VOLUME 8 DELAWARE LIBRARIES' TEEN MAGAZINE

(cover) Skylark by Myly Huynh age 14 watercolor, acrylic & colored pencil 2 T ABLE OF C ONTENTS

COVER SKYLARK BY MYLY HUYNH 57 EAGER BY MACKENZIE RUIZ 5 THE VALUE OF WORDS BY RAPHAEL KIM 58 A BILLION STARS BY GIANNI LOGAN 6 BEHIND THE MASK BY SAMARA DURGADIN 60 DUSK AT THE WHALE ROAD BY RAE FU 7 A POETRY TRIO BY DORCAS OLATUNJI 61 LIFE IS AN OCEAN BY AISHANI KASHYAP 9 MY ROOM BY RHYS COTTLE-VINSON 62 HANDSOME EBONY BY HANNAH YE 11 COURAGE BY JANE BURNS 62 FINGERS FLOWING BY ARIELLE FLAHERTY 11 THE SHOT BY SAMEER VIDWANS 63 APHELION BY CASSANDRA FANTINI 12 BRANCH OUT LITTLE ONE BY SHYLA OOMMEN 63 HELIOCENTRIC HEART BY CASSANDRA FANTINI 13 SLIDING INTO THE D.M.S BY DEBORAH OLATUNJI 64 TEAR OF MY EYE BY MACKENZIE RUIZ 14 BE TRUE BY EMILY CALLAHAN 65 THE UNSEEN BY GRACE BENTLY 15 SANDY SHIMMERING SUNSETS OFF OF THE SHORE 66 FREEDOM @ LAST BY DANA TOWNSEND BY SHYLA OOMMEN 67 THE RED ONE BY JAMES STOKES 16 THERE IS NO ACHILLES’ HEEL BY CASSANDRA FANTINI 68 MAGGIE BY AMBER BARLOW 17 LESSONS OF BASKETBALL BY JACKSON REDD 69 MY HAPPY PLACE BY ALEX BRENNAN 17 DON’T THINK BY CARTER ROSS 69 THE FASTEST GAME ON TWO FEET BY JAKE BRYSON 18 A DARK WINTER NGHT BY EVA DOLDE 70 GREEN WITH ENVY BY PAIGE O’BRIAN 19 ICE BUBBLES BY JACKSON FOX 70 CITY VIEW BY DORCAS OLATUNJI 20 DARKNESS BY HANNAH CAMPBELL 71 UNTITLED BY ROHIT DHARMADHIKARI 21 LIFE: AN ONGOING FIGHT BY AARTI ITIKIRALA 72 THE BOAT BY LARISSA GUILFORD 22 AFFRICAN WILD DOG BY MACKENZIE RUIZ 73 THE SPACE BETWEEN BY SAMM MARVIN 22 HORSES BY DILLON REBURN 74 IMPRISONED BY CHRISTINA LAW 24 LIFE IS A TREE BY ANAUM ALLIMULLA 74 DOUBT BY PHOENIX GRIMM 25 NATURE IS MAGICAL BY ANDREW MARQUEZ 75 FLOODED FIELD BY HEATHER SHARP 26 ONE MORE STEP BY RAPHAEL KIM 76 THE FLOWER BOY BY ADONTÉ DUNN 27 IT’S TIME BY BROOKE HARRISON 77 SPRINGTIME BY AMBER BARLOW 27 DREAM… BY RAE FU 78 SUMMER SCHOOL BY STEPHANIE BOYS 28 ALMOST BY MUKTA KANTAK 79 AN AUGUST FOUNTAIN BY JACKSON FOX 30 DON’T TOUCH MY HAIR BY EMANI LARKIN 80 THE UNWANTED GIFT OF SYMPATHY BY AARTI ITIKIRALA 31 YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE BY JULIA PHILLIPS 81 BEAUTY IN THE RAIN BY LAUREN MCAFEE 33 SPRING FLOWERS BY ASHLEIGH UMBRECHT 82 DEAD MEN BY BEN MURPHY 34 WHAT ARE YOU BY REBEKAH MARVIN 82 THE CURRENT BY RYAN HUSTEDT 35 SELF REFLECTION BY ASHLEIGH UMBRECHT 83 BYE BY SARAH METCALF 36 I.D.E.N.T.I.T.Y. BY DEBORAH OLATUNJI 83 EMOTIONS BY SYDNEY SCADDEN-LORENTZ 37 IT’S COMPLICATED BY SHYLA OOMMEN 84 THE TRUTH UNTOLD BY ARUSHI SHARDA 38 LOVE IS A CANDLE BY EMILY CALLAHAN 85 BREEZE OFF THE LAKE BY AMBER BARLOW 40 THE PICTURE BY KAITLIN MERRIMAN 86 MEGHAN’S MULTIPLICITY BY MEGHAN THOMAS 40 FAMILY BY CARTER ROSS 87 THE FIELDTRIP (A NOVELLA IN SIX PARTS) 41 IMAGINE… BY RAE FU 87 CHAPTER 1: BRYAN’S STORY BY MIKAYLA DAYTON 42 MY ULTIMATE COMPANION BY MADELINE ROWLAND 89 CHAPTER 2: ALYSSA’S STORY BY MIKAYLA DAYTON 42 WHAT’S OUT THERE BY ANDREW MARQUEZ 92 CHAPTER 3: MEGAN’S STORY BY SAMANTHA OLIVER 43 THE TOMATO QUEST BY JOJO KASTRINER 93 CHAPTER 4: REESE’S STORY BY NIKKI LOOMIS 44 THE GREAT GRAPE BY MEGAN ATHEY 95 CHAPTER 5: STEVE’S STORY BY MARISSA HAWTOF 45 THE SALAD WAR BY SOPHIE HERRING 96 CHAPTER 6: KIT’S STORY BY LIA LLOYD-WOOD 46 BROKEN XYLOPHONE PLAYER BY PHILIP TOWNSEND 97 DELANEY’S MULTIPLICITY BY DELANEY WENNER 48 BROKEN GLASS BY SINDHU SIVASANKAR 98 WHAT LOVE SHALL BE BY SHYLA OOMMEN 49 THE SUBJECT BY TALIA MCCANN 99 VIEW BEYOND THE SEAS BY DEBORAH OLATUNJI 51 INQUIETUDE BY SAMARA DURGADIN 100 DULCE ET DECORUM EST BY MALLORY SNOVER 52 LOVE BY REBEKAH MARVIN 101 OPIUM BY SAMARA DURGADIN 53 LOVE IS NATURAL BY SHYLA OOMMEN 102 THE FACTORY BY JAMES STOKES 54 TICK. TOCK. BY HELEN LIU 103 TRASHY FASHION, MADE ENTIRELY RECYCLABLE BY SHYLA OOMMEN 54 MORNING FLOWERS BY JACKSON FOX 55 LOST BEAUTY BY CHRISTINA LAW 55 MOTHER’S DAY PRESENT BY KATIE RHOADES 56 ERYSICHTHON OF WISCONSIN BY DOMINICK FIGLIOLA 3 ONLINE EXPANDED VERSION

104. BYE BYE BABY BY GRACE BENTLEY 123. REFLECTION BY DEBORAH OLATUNJI 105. SAUDADE BY GRACE BENTLEY 124. FUTURISTIC BY DORCAS OLATUNJI 106. IT ALL GOES DOWN IN THE BOX BY ALEX BRENNAN 125. SKYSCRAPER BY DORCAS OLATUNJI 107. WE ALL SCREAM FOR ICE CREAM! BY JANE BURNS 126. FROZEN BY SHYLA OOMMEN 108. MY ANGEL BY HANNAH CAMPBELL 128. TEARDROPS BY SHYLA OOMMEN 109. RAINBOW VORTEX BY ISABELLE CERASARI 129. IT’S JUST LOVELY OLD ME HERE BY SHYLA OOMMEN 110. HOPE IN AN IMPOSSIBLE THUNDERSTORM BY EVA DOLDE 130. FREEDOM LACROSSE BY JACKSON REDD 111. PERIWINKLE BY EVA DOLDE 131. HOUSE OF CARDS BY ARUSHI SHARDA 112. NATURAL BY ARIELLE FLAHERTY 132. YOU NEVER WALK ALONE BY ARUSHI SHARDA 113. UNTITLED BY ARIELLE FLAHERTY 133. THE FALL BY JAMES STOKES 114. CRUEL LOVE BY PHOENIX GRIMM 134. THE FACE OF THE WOMAN I’M STUCK WITH BY DANA TOWNSEND 115. MASQUERADE BY PHOENIX GRIMM 135. READING BY SAMEER VIDWANS 117. RAPUNZEL BY PHOENIX GRIMM 136. RUNNING BY SAMEER VIDWANS 118. EMOTIONS BY RAPHAEL KIM 137. DRAGON’S DICTIONARY BY ASHLEIGH UMBRECHT 119. THE POWER OF WOMEN BY EMANI LARKIN 138. WHISPERS BY HANNAH YE 120. HOW TO ENJOY A COLD, RAINY EVENING BY REBEKAH MARVIN 139. FLICKERING FLAMES BY HANNAH YE 122. AT THE PINNACLE BY DEBORAH OLATUNJI

4 The Value of Words by Raphael Kim age 14

Words are priceless Precious as gold In bestselling books Or stories untold.

Without any words We could not talk Upon creativity There would be a lock.

Words are needed for change The blood of society Instead of rebellion Only propriety.

In short, words are crucial Written and spoken Without speech, without change Our lives would be broken.

5 Behind the Mask by Samara Durgadin age 15 watercolor & colored pencil

6 A Poetry Trio by Dorcas Olatunji age 16

Seared soul Aching acceptance i wake to a new day like ordinarily my phone blips the windows are open— another message from the same people, the sun brilliantly blind my mother sharing another post my eyes flicker toward the door my family telling another story, ordinarily starting a new day from my rise another cautionary tale i walk to the bathroom i walk the halls looking at a reflection scrolling, turn on, turn off one that never changes there’s no one else texting one that is always there no one else cares i hit a wall some days she’s beautiful anyone would be lucky to have her… my mind feels stuck but most days she’s not but the solution couldn’t be clearer her dark circles closing her in, transparent truth in front of my eyes those deadlines, never letting her win dangling out of my control decisions all in my control she used to care about her appearance fretting about too much hair on one side i try not to text and walk fretting about too much acne but something inside always impatiently claws fretting about too many scars there’s another task to complete fretting that she’s still alone another opportunity running away not another door closing— this society preys on a girl’s confidence assuring her that it was all fun and games why aren’t I welcome you shouldn’t look that way why do the doors keep shutting you shouldn’t dress that way why why why why why why— the never ending pursuit there’s no one answering no one ever answers I MUST FIT IN I MUST FIT IN i sit on the porch, I MU— the cold night dim, i must survive. waiting, just waiting for another light to ping on my reflection laughs at me again someone let me in the third time I’ve attempted to fix it it resists my compliance someone let me in! my sinking self esteem We don’t talk to strangers

7 Rigid requirements i’ve learned to take no. rejection, misperception of my personality but what about what i have to offer what about my contribution

it’s not about your skill No one cares about that it’s not about your will Not one person considers you. my reflection is always there, those dark circles closing me in... u don’t look like us y do u look like that? well if you won’t change We’ll label you a murderer a thief, a terrorist, a bug in the system our precious kids can’t play with you you’ve trapped me in a box labeled the exit but hid that, too you’ve made me believe the doors will never open how do i compete with a system that sears my soul a system that makes me ache for acceptance society hates everyone still we follow it’s rigid requirements never questioning its validity dictating EVERYTHING. fretting about too much acne, too much color sinking self esteem, stop searching. there’s nothing here for you.

