional bathroom break, so needless to say, the ride was pretty bor- ing. When we were about three-quarters of the way there, my mom made a lane change and parked in the shoulder of the road. We had just left a rest stop, so everyone was fairly awake and were all wondering what was going on. Without saying a word, mother then got out of the car, opened my door and tried to hand me the keys. At that moment, this is what I knew: A) My mother wanted me to drive our minivan full of live hu- mans; B) We were on one of the busiest freeways ever; C) Every two seconds, a truck would fly past us, which would make the car wobble like a drunken hobo; 4) My mother is crazy, and finally E) I am not crazy. I flatly refused. My dad ended up taking the keys out of my obviously tired mother’s hand and drove us the rest of way to the house. There were no more unexpected stops, thank the powers that be. When we finally reached my grandparents’ quaint Poconos house, it was about 11:30 at night. At this time of night in the woods, it is fairly dark outside. By ‘fairly dark’, I mean if there were an axe murderer two inches in front of you, you wouldn’t be murdered because he wouldn’t be able to see you. We pulled into the bumpy cul-de-sac, and I groggily noticed that my dad made an unusually wide turn to just pull into the driveway. The car had stopped. We haven’t been bounced around like popcorn kernels yet, have we? We must not even be in the driveway. I just wanted to sleep. Was that too much to ask? Ap- parently, it was, because my dad asked me if I wanted to pull in to the gravel-paved death trap. I didn’t want to say it before, but in the back of my mind, I regretted not taking the opportunity mom had given me an hour ago on the freeway, and I worried my parents thought me a little cowardly. They prob- ably didn’t, but I needed to redeem myself, so I shook off my sleep and slowly took the keys from my dad. I pulled into the driveway, forward, and headed straight for the closed garage door, which I was using as my focal point. I felt the individual bumps of gravel under the tires. I was focused now, but I was still ex- tremely worn out. All I could think about was climbing those steps in the house, so I could flop down in the comfiest bed I had ever felt. My mom sat in the passenger seat next to me with a look of such serenity, I thought she was high. It was obviously a façade, but it reassured me nonetheless. My dad has never made me feel comfortable when I drive. Whether he is next to me or behind me, I can sense him gripping the door handle and readying himself for his daring escape. I can literally see every muscle in his body tense up. He gives me that fake ‘Dad Chuckle’ that dads give when you show them some- thing amazing and they think it’s lame but they still love you, or when you tell an unfunny joke and they want to fill the empty space with something. When we drive, he dad-chuckles to communicate that “everything is okay.” In the Poconos driveway, he was chuckling up a storm in the backseat. (That was better than my sis- ter, who was praying the rosary with her eyes closed.) When I was about five feet away from the garage door, my mother told me to go wide, so we could turn the car around and make it easier for he next driver to

14 pull out. Ok, fine. Three-point turns are easy. You’ve done them tons of times. My inner monologue was right. I had done three-point turns plenty of times. Why should this one be any different? However, there was one difference my inner monologue had failed to take into account. That differ- ence was a lamp post. That lamp post had been in that driveway for as long as I can remember, and probably since before that. I never had any feelings toward it; it was simply there. I had barely even noticed it, mostly because it had never been an issue before now. As I made the wide swing around, I was feeling pretty confident in myself. Everything seemed to be where it should be, except for my sister’s dignity, which she had left somewhere around the eighteenth reci- tation of the Hail Mary. I put the car in reverse and glanced over my shoulder. My mom pointed out that I had gone far enough and I could shift back to drive. I did not think I had gone far enough, so I backed up about another foot. We were back in drive now and I was heading toward the entrance. I was going too far. My mind told me to stop, but my foot didn’t get the message for what seemed like an hour. Someone finally realized this, and told me to reverse again. I did. The next thing I remember was a jerk and a crackly crunch, as if someone had just poured a giant bowl of Rice Crispies. I felt the car back up onto the rock lining that held the lamp post and a heard my dad from the back seat telling me I hadn’t backed up far enough. He was urging me to keep going back. My mom was strongly disagreeing with him, as we felt another jerk. I was still moving the car backwards. My dad finally got out of the car and screamed at me to STOP MOVING. I did. Everyone scrambled out of the minivan to see what had my dad so flustered. I recall this part in slow motion as I glided to the front of the car and stopped next to the rest of the family. All I could do was stare. I didn’t even have enough energy to react. The lamp post had somehow grabbed hold of the front fender of the car and torn it off so cleanly, it appeared the van was still in the process of being made. I realized the feeling of the car jerking the second time was the lamp post desperately clinging to the car. The lamp post was fine, in case you were wondering. At times like these, we as humans revert back to one of our most basic instincts: Finding someone to blame, as evidenced by my parents screaming at each other. And I was mad. I was really mad. Not at myself. I was furious with my dad for telling me to keep driving backwards. After about thirty seconds, I wasn’t even a little mad anymore. I collapsed into my father’s arms in a puddle of tears. How could I have been so reckless as to take the keys in the first place? My dad did a pretty good job of comforting me, by telling me that this happens to everyone and I’m new at this and I’m just his little baby girl and blah blah blah. When we finally dragged ourselves inside, he told me the story of how when he first got his license, his family car was not a minivan, but a Camaro. Oh, my god, dad. Please don’t tell me that you crashed a Camaro. He didn’t crash a Camaro. He to- taled a Camaro. Don’t worry, he was fine. “I was turning a corner at the same time a bus was and… the rest is… well…” Insert ‘Dad Chuckle’ here.

15 Life is Like a TV Show by Anna S. age 16

It’s funny to think about it, but you’re just a background character in everyone’s life. Someone they’re friends with, someone they have the locker next to, someone they sit across the room from, someone they pass in the hallway, someone they live next door to, or someone they drive by on the street without a second thought. You are so busy being your own main character that you don’t even notice that the world does not, in fact, re- volve around you.

Life is like a TV show and I am the audience, never quite sure of how my story’s going to turn out. There’s the main character that the story revolves around, me. There’s also the supporting cast, my friends and family, that are in most episodes of the show, and whose own lives contribute to the storyline, my life. Then there are the extras, the people who are just background characters to me, like I am just background char- acters to them.

Then there are also new characters that come into the story. Some immediately love us and are loved by the audience as well. Some new characters are just plain cruel, the villains of our story. These new characters are the new people I meet, some more welcoming than others. These new characters and their interactions with the main character also help to drive the plot, and move it in both good and not-so-good directions, the way that life can have both good, and not-so-good times. The plot twists in the story are sudden changes of events, births, deaths, marriages, things like moving, changing schools, sudden changes in friends.

Life is like a TV show, and as the audience looking in on the show, we feel for the characters. We empathize with them. We can feel happy for them, and we can feel sorry for them, just like we sometimes feel sorry for ourselves. But we can never know exactly how everything will turn out, just like we never know how our life is going to turn out. We hope for the best for our favorite characters, but in the end, their fate is up to the writers. Our fate is up to our God.

Our lives are like TV shows, and with each season finale we grow closer to the final episode.

16 Dreamless by Jared G. age 16

To a Banshee, every night is a mystery. Every dream is a nightmare. Every minute, is a curse. Listen for the maiden’s wail, and hope beyond hope that you weren’t the one she saw that night. Anna slid silently beneath the bedcovers. It had been a long day of training, and she was ready for a good night’s sleep. She prepared to close her eyes, but hesitated, as she always did. For Anna, sleep was a terrifying and uncertain experience. Most nights, all was silent. Every now and again however, her demon would come out to play. From across the room Shannon whispered “Good night Banshee.” Anna allowed herself a melancholy smile. The wailing spirit, a fitting nickname, she thought. Banshee, Banshee, the word repeated itself, lodged deep within her subconscious. Anna was a Banshee, always had been, always will be. With this thought in mind, she gave in to the welcoming arms of slumber. Had she known what awaited her, she would have never closed her eyes. *** Banshee could see the knife, feel the fresh blood on her hands, and hear the screams of the dead and dying. Ryan had wanted to make the assassination simple, get in, kill the target, and get out. He’d done it countless times before. Today however, when he needed it most, fortune set its gaze elsewhere. Banshee could hear the battle cry of the guards as they came thundering up the steps, broadswords drawn. Ryan however, wasn’t going to give up so easily. Banshee could feel the movement of his arms, the ripple of his muscles, as he rained down blow after blow upon the guards. She had never been in Ryan’s mind before, and marveled at the sheer strength and willpower he possessed. Her imagination began to wander, but she shook the filthy thoughts away. Banshee scolded herself mentally. Now was so not the time for daydreaming. One by one the soldiers fell, each death more gruesome then the last. However, the enemy’s numbers were too great, their attacks too overwhelming. She felt the pain of the knockout blow as if she herself had been hit. Banshee was powerless to intervene as Ryan collapsed helplessly to the ground. His body went limp, so hers did too. He was not dead, merely unconscious, and they were going to make him pay for it. Banshee could feel the weight of the ropes pressing down on her as the knots were tied. She could hardly breath, the pressure of the ropes being designed for a man twice her size and three times the strength. Ryan’s eyes were shut tight, taking away her sense of vision along with his own. However, she got enough information from her other senses to piece together what was happening. She felt the drag of the wood beneath her as Ryan’s body was pulled along the castle corridors. She could hear the whinny of a stallion, and after a few minutes, began to feel the nauseating rocking motion one experiences when bent over the back of a horse. They were taking him to jail, where he would be tortured, tried, convicted, and executed. Then suddenly, she was elsewhere, kneeling outside the burning remnants of a small-town cottage. Once again she could feel the prickly grip of the ropes that restrained her. However, these ropes weren’t tied around Ryan, but around Karen. She could hear the sobs as if they had come from her own mouth. She felt the roll of the tears as they streaked down her cheek, tears that weren’t her own. A large hairy hand collided maliciously with Karen’s cheek, but that didn’t mean Karen was the only one to feel it. Banshee cringed, not only at the ferocity of the blow, but also at the heat of the flames on her exposed skin. She was breathing heavily, desperately trying not to inhale the sulfuric wheeze of the smoke. The hand hit her again, knocking her helplessly on her side. Banshee could feel all too clearly the beating and