8 My Room by Rhys Cottle-Vinson age 17

My Room. Mi Casa. Like a Super 8, but with slightly worse room service. I spent more time growing up there than I did almost anywhere else. All those weekends with nothing to do, just sit- ting atop my bed with my computer in front of me or a heap of LEGOs® beside me. All that time, just relaxing and being generally creative. So many minutes and hours and days that most would consider wasted, cooped up in my room. But I relished in every bit of it. My room in our old house was big (about the size of this classroom). It was rectangular, with a small alcove for a closet. My older brother James’ room mirrored mine, except that from his door was a straight shot to the stairs down to the study. Also, mine was closer to the bathroom. Being younger netted me the privilege of choosing first, and I distinctly remember that the bath- room was the reason behind my choice. When we were deciding how our rooms were painted, James suggested dinosaurs. Living amongst the dinosaurs! So, the first layer of paint was applied sky blue. Then we added a layer of dark green near the baseboards, to look like grass. We never had the attention span to paint on the dinosaurs. We each had one bunk of the bunk bed we had in our old room; if memory serves, I had what was formerly the top bunk. The wood was plastered with stickers of dinosaurs, Star Wars characters, and those LEGO® mini-figure stickers they includ- ed in the Visual Encyclopedias. It was at about this time we began collecting LEGOs®; we were infatuated with them. The things we could create were limited by only our imagination (and our family budget). We repur- posed an old Thomas the Tank Engine table. We had a rather modest collection at the time, with only a handful of sets to our names. This collection, small and unimpressive at first, was the outlet for so much creativity in our early years. For the first three years we lived there (up until about first grade for me), we just had white drapes. It was then that we discovered Star Wars. And our now seven- and eight-year-old minds raced seeing the action-packed lightsaber duels, each one an endless swirl of colors. Sud- denly, our rooms were packed with Star Wars. Hanging over our previously white drapes was a second layer of blue drapes with pictures from the Clone Wars animated TV show that had recent- ly come out. Laying atop our beds and wrapping around our pillows was the same blue fabric with the same Clone Wars pattern. This pattern, almost embarrassing in reflection (alright, so I thought Jar-Jar was funny when I was, like, seven. So sue me.), would remain prevalent for the majority of our time there. In addition to our latest craze, we received a large number of LEGOs® from our neighbor. This was where most of the color in our collection came from (it seems like a large number of modern LEGO® sets have some sort of crush on the gunmetal grey color), a cornucopia of reds, blues, and yellows. I remember that they had kind of an old musty smell about them, most likely the result of a long interment in an attic somewhere. When we were, say, in seventh grade, we decided to change up our decor; we had just dis- covered the joys of PC gaming, and we were spending more time than ever validating the gaming stereotype...uh, I mean, sitting in our rooms with our curtains drawn! Nothing at all unusual about that, ha ha! To help us to this end, our mother went to a department store and got us light- cancelling curtains. My brother’s were olive green, while mine were a dark red. On a sunny day, if they were shut they would flood my room with a dim red light, almost blood-red. I always enjoyed the otherworldly nature they gave my room. In eighth grade, we painted over the dinosaurs-but- no-actual-dinosaurs-just-very-square-grass paint job that had been adorning our walls for so long;

9 I went with a silvery-blue, while my brother went with green again. During the summer between eighth and ninth grade, we moved; from a large house on Or- chard Road to a much smaller split-level in the suburbs of Robscott Manor. All of our rooms got a serious size downgrade, but size doesn’t matter. My room still has enough room for my bed, my chest-of-drawers, a bedside table (ironically on the other side of the room from my bed), and some area in the middle for me to sprawl on the floor while playing video games, fiddling with LEGOs®, or planning my D&D campaign. A sliding drawer underneath my bed contained all the LEGOs® I could cram into it. While many of those bricks which I cherished throughout my childhood ended up interred again (this time in our garage), enough are by me that, if I get bored, I can just start building and/or destroying any and all of my creations who oppose me depending on my mood. Ultimately, throughout my life my room has had a fair few modifications; a moved dresser here, a rotation of the bed there. But whenever my personality or my interests changed, so did my room. When James and I were deciding on our rooms’ paint jobs, we were going through the typi- cal child dinosaur phase, we planned to have dinosaurs (didn’t turn out that way, but…). When I got into Star Wars, my room changed accordingly, becoming plastered with Clone Wars and oth- er…shudder...prequel memorabilia. Once I grew up and came to realize the originals were better, the memorabilia was replaced with simple blue and red. And through it all, I have had at least a modest hoard of LEGO® bricks within arm’s reach, should I want to get creative. My room has pro- vided to me an inner sanctum, creative outlet, and place for me to sleep throughout all of my life so far, and will hopefully continue to do so for the rest of it.

10 Courage by Jane Burns age 14

Thump, thump, thump. My heart pounds as I walk over near the starting line. My coach calls my team and I over to pray before the race. We huddle up, like penguins out in the Arctic, and say the Hail Mary. I look around at all my teammates, circled up, and see the tension in their eyes. As we all put our sweaty and shaky hands in the middle to do our cheer, I can feel the anxiety radiating off of the girls’ hands. Soon enough, we start chanting, “Bulldogs on three! One, two, three: Bulldogs!” I take my last sip of water and feel the coolness trickle down my throat. As I walk over to the start- ing line, my eyes frantically look around at all the other runners. My brain hectically starts to think of so many things. How good are they? Will I get an awful cramp? My stomach starts to feel uneasy as I wish everyone on my team, good luck. “Racers,” I hear the head of the meet yell. “There will be two commands: ‘runners set,’ and then the gun.” “Runners set!” Time stops... it’s like I can hear the rapid heartbeats and breaths of my teammates. Bang!

The Shot by Sameer Vidwans age 14

I walk slowly down the hallway, approaching inevitable agony. The nurse grins wickedly…or is that just my imagination? She swings her weapon into the air; the dreaded needle! Why do I have to do this? Is it really that big of a deal if I get sick? If I have to choose between pure misery and a day off sipping hot chocolate and playing video games, I’ll definitely choose the latter. My mother forces me to sit down and close my eyes. I feel the pinprick of cold steel against my arm. The nee- dle slides through my skin like a shovel digging into the ground. I brace myself for searing pain, and only feel mild discomfort. A tiny drop of ruby red liquid drips from the hole in my arm, before the nurse covers it with a Band-Aid. Relieved, I roll down my shirt and skip out the door.

11 Branch Out Little One by Shyla Oommen age 17

12 Sliding into the D.M.s by Deborah Olatunji age 16

I once read somewhere about a long list of things to do after a friend has gone or is going through a breakup. There was “26 Ways to Mend Their Heart” and another “27 Things That She/He Really Needs To Heal After Getting Their Heart Broken.” Some of the tips were to encourage them to work out and be fit, do something that they love, go on a road trip, have a weekend off--- the list goes on. Anything to get them over the fact that they were dumped or severed ties with someone else. Do not text, call, or even think about the ex. Do not even think for a moment, to go as far as D.M.ing them. Resist that wicked urge. But, how come when someone is not driving safely, there isn’t a rulebook on how to recover from compunction of a car crash? How come no one has a clue about what to do then? And when they do know, why do they usually disregard this knowledge with ease when their favorite friends are around? For my friend, I tried my best. When she got into the car, we were on our way to go shopping, you know, to have a girl’s day. As we were driving, a DING! from her phone filled the rough silence in the air. Her eyes darted from the road ahead down to her phone and for a quick moment she hesitated, inhaling sharply. I snatched the phone from the cup and seized it out of what I thought was her only line of sight. All of a sudden, her hand lurched for- ward and she obsessively grabbed the phone out of my tight grasp.

We...we were unsteadily merging onto the highway leading into the mall road nearby, when she won, unclasping her seatbelt and latching onto her phone with her clammy, white hands. She scrolled down through her phone and shrieked in delight after realizing that her ex-boyfriend had sent her a direct message. After three weeks of hard work, of me trying desperately to help her get over this scumbag and be my best friend again, the winning streak broke in half and she went to respond. Before I could fully process what was going on, she lost control of the vehicle and sent us spinning in circles off the road. She flew out of the driver’s seat and into the windshield multiple times. My seatbelt kept me firmly in place, but my head was forcefully banged against the chair a couple of times and hit the window once. The image of her once lively body crashing into oblivion will never leave my mind. Once the car had stopped, she was flung into a grass field close by and laid motionless with her shattered phone in her bloody hand. That D.M. had ended her life, but when she responded to it, she signed a consent form. The minute her phone was in her hand, she had given it the authority to tragically cut her life short. I unfastened my seatbelt and limped over to her lifeless body; I was left to mourn over her final state, Death Mode.

Don’t text and drive because sliding into those D.M.s is never worth it. It cost me my best friend.

13 Be True by Emily Callahan age 13

Whether you’re a guy, gal, Or non-binary pal, Trans or cis, Mister or miss, There is only one you, So come out and be true, Whether you’re short or tall, Break down that wall, Shout it out loud, Be you and proud, Being gay isn’t a folly, Same with bi, pan, or poly, Loving no one is okay, Just do it your own way, No matter what category you fall in, Being yourself is not a sin, And there is more than what is said above, There is more to life than just heterosexual love, No matter how many times someone says it, Just don’t hide away in that deep, dark pit, The doors are open wide, Just come out with pride, Ace, gay, poly, pan, bi, Trans, cis, non-binary, gal, guy, So come out and be true, Because we’re all here for you.

14 Sandy Shimmering Sunsets off of the Shore by Shyla Oommen age 17

15 There is No Achilles’ Heel by Cassandra Fantini age 16

There is no Achilles’ heel, no single thing that’s destined to be your downfall. Everyone has flaws, and which, if any, could be fatal is usually hard to tell. Is weakness always a bad thing? Car- ing too much can be harmful, sure, but there are many things worse than that. What if your weak- ness is really just a different side of your strength? You’re so determined that you push too far, so loyal that you can’t let go. But no matter how pure your weakness is, how beautifully tragic it may seem, it ends the same. It gets in the way. The only time you realize your weaknesses is when they win. Then you look back; you dis- tort the past and wonder what you could have done differently, and you see it, your flaw, a glaring issue, a stain on a white dress. You reduce the complex web that is the past to a simple issue, as if your failure has one cause. Maybe it does, and maybe it doesn’t, but no one knows except God and He’s not giving away any answers. So you keep thinking and suddenly your hindsight is twenty- twenty; you can see what you should have done, but it doesn’t matter, because you still can’t see what you need to do now, and the cycle will only repeat itself. Or will it? Maybe you do know what to do. How would I know? How would anyone know? You might as well keep doing what you’ve been doing. You’ll be fine. Probably. There is no Achilles’ heel. Your weaknesses, your strengths, your choices, your mistakes: all a part of you, but none of them are you. This is not the story of Achilles, that story is over. This is your story, and you’re real, not some myth, so everything’s more complex. No one has been given near-invincibility, so your downfall might not even have anything to do with your flaws. But what is your downfall? Is it just your death, or can it be something else? Failure, a lost relationship - do those count? Does your downfall have to be one terrible mistake, or can it be a slow fall from grace, your worst traits dragging you down so slowly that you don’t even notice until you’re on the ground? Or maybe you do notice, like Icarus flying towards the sun, letting it warm him until the wax melts down his back and he falls to the sea. Maybe you notice but you don’t care, because in the moment everything feels so good, so right; in the moment there are no consequences. Maybe it just feels so poetic, so fun to ignore that you’re failing, falling. Or maybe you’re not falling at all, maybe it starts out as falling but ends up as more of a jump. What if you value your weakness - what if it’s not an abstract idea but something real? What if it’s a person? Maybe you’ve made a decision about what matters, and you have to lose something, but oh God, it can’t be them, anything but that. Maybe your emotions are getting in the way, but you don’t care, because isn’t that what makes us human? Perhaps being human is the greatest weak- ness, in both senses of the word, the most beautiful and terrible thing. If you asked me, I’d have to say it’s mostly beautiful.

16 Lessons of Basketball by Jackson Redd age 13

Dribble, dribble, dribble. The sound of the basketball hitting the sleek and shiny wooden floor. We set up the offense. The ball is passed to me like a bolt of lightning from Zeus himself. I shoot… clank! The ball hitting the rim echoes the dropping of confidence like a little kid dropping his ice cream. I get back on defense. Squeak! The shoes of the man I guard as he tries to get around me. I stick to the fundamentals. We get back on offense. I drive. Shoot! Miss! I can see now the disap- pointment on my teammates' faces. As they can see the frustration on mine. Timeout! My coach subs me out. I feel as if I have let the whole team down. Now I don’t pay attention to the game. I look at the face of my dad. It spells out disappointed. I am a failure. After being out a quarter, “Jackson, you're up,” my coach says. I pick myself up and shake off that sad expression. As I take a step onto the court, I look up at my dad. He’s clapping. I’m smiling.

Don’t Think by Carter Ross age 14

Deep breath. Think. Wait, no. Don’t think. Think about not thinking. But then I think again. Step to the left. Don’t move my upper body. Don’t think. Fingers across the seams. Twist my right foot. Eyes on the glove. Don’t think. Picture the ball crossing the plate. Shift my body to the right. Breathe. Don’t think. Pick up my left leg. Not too far in. Not too high. Let my foot hang loose. Don’t think. Arm up. Drive off of my back leg. Point my glove at the target. Step towards the plate. Don’t think. Whip my arm forward. Release at the target. Not too fast or I miss. Not too slow or they hit the ball. Follow through. Get in a ready position. The ball flies right down the middle of the plate. THUMP!! That is the sound of the batter frozen in place, watching the ball whiz past his belt. That is the sound of a personal victory against the batter. Get the ball back. Reset. Deep breath. Think. Wait, no. Don’t think.

17 A Dark Winter Night by Eva Dolde age 16

My breath creates a hot cloud of air into the dark eerie night. It is the day before Christmas Eve and all is still. With squinted eyes that are blinded by the oncoming snow, I faintly see my brother waving at me in the distance. My footprints crackle and crunch the soft, fluffy snow as I skip for- wards towards him.

The snow cascades slowly from the sky and lands ever so gently, like a mother laying down her babe, upon the blanket of snow. The crisp air varies from the warm heat on my cheeks. The moon gleams with full intensity, creating a warm touch on the coolness of the snow. As I look upwards, the moonlight glimmers through the flakes. The snow glitters faintly as it dances gracefully to- wards me.The night gleams only with sliver, cascading the pale glow faintly on the cool snow. The night doesn’t scream with excitement, nor does it swell with clatter. It is calm.

My brother prances over to me, smiling carefree. Time is irrelevant. We were on a mission to cre- ate the perfect sledding track so, when the soft, fluffy as-a-pillow snow melts with the warm dew of the morning, and hardens with the bitter frost of the air, it would create the perfect sledding track for the morrow.

As I tilt my head up, the gentle kisses of the flakes, like to one from a lover, gently cool my skin as they land on my face; they quickly melt. The gust of the wind cools the water onto my skin, draw- ing goosebumps and a chill down my spine. But I don’t mind. The gentle wind kisses my hair and tickles my skin. I can feel it reach out to pull me closer and to whisper endless stories of romance and adventure in my ear. One by one, it takes away my fears and pains, like a warrior after a mighty battle, dropping one piece of armor at a time. I can’t help but give a jovial smile as I breathe in the fresh air. This is my home.

The air has a tint of the soft familiar smoky smell of a warm, and crackling fire. I think, “Was that fresh pine in the air?” I can’t help but imagine a family bringing in their massive Christmas tree into their warm living room; the bright and starlit eyes of the children lighting the room when they see the tree itself. Would they drown the tree with fairy lights, or perhaps they would pepper it with balls and candy canes?

I am thrown out of my train of thought as my brother gently shakes my shoulders. He gives me a caring look, perhaps wondering if I had frozen, as I mirror the same childlike wonder his eyes sparkle with. We get back to work. Taking turns sledding down the path, we can’t help but let our laughter emit into the dark night.

Suddenly, a bright and warm light emits, scattering the darkness away. The warm light bounces off the white snow, creating the illusion of even brighter light. My mother stands in the doorway gen- tly urging her children to come back inside and get warm. When she sees our stubborn faces that beg her to stay out for just a moment more, she smugly smiles as she holds up two cups of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream a mile high and sprinkled with hot chocolate mix…just the way we like it.

We prance into the house, eager to get a sip of the warm liquid, eager to place our raw hands against the warm cup, eager to smear whipped cream on our faces. We can’t wait until we can go outside again tomorrow.

18 Ice Bubbles by Jackson Fox age 14

19 Darkness by Hannah Campbell age 16

Darkness controlled my world Loneliness was my only friend. Why me? What did I do to deserve this? I couldn’t tell my friends because I was too afraid I felt like I was falling down into the cold empty abyss of nothing. I had no one to talk to No one who understood what his actions did to me. It tore me apart like a hurricane taking down a building And leaving behind a storm of emotions. Fear ruled my life. I fell behind in school Struggling to keep up I sprinted ahead But every time I got close to catching up I was catapulted backwards. Digging, digging myself out of the abyss But being dragged down every time. Darkness laughing at me mocking me Watching me fail. But I prevailed, I did not fail I mustered up all the strength and courage I could Hauling myself out of the abyss I rose above. Covered in mud and bruises but I didn’t care I defeated Darkness I had control I won.

20 Life: An Ongoing Fight by Aarti Itikirala age 16

Each day is golden even when it’s smothered with grief feel its warmth and bask in belief.

Lifting us up, when we tumble and fall, heaven's glory, radiates down on us all.

Smile through your tears don't fret for years, you have goals and dreams, That shine like the sun’s beams.

Don't dwell in the dark, Look towards the spark look to the light guiding you through the night.

A new day rises, what promise it holds, perfumed with roses as it gently unfolds. Happiness awaits in all places if we put smiles on our faces.

Life is a test of endurance, hardships build patience, We must get through Even if we have no clue

Smile little angel with halo askew the big angels watch over you. they smile when you win, overcoming challenges with a timid grin.

When we fall to pain, or see only dark clouds with rain, remember the sky full of stars and realize how foolish we really are, for we shed tears and hold in mirth, when we have the gift of all blessings on earth.

21 African Wild Dog by Mackenzie Ruiz age 16 acrylic paint

22 Horses by Dillon Reburn age 16

The hooves rumble against sandy stone pebbles bounce men in the saddles Fighting, the horses want to run free and fast and hard and long. They leave a wake of broken bottles fire and blood Like a ship through the Straits of Magellan.

The horses running alongside each other. The cool and crisp air and the dark glare all the men ready to fight. Then bright light as the sun breaks over camp oranges of the sky showing their color Men mounting. Those horses take off like birds from the trees against the reins across sandy stone. Guiding those stolen steers across sandstone plateaus.

Stallions running through town, desert, forest, rivers the leader of the pack, the largest of horses. Muscles strain in the heat of day. Stallions finally free Running faster, far and away.

Creatures of the wild so free and bold. Tamed but they never submit roaming desert and green grassland grazing uncaring. Blue skies, open fields, big trees future dreams. beasts strong and noble flying like flags among sands and streets a pebble raised from the earth by them placed into the care of the complacent wind.

23 Life is a Tree by Anaum Allimulla age 12

Why? Why Bella? Why did she have to be the one? Why did she have to be so brave? Did she know that her bravery would lead to her end? “I’m only going to go out to check.” “No Bella, it’s dangerous. Don’t.” “I am going to come back Emily. It’ll be fine. Besides, there’s only one shooter, and he’s not even here.” “No, Bella.” Those were the last words I said to my best friend. Bella was wrong. There were two shooters, and one of the shooters was outside our door. The second I heard the loud, excruciating bang of the gun and the swoosh of the bullet soaring through the air, my head started to spin out of control until I could barely register what was happening. When I glanced through the window on the door, I saw her scarlet red blood splattered across the wall and the ground, a gun sitting in the corner after being thrown by the shooter, and then I saw it. Her body. It was sprawled across the floor with blood grabbing at her sides and her chest. I saw the bullet wound. Ever so slightly I also saw the silver bullet in her chest glinting next to her necklace. As I’m sitting on the park bench with my hair and clothes soaking, my face dripping wet mixing with my salty tears streaming down my face, two kids are at the playground dancing in the rain. I think of Bella and how we used to be those two kids, dancing together when no one else would come out. Staring down at the orange and scarlet leaves coating the ground, I am reminded of her crimson blood that pooled on the ground, splattering the walls and painting the door, and I wonder. Bella and I grew up together. From little kids to teenagers. Now I realize life is a tree. We started as seeds and then slowly grew into the trees that we are. Our leaves grew and changed colors from bright green to orange and then back again just as our personalities changed. Then the tree was cut down and was gone forever. Just like Bella. Once the tree was cut down, the leaves fell to the ground with all of us falling deep into sadness once she left us. All the animals that were safe under the protection of Bella’s beautiful branches now have no place to go. Just as I don’t have anywhere to go to control the emotions swirling out of control in my head. Then, a lumberjack comes and grabs a long, brown axe with a shiny, silver blade. He stalks towards two trees that look exactly the same, twining together and reaching towards the sun. He swings it over his shoulder and chops down the tree on the left. It falls, almost in slow-motion. Then the lumberjack leaves the second tree all alone in its misery, its sweeping branches clawing up at the stormy clouds. I then realize, all trees are cut down eventually. That’s just how life works. We need to learn to move on. We cannot dwell on the past. Life is a tree. We grow, we change, we keep people safe in our branches, we are cut down by the lumberjack and his axe. Then all of our leaves fall down, deep, deep into the well of sadness. Bella was cut down too early. If only the lumberjack came later. I watch the two kids who are now laughing and pushing each other on the swings. I look around, and I see that the pounding rain beside me has stopped. The sun has come out, shining across the field and warming my face. There are animals coming out one by one, prancing around the park

24 now that the rain has gone. A small, little girl in a yellow dress as bright as the sun comes up to me with daffodils and sunflowers wrapped in long, thin, braided blades of grass. She extends her hand towards me and says in a cheerful, hopeful voice “Can you play with me?” I take the flowers and brush my hands over them. They are soft, delicate and silky like a white feather floating through the air. She takes hold of my hand and pulls me up to my feet. She takes me to the swings and we swing together. With the sun shining on my face, I tuck Bella deep into my heart. I will never forget her. She’s gone. I can’t change that. But I can remember all the good things about her and keep moving forward. That’s what I ave to do. Keep moving forward.