17 molestation that followed, horrified at the realism and depth of the senses. It was as if she was actually there, as if she had somehow taken Karen’s place. She felt like she was the one being beaten and violated. To her it was not a dream, it was reality. *** The dream popped like a bubble, sending Banshee careening back into the real world. Her eyes burst open and her hands instinctively reached to cover her mouth. It was too late. From the back of her throat a wail escaped so high pitched and shrill, it could shatter glass and wake the dead. The porcelain cup on her nightstand cracked in half a dozen places, spilling the contents and soaking the floor. By the time Banshee’s hands reached her face the entire compound had been awakened. She ducked as a pillow came flying at her from the other side of the room. The thrower was none other than Shannon O’Connor, her best friend and closest companion. “Darn it girl, why’d you have to go and wake me up,” she said jokingly. “I was dreaming I was a little girl back in Dublin, back before dodging bullets and blowing off heads was my profession.” Banshee swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up away from Shannon. She was in no mood for jokes. She grabbed the blanket and held it up to her chest. Suddenly the room felt very cold. She sat there in silence for several seconds, the horrors of her dream freshly imprinted in her mind. Shannon walked over and gave her a hug from behind. Her long curly red hair fell around Banshee like a shroud, tickling her face and reminding her where she really was. “What did you see?” she whispered. Shannon was referring to Banshee’s dream, for she knew, just as everyone else knew, that if Banshee screamed it meant something really bad was going to happen. As a baby, Banshee’s father had thought her cursed. He thought that her deafening wails caused the misfortunes, when in fact it was the other way around. Banshee could see into the future, but never by choice. The visions usually came as she slept, foretelling some great disaster or tragedy to befall those she knew. She would manifest inside the victims’ own minds, seeing through their eyes, feeling through their senses. Every sensation they felt was transferred to her, none of them pleasant. By the age of seventeen she had felt the drop of the gallows half a dozen times. She had felt what it was liked to be raped, burned alive, peppered with grapeshot, and stabbed through the heart. All the while her own body, and her virginity, had been kept perfectly intact. Many referred to what Banshee had as a gift, saying that the ability to see one’s own undesirable future was a great strategic advantage. They had no idea. Her whole life Banshee had been searching for an escape, a loop hole, a way out. She never found one. There was no escaping it and she knew it. It had plagued her since birth and would continue to torment her till the day she died. “Where is Ryan, is he still in Worchester?” Banshee asked as she rose to her feet. She stepped carefully over Shamus and Arthur, Shannon’s two pet Irish Wolfhounds, and began to dress. The dogs lazily lifted their heads and watched her momentarily, before going back to sleep. This lightened Banshee’s mood, if only slightly. For she knew that underneath their cute lovable exteriors hid trained attack dogs ready to go for the throat, much like herself. Shannon leaned back and sat on her knees, her face flush with concern. “Why, did something happen?” “No, but something will happen.” Banshee replied as she slid into her jet black assassin’s uniform. “We need to warn my father, get a messenger out to Ryan if it’s not already too late…” Banshee trailed off as she pulled her hood over her head. She liked to hang it low, so low it hid her eyes. Shannon constantly asked how she saw with that thing on and the response was always the same. I don’t need to be able to see, I just need to be able to fight. Shannon rose and put a hand on Banshee’s shoulder. “There’s more to it isn’t there.” Banshee looked away, not letting her see the tear that rolled down her face. “I saw Karen,” she muttered. “They were doing such…horrible things to her…” Banshee’s voice trailed off. She didn’t want to talk any longer.

18 Misty Blossoms by Allen W. age 16

19 Weeds Bailey R. age 16

She was a social smoker Addicted not to the nicotine But to the feeling of belonging And despite her façade She still found the beauty In things that her friends could not see In specks of dust that dance in the sunbeams Peeking through curtained windows In dewdrops on rose petals And the weeds that grow on the side of the road In kittens’ paws and scabby knees In frozen breath on winter mornings In the shapes you find while watching the clouds And in the poems that I wrote, just for her And I still write them for her One for every day that she’s been gone And I will continue to write Until the weeds that grow on the side of the road Cease to be beautiful.

20 The Good-Luck Song by Taylor B. age 18

The schoolhouse stunk like a rotting pumpkin. The elder droning on, a girl in the back corner reached towards the open window beside her. She already was regretting her choice of a baggy orange sweater over a purple tank top. But outside the bells were ringing (it was three o’clock), and like a blessing, a breeze strolled inside. She sighed with a smile. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the other students wipe their brows. From the tree that towered over the schoolhouse tweeted a songbird. I wonder, Dani mused, if Salvia Chaff saw in the cards a September as hot as this. Since the war, the tribes of the empire’s territory had consolidated into one city for protection. But the traditions remained, and so each tribe’s shaman, their Salvia, still cared for the ill and watched the sky for any signs. When a tribe member came of age, they would go to the Salvia’s hut at the edge of the wood. There the tarot cards were read to welcome the unknown future of adulthood. Dani grinned. Her tribe’s Salvia was going to read for her today! Can’t believe it’s your turn with the cards. Dani inclined her head to the other end of the classroom. Beside the opposite window sat the silent voice. Dani thought, Felt like you just had yours. The seasons turn faster and faster it seems, agreed Myrtle, Dani’s oldest friend. Ugh when will class end? Soon enough, Myrtle chided as she wrote down some notes. Dani shlumped in her seat. Today was her seventeenth birthday: a potent number for all the tribes of the city. Already her parents had agreed to take over her chores for the afternoon so she could spend time with the Salvia. Dani still couldn’t believe her oak-solid mother had agreed to her daughter sweeping aside work. Dani adored their farm, but the cards would promise more. She huffed. If only she could fly out the window, disappear into the future, like a phantom! The bells rang out one last time. Soon enough, they seemed to promise. - Sunlight seeping into her skin, Dani walked through a meadow decorated in wildflowers. Beneath the approaching tree line sat a septagonal cottage. Smoke curled from its cobbled chimney, and a raven nibbled at piece of straw from the thatch roof. She clung to her satchel. For the reading of the cards by a tribe’s Salvia, one went alone. Dani glanced over shoulder at the forest behind her. If only Myrtle were here… The wood surrounded her. What if the cards rejected her? Back in mid-summer the Salvia had read for Jack Dawson, and the cards had promised only the red and red and red of pale Death. Jack, he was so sweet. Dani wiped at her eyes. She had always liked him- he understood her need to know. They met as children when she left the farm on the outskirts of the city. His mother was a chandler, wax candles her specialty, and at her shop, he smelled of tallow. He needed to be a link in the chain too, Dani recalled, remembering that day. And then he was gone like a candle blown out when you turned your back. No one had known what had happened, and his mother, who had cursed Salvia Chaff, fetched every fortune teller from the city. None in their rituals could learn what had become of him. Dani, the hair standing up at the nape of her neck, glanced over her shoulder again. Some whispered that the forest had swallowed him whole and left his bones for the shadows to cradle. But it shields the city, she reminded herself, from outsiders. Relax, Dani. All the other kids have done this and returned. Get over yourself. She looked up at the roof. “Afternoon Faust! The raven cawed back. “Now Faust,” called a voice from the cottage, “Don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s not polite.” The gray door was swept aside, and in its threshold stood the Salvia of Col Tribe. “Fair afternoon, shadeling,” cooed Salvia Chaff. Her frizzy brown hair, streaked with gray, was tied back, her eyes supported by laugh lines. “Fair afternoon to you too, Salvia,” Dani greeted, inclining her head as she slid her way into the cottage. In the stone fireplace a pot of soup was cooking. Surprisingly, the space was cool. In the center of everything stood a mahogany table barren except for a white tablecloth. Placing her satchel beside the chair closest to the door, Dani took her seat. “My my,” half-sung Salvia Chaff sitting across from Dani, “My shadeling is not too patient today.” “At the last council meeting you did say that opportunity shames even the wind.” “True very true.” The Salvia smiled. Hands in her lap, she leaned in towards Dani and added, “So we shall

21 commence immediately.” From her skirt pockets she pulled a deck of worn tarot cards. The schoolgirl grasped the edge of the table. Stiff cotton rubbed against her damp palms. Salvia Chaff shuffled the deck quietly, murmured to herself an old song. Dani was too nervous to even hum along. All she could do was think of the ancient melody her people had always sung for good luck: Sing me a song of death/Sing her to me/And steal away my breath/For the White Canary. Death was luckier than finding the White Canary. In legend, during the crossing to the Next Life, a woman came carrying a lantern. Her light would lead the way, and she would support your lost soul till the sky returned to your eyes. But the White Canary, its song would you lead you astray, forever trapped in the middle. Salvia Chaff, still humming the good-luck song, placed the deck on the table. She then placed her hands in her lap again and said, “Close your eyes, and choose five.” Dani nodded. She needed a drink, but Myrtle’s gleeful face returned from memory. Myrtle was going to be happy. She had had her reading of the cards, and she was soon to be a full tribes member. The cards promised her goodness, so why not Dani too? This was her destiny and like so many others, she would be blessed. She closed her eyes and fingers still, brushed five cards. Dani listened to the Salvia remove the remainders, and her eyes fluttered open. Salvia Chaff was overturning the first card. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. Dani blinked. “What?” She and the Salvia chained each other’s gaze, and the girl’s eyes begged the woman for something other than silence. Maybe the white cards meant a blank slate. Maybe they meant an open future. It wasn’t cold death. Couldn’t be. “I- I-.” The lines no longer seemed to resemble laughter. “I don’t know.” Dani squeaked, “You don’t know?” “I’ve never, this phenomenon, never have our people seen such an occurrence!” Her chair skidding across the floor, Salvia Chaff stood, eyes distant and jaw slack. She began to back away. “No! Don’t go!” Dani hastened to her feet. “Please! Help me!” But the Salvia gave one last crazed look at the five cards laid across the table. And screamed. She fled. “No! Please! Come back!” Dani reached out a hand, but her body did not move. Myrtle’s joyous face kept coming back to her. Promise promise promise but everything lied on the floor in tatters, shattered like eggs. Someone whistled for her. Dani glanced over her shoulder, recognizing the song, and there perched the white songbird from school. A sob shoved itself from her throat. Now she knew what bird it was. The room tilted, and the colors converged into an evening-blaze. Everything fell away, and the song resounded in her ears. School children were singing to her, dancing around her, giggling. Even a young Dani danced. And there was Jack smiling at her, his child-hand grasping her hers. He had tucked a feather behind her ear. “Sing me a song of death/Sing her to me/And steal away my breath/For the White Canary.” “No,” Dani moaned. “No.” “NO!” - She bolted through the meadow. Behind her smoke still curled from the chimney, and a bird screamed after her. Dani had indeed disappeared. Inside her skin, beneath that baggy orange sweater and purple tank top, nothing remained but RUN. She was an animal, and she was being hunted. She had been erased. Far off the city bells now sang, and it must have been the good-luck song. Her boots trampled wildflowers. Wind ballooned her skirt and ensnarled her hair. Run run run. Now she understood. As her body burned for breath, she understood the last two lines: So long as the fire starved so would the White Canary be sated. Jack Jack Jack How long had he run? From the roof, the raven watched as the wood consumed the Girl-Who-Had-Seen-the-White-Canary.

22 Lips by Bailey R. age 16

I bite and pick and chew at the skin on my lips so that I can have a mouth that yours has never kissed.

23 Catgazing by Sierra R. age 17

24 Meerkat Warriors by Ana L. age 12

The sky was full of the hot sun, the white clouds, and the wind. The wind brought the scent of fear and blood. A lone meerkat figure stood still on its hind legs and sniffed the air then started to move toward the scent. Buttercup raised her hackles as the wind brought the scent closer; it was Blueclaw’s. Buttercup raced toward the scent. When she passed a bush she tripped on one of the roots. When she regained her balance she looked around her. She was in a clearing and there was her dear old leader, Blueclaw, right in the middle but she wasn’t alone. A Viper clan warrior stood opposite her. It was the clan leader’s son, Hawk. Buttercup began to rush to her leader’s side, but Buttercup was bowled over before she reached her. Fiercefur, Hawk’s twin brother, knocked her to the ground and quickly pinned her down. The air in Buttercup’s chest had been knocked out. She gasped for breath. Panic rose in her chest. She looked around for a way to escape Fiercefur’s sharp claws. “She’s ours! Let’s watch to see what happens to a dear old leader when she’s forced to fight. Shall we?” Fiercefur jeered into Buttercup’s ear. “No, you can’t! Blueclaw is a leader! If you do you’ll be putting your clan at war with us, and your clan will suffer many deaths!” Buttercup warned in a vicious snarl. “I don’t care!” snapped Hawk. “She’s old! Won’t it help you to get rid of that cranky old pest?” Hawk taunted. “Blueclaw, look out! Hawk’s going to kill you!” Buttercup barked. But Fiercefur quickly silenced her with a harsh bite on her ear. The pain in her ear screamed with agony. Buttercup tried harder to shake free from Fiercefur’s grip. “Buttercup, Buttercup! Wake up!” Buttercup jumped to her feet, hackles raised, teeth bared, ready for action. But it was only Gentlebreeze and Softclaw, the two healers. “It’s okay, it’s only us,” said Softclaw cheerfully as she entered Buttercup’s den. “What’s the matter?” asked Gentlebreeze as she entered also. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Yes. Why?” snipped Buttercup. “Well, you were twitching in your sleep.” Gentlebreeze said with a concerned look in her eyes as she sat down. “Was it the same nightmare, again?” Softclaw asked gently. Buttercup was too shaken to answer. “Oh, Tigereye needs to talk to you about something.” said Gentlebreeze. “Just hold on! She needs to eat! I had Wasp go hunt for you. Eat up!” Softclaw said as she dropped a dead scorpion toward Buttercup. “Thank you, Softclaw. You can go tell Tigereye I’m ready to talk to him.” Buttercup ordered. Buttercup watched as Softclaw left the den to search for Tigereye. A minute later Softclaw came back with Tigereye. Tigereye was flanked by three warriors, River, Tallgrass, and Wasp. Tigereye turned to the warriors and told them something, the next moment they left. Finally, Tigereye came in dipping his massive head to Buttercup and then looked at Gentlebreeze and asked, “Are you done talking with her?” “Yes.” Gentlebreeze said. Buttercup saw Gentlebreeze flinch under Tigereye’s gaze. Gentlebreeze left the two to talk. “I needed to remind you that you have to appoint a third deputy. Everybody is worried that you won’t appoint a deputy before the sun sets.” The massive deputy said as he looked into her amber eyes. Buttercup looked back, straining not to flinch under the massive deputy’s steady gaze, too. “Thank you Tigereye for reminding me, I totally forgot.” Buttercup said but at the same time Buttercup couldn’t stop her hackles from rising a little bit at the sight of Tigereye. Tigereye was the best warrior in the clan, and all the clans knew of him. Tigereye was big for a meerkat. He had a massive head, the longest and sharpest claws, broad and strong shoulders, and was tall for a meerkat. No one would want to get in the way of the strong deputy. “How are the patrols doing, and has the lookout spotted anything?” Buttercup asked trying to change the 25 subject. “No the lookout hasn’t spotted anything, and the patrols are doing fine. There’s nothing to fret about.” Tigereye replied. “I have to fret; I have to make sure everything is okay.” Buttercup said. “You’re dismissed Tigereye, I’ll need to think about this.” Buttercup continued. Tigereye looked at her for a moment more then left the den for her to think. It would need a lot of thought to choose the third deputy. They have to have mentored at least one apprentice, and have been a warrior for two moons or more. Buttercup didn’t want someone who was too ambitious. Blueclaw made that mistake. She chose a third deputy who had a good reputation, but was evil and wanted to do many things that were against the Meerkat Warrior Code. Blueclaw had him killed when she found out. Buttercup wanted someone who was loyal, cared for the clans well- being, and followed the Meerkat Warrior Code strongly. Then an idea popped in Buttercup’s brain. Buttercup got up and walked out of the den. The sun beat down on her back making Buttercup pant. Buttercup walked to the high rock and jumped on it gracefully. She could feel Blueclaw’s breath as she whispered the words to gather the clan in Buttercup’s ear, then Buttercup’s voice boomed: “All meerkats gather beneath the Highrock!” Crookstar and Tigereye both walked and sat on either side of the highrock. The other meerkats sat under the highrock and looked up to Buttercup. “I gather you together to appoint the third deputy.” She said as she swept her gaze across the crowd, looking at faces. “I have thought long and hard of whom should be the third deputy.” Buttercup said. Some meerkats shuffled their feet with anxiety. “The third deputy will be Clawface!” Buttercup said. Everybody turned to see Clawface looking surprised. “I am honored to be a deputy. I will do my best to protect and help my clan.” Clawface sputtered, surprised. “Good. That’s all that I ask.” Buttercup said. Buttercup jumped down. Suddenly, a loud wail came out of nowhere. Everyone’s hackles were raised with alarm. Everybody turned toward the long flat ground around their burrow, alert for the voice. A small Meerkat trudged toward them, dragging a forepaw. The small Meerkat was the apprentice, Hankpaw. “Help, I was bitten by a King Cobra while hunting!” The apprentice said in a weak voice. Softclaw was at the apprentice’s side when the apprentice fell to the ground. “Gentlebreeze, help me!” wailed Softclaw with a panic look in her eyes. Gentlebreeze dashed over with some herbs in her mouth. Will Hankpaw survive the bite from the King Cobra? Read the next story to find out!