Nature is Magical by Andrew Marquez age 14

25 one more step by Raphael Kim age 14 she looks down the abyss below her whispers to her she reaches out a hand takes another step. closed doors an opened window there is only one way all she wants is for it to end. she takes another step closer, closer release below her she knows all it takes is one more step. one more step and she’s falling forever. but in that moment closed doors open and she regrets for in that moment she threw away heaven for hell underneath but she can do nothing against Death’s cold embrace.

26 It’s Time by Brooke Harrison age 13

“It’s time,” my Rabbi says. I start to get up, and start walking out of the Rabbi’s office, slowly, like I’m going to my execution. “I’m not ready,” I tell my parents. “I can’t do it.” My heart is racing like someone is chasing me on a treadmill, not going anywhere. I start to walk some more until I’m halfway to the end of the corridor, near the exit. All I hear coming from my family and Rabbi are words, but they have no meaning to me, going in one ear, and coming out of the other. I finally get to the end of the hallway, and I hear noises. Talking, laughing, some yelling. It all blends in into one continuous sound. The only thing in my thoughts is my Torah and Haftarah portions, constantly repeating like a cycle, praying that I don’t mess up. I take a sip of water before I go on the bimah, having the coldness awaken me. “So, are you ready?” My Rabbi asks me. “I guess,” I respond. I’m not ready. I step through the door, the most quiet I can be. As I walk, I see a crowd of faces, watch- ing every move I do. The Rabbi then taps my shoulder, signaling it’s my time to speak. Suddenly, everything changes. I get a rush of adrenaline and it suddenly feels like I’m ready. It’s my time to shine, I think. No one will take this moment from me.

Dream… by Rae Fu age 15 watercolor 27 Almost by Mukta Kantak age 13

The bare lightbulb lights the room dimly, providing just enough light to see. My superior breaks the news to me gently, but I am still shocked and disbelieving. My mother was 74 when she died. Investigators say she fell down a flight of stairs, breaking her skull into pieces at the bottom, but I believe otherwise. She had been fit for her age - I doubt that she could fall down stairs even if she tried.

I go back to the house. Never mind that there is a meeting taking place at headquarters. Never mind that it is a 20 minute commute. Nothing is more important than this. I head to the basement and cautiously open the door. There are bloodstains on the carpet, but everything else looks exactly as it had when it happened. I take notes, writing on a pad of paper with my ballpoint pen, taking everything into account.

Suddenly, I am transported into a pitch-black vortex. When I get out of it, I realize that I am in someone else’s house.

On their wall is a picture of my mother, crosshairs drawn on it in thick red marker. Next to it is a filing cabinet, that I open, and inside I see dozens of such pictures. Red crosshairs on every one. I scan the room for anything else, anything that would help me figure this out. A name. An age. A description. Anything.

Suddenly, I hear footsteps. Someone is coming down the hallway! They will surely find me here. Panic sets in - I dive under the bed, trying to suppress my coughing. They must not find me.

Among the dust, I find a computer printout. It has been shredded into pieces, but that has never stopped me before. I piece together the shreds, carefully fitting them together like a jigsaw puzzle. I am now able to make out an email, with a travel itinerary attached.

I read the document. It looks as if the murderer had traveled, and emailed his accomplices.

According to the printout, he had had traveled to Arizona two hours ago. There was a name at the bottom: Jake Nicholson.

The printout read: “Look for a black minivan with a 93I86CB license plate. I’m printing a copy of this email for myself.”

Well, that wasn’t very smart. Anyone could easily find the printout and read it for themselves. I keep reading: “Make sure this doesn’t get into the wrong hands. I have to make it to Arizona without being found.”

Well, Jake Nicholson will be found. I will be the one to find him. Just then, I hear more footsteps - louder this time. I am running out of time. I cautiously crawl out from under the bed, making my way to the window, sliding it open. Since I am still on the first floor of the house, I figure I can jump out without causing much injury. The door abruptly swings open just as my feet leave the

28 windowsill, but it is too late for them to do anything - I am long gone.

I land on my hands and knees in a bush and start to run, not knowing where exactly I am trying to go. My goal is just to get away from whatever may be chasing me.

I bolt upwards, bashing my head against the bed-frame. My sheets are soaked in sweat, and my hands are pale and clammy. I know who murdered my mother. I saw it myself. I had to tell someone.

I pick up the telephone, frantically calling the police station.

“Yes?” says a voice, sounding groggy. I had woken them up in the middle of the night.

“I know who the murderer is!” I said loudly. I’m practically screaming now.

“Which murderer?!” says the person on the other line. It’s Dr. Russell, the head of the Forensics department.

“The same one that killed my mother! I saw his house in my dream and I’m positive it’s him!”

“You… dreamed about the killer?” says Dr. Russell, skeptic.

“Yes! I’m positive it’s him,” I repeat. “Please just check it out for me!”

I can hear Dr. Russell breathing on the other side.

“Alright,” Dr. Russell sighs at last. “What’s his name? Location? Description?”

“Thank you! His name is…” I struggle for words. “Is… his name… the murderer’s name is…”

“Yes?” says Dr. Russell. He is getting impatient.

I try again. And again. But I just can’t seem to recall his name. I try the location. “Iowa… no, was it- Michigan? No, not there. Maine? No, not that far up north.” I hear a click. Dr. Russell has disconnected: I have taken too long.

It takes me a moment to realize that not only have I forgotten the name and location of the murderer, but the whole dream itself.

29 Don’t Touch My Hair by Emani Larkin age 13

Don’t touch my hair You can smile You can stare But don’t touch my hair This is curled beauty A kinky masterpiece Does my hair scare you? Is that what it is? Is this why you force me into weaves, braids, and wigs? I got this from my mama And then my mama’s mama It’s been treated as disgusting And nappy And unprofessional But it’s mine Completely, shamelessly mine So you can stop And you can glare But don’t you dare touch my hair

30 You Are My Sunshine by Julia Phillips age 16

I haven’t seen it rain in years, but there has never been a drought. The sun glistens with a smile, lighting up my whole world. The towering mountains cascade shadows onto my face, cooling my body very quickly. It feels like it’s been June for months now, the weather is cool enough to stay outside all day without getting burned. Days are long and nights are short, though I’m always outside. Except the weird thing is, I always wake up in a different place than where I fell asleep. I wake up on the ground next to a highway right by my house, except there are no cars driving on it. I’m perfectly fine when I wake up. I haven’t felt cramping or any pain in what seems like months. My life has been wonderful. My name is James, and I’m eight years old. I have two parents and no siblings. I haven’t seen them in a while, but I know that they are always with me no matter what. I can feel their presence, even when they’re not near me. I know that they are always with me because I constantly hear my mom sing to me. She always used to sing to me “You Are My Sunshine,” it’s our favorite song. Whenever I’m doing anything, I always hum the melody:

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.”

My mom loves to sing the melody softly in my ear when she isn’t around. I rarely hear her sing it anymore. Only on special occasions will she sing the song for me. Sometimes, she’ll sing more of the song if I’m really lucky. I don’t know the rest of the song sadly. I wish I knew more of it, but I guess I’ll have to wait for my mom to finish it. I cannot see miles ahead of me, a glaring white backdrop blocks my vision. It is always serene. The only thing that’s interrupting my peace is a faint car alarm sound in the distance. It’s a quiet beeping, with two vibrations at a time. The sound annoys me, but the melody of my song comforts my ears. With each hum, I feel myself become more relaxed. Quickly, large, dark clouds overshadow me. The clouds fly in from the west, darkening the entire world below. Fluffy grey clouds came off very intimidating, despite their friendly appearance. Suddenly, water began dripping from the clouds above, soaking my hair. The flow increased with time. Rain pelted the once hardened ground, creating lakes of water around me. For the first time as well, I began to feel pain. My head ached, and with more pain, more water fell. I started to tear up; I was terrified. After what seemed like hours, I began to hear a faint voice in my head. It was my mother, finally singing to me once again. We sang the beginning, so I stopped once it finished, but my mother kept going.

“I'll always love you and make you happy If you will only say the same But if you leave me and love another You'll regret it all someday.”

She sang it beautifully and with grace. We sang the beginning and the new verse in unison; it calmed me. However, when we finished the second verse, my headache began to worsen.

31 Thunder clapped into my ears and lightning lit up the sky that was once blue and bright. I felt tears roll off of my eyes and ride over my quivering lips. I have never felt so scared, I needed my mom to sing to me. The thunder wasn’t stopping, it was like cymbals crashing in my ears. The sound was deafening, I could no longer hear myself think. I covered my ears and cried, I prayed that my mom would start singing again, to show that she was with me. No other human was in sight; I was all alone. Suddenly, I felt a rash voice in my head. It was my mother’s, but she was no longer whispering. Her voice came through like choppy waves. The thunder and lightning were not taking a breath to pause. Rain covered my whole body, cooling my body temperature down to what felt like zero. My mother was sobbing now. I could feel her breathing uneven breaths in my head. She paused for a few seconds, and then tried to sing through the sobs. She started in the beginning; she was trying to level her voice. I could tell that she was trying very hard not to cry while singing, but her weeps were sneaking through her mouth. I began to sing along with her, but this time, the storm didn’t let up. It continued roaring in the background, occasionally slipping in my ears. We finished singing the new verse, but my mom kept going.

“You told me once, dear You really loved me And no one else could come between But now you’ve left me And love another You have shattered all my dreams”

I paused slightly, I was in shock. She wept as she sung. My mom must know I didn’t leave her. I began to call out to no one. I called for my parents, my mom, my dad; anybody that would listen. The only response was the rumbling from the storm. I began to weep as well. I couldn’t remember a time where I have been so scared. I was hysterically crying out for my mother. The storm raged above me, now destroying tall trees and electrical cords. The houses around me were demolished. While looking at the houses, I noticed that the car alarm starting slowing down, but it didn’t stop. I begged that my mom would continue singing; I needed to hear her voice. A few minutes went by without hearing anything but the storm. I reached for my head to push away my hair, and a pool of blood was on my hand. My head was bleeding from all over, yet, there was no physical pain from it. The only pain was the headache from earlier. Quickly after, I dropped to the ground as my legs have given out. I noticed a small, stinging pain on the inside of my right elbow. I pulled up my sleeve but there was nothing there. No markings, no blood; nothing. I cried for my mom and for myself; I felt so helpless. After only a few seconds, a wave of memories hit me. I saw an image of me and my family in a car. My dad was driving, and my mom was looking back at me. We all were so very happy. But then, we ran out of gas, and my dad stepped out of the car to call someone. I remember I felt scared, and my mom could tell that I was. She began singing to me our song. She only sang the chorus, and I felt relaxed. After she finished, she kissed my forehead and stepped out of the car and went to my dad. I sat in the car, waiting for them to get back. But then, there was a truck in the distance. He sped down the road, and then struck the car I was in. That’s all I remember. Suddenly, my mom started a new verse.