26 ALRIGHT FATHER by Brianna T. age 14

I see you right next to me.

Hearing you talking loud; spitting tobacco out of your mouth.

Smoke arises from your cigarette.

Stay in school kids, enforcing things into me that you never did.

Virgin eyes stare ahead not yet abused by what is the world.

You knew your time was ticking.

The mind is a horrible thing to waste you say, but father you have wasted yours.

I love you he told a girl, a quite lonely one he left.

I care about you, he texted me late one night.

I will buy that for you, the old imbecile insisted.

All right father.

You'll miss me one-day kid, I'll tell you.

All right father.

Only to find next week you're gone.

27 Glimpses by Sierra R. age 17

28

The Darkness by Donovan T. age 13

Alone walking down the unknown street Peace and quiet is all I can think The longer I walk the darker it gets All I see is Darkness and I feel so empty Running Faster and Faster as I go Feeling fear and more fear the farther I go I feel now that the sun is gone forever Dark will always show now and forever after The sun has gone and I feel I'm gone as well Now I wonder is it me or the sun I wonder if anyone else has met my fate I soon shall know if I'm forgotten The Darkness, The Darkness is surrounding me Dark, Dark, Dark is all that's left of me

29

Urban City by Julian I. age 14

inspired by Cliff Dwellers, George Wesley Bellows

In the state, In the county, Lies a city, A city grand and big, With people, O the people, Working all the day.

The men work hard, To earn a night's keep, The women wash clothes, And hang them out to dry.

The children, O the children, So cheerful the way they play, They play their games of tag and hide and seek, During the day out in the streets.

When the sun sets, the work is done, The men leave work for home, To home with a nice hot meal, To embrace their loving wife.

The night has fallen, the city asleep, Or so most people think, For night is when the city wakes, When mobsters and gamblers come out, Its true colors behold.

The mobsters fight, the gamblers gamble, The officers of the law come in, Sirens wailing, a chase ensues, They soon become cornered, Caught and captured, The cops have caught the crooks.

In the east, the sun will soon rise, Puts an end to all the crime, The men rise up, And go to work, Ready for another day, Surely the same.

30 Milky Way by Allen W. age 16

31 That’s When We Know by Sierra R. age 17

When the universe aligns, but nothing quite makes sense. When the words come to mind, but the story switches tense.

When the stars collide around us, but the earth stays the same. When the melodies become us, but the music loses its name.

When the darkness brings comfort, but it also brings pain. When the ticking clock reminds us, but it also brings a chain.

When the fear begins to choke us, but everyone else stands tall. When the mothers hold their daughters tight, but bravery falls.

When the drowning people swarm the walls, but the gates don't lower. When the stars refuse to blink and shine, that's when we know it's over.

32 Strike in Sea Rock by Ishraq A. age 17

Sea Rock, WA 2050 "This has been going on for 99 years. That is way too long! We have to stop them. We have to end it now!" Crowds started cheering. Since Dad was the leader of our town, he recruited all the men and informed them that tomorrow morning, we were going to put up signs about our freedom. This was a great idea but what about Amy? She's the first girl that I ever fell in love with. She's beyond beautiful and I had to figure out a plan without letting her be in the conflict. Without letting Dad know, I sneaked out into the woods to take the path to the city. As I came towards the river, I noticed someone. It was Amy! She came all the way here! "Hi," she said. "Sorry about what happened." "Joey, it's okay," she interrupted. "After what my dad did, I decided to leave him. I want to help your side of town. I've realized it isn't fair and you should deserve the same as us." "Thank you." At 11:00, we were back at the base camp. I told everyone about Amy, that she's the Mayor's daughter, that she understands the meaning of peace, freedom, and she wants to become a good citizen. The families nodded and thanked her for caring. "Men and women, now it's time to put an end to this misery and hate.” Dad said. "Women.... Pray for us... for many of us will meet God after a sudden death.” Tears started flowing from families’ eyes. Dad then yelled, "For Sea Rock!" The people echoed his words and the men were off. We marched through the woods, past the icy, cold river. At about 11:30, we reached near the city. Talking and chattering went on in HQ until one of the men said, “Mr. Andersen... Who's that? " All of the troops looked through to see an enormous armada. Andersen retorted, "Get the whole army down there! It's those poor rascals. If it's war they want, then it's war they shall get." Andersen pulled the alarm to get every single troop to get in their battle stations. Loading the nitro charged canons, ray guns, and grenades. Dad noticed that as they kept marching up, the troops were heading our way. Dad and the men had stolen some of their cannons before and brought them out of their secret location. Dad ordered the men to load the canons and start firing. One! Two! Three rounds of canons shot, bringing damage to two of the buildings. The city people heard the noise and saw that the buildings were hit and began to flee to find safety. Dad kept ordering them to fire more rounds. Each and every blast shattered glasses, exploded cars, even blew up a crowd of arrogant rich men. Firing stopped and we started marching again towards the city with confidence. As we got near, Dad told me to fall back and stay with my brother James. "No! I want to help you!" "I can't let you in there! It's too dangerous!” I was shocked at what Dad said. James grabbed me and took me back. The rest of our skilled men marched up until they met the troops who were 500 ft away. At a sudden moment, Dad made a call, "Charge!” Both sides started running right at each other like bulls, yelling, screaming, and cursing. When they were 10 ft. away, the battle began . Men slashing each other, bullets going through skulls, and canons blowing up men, stores, and cars from both sides. The casualties on both sides escalated. We were able to run through half of their men, losing some of ours as well. "What are you doing?" a voice said from behind, We looked back to see Amy was there, as beautiful as always. "Joey, don't be a wimp. Go attack them. You came here for a reason. To show your strength." I listened and thought... she was right. We have to go. "Come with me. We'll go together. We'll win this... not just for everyone... but for us." She smiled. I knew those words made her happy. "Let's go,” She said. “But we have to take a different path." "James?" He gave me a look and said, "Alright. Stay safe though. If Dad finds you, he's going to be mad." 33 I nodded and left with Amy. We took the path near the river but then we took a route that led us straight into the conflict. A troop was coming right after us. I easily knocked him out and we both started going after the rest of the troops. We jumped, kicked, shot, and punched our way through and a few minutes later, the troops started to retreat. We started chasing them. I acted invincible but invisible at the same time because I didn't want Dad to see me at all. They were heading towards the massive Space Needle, where another set of canons started to burst rounds and rounds of fire and smoke. "Fire at them!” a general said. “Keep firing at them till they have lost their spirits!" As we kept on charging, the balls kept tailing. We flashed right through them like cheetahs and were able to reach their canons. We got close to the Space Needle and I noticed a man there. It was Governor Andersen. He was all the way at the top. I started climbing up the Needle. "Joey, what are you doing?" "We have to stop this now, Amy. Whose side are you on, mine... or theirs?” She was breathless at first but then she came up to me and gave me a quick kiss. I started climbing up as fast as I can. As I started climbing, I peeked over to look at our side and I saw that the rest of our army had come to our assistance. I was relieved at that but it wasn't over yet. I climbed and climbed all the way to the top until I reached. "It's a welcome surprise, Mr. Roberts." His back was turned on me. "You know, I thought at first that you were a pleasant rich boy. You're father does work near this side of town. But when I saw your home, my mood changed. You're a rebel. You're a part of their army.” "Why does our society have to be like this?" "That is none of your concern, you idiot. You aren't well-educated, that's why. The citizens of from your side cannot see the vision, the true vision of Sea Rock. They can't act like leaders. They are losers." That made my heart drop a little. "Now go die!" he said to me as he turned around, charged at me and the Needle started to fly up. I dodged his blade and started to fight. We were combating at the tip of the Needle. Then I pressed the button that made the Needle tilt towards the river and crash. I was holding on tightly to the edge of it and trying to brace myself. "Now it's time for you to die," the mayor said angrily. I looked up and as he descended his knife down, he paused and froze. His eyes were still and he blanked out and fell. As he fell, I noticed that Amy was behind him and she had killed her own father. I looked at her in shock and relief. "Are you okay?" she said. "I'm in a little pain after the landing. Are you okay?” "Yes, I'm fine." She helped me up and took me to Dad, who looked at me furiously. "Now, I told you not to go. You didn't listen to me at all.... but I have to give you credit. You did win it for us." They helped me walk back home where most of us were treated with medicine and water. We were able to take some of the water and pills from the city as well to hydrate most of the men. A few days later, the Needle was assembled again. The mayor of the city took control then. "After a rough strike last night, we came to a compromise that every single citizen of this city and the forests are free." The families started cheering. Our neighbors started cheering. Everyone was free but there were still laws about the poor not owning a home in the city, working there, etc. The great thing is that we were able to win back our freedom. We were able to prove to the rich that they can't control every single poor person. We were able to come up as a group and rampage our way right through the city. The great thing is that I have my family. I have a loving Mom who supports us and a strong Dad who will fight for anything. Plus I have the love of my life with me now. I wonder what happens next?

34 stand still by Bethany F. age 16 it’s three a.m. and the entire world is quiet. snow blankets the town, traffic lights blinking with lethargy. everything is hibernating: slow motion at a standstill. the moon casts a soft glow over the barren ground, the sky spitting white individuals tumbling down and reflecting the souls of slumber. one set of footsteps breaks the uniformity. dark and messy, smearing destruction. they weave to and fro, wavering the uncertainty of minds. attached to the footprints is a human: red coat billowing in the wind, a spot of blood on an endless canvas. snow crunches beneath boots dances and curls into hair. a small smile cuts through, electrifying the night― live wire coursing through veins. it’s three a.m. and the entire world is quiet. the footsteps stop momentarily, pausing to admire. snow blankets the town, traffic lights blinking with lethargy. everything is hibernating: life stops until the sun rises.

35 Echoes by Sierra R. age 17 How to read this Concrete Poem: Begin with the thumb, ending at the underlined line. Then, proceed to each finger going clockwise around the hand ending at each underlined line. After the fingers have been read, start under the pointer finger and read the palm of the hand. Do not read above the underlined lines after this. Enjoy!

……. …. My hands Every cover my ……. Shadow eyes, and My heart that lives they begin speeds up in in my room to close, the preparation, peers out fatigue pulling the routine at me with me back as familiar. knowing though I’m The echoes ….. eyes. I sit a prisoner. begin to Trying On the edge As soon as catch up to to escape of my bed; my eyelids me even as them is my head sinking seal me in, my body strains, impossible. to my hands I am running lungs gasping The echoes ….. for protection. again… with exertion. control my I scramble Somehow, my foot catches on some invisible dreams, always out of bed barrier, and I know it’s one of them. I fall hunting me. and turn on slowly, almost not moving in my mind as though I escaped the lights. The it, but then my face smashes into the ground. The echoes dream still grow innumerably; countless voices taunting me, swathes me reminding me of the past, echoing my life back at me. with its echoes. I scream to drown them out, but the volume of their persistence is too loud and leaks through till I am hoarse from trying to escape. Then, a sticky warmth begins to shield me and soon, I am covered - safe. I open my eyes, and all I see is blood. I jump up, my bed squeaking in fright, and look in the mirror. Like a flashback to my mistake, my hands are covered in blood. The outline of my handprints covers my face where moments ago, the two were touching. Shaking, I can’t seem to pull myself away from the mirror. As I watch, the blood begins to burn away until it is almost gone. I am clean; my skin unharmed. But, I am not free. The outlines of my handprints remain tattooed on my face, and as I desperately try to wipe them away, a single voice starts to whisper around me. It begins to echo.

36 The Lighthouse by Donovan T. age 13

June 1, 2008 (The first day) Finally after the endless ride I got to my new disgusting-looking light house of the coast of Alaska. The island's name was Dusty Main Land. It was called that because it used to be a massive island until there was a colossal flood and now this little part of the old glamorous island holding the lighthouse is the only part left. The lighthouse looked as old as a dinosaur. I wouldn't even be surprised if I opened the door and it fell right off of the rusty hinges. When I was sailing up to the island I could see an immense dust cloud coming out of the windows. I was shocked when I opened the door. The inside of the lighthouse looked like a mansion. The walls and floors blinded me because they were so shiny. Two other boats came up with my two shabby-looking mates. The one was from Jamaica and ran as fast as lightning. His name was Reggie Bolt. He was incredibly strong, you could see his muscles popping off his arms. My other mate’s name was John Jackson from France he was a tall quiet man he seemed very shy and somewhat strange.

I showed them the lighthouse there stood they extremely shocked about how incredible the lighthouse was. We ran to the very top of the lighthouse. All I could see was the shabby-looking outside of the lighthouse. The supply boat gave us the food and said, see you in twenty nine days. After the first day I saw a giant line of sharks. The vicious, absolutely appalling killers with their razor sharp teeth. Hundreds and hundreds of them, swimming around the island like they were stalking their prey. Unfortunately I’m pretty sure we were their prey. After an hour or so the sharks finally left.

I went up to bed second floor to the top. The rest of the night when I was trying to go sleep I kept hearing a mysterious figure in a canoe about a mile from the island. Whoever or Whatever that was moaning for help. All night all I could hear was the moaning. Then that night it came up to the island and knocked on the door it was a prisoner that got left on the sea by some pirates. We let him come in. His name was Dave Rodger. Eventually later that night he died because his massive wounds from sharks and the pirates.

June 2, 2008 The next morning a massive three-masted pirate ship came to our door of the lighthouse. The captain Robert Henry the captain of the beautiful ship from France looking for a wanted man with a reward of one hundred thousand gold coins. We said, “What was his name?” He said, “Dave Rodger.” I said, “He died and I dropped him in the water. Then he sank as fast as a tennis ball bouncing off a wall.” As fast as lightning the captain had his sharp sword at my face. He said, "You will work for me and my crew on my beautiful ship to pay for what you have done."

I quickly ran to the top of the lighthouse with Reggie and John. We got up there and locked the metal door. All the pirates were outside the door banging and banging making a horrible clamor. They didn't realize but we tied a rope to the railing of the lighthouse and started climbing down to the few inches of sand around the old lighthouse. We went back into the shabby looking lighthouse. Slowly, cautiously walking up the long narrow stairs, we snuck up behind the pirates and shoved them into each other. We picked up their swift swords and forced them down the stairs and back into their humongous three-masted ship. It was the most frightening time of my life. A few hours later there was a dangerous storm coming our way. The immense bone-crushing waves started

37 smashing, bashing into the light house. The waves crashing into the lighthouse kept me up all night creating such a clamor.

June 8, 2008 Today I woke up to see I was stranded at a lighthouse near Alaska. It turns out it's my new lighthouse. I went back down to the bottom floor and found the driver of my supply boat asleep on the couch. That day I realized it wasn't June 8, 2008, it was June 30. The supply ship realized my light wasn't on so he was going to investigate when he was sailing. He found us passed out on a deserted island almost dead from hunger and brought us back here to the lighthouse. I still wonder today what was real and what was fake. That is what I want to know more than anything. That was my greatest adventure in life.

38 Outcasts & Pie by Taylor B. age 18

Outcasts will outlast Those crumbling traditions of the past Like pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving And holding broken wings back. We flutter and quiver and nearly fall out of the sky But never have we said good night So prepare for our good day And ready yourselves for runnin' ‘Cause I promise you this, honey, We are comin’ And we don’t want any of your peaceful Pumpkin pies. When you get to know the shade, you learn to play the game And plenty enough of men like me have already won. Martin Luther and Joan of Arc first come to mind (still counts even though she was burned at the stake) Listen to me one last time Since once I am free, My voice will never be off your mind: Outcasts will outlast!

(by the way, I’d like a slice of that chocolate chip pie over there).

39 The Monster Under My Bed by Rebekah M. age 14

Save me from the monster under my bed! He has eight eyes and a curly mouth He smiles at my tears He bites at my smile No one can see him, he only scares me He’s green with red eyes that see my envy He holds my hand to help me do bad He smiles at the things he has made me do Save me from my monster under my bed! He acts like me, he talks like me He is me.

40 Dragon by Nyree P. age 12

41 Bonfire by Allen W. age 16

42 Foot Steps by Rachel W. age 17

I was born into a world of color and glitter, Of Chai tea and pacific sunsets, Bathed in a culture that went farther than my blood, Raised by those who wanted to blur lines. Taught to see from a young age, To breathe in the sights around me not by eyes or nose or ear But by my heart. Draped in the most peaceful of winters, Bathed in the most radiant of summers. I have been taught legacies that have stood the test of time, The way an eye glimmers as a tear pools in its corners, The light that is seen when all lights are off and the stars alone light the sky, The way laughter can literally take a room from a grainy monotone into a clear symphony of color. I have been told to merge the senses, To not hear, To not see, To not taste, To not feel, But simply to live. The potential I hold in my fingertips is too much to put into words, And too little to simply rely upon. My world was defined in curious quantities, How many lights it took for the tree to shine, How much wind was needed to wisp the leaves around my house, How much sugar it took to make my tongue feel like it was draped in a thick layer of dreams defined simply by what my mind gave them the shape to be, And how much snow it would take for the deer’s footsteps to be seen in the morrow. I was taught that footsteps were important. That the marks we leave on the world would one day turn into their own pacific sun- sets, That the sweetness of the young’s Chai tea would be defined by the sweetness I put forth as an extension of myself into the world. I was told that footprints on the sand were indeed not these footprints on life all parents hoped their children would be the ones to create, Because footprints on sand are wiped to the sea, Twisted into the froth,