“The other night dear, as I lay sleeping I dreamed I held you in my arms When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken And I hung my head and cried”

32

I cried out for my mom to tell her that I was still here, wherever I was. I tried to tell her that I was okay. The storm raged on, cries from my mother echoed in my head. Slowly, I felt my eyes get heavy. I struggled to keep them open; it was like my body was trying to make itself fall asleep. I fought to keep them open, but, I couldn’t. I gave in to the weight and closed my eyes. However, I was unable to open them back up. A doctor pulled out James’ I.V. from his right arm. The rest of the doctors rushed the parents out of the hospital room as James’ mother cried for her son. The heart rate monitor was pulled out of the room; the presence of the beeping gone in an instant. His mother held on to the overbearingly white walls in the room, but her husband pulled her out. While his mother was being dragged, she maintained eye contact with her son. Her eyes were puffy from crying earlier; his senseless body lying on the hospital bed was a blur to her. She was still singing the song as she crept down the hallway. A small thought in the back of her head bounced in her brain; did he know he was in a coma?

Spring Flowers by Ashleigh Umbrecht age 16 colored pencil 33 What Are You by Rebekah Marvin age 18

I tend to dress in a very confusing way My button-down shirts and men’s jeans Do not match my curvy figure Often, I am posed the question of “Well, what are you?” I am a person who has seen some things I am the child of a single mother The sibling of a younger sister with flaming hair The grandchild of a strong grandmother The niece of the loudest and proudest person on the planet I am a writer A singer An artist I am a secret keeper A lover A friend I am a patchwork of the different stages of my life I am a stained glass window made from broken wine bottles and crushed candy canes I am an advocate I am a speaker A teacher A student Most importantly I am human So before you ask me “What are you?” Maybe think to yourself “What am I?”

34 Self Reflection by Ashleigh Umbrecht age 16 graphite pencil

35 I.D.E.N.T.I.T.Y. by Deborah Olatunji age 16 this isn’t another spiel about how i never knew who i was until something majorly life altering had happened this isn’t my diversion of the conversation that i was never given the microphone for to speak “my truth” out of this isn’t a continuing episode on “Deborah’s Path to Self-Relief Through the Pursuit of Her New Found Self” no, that is not it at all i stopped defining what it meant to be me and the consequences of this dignity led to my own independent path of self-discovery

maybe i do enjoy long walks in the park after dark knowing that i have no choice but to be extra careful when i am around those parts

perhaps the process of running away from what i never came to terms with has inspired me to blindly walk through the maze without asking for direction or assistance

i think the real warriors are the ones who are just warriors and don’t mind disregarding all fanciful and confusing language, working diligently with persistence

to hell with the people who told me the journey would be too hard for me to survive and tell my story of

do you know what racism looks like? how would you define the way you consciously disregard the needs and emotions of individuals all because they came with more melanin than the package promised

why does it even matter? why is my color the only thing that makes up the complexity of my character? why do you get to decide? i think the best way to solve this is for you to stop asking me why and for me to start asking when when can i have a say? when will my perceptions be accepted as they are? when will my definition of identity be enough?

36 It’s Complicated by Shyla Oommen age 17 plastic coins, acrylic paint, clay, neck mannequin, chain necklace , cloth, artificial flowers

37 Love is a Candle by Emily Callahan age 13

I was alone. Again. After dashing into my small, cramped bedroom, I put my back up against the closed door and breathed heavily, emotions running wild inside my mind. These emotions swirled in and out of the maze in my head that people call a brain. What emotion was I supposed to be feeling? Heartbroken? Alone? It seems as though that’s the way my heart wanted me to feel. I felt as if I had just been thrown out a window then stepped on by millions of people. As my thoughts swirled in my head, I slid down to the ground, tears threatening to spill over the dam holding them in. Emotions threatening to break down the wall I had built years and years ago. The mask I had worn for years on end was threatening to crack. I couldn’t let it. At least, not after all this time that I’ve kept this up. Why did everything have to go wrong now? Just at the beginning of high school. This is what’s going to affect me for the rest of school, possibly the rest of my life. I heard the creaking of the hallway floor coming from outside my door. As quick as I could, I shoved the tears and emotions back under my mask, preparing to hear the usual knock of my mother asking if I was okay, but it didn’t come. No one knocked. No one stopped by my room. No one cared. Fortunately, this allowed me to pull off my broken mask again, to let me show my emotions. As I let the warm liquid flow down my face, I came back to the same thing I’ve been saying to myself over and over again. Love is a candle. All you need to start the flame is a spark. A spark… A spark… What was my spark…? Was it when Paityn and I met? Whatever it was, it was a strong spark. Our candle had burned bright for so long. The only problem with a candle is that it’s so easy to put out. Even if the flame of love is put out, it takes such a long time to forget. The smoke from the candle still floats through the air, thicker than before. A punishment, something to remember. Also, the fragrance still lingers, tingling the senses with what could’ve been if the candle had still burned. Our candle was dead. Our flame had burned long enough for her. Paityn wanted a new candle. A new scent. Something better. Someone better. The candle we had was beautiful. If I were to make it a real candle, it would be orange on top. The joy of being together is what everyone saw. It’s what I saw. In the middle, it would be blue. It would show how deeply in love we were. How much loyalty and trust we shared. On the very bottom, there would be red. Red would show our passion, our determination, our love. A love that had been swept away in the black sea of life. Did Paityn see the candle? If she did, did she see it the way I do? A bright flame with orange, blue, and red wax. If I had our candle right now, I would do everything in my power to light that spark once again. Set the wick aflame, bright like the sun, and show her. Show her how much I love her. Show her how much I want her back. Although I longed for my dreams to be true, our candle was extinguished. The wick was blackened and burnt. The once colorful wax was gooey and mixed. The flame, once bright and warm with love, had been extinguished, leaving a cloud of smoke above it, filling the air with its darkness and filling my lungs with ash, and filling my mind with pain. It used to be easy. It used to be good. No… Amazing! I used to love feeling the warmth of our candle. Now, I would hate to see it, smell it, feel it, or even hear it. Hear the crackle of the flame on the wick. I can’t hear it anymore. There was no sound anymore. Just silence. Not peace and quiet but empty, lonely sadness. Just how I felt. Alone, sad, scared. Without Paityn, I couldn’t sail this angry sea. Without Paityn, I couldn’t feel whole again. She smothered our flame and left me in the dark all by myself. Now, without a light to guide me, I would never find my way out again. She even locked the door,

38 trapping me inside this cold, dark room. There was no light that even tried to sneak in to see me. She was the only one who could ever let me out and lead me to the light once again. She was the only one who could ever heal the shattered heart in my chest. Tears clouded my vision just as rain would to a windshield on a car. I had just added another candle to a locked closet I kept in the back corner of my dark mind. Through blurry eyes, I looked at the door of the locked closet. It was cracked and broken, letting me see inside. Was this how I was on the outside? Could people see my candles just as easily as I could right now? I hoped not. My candles were my secret. If someone saw, they could break in and shatter the glass, spilling the messy, melted wax. Everyone would see. Everyone would judge. That was not something I needed. The closet was filled with smoke from past candles of love. The cracks in the door let it seep out up top. All the memories. All the bad things these past loves wanted me to remember. The thick smoke filled my lungs, making it hard to breathe. My breath was labored even as I tried to turn away from the broken, scarred closet. I wondered if everyone has their own closet full of candles. Did they hide their extinguished candles like I did, or did they show the world what they’ve been through? I bet some people were like me. They try to hide their candles, but every time they add a new one, it cracks the door a bit. I continued to stare at my dark closet. Dark. It was dark. There was no flame in sight. Although my candles were there, they weren’t lit. Any of them. The ones closest to the door seemed to have the messiest wax, the strongest smoke, the most ruined wicks. Ignoring the tugging in my gut, I decided to move closer to them to explore. Once I was close enough, the door swung open without me having to even touch it. I entered reluctantly. The smoke and faint scent of the candles hit me full force, bringing back all sorts of painful memories. Memories such as the times that the candle was extinguished. “We’re done.” “I’m breaking up with you.” “Just leave.” Everyone of them broke my heart. I had the sudden urge to pick up one of the candles, so I did. It was the most recent candle I put in there. The one Paityn and I shared. The orange, blue, and red one. It felt cold and sad to the touch. The wax looked smooth, but to my surprise, it was rough like sandpaper. It showed me how rough my emotions really were. How much I still had to repair before life could ever go back to the way it was. I scrunched up my face in anger, and I flung the candle at the wall. The glass shattered, and the wax broke apart. All of a sudden, I felt a weight lift off my heart. A smile started to play on my lips. In that moment, I suddenly realized what I had to do. For once in my life, happiness wasn’t that far away.

39 The Picture by Kaitlin Merriman age 13

I peel off the lid to the box. The dust puffs up in a little cloud and spreads into my lungs. I cough trying to get it out. I peer into the box and a rush of emotion hits me faster than the speed of light. I pull out the dusty black and white picture on top. I look for my dad in the photo but my nana comes over and says that it’s a picture of her and her daughter. It’s from when she was a toddler wearing a fluffy dress with two bows in her hair playing with blocks. My grandmother who died when my dad was thirteen. The one who I will never be able to meet. We visit my grandparents’ grave every year. We spread the flowers across the snowy stone plate. Tears trickle my face even though I tried to hold them in. I glance up at my dad. I know it must be hard for him. One day I will hopefully get to meet my grandparents and see how amazing they are. I set the picture back in the box but hesitate a little. It’s hard to put the picture away, though I know I won’t forget it.

Family by Carter Ross age 14

Family is a hard word to define. It’s who I am surrounded by. It’s who I return to everyday. It’s who I embrace when I am happy. It’s whose shoulder I cry on when I am sad. It’s who builds me up and breaks me down without even knowing it. Everyone has a different family for different reasons. I have an immediate family, an extended family, and a family of friends. I have a family of teammates, a family of learners, and a family of socializers. I have so many families I don’t realize are there but still support me. Even though I have many families, they all still function the same. They are there to relate to, to lean on, to help up, to let down, to cry with, to celebrate with, to play with, to sing with, and to dance with. Family is unique. It is the best thing in the world. Family isn’t a word that can be defined, it is a word that can only be understood by oneself.

40 Imagine… by Rae Fu age 15 charcoal

41 My Ultimate Companion by Madeline Rowland age 13

AHHH! AHHH! AHHH! My heart was racing. I was as white as a marshmallow, while my face felt like searing fire, blazing. My throat was raw, like sandpaper had been scrubbed inside it. I felt a salty tear wiggle its way down my cheek. As more tears plunged down my face like rain, they sud- denly landed on happiness. I found my stuffed animal tucked inside my bed covers. My eyes opened like a spectrum of rainbows. I moved my hands over its adorable glass eyes. I embraced it with a warm hug. My misery, agony, pain, and monsters disappeared into thin air. I knew I was safe to go to sleep. This lovable friend always knew how to make me feel better. Something as cru- el as a nightmare wouldn’t stand a chance against us. I was like a knight with my trusted horse. I was like Cinderella with my very own godmother. I shut my eyes and drifted off to sleep peaceful- ly.

What’s Out There by Andrew Marquez age 14 42 The Tomato Quest Written by Sneezy, age 6 months Transcribed by JoJo Kastriner, age 12

It was a normal day for me. I sneezed. The human had fed us a small bit of food, but it’s never enough. More food was always wanted and needed. Scraggy scragged at me and tried to peck me, but I flapped out of reach. Scraggy was rude, sometimes. I pecked the ground for rocks, thinking about food. Then I heard it. The click! Every head turned to the door. I ran. I didn’t get there first as I had hoped, but that was okay, as long as I got food. Then the food came. The game was on. I rushed for the food that was thrown to us. I got a piece of lettuce, but it was quickly taken from me by Parm. I hopped at a piece of cheese and gobbled it up before some chicken could take it from me. I started to peck a red thing. I seem to recall it being called a tomato. Then Maria came and took it! I didn’t see what happened next, but I wanted it back! I ran and sneezed my way through the feathers. I passed Fluffbutt, who was frantically trying to eat bread. I pushed past Joni Boom and Lightning Toes to see Maria chasing Parm, who had the tomato. Then, just as Parm ran by, I snatched it from her. Next time, I would eat my food as quickly as possible.

Sneezy

43

The Great Grape written by Scraggy, age 9 months transcribed by Megan Athey, age 12

On one long day in the coop, the human finally came out of its lair. The tall giant stepped out in the cool air, and quickly closed the door. It said something in its weird, gibberish language. But, there was one thing that all of us noticed: the human was carrying a bag with a huge, purple, juicy, grape in it. We all ran towards it, hoping to take it for ourselves. That was when the war started. Some of us sat in front of the human, waiting for the grape to drop in front of us; others leapt up to see if we could grab it for ourselves. The human said something in its strange language, probably trying to get us to stop jumping, but no matter what it was saying, none of us listened. We kept waiting, waiting for the grape to come. Wings were flapping in every direction. It was pure chaos. After what seemed like days, the human finally dropped the grape. The next bit was kind of a blur. One minute Lightning Toes had it; the next it was Fluffbutt. Before I even knew what was happening, I started shouting insults at Fluffbutt for keeping the grape for herself. When she ignored me, I lunged. I flew at the brown-and-white lump, grabbed the grape, and started tugging. I tugged with all of my might, but instead of getting the grape, the grape split into tiny pieces, even too small for a fly. “NOOOOOOOOO!” all of us shouted. I should have gotten the grape, I thought. But since I yelled at Fluffbutt and tried to get the grape for myself, now no one gets the grape. I looked up at the human to see if it had more grapes, but it had none. It actually looked kind of pleased with how this turned out. “What were you thinking?!” Fluffbutt squawked in my direction. Fluffbutt is still angry with me to this day for ruining everyone’s day.

Scraggy 44

The Salad War Written by Maria Montessori (world renowned floofiest floofin), Transcribed by Sophie Herring, age 15

It was an average, sunny, but cold autumn afternoon in the chicken pen. We were all loung- ing around and picking up loose corn pieces from our breakfast. Scraggy was scragging, Sneezy was sneezing, and I was digging for rocks to consume. We weren’t expecting anything, until we heard the sound. Click! The heat and light of the indoor world poured in and zoop!, a flock of floofs rushed by me. I could barely stay on my feet. I was struggling to see because of the puff of feathers on my head. It was either food time or *shudder* Hug Time. The human did not step in the pen. Before we had time to think, veggies and cheese started raining from the heavens. As soon as the first piece of food hit the ground, it became chaos. Orange feathers, black feathers, tiny white poofs, all in my face. I was not getting any food. I couldn’t think; it was all happening so fast. A piece of cheese hit me in the face. I leaned over to peck it, but by the time my beak reached the cheese, it was in Sneezy’s beak. I WANTED THE FOOD. IT WAS MINE. “BWAAAAAAAAAAK BWAAAAAKK BWAAAAAAAAAAK.” Screaming! Flapping! Fluff in my face! They were going to know that I deserved that salad. I have floofiness level 10! I am clearly worthy. I would have to fight for it. There it was, a tomato, all alone, no chicken pecking at it. I ran, ran as fast as my floofy feet could take me. The tomato was in my beak; I ran, not thinking, just running. I stopped to look be- hind me. A big, fluffy, brown, blur jumped and lunged forward. “BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAK!” OW! Fluffbutt ran off with some of my soft, gray floof in her mouth, looking vicious and hungry. But wait, I still had the tomato. “BWAAK BWAAK BWAAK!” Everyone must know I am successful in taking the toma - No! Matt took the tomato! Matt is only a tiny puff with floofiness level 7. Com- pletely unworthy! Wait, now Parm has the tomato. “BWAAAAAK!!!” “PEEP PEEP PEEEEEEP!!” Matt, Robirda, Egger, and I can’t let Parm have this tomato. Three laps around the coop and almost running into Joni Boom and Jacque, Robirda slid across the mud. She fell right into the mud, but immediately got back on her tiny, little legs. Parm ran straight into the crowd. I finally caught him! PECK! “BWOK!” HA! That’s what Parm gets for taking the tomato. I am small and floofy, but mighty and…where is the food? Sneezy slurps up the last lettuce. There is still chaotic squawking. Scraggy scrags in horror as Lightning Toes pecks her. Robirda peeps in horror as Ne- ville steps on her. Everyone is still fighting. But for what? The food is gone. I only got one piece of lettuce. “BWAK!” Egger pecked me. She is too small to actually do any harm. It only touched my floof. I calm down and waddle back into the coop. The chickens realize that the food is gone. I watch them as they look around pathetically. They are all such snots (that’s a word I learned from the human, she used it to describe Flower once). Our humans have been watching us from the window. How pathetic we must look to them, fighting over nothing. It’s not lingering on. Oh well. I’m sure they will be back later to *gulp* cud- dle me. Food is only momentary. Not worth being angry at someone else for any longer than the food is around.

The Hockessin Montessori Chickens

45 Broken Xylophone Player by Philip Townsend age 15

You, she, and me. She knowing you You knowing me She loving you, You hating me

She, the wood to your instrument Me, a cold front bending it out of tune You, playing softly as to not damage her But strangling the chords in frustration of my existence

She dangles you in front of me like a pothead and his drugs, Smoking the joints of your love and affection and spitting them in my face Only to have them disappear once in my grasp

Every day I wonder if you’ve slowly grown apart, But then after chilling hours of useless flirtatious insinuation, she makes one swift move, claiming her king in this foregoing game of mind chess

Each night the clock strikes ten, My eyes leak as if punctured by an arrow But no physical pain dwells Finally I realize that you are the cause of these endless tears Making it impossible to see my alarm clock as the dark, empty hours tick by

You crawl into my cold, hard bed The old springs creak under the weight of my lack of companionship And you cuddle up around me Keeping me warm under these fabrics that trap no heat Our feet intertwine, your rough legs against my smooth, chiseled calf You touch your lips to my ear, whispering the riddles that are my thoughts

The day has come, shining its poisonous rays of sunlight through my window Begging me to open my silk blackout curtains just a little more But only to be shut out permanently

Turning around I see a pile of pillows and blankets where you were the night before Supporting my back as I slept on my side Inviting me back into the endless cycle of tossing and turning over in the hopes of getting some desperately needed sleep

We meet at rehearsal You have no idea what played out in my bed

46 And me craving more than just pillows and blankets Yet it will never happen

Each note you play pops a heartstring in my chest I let myself go in the hopes of making you smile Thinking that maybe all of my suffering and exhaustion will go away when those slightly chapped lips lift to reveal perfect white teeth, expressing the emotion I seem to lack

Happiness, hope, joy, all flee from my being knowing that you will continue to be moved around our board From black to white But her being the only one to claim my king

She’s brought her best pieces The memories of you two growing up together The parties you’ve kissed at And the dates you’ve been on

Meanwhile I have a fake face, allowing everyone to get to know what’s on the surface of my skin But never removing that first layer Never exploring what makes me tick Never going deeper to find the broken heart

But that’s just what you do… break hearts? And maybe it’s an accident Or maybe your heart is broken too The broken xylophone player.

So why don’t you huh? Why don’t you break me until I’m nothing but a pile of skin? People will mourn what I let them know, But not what they tried to know

So why don’t you? Huh? Cut open my chest and let my heart decompose, Play my ribs like a broken xylophone. Because that’s all I’ll ever be That’s all you’ll ever want me to be.

47 Broken Glass by Sindhu Sivasankar age 13

I’m just feeling like I’m bare The darkness is black and hard as coal Perhaps it’s in the morning air As scars grow deep, it’s hard to control My motivation seems to be frozen So easy to sink in someone’s arms I guess I’m just feeling a bit broken And save each other from further harm

For some strange reason, I’m full of shame We’ll save each other from the insanity I wonder if anyone else feels the same? Let’s all join hands so we can run free Sometimes it can be quite surprising Why, then, do I feel darkness still inside? Looking around here and realizing Is all this dreaming just strung from lies?

We’re all made of broken glass We’re all made of broken glass Darkness seeping through our cracks Darkness seeping through our cracks Watching as our worlds collapse Watching as our worlds collapse But we can’t move ‘cause we’re all trapped But we can’t move ‘cause we’re all trapped

I wish we could clasp and fix our souls Perhaps I can find faith after all I wish I could piece us back to whole If you hold on, I might not fall Not for love and never for hate Perhaps I’ll see the dreams I made Just wish we could all finally escape But I’ll soon realize it’s all fake

Maybe I’ll just try to help the upset I’m tired of breathing through the shards But the world I live in is hard to get Death is so close and yet so far Is there a point, should I even try? But I won’t give up, I’ll be there for you ‘Cause I still have no idea why Who knows, maybe someone will help me too?