43 Burdened with the load of other particles, other dirt, other dust, other things lurking past that water’s edge. I was taught that to make the right kind of footsteps, that to step in the right places, I would need to be a certain person. I would need to be a version of myself who wasn’t afraid to shake things up, To cast a shadow over the dullness of the world from the light I could brandish across my chest, Inside my eyes, And through the pupils given to me by my mother and father I could see the world as I and a generation of individuals with the same possibilities to create at their fingertips defined an infinite combination of hopes. However, I do not see why this hope for the future soon began to reflect that shadow that would be casted, The people I would be forced to leave behind on the journey, And the part of myself I would have to pry from my heart and leave on the ground be- cause if I didn’t I would be holding myself back from making those footsteps on the world that were more permanent than the ones everyone put in the sand- As if those were not good enough, As if I had to be better than everyone else to make a difference. When I was young, I was told that every fallen leaf was beautiful because they all cast a shadow of glory as they made the journey from the branch to the ground, for they had served their purpose of giving the tree nourishment throughout another year. These leaves did not stab the tree, They did not press so hard that they left permanent marks, They did not try to sculpt the tree’s shape into that of another object, They simply furthered the tree’s life. If all leaves start the same, if all leaves are also destined to bloom into their own color come fall, a color and a texture different from those around them, how is this generation of hopes and dreams any different than the leaves nour- ishing the trees? I don’t want to change things; I don’t want to make a difference. I want to nourish the world and make it stronger for to- morrow. I want to work in unison with those hopes in my generation to build our tree tall- er and taller every year, And then when I die I hope it is in a shade of beauty that reflects who I am, but I long to lay with my fellow leaves as we all mark the ground around the tree we raised together. I long to be a footstep left on the sand of life, Because I do not see the sand that it would mix with when the froth claims it as a burden, but as a promise.

44 That I and those who walked before me all are still continuing to nourish the land we called home, For those grains of sand I imprint my footstep upon will be cast into the ocean, But then one day be delivered back to the beach, Simply to be there to support the footsteps of tomorrow.

45 Owl by Nyree P. age 12

46 A New Morn by Taylor B. age 18

Nausicaa watched the farmhands examine the emerald green stalks of corn that were thriving in the August heat. The anchored barges blanketed in crops held firm. Several children waved from their canoes as their paddles cut the glasslike lake. It was like the long-ago war had never existed for them. The cruel, faraway government that hunted the magically different, the Talented, was a mere bedtime tale. Their secret community was free. Laundry flapped on the line. Whistling, the young woman draped her red scarf back over her shoulders. “Why do you wear that thing, Nausicaa?” asked a high-pitched girlish voice. Nausicaa smiled at the familiar question and replied, “It’s for good luck. I was wearing it when I stumbled across that patch of poppies.” She bent down, tugging on her leather gloves, and grasped the monkshood at her feet. She tore it from the ground. Its dark lavender petals quivering, she examined the dangling roots. “Perfect.” Nausicaa then shoved the plant into her apron pocket, and her pocketed bottles rattled. “HELP ME!” Out of the mountain woodland stumbled a figure. It ran, awkwardly sprinting, towards the trio of young wom- en. Instinctively, Nausicaa pulled from her skirt pocket a metallic wand and clicked the bejeweled hilt. It grew in her hand, transforming into a caduceus. The silver serpents glinted in the morning light. “Everyone!” she shouted, “Get inside! You know what to do!” “But, Nausicaa, what about you?” demanded the girlish voice. “Just do as I say, Kore! I’ll hold it off! Go warn the guard!” Without another word, out of the corner of her eye she watched the blonde Kore and the other handmaiden dash to the stone bridge. Kore slapped a marked stone in the arch at the bridge’s threshold. Bells suddenly pierced the air, and rumbling, the bridge began to retract beneath the handmaidens’ sandals. Eyes widening, as the children pad- dled towards the island, the farmhands leapt to their own boats. Nausicaa steadied her stance, and gripping the caduceus in her hands, watched the figure come into detail. It was a towering blond man; blood ran down the side of his face. “STOP!” She raised her caduceus. “Stop, or I will put you down!” “Help! ... Me!” the man wheezed as he limped closer. “Ky... Ky...” He collapsed. Nausicaa stared at the stranger. He wore rags and was practically naked. Burns and ashes and grime coated his sweat slick skin. He did not move. “Who are you?” she urged over the shrieking alarms. “Why have you come here?” Again she noticed that every- one had evacuated to the island and that the bridge had retracted completely. Still the man did not stir. Nausicaa repeat- ed herself. Silence. Taking a deep breath, she walked several steps towards the supine figure. He was lying, his eyes closed, on his back. Blood ran down his face. Claw marks marred his shoulder blade, and a slight moan escaped from his lips. Nausicaa knelt down, gripping the caduceus, and demanded, “Who are you? Why have you come here?” Tenta- tively she placed a hand on his neck and felt a pulse flutter beneath her fingertips. “What happened? Who are you?” “Yule...” he coughed, “Ulys-” cough, “Ulysses.” His eyes opened slightly, and his arm muscles tightened. He sat up wheezing, “Romano!” reaching for her. My scarf, she realized, It’s the color. Nausicaa grasped his flailing arms and shoving him back to the ground cried, “I am not of the Romano! I am one of the Talented! See?” she added as she shoved off her red scarf that mirrored the red uniforms of the brutal police force. His eyes blazed, and Ulysses breathed, “You’re like me?” “Yes,” she replied. So, she thought, He’s a Talented. “I am like you. Now, what happened?” Ulysses’s breathing weakened, and he answered, as his body slumped into the grass, “Chimera.” “Oh jint.” Nausicaa then noticed the rustling of the tree line. “Oh, jint!” Out from the forest stalked a three-headed beast with a roar pouring forth from its jaws. The front head was a lion; the head that protruded from the monster’s back was a goat; the last head was at the end of its tail and was a serpent. The goat head spewed fire as it bounded towards them. “Grank!” The chimera lunging towards them, Nausicaa tightened her hold on her caduceus and began to twirl her free hand. Energy coursed through her body, and goose pimples sprouted on her arms. An electric hum tinged the air. Be- hind her, Nausicaa heard the lake water quietly churn as she spiraled it into a tornado. Now, she thought, the wind.

47 And so the air obeyed her and wrapped itself around the blue funnel. The miniature tornado whistled in the new si- lence. The alarms off, she heard the sentries, their armor clattering, gathering on the island. “Nice kitty... goat-snake-thing,” she purred. Her hand continued twirling. The chimera’s snarling intensified, and with each breath flames erupted from between its lips. It slowed and slunk towards the supine man. Nausicaa swallowed, but solidified her tornado. “Nice kitty... Hiyah!” Swinging her arm, she propelled her wa- tery whirlwind towards the chimera. It devoured the chimera’s fire-breath and slammed into the monster, hurling it screeching back into the depths of the forest. She leaned back onto her hip and expelled the breath she had been holding. Thank the wind for such a breezy day, she thought. She knew that her caduceus, while deadly to a human, would not withstand such a formidable beast. And, Nausicaa had only stopped the chimera temporarily. The huntsmen would have to finish the task. At least I didn’t have to get blood on my caduceus. Always a bear to clean with the serpents wrapped around. Now, time to tend to the patient. She turned to Ulysses as he regained consciousness. His golden eyelashes flut- tered, and he grasped her arm as she knelt down beside him. “Wh-what happened?” he gasped. “Took care of it. Now I’m here to take care of you,” Nausicaa reassured. Gingerly she ran her fingers over his bleeding shoulder. He flinched. “This is deep. We’ll need to get a more experienced Healer. Hold on.” From her pocket she produced gauze and as she pressed down on the wound she added, “Just hold on. They’ll be here soon.” His eye- lashes fluttered again. Ulysses whispered, “Thank you...” He lost consciousness. “Dammit!” Nausicaa leapt to her feet and wiping the blood off onto her apron, she then pulled from her pocket a large fold- ed square cloth. She tied the white flag to her caduceus and called to the sentries, raising it above her head, “Threat neu- tralized! Open the bridge!” Repeating herself, she waved the flag several more times. The distant sentries nodded, and one slapped their stone arch. There was a grinding sound and out from the stone wall beneath the arch appeared the bridge growing longer and longer. She ripped the cloth off and then fell to her knees beside Ulysses. His eyes had opened, and sweat coated his face. “It will be all right, Ulysses,” she assured as she placed the caduceus over his torn shoulder. “They’re coming.” She then said, voice firm, “Undo the flood of the blood/And seal the dam that once held/This red ocean that shall now move to my spell.” A rosy glow appeared at the caduceus’s tip and warmed his shoulder, and by the look on his face she knew that it helped the bleeding. He wheezed, “Never... huh... heard... huh... that... huh... one.” “Made it up.” The sentries’ clattering appeared close behind. She stood and once again reached into her pocket. This time she pulled out a miniature stretcher. She placed it at her feet and after tapping her caduceus, it expanded to fit the man. “Nausicaa,” demanded a deep voice behind her, “What happened?” She turned to the Head Sentry and replied, “This man, a Talented, was attacked by a chimera. I tossed it into the forest, but it needs to be dealt with.” He swore. “Probably then killed the group on patrol. Skydamned. Well, we’ll go deal with it. And-” He jerked his thumb at two of his lackeys, “Carry him to the infirmary. Thank you, Nausicaa.” “I was only doing my job. Come on.” The two lackeys placed Ulysses on the stretcher and lifted it. “Wait.” Ulysses seized her wrist. Nausicaa glanced down at the gently firm grip, and her eyes traveled up to his face. He gazed at her, and Nausicaa for the first time noticed that his eyes were a pale gray like an early morning or an early evening. She couldn’t decide which. “Please,” he coughed, “Don’t go.” “I will stay as long as I am needed,” Nausicaa promised. Ulysses smiled at that and slumped back. She watched him be carried down the bridge. With a sigh, she wiped her bloodied hands on her apron. Well, damn, she thought. I’m going to have wash this thing again. Nausicaa followed after Ulysses.