We’re all made of broken glass Darkness seeping through our cracks Watching as our worlds collapse But we can’t move ‘cause we’re all trapped

48 The Subject by Talia McCann Age 15

It was an ungodly hour of the morning. The complex was silent. Rain pounded on the metal roof, making a constant tap, tap, tap. Meanwhile, the sides of my clipboard cut into my palms, leaving stinging red indentations. I squeezed it like a lifeline, ignoring the discomfort. The two fluorescent lighting strips on the ceiling cast shadows on the equipment surrounding me. I sat in the center of the metal chamber. The walls made it feel ten times colder than it actually was. I faced a window… no: a one-way mirror. I could look in, but it couldn’t look out. The stark-white young girl was sitting in a lone chair lined up directly across from mine. The room in which she sat was bare of comforts, the exception being a few beat-up paperbacks. Our objective in observing this specimen was to see its reaction to our culture. It was only logical to include literature in that category, having been one of humanity’s best records of culture and mindset. The subject had their eyes closed, feigning sleep, very poorly too. Years of these mundane studies taught me well in examining their behavior. They didn’t need to sleep at all. I was growing bored of their behavior and let the clipboard rest on my lap in all its useless glory. Just as I did so, another scientist shuffled through the door. I don’t remember his name now. “Our subject hasn’t slept in a long time,” he had remarked, monotonous. “This would mark three weeks of insomnia,” I replied, not taking my eyes off of the subject. “I wonder how their kind can even function without sleep,” he uttered in disgust, shuddering as he glared through the one-way mirror. The subject moved. I jumped in my seat slightly, not turning around as I flailed my hand wildly on the desk behind me for a pencil. As I gripped the side of the clipboard with one hand, I scribbled furiously with the other. The subject was writing something in one of the books. “Look, she’s defacing Frankenstein again.” My co-worker flinched as if he had stepped on a thumbtack. “This is what, the fifth time this week?” He sounded uneasy. He turned away from the glass and leaned down to check his watch. I heard a sigh of relief. “My shift’s up.” I glanced away from the subject toward the man. Sweat shined on his forehead, his lips trembled. There was something he wanted to say. I opened my mouth to speak, but he had beat me to it. “Good lu... Goodbye.” It had an odd sense of finale. I had decided not to acknowledge the unusual tone of his voice and went for a lackluster response of, “Yep. Goodnight. See you tomorrow.” I didn’t see his expression as he left, but the way he had said goodbye left me with a rare feeling of pity. The heavy metal door of the lab shut behind him with a loud bam. I shivered as the air conditioning started back up. My eyes wandered to my clipboard where the different observations I had written were in chicken scratch. The subject’s strange behavior with the book was written down in the midst of it. We had yet to figure out what she was writing in the margins, since none of us wanted to go into the observation room with the thing in there, after seeing what had happened the last time it had direct contact with one of our team. I hate this job. Two hours came and went as I sat in the chair, watching the subject write in page after page of the book. I became restless. There were no new observations to write down. Fed up with

49 sitting, I stood up and paced a bit. Then, deciding to get something from the vending machine, I turned my back to the one-way mirror to put the clipboard down onto the lab table. The hair stood up on the back of my neck as the atmosphere in the lab shifted to something dark. I knew then that something had happened. Something with the subject. I turned around slowly, dread making my stomach sink into oblivion. The clipboard fell. The subject was missing. I was short of breath, shaking like a leaf in a tornado. I reached for the phone on the wall. It fell, not even connected to any wires. What is this? I tried to open the door. It was stuck. I pushed and pushed but it wouldn’t budge. Fed up, I grabbed the fire extinguisher, thankfully real, and hurled it though the one-way mirror. It shattered into a million tiny pieces, but I didn’t care. I needed answers. I jumped over the broken shards into the observation chamber. I tried the door behind the subject’s chair, but it wasn’t even a door, just paint on concrete. I screamed with frustration and rage as I looked for clues, anything to help me out of here. I remembered the books, scattered about on top of the chair. Frankenstein was turned to a page as if waiting for me to open it. And I did. There were hundreds of notes, observations, in the margins. They were about me. I flipped through the different pages, one in particular caught my eye. They were written in a sort of red ink that seeped through onto the ones behind it. Then I reached the bottom of the page. “Behind you,” was scrawled in shade of deep mahogany. I turned around.

50 Inquietude by Samara Durgadin age 15 ink & markers

51 Love by Rebekah Marvin age 18

Love takes many forms In the beginning it was my mother’s eyes Staring down at my messy toothless grin As I showed her the 5 curls I had accidentally cut off Love was my sister’s same toothless grin as she handed me a stick figure drawing Love was a boy on the playground that yelled cooties when I got close But I still loved him for the puppy dog I saw him as Love was the first time I looked at a friend in middle school and thought I want to hold her hand and call her mine But was too scared to speak Love was when I cried my eyes out to my mom about each boy I found fake fondness in And she said, “Everything is fine” Love was staying up till two am to help my friends out when we thought another friend was dead Love was me punching that jerk in the jaw when I saw him at school on Monday completely okay Love was the endless list of girls I saw in rose colored glasses But never went after Love was when I came out to my mother and all she said was “I know” Love was when I chopped my hair short and said, “Damn, I look good” Into the mirror for the first time in years Love was when my friend held my hand as I came out to everyone I once found love in a girl I thought was sweet But behind her candy shaped eyes was poison I let her seep into me and as I slunk away she begged for me to stay To be her crutch I did not find love again for a while Love was in the friend who said it’s okay when I cried over her Love was in my mother who held me together when I thought I’d fall apart Love did not come back the way I thought it would Love was a girl with shiny eyes and hidden scars She could not find herself in the midst of her own mind This Love just became Friend I do not know what Love will look like next But I will smile when I see her And try not to cry when she leaves once more

52 Love is Natural by Shyla Oommen age 17 pieces of magazine, rubber cement glue

53 Tick. Tock. by Helen Liu age 14

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. I check the screen in front of me. Thirty minutes. Yes. thirty minutes before landing. I am so anxious to see my parents. I grip onto my phone. I try to focus on the screen but it is impossible. Thirty minutes is going as slow as a snail. Screech. The plane lands. I stand up swift- ly, causing my legs to feel like Jell-O, but I fight through and grab my bag. I wait in line until the door opens. I start to walk slowly after five minutes of waiting on the plane. I break free after I hop off the plane. I run and run. I go through the security check. I rush to the exit. I can feel people’s eyes on me, probably thinking “What is wrong with this girl,” but it doesn’t bother me. I guarantee you this is the fastest I have ever run in my life. I am running my heart out. I stop at the exit of the airport. I am catching my breath. I see my mom there holding a cup of coffee. Tears. Once that first tear starts falling, the rest follow in an unbroken stream. Oh my, I’m home.

Morning Flowers by Jackson Fox age 14 54 Lost Beauty by Christina Law age 13

A dew forms on the satin surface Of a blood red rose The flower steadily unfurls its petals To capture multiplying sun rays However It is drowned in water And set ablaze by persistent fire The flower soon starts to wither And exposes its vulgar thorns What was once hidden by the petals Lay bare now Hostile An echo of its former beauty

Mother’s Day Present by Katie Rhoades age 16 graphite pencil

55 Erysichthon of Wisconsin Dominick Figliola age 12

In a backwater village in Wisconsin, there lived a middle-aged man who worked at the local diner. His hand had been mangled, bruised, and burned by years of cooking. His face was tired and worn, making him look decades older. His house was filled with cookbooks passed down in his family from generation to generation. Most of the books were stuffed with scraps of paper, covered in greasy and discolored fingerprints, that gave tips and tricks about the recipes printed in the ancient books. He got up every morning with the same routine: get up, shower, put on his uniform. Drink some of his own blood. The usual. As he was heading off to work, he noticed that some of his hair was falling loose from his hat, so he ate it. At work the despicable creature made breakfast for many familiar faces “Hey Jim,” said one of the customers. Jim simply nodded. They sat down. Jim went back to cooking. At the end of the day one of the employees said, “Jeez, Jim, you’re pale as a ghost.” Jim simply shrugged it off. Jim left work early that day overcome by insatiable hunger. During that night he prepared dinner and while slicing vegetables he sliced through the tissue of his finger. He put in the freezer and went on with the dinner, not noticing the blood dripping everywhere. The dinner was delicious. The red gravy really complimented the raw steak. The wine had a strong copper taste, though. He decided to take the finger to the doctor in the morning. In the middle of the night he woke in a stupor and shambled to the fridge with insatiable hunger. He opened the freezer. Jim looked at the finger. Without thinking, Jim ripped the bag out and gobbled the finger. As the taste hit Jim’s mouth, it was like tongues of flavor radiating like fire. As the taste cleared his throat, he said, “I must have, yes, much more.” He scrambled through his kitchen, found the largest knife, and sliced his hand off. Jim felt no pain. He shoved the hand into his throat, the bile and blood dripping down his throat. He whispered to himself, “Not good, Jim. Needs more… heart.”

56 Eager by Mackenzie Ruiz age 16 graphite pencil 57 A Billion Stars by Gianni Logan age 12

Miles Starblazer gazed up, up, up into the star-speckled sky. Like most Starainiens his age, they fascinated him. Hundreds of hundreds of beautiful twinkling lights danced in the night. It saddened Miles to think that there had once been thousands and thousands of them. You see, hundreds of years ago, while the destructive race of humankind thrived on the surface, a different race was forming underground. The Starainiens were beautifully creative life forms. For years they worked to survive in the harsh conditions of the Earth’s core. Finally, when it seemed like the Starainiens would not survive another week, one brave young Starainien named Orion Starblazer (Miles’s great, great, great, great, and about a hundred more greats, grandfather) rose to defend the Starainiens. He helped them all get up to the surface. Some stayed behind to plan war against the humans and are still there to this day. Most of them helped Orion to build a spaceship and for many years the Starainiens traveled the galaxy searching for an inhabitable planet to call their own. After many eons, they found planet Proxima. Proxima was the most beautiful planet the Starainiens had ever seen. It was always nighttime there, and it had a clear view of hundreds of stars, which the Starainiens had discovered and grown to love on their adventure. They loved it so much that Orion had decided to make it their home and the people of the Starainien race had been there ever since. But over the years, the stars had begun to dim and finally, one by one, they disappeared. No one could figure out why. “Miles, dinner!” shouted Pistol Starblazer, Miles’s mother. Miles looked one last time at the stars then slowly slid down the trunk of the carinae tree that he had been sitting on and ran all the way home. “Oh, my!” said Pistol when Miles walked into the room. “First, clean yourself up dear, you’re filthy. Then I’ve got some bad news from the Galactech Guard.” Miles looked at himself. His white trousers were now a dirty brownish-gray, his blue star speckled vest had stains of dirt here and there, and his white sleeves were the same color as his trousers. There was a dark smudge on one of his pale cheeks, and his usually straight shaggy black hair was ruffled with a twig hanging out of it. Miles laughed. “I guess I battered myself up more than I thought when I ran through the woods and fell into that rosenberry bush” he said, running upstairs. “Miles Orbit Starblazer, no running in the house!” shouted Astrid, Miles’s older sister. “You’re not the boss of me!” he shouted back, closing the door to the bathroom behind him. “Miles, hurry up, I gotta pee!” squealed Galex Starblazer, Miles’s younger brother. “First of all, don’t say ‘gotta’ Galex” shouted Miles. “And second of all I just got in here! Wait your turn!” “Hurry, Miles!” shouted Galex. “Stop yelling!” shouted Pistol from downstairs. “Honey, have you seen Celestial’s pacifier? I can’t find it anywhere!” shouted Cosmic Starblazer, Miles’s father. “WAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!” screamed Celestial Starblazer, the youngest of Miles’s siblings. When everyone had gotten situated and calm again, they all sat down and ate while Pistol told them about the news. “It’s a mess,” she said. “The Galactech Guard has just informed us that the Gliese Globe has been stolen!”

58 Miles could not believe what he had just heard. He very nearly choked over his saucer meatball he was eating. Okay, let’s rephrase that: he did choke on the meatball! “You good, sport?” asked Cosmic worriedly. Miles could only shake his head. No wonder the stars had been disappearing. The Gliese Globe was the most priceless artifact in the entire galaxy. It kept the stars happy and bright, and made them strong enough to cling to the sky and continue their beautiful dance. Lately though, the globe had been growing dim. Miles realized that the real globe must have been switched with a fake one! That was why the stars were having such a hard time. If they didn't get the globe back soon, the whole sky would be plunged into darkness! Miles secretly pulled a sky phone out of his pocket. He flipped it open and quickly dialed. “Star Flint calling home base,’’ he whispered after the third ring. “To the museum.” A few minutes later, Miles stood in front of Nebula Museum with his best friends, Starlight Evergleam, Sunset Shiny Day, Lupin Milky Way, Aquila Morning, and Lynx Open Sky. Sunset said,” Where do you think the globe is?” “Not -” Miles never finished his sentence because at that very moment, he felt something. As if in a trance, he went the direction that the feeling was coming from. The feeling took him and his friends into a dark alley, where in a trash can, hidden by garbage sat the Gliese Globe! Miles and his friends stared in astonishment. No one said a word. Boiling hot anger burned in Miles’s chest. Such a beautiful and priceless object did not deserve to be here covered in filthy trash! It was unthinkable. Suddenly someone said, “Well, well, well. What do we have here?” Aquila squealed with fright. Lupin turned and said, “Oh, clasnick.” Miles turned. Behind them had to be the biggest Starainien he had ever seen. This guy’s muscles had muscles! Miles’s chest was on fire. He felt like he was going to explode! “That globe is mine!” the man shouted. Miles advanced on the man without even knowing what he was doing. All he knew was that the pain in his chest must be satisfied. His eyes flashed a brilliant blue. He raised his hand. His palm glowed, and without knowing it, a word slipped through his lips. “Coldish!” he shouted. A bright beam of blue light shot out of his hand like an arrow! It hit the man hard and sent him flying into the road where he lay unconscious. Miles looked at his glowing palm. Star Power! Star Power was the energy of the entire galaxy that settled into a ball and placed itself in a child at birth. It gets passed down through generations, though it usually skips one. If it does, it is immediately placed in the first or middle child, depending on how many kids there are in the family. Miles had been waiting forever for his power to develop! Finally! Miles’s thoughts were interrupted by sirens. In all the commotion, Starlight had secretly called the police. Now they were shoving the man into a car. “I swear I had nothing to do with this!” he said. “It was those kids!” “Yeah, yeah, tell it to the judge.” the officer said. The globe was taken back to the museum and the stars began to return. But there were still stars missing. Miles knew that he had to regain the globe’s lost power. As Miles looked up at the stars, he wondered where would they take him next? “How many stars do you think there are in the sky?” asked Lupin. And as his friends gathered around him, Miles Starblazer said, “More than a billion, Lupin. More than a billion stars.”

The End

59 Dusk at the Whale Road by Rae Fu age 15 oil painting

60 Life is an Ocean by Aishani Kashyap age 12

Hazel was in her room, the only place she loved. She thought of it as a cozy, free-for-all place. Her room was full of blue things that were inspired by the ocean, such as her bedazzled lamp and her bed which was she had painted blue. She had painted her bed blue that past summer all by herself. Freedom, just how she liked it. She believed that a wave of the ocean can be an extremely important thing. It’s life. Life is an ocean. To Hazel, it would also be gentle but sometimes rough. It could also be a dangerous thing if not careful. Sometimes, the ocean will throw unwanted things towards Hazel like school projects or bullies. Well, that’s what she believed. “Hazel!” her mother cried out. “It’s time for school.” Hazel stood and sadly let her soft, blue blanket fall to the ground. She replied, “I don’t want to go.” Hazel never wanted to go to school because she always felt alone there. Hazel knew that if her mother found out, the consequences wouldn’t be very satisfying. Her mother would be as angry as a predator that just had its prey snatched by another. She reluctantly went to school and noticed a group of girls giggling over nothing. They were the popular-type girls, and everybody wanted to be a part of their friend group. They all had several accessories that were hot pink. Little tiny delicate flowers covering their hair. Knee-high boots with a two inch heel. I wish I was one of them. They look so pretty. Why is my life like this? It’s so boring with nothing to do. I have no friends to hang out with after school. Maybe if I walked over to them, I could just join in. They might just willingly include me. Thinking this, Hazel walked over, but all of a sudden came to an abrupt stop. Her face was wet with tears. She always tried to include herself in conversations, but sadly it never worked. Hazel then slowly steered away from them and walked down the hallway full of colorful posters and kids. The school was a reef, and the kids were the fish, swimming to and fro. Hazel headed towards her science class. All the students had behaved nicely in science class before, so they could pick seats. Hazel, like always, sat in the corner seat in the back row. She always sat alone or next to a complete stranger. The same thing happened in the next few classes. Then, it was last block, math class. In math class, they always had free seats. Again, she sat down in the back row in the corner. To her surprise, a girl sat next to her when there was an open seat just a few steps away. Hazel always noticed her, but she never noticed Hazel. The girl’s hair was as curly as prepackaged ramen noodles and her clothes as beautiful as a summer sunset. Oh, my gosh, it’s Pearl. Okay Hazel, just play it cool. If you don’t, you might just blow your only chance. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Wait a minute. Is she about to say something? I can’t believe this. “Hi. My name is Pearl,” said Pearl, eagerly. “Hi,” replied Hazel. “What’s your name?” asked Pearl. Wow. Just wow. Did she just ask me my name? Keep it going, Hazel. Keep swimming down this new current. “Hazel!” exclaimed Hazel. The rest of class went fine for Hazel. She paid attention for the first time in forever. She made a new friend named Pearl. She was finally able to surf the ocean’s wave peacefully.

61 Handsome Ebony by Hannah Ye age 15

They were flecks of light twinkling in the night Mirroring the eyes of a perched cat Its black silhouette echoed the waterfall of light Frosty, white tiles slid under my fingertips And handsome ebony keys dotted the length of an elegant frame Slowly and steadily the strings sang along to an invisible melody Their melodious voice echoed sweetly in the night air Leaving a trail of dancing stars behind to illuminate the sky The chimes tempted me to leave the comfort of my bed I could not fathom how it intrigues me so The melancholy melody of the handsome ebony keys

Fingers Flowing by Arielle Flaherty age 13

My rounded fingers are ready. Slurs, double stops, pizzicato, trills and vibrato flow from the violin; a stream after a heavy rainfall. Dynamics playing with the ear, changes in tempo and volume. I am not just consuming but creating, displaying thoughts and ideas through the notes I play. Express- ing beliefs through a parade of vibrant colors. There are many worlds to be discovered, many moods can be conveyed. Different genres, like pop and classical, pour from my violin. Sometimes it is hard to practice the same parts over and over again, like an assembly line working away. My fin- gers feel ready to drop, ready to give in but I press on to hear the rewarding sound. Because every second I spend working and practicing contributes to an experience filled with emotion and feel- ing for the audience and myself. I am able to share however I am feeling, whether it be anger, ela- tion, or frustration. My violin is not only a tool, but a gift that I am able to create with.

62 Aphelion by Cassandra Fantini age 16

I remember days when you were the sun; Winter melted, we watched the flowers bloom. I hadn’t quite realized what had begun When suddenly your smile lit up the room.

I didn’t try to fight feeling this way; I knew it would all be over by June, So I let the sight of you make my day And waited all day for the afternoon.

If that’s all true then this is aphelion; You don’t notice; we’ve never been so far. My heart beats not for you, but even then I must admit I still think you’re a star.

A daydream that was written by my heart, I knew this fantasy must fall apart.

Heliocentric Heart by Cassandra Fantini age 16

You’re really going to walk in here and light up my whole afternoon? You’re practically the sun, You don’t even have to try And I’m sure that you don’t I know I’m not the only one who sees it (Although I wish I was) I don’t know why my heart revolves around you I just want to bask in your light but it’s not like you’d notice because You’re the sunset; Incredible but ephemeral You’ll only disappear, Fading out of my life And finding somewhere nicer to shine Leaving me staring sullenly at the night sky Because from where I’m standing, none of the other stars shine as bright as you.

63 Tear of My Eye by Mackenzie Ruiz age 16 soft charcoal

64 The Unseen by Grace Bentley age 16

The funny thing about the unseen is the irony behind it:

No one sees what’s wrong. No one can grasp that it is there, but visually not. A young man, fresh sixteen, hiding his autism from the world. It is unseen. A girl, diagnosed with depression, hiding wild fits of crying and screaming behind closed doors with makeup and forced smiles. It is unseen. A friend of a friend, suffering with chronic pain, hiding it so they will stop asking “are you alright?” It is unseen.

Seeing it is difficult without the right eyes, The right sense, The time or the patience Or even the prior experience. It is a war zone in the mental and physical department, The corners of your head where no one dare go, The clenching in the back of your throat that prevents you from speaking, The halt in your step when you could walk into open arms and let it all free Or the barrier in your mind that says no. Absolutely not.

When you are stuck in that place, there is no escape. You can either be a victim and show it, Or a victor and try to move on.

But until the day comes when it ceases to exist, It will remain unseen.

65 Freedom @ Last by Dana Townsend age 19 acrylic & water on canvas

66 The Red One by James Stokes age 17

Red. Red Red Red. The color of love, or the color of anger. Paint it black? No, paint it red. Shining, dripping, paint it on. Changing color as it dries. Harden, crusty. Scratch it off. Crusty crusty, let it fall to the floor. Is this paint? Why is there paint on my arms? Scratch scratch goes the rat, my only friend. Scratch scratch goes I, the sinner who only sees red. Scratch scratch at the dead skin till I am finally fed.

Yellow, Yellow Yellow Yellow. Hello friend, welcome as well. The color of sun yet it always burns. Yellow is his shirt, burnt burnt. Yellow and red drip from your head. Yellow like the flies, yellow and dead. Rip at the yellow, shred the yellow. Consume yellow until I am fed. Do not move, Yellow, for you are dead.

White the color of clean. The injection of saline. Sanitary, sanity, insincerity. Clean indeed yet I must feed. Color the White, make it anew. Scarlet liquid, dye of death. A wave, a wash, drowning in new color. Drip drip, no more White, but I am fed.

Green, Green is the past. I remember the grass. I remember the trees. Green Green, outrid and obscene. Moss or mold, between my feet. Squish squish, grow grow. It grows, she grows, they grow, yet I do not. Green of life, yet I only see Green of night. The night envelops, and we can no longer see. The Green disappears, and all I have is the dark. I see nothing, yet I taste. I taste, and I feed.

67 Maggie by Amber Barlow age 16

68 My Happy Place by Alex Brennan age 13

The wind is burning my face. A fire in this world of cold. My skis float on top of the cloud of snow. The white powder piled below me is easily three feet deep. I barrel down the hill at supersonic speeds; one false move and I might crash. I am like a skipping stone