48 Forever, Love by Taylor B. age 18

49 Midnight Walks by Rebekah M. age 14

Branches beneath my feet Trees looking down on me My woods welcome me again tonight They bring me back to laughter They help me see the truth They see me for me I walk through barefoot to feel the leaves Crunch, crunch, crunch No one knows these woods like I do Snap, snap, snap Vines flow to my arms like a hug Run, run, run My woods. Just for me.

50 Title Transposed Anonymous

There comes a time in which many transpose Their lives; Invite in change, create new opportunities, Redefine their person. I have tried to deny myself of this Change for too long

The transition from child To adult isn’t any Small step; Especially when facing The face You desperately Want to change.

It is transportation of the soul; A movement, a change Gracious, yet fleeting If you blink for a second You’d miss it. Not with me, for it is not a change It is simply recognizing what Has always been Silence. Transfixed in the silence; Shutting out emotions, Pushing down fear, Ignoring the things only heart- Not my body – can identify.

Waiting for a transformation; I am a believer in life and love, An advocate for equal rights. I rely on the phrase “All men are created equal.” But what is it when I have denied for years My pursuit of happiness? The world has changed to my eyes It is transcendental. Pain transparent, beauty found, In this silence,

51

I have observed the transfer Of hearts, of emotions Of lust, of love;

I have been afraid to break the line Between physicality and philosophy But my feet cannot stand for this In these footsteps Of ignorance and Secrecy Any longer.

I am learning To live To love To transport my own emotions; I have seen my own life transcend my body; It is a mere transfer of energy between soul and limb; These bones need not Be entrapments any longer.

Transparent self in a body of lies; Transition waiting to begin; Transcendence of thoughts breaking the skin;

I am transparent;

I am transporting,

I am transcending;

My soul is transcendental;

I am transgender….. …and I pray for the day my own silence is broken.

52 Silver Dandelions by Taylor B. age 18

Two weeks ago, I got the call at around 11:15 p.m. You were in the hospital, Internal bleeding. I remember the clench of my stomach, The fear sting my eyes. But you came through And so, I never knew, A world without you. And I saw you on Monday. We talked and laughed and joked Like the old times, Back when the future was ours, And not only mine. Two years ago, I watched the leaves fall And we were fading away, Growing apart. The holiday-conversations began to drag And suddenly my tongue found only school. The gold dulled, And I pulled away Because your door stood closed. And yes, I cried, but only a few times. But now I realize that what we had: It was good. It was beautiful.

53

And because of it, I became a better person. The golden weeds grayed and aged; They became silver dandelions. And so when the wind blows, Those seeds will disperse throughout the world, And fill it with flowers. We became that pollen dust Ready for a lonely little girl to pluck, And we are her wishes made into possibilities. That love you gave me I still hold in chipped memory, And though it became the dim star in the city smog, I carry it tucked away, And how it shines when I make a friend laugh. I will always love you, In some small way, Even though the autumn leaves fade, And twilight stole the day, And yellow fell into gray, Because like those silver dandelions, It never truly goes away. We never truly evaporate. Something stayed, Because we laughed together this Monday, And I loved again. I loved better. So, old friend, If you read this late-night letter, Look out your window and see, The last of those late-spring, silver dandelions, And think of me.

54 Unnoticed by Rebekah M. age 14

Looking past me towards the other No one noticing the things done in front of them Try and try but they won’t see Is something wrong with me? No one noticing my movements as I yell “Here I am!” with all my might No one sees my tears fall down my face and my anger explode No one to see the things locked up in the little box in me I am left unnoticed.

55 Man Overboard by Julian I. age 14

I woke with a start, my body battered, and my head felt like it had been smashed against a wall until it went through. I was on a beach, I realized as I sat up and brushed the sand out of my hair. "How did I get here?" The question kept coming back, although I had no answer. I was wearing what looked like the remains of a life- jacket overtop a bright yellow raincoat. I flung it off. I hoped that the beach I was on was either Rehoboth or Daytona, but my hopes were shot as soon as I saw the massive tropical forest and the large mountain overlook- ing it. I started to walk around the beach when I saw a lifeboat that was marooned on the shore. I started to run; maybe I wasn't alone on this island after all. The fact was there might be supplies inside the lifeboat that may be my key to survival. Just my luck, the lifeboat was empty. All the survival equipment was gone. There were two sets of footprints leading away from the boat and into the forest. I followed the tracks, probably was- n't a good idea, but I liked my chances that these people were going to help me. I found what looked like a piece of... something. I really never found out what it was, but as I got closer, my foot got caught on what felt like a thin root. I tugged and something wrapped around my foot, which made my foot shoot straight up into the air. I hung upside down like that for a few seconds, just long enough for me to account for what had just happened. Then, a screaming man started to charge at me with a sharpened stick. Naturally, I did what any grown man would have done at the time. I screamed. The man stopped, lowered his stick, pulled out a pocket- knife, and cut me down. Perplexed, I said, "Who are you?" The man said with the heaviest Russian accent I've ever heard, replied, "Danny! You are alive! Come along, it’s me, Dimitri!" He sounded so familiar. I could have sworn I had heard that voice before.

I followed him for a while. Then we got to his shelter, which was a bunch of sticks tightly woven around a stone outcropping with a door and even a small chimney. "Dimitri, did you catch anything in those traps of yours?" a voice said as Dimitri and I entered the small shelter. When the other man saw me, he gave me a look as if I was his long lost brother that he had been searching for his whole life. "Well, Dimitri, it looks like we aren't the only ones who survived. So, Daniel, how’s that head of yours doing?" The man seemed a bit Irish because of the fact that he had bright orange hair that I thought would be fit for a Leprechaun. "Sorry but I don't remember much," I said. "It really is a miracle that you survived. You were knocked clean off the deck," the man replied. Dimitri reluctantly said, "Connor, I think you should tell him." "All right, Dimitri. Where do I begin...."

"So we were on this fishing boat, the Orca. All three of us worked on that boat as fishermen. Dimitri was an engine technician, I worked in the Bridge as a navigator, and you, Daniel, you manned the pulley sys- tems to bring up the nets. Anyway, so one night we were pulling in so many fish, our stores were almost full, and it was only one week into our three month voyage. It was also the first voyage since our last captain got knocked clear off the deck and was never seen again. Our new captain was just terrible. Just got his license the day before the voyage. The ship was leaving the bay, the waves were rough, the smallest of them 20 feet tall. We got stuck on a reef. Our captain decided it was a good idea to gun the engines, but what he didn't know was that there was water in the engine room. When the engines were gunned, they sent a power surge throughout the entire boat causing it to drag along the reef, tearing into the boat hull causing water to rush in. Dimitri was the only one to escape the room, all the other men in there drowned. Meanwhile, on the deck, you and some other men were trying to pull in the net that held the biggest catch I've ever seen my entire time fish- ing. The boat lurched to the side when the hull was breached. A cable snapped on the crane, sending the bulg-

56 ing net crashing into you and the other men." Rubbing my head, I remarked, "Well that explains the splitting headaches." "May I continue?" Connor said. "Now, so you were one of the few men who were launched off the boat but you had the only lifejacket between all of them. Now due to the power surge, all of the electronics in the bridge were down so we couldn't send an SOS signal. A fire had also started somewhere down in the kitch- en and had raged all the way to the fuel storage and caused a massive explosion that hit the bridge with the force of a missile. The bridge shook and next thing I know I am on the floor, surrounded by broken bits of just about anything and everything on the bridge."

"Let me take it from here, Connor," Dimitri said. "Go ahead." Dimitri continued, "All right, back when the hull was breached, I saw the water rushing in. One of the techni- cians shot me a look, and I knew what I had to do. It was the hardest decision of my life, but I closed the water- tight door on the engine room with the other technicians still inside. I started to think about what I had just done when one of the bolts shot out like a bullet out of the door and hit me in the shoulder, followed by a jet of water. I started to run toward the nearest intercom to notify the bridge, knowing that the door wasn't going to hold much longer. Just then, all the lights went out. Suddenly I felt a massive explosion rock the boat. I fum- bled for my flashlight in the darkness. I turned it on and began to make my way to the bridge. When I got there, I opened the door and what I saw was horrific. Amidst all the extensive damage to the bridge, I helped Connor up and led him out of the door of the now-doomed ship. We had to get to the lifeboats; it was the only way that we were going to make it. We were on the deck of the ship about 10 feet from the lifeboat, when the crane cable holding the full fishing net snapped. It smacked Connor right in the face knocking him down. He got that nasty bump on this head when he fell. I flung Connor over my shoulder the rest of the way. I opened the door to the lifeboat, and 'placed' him inside. After I got the engine started, we made it to shore and spent the night in the boat. You were most likely washed ashore and out cold for two days." Dimitri sighed, “And that's it. The whole story." I sat there in amazement when we all heard the sound of a plane flying overhead. All three of us ran outside to see what it was. It was a plane all right, but it looked like it was about to crash on the island. To our disbelief, the plane's left engine was on fire. A few seconds later, it crashed. "Where do you think it went down?" Connor asked. "I reckon it was on the other side of the island," I said. "Do you think it’s got a salvageable radio?" Dimitri replied, "We have spare batteries from the boat and I know electronics." Then Connor said, "Boys, let's find that plane and get off this godforsaken island."

57 Reincarnation by Taylor B. age 18

I glance at my reflection And then I glance out the bathroom window again. There in the backyard the sunflowers have died. Autumn leaves, almost brown now, Surround the stalks like flowers left at a grave. Last night I called you Your Aphrodite always so far away, his hand a promise caught in a waking dream, So I embraced you: Love, no matter its shape, Is hard to embrace. And no one ever held me, so I will always hold you. So dear friend, take my hand and brush the dust off your scraped knees. Don’t cry for long over broken glass. Broken glass makes a mosaic. I promise: Second chance will be the first dance At your wedding And I will toast you and your groom, half-drunk, giggling. And I promise you again: Soon enough you will love the distance Because the furthest he will ever be is a hand’s reach. Just look at me: The color of my eyes changed. I came through: Mom says that roses are perennials Unlike those mummified sunflowers. Perennials come back. You never see them till they’ve already bloomed, And I never looked directly into the mirror till I was already mid-way through. Roses require a hell of a lot of work, But they will come back, anew. So, I wash my hands And afterwards, the mirror covered, I lay those sunflowers at the foot Of my childhood bed. There on the horizon calls a garden that I painted red.

58 The Summoning Pits A Destiny Strike Story by Will J. age 13

This story is about the video game, Destiny, that I play on my XBox One. I've done many strikes in my time and I fought many strong enemies, but there was one that I remember very well, the Hive Abomination, "Phogoth the Untamed!" It was a cold night … well, we were on the moon, so I guess it's always cold. Anyway, my friends and I went on a Level 22 Strike and we knew what we were go- ing to deal with. I was a Titan, my friend was a Warlock, and my other friend was a Hunter. These are types of guardians. We left Venus' orbit and warped to the moon. We got on the moon and we headed to the Hive fortress. As we stormed through three knights, we got down to the "Gate House" and fought off the Thralls, Acolytes, and a wizard waiting for us. When we cleared out the area inside, we had our ghosts break open the door so we could get to Phogoth. A ghost is a guardian's faithful guide. So, back to the story. As soon as we put one out, I saw about ten Thralls run out of a door but they never saw me. They would have rushed my friends if I hadn't thrown a lightning grenade and took out a few, and THEN they noticed me. After three waves, our ghosts cracked the code and we got going again. We got through an ogre, and one or two cursed thralls. A cursed thrall basically EXPLODES, so don't go near them. We ran to a cave area and all of a sudden the entire moon shook with a loud roar. We knew that it was Phogoth. We got to the "Circle of Bones" and when we got to the open area, a Hive Tomb ship came out and dropped off some of the Hive. We ignored them and went to Phogoth. We had to deal with the two hallowed knights who guard the gate to the Summoning Pits. (Hallowed is a fancy word for tougher.) We slowly walked down some stairs and entered an empty room. As we got near a door, it opened with a loud roar, and the battle against Phogoth began! He was chained up and had at least twenty Hive enemies around him, but as soon as we got near him, he broke free and we knew we were gonna die. Besides the fact that he seemed one hundred feet taller than us, he could shoot a laser out of his eye! We ran around for about half a minute and then we started actually attacking him. My team members and I all died at different times but we were able to revive each other. We had Phogoth and much of the Hive attacking us, but we pulled it off. There may be millions of bosses out there in Destiny but "Phogoth the Untamed" is the best. The most annoying boss I faced… well, that's another story.

59 Window by Bailey R. age 16

Compare me to a window We can be very similar You can take one look at me and see everything inside Unless I choose to hang up the curtains And hide what is behind them I appear sturdy and safe But I am fragile Throw your words at me like stones And like the glass, I will shatter You can try to piece the shards together But even if the glue holds You still see the cracks.

60 The Mysterious Mansion by Donovan T. age 13

In every neighborhood there is one house that for some unknown reason just scares people. Well in my neighborhood there is a humongous mansion that has been known as the Mysterious Mansion since Halloween in 2001.

By the way my name is Joseph so now I'll tell you the story of Halloween 2001. There was a group of 3 kids went to the mansion for trick or treating and as soon as they rang the doorbell the floor under them opened. While they fell their screams were heard through the neighborhood for hours until a sudden dead silence that went on for the rest of the year.

No one has dared to go near the mansion after that until now. My friends, Chelsea, Wong, and I are daring to trick or treat at the mansion. This is the story of our journey to the mysterious mansion. Now let's get to the journey. As we went out to go trick or treating my parents warned us to stay away from the house but obviously we were not going to listen. As we walked up to the mansion Chelsea also known as the scared one starts doing what she does best she screams at the top of her lungs "Quick we should run while we can be- fore we become mansion's next victim and possibly ghost dinner." So I tell her if there are any ghosts, I'll knock their teeth out. If you can't tell by now I'm known as The Muscles. Wong "the brainiac" quickly starts saying all this mumbo jumbo about how ghost aren't real but I can't tell you exactly what he said because I was too busy hoping a ghost would come and eat him so he would finally be quiet. After he was done with his anti-ghost speech, we walked up to the mansion and rang the doorbell and just like in 2001 the floor under us opened up and we fell for hours. When we finally hit the ground it felt oddly soft and that's when I realized we landed on a huge pile of candy all I could see was Reece’s’, Butterfin- gers, Hershey Chocolate bars, and every other possible candy you can think. All the sud- den Chelsea screams "Candy" then she starts doing snow angels in the candy well I guess you could call them candy angels in this situation. As she did candy angels Wong started stuffing his face with Reece’s'. A few minutes later when we were all out of candy shock we finally realized that we were trapped so we panicked and frantically started looking around. Wong found a note that said "I hope you enjoyed your candy fill up your bags and find your way out if you can." Of course Chelsea starts screaming that all of us are gonna die. After her screams we started wandering around looking for how to get out. Then all of the sud- den we find spiral stairs but that are made of candy and as we go up the staircase it sud- denly collapses. Since the stairs failed we kept looking for some way to get out. We couldn't find anything else so for about an hour so we gave up and laid there on the piles of candy. Out of nowhere Wong jumps into the air and says "Candy Mountain". I say "You're sup- posed to be the smart one and instead of realizing that we are going to die you just care about the candy." At first he is so mad at me that he becomes completely quiet and makes this evil glare that make me think if I don't get out of here he might kill me. After his evil glare he said we make a huge mountain of candy and try to climb out where we came in. So immediately we start to push all of the candy into a pile. Finally 30 minutes later the can- dy mountain is made. We all slowly started climbing then all of the candy started falling the second a piece hit the floor we started going faster than a cheetah. When Wong, Chelsea and I got to the top mountain we jumped onto the sidewalk. All of us started to run and that's when we realized we forgot our candy bags.

61 My Verse by Anna S. age 16

I want to leave a mark on the world, I don’t want my existence to have been for naught. I want my verse to be sung on forever.

I don’t mean vanity, but I want a lasting impression.

I want to leave the world better than it was when I got here. I want to help everyone sing their own song. I want to make everyone happy. I want to help everyone BE happy. I want to give everyone a safe place to hide. I want to give everyone what I never had.

I realize now that I don’t want a verse. I want to help write everyone else’s.

62 63 Thank you to those who made this magazine possible…

Jeanne Benzel – Editor in Chief Julia Tucker – Editor Cheryl Clem – Layout & Design

New Castle County Libraries Teen Services Committee: Renate Cumming – Appoquinimink Library Lisa Burris – Bear Library Jeanne Benzel – Brandywine Hundred Library Julia Tucker – Claymont Library Alex Monroe – Delaware City Library Cheryl Clem – Elsmere Library Terri Jones – Hockessin Library Elisabeth Simmons – Kirkwood Library Sara Thomas – New Castle Public Library Pat Birchenall – Newark Free Library Lauren Gouge – Newark Free Library Kim Tull – Woodlawn Library

A special thanks to Brandywine Hundred Library for help with funding.

Look for the online magazine at: http://www.nccde.org/371/IMAZINE

We will be launching the 2015 magazine with Teen Tech Week (March 8-14, 2015). Look for information on our website to make submissions and find information about upcoming workshops after that date.

Thomas P. Gordon, County Executive Department of Community Services 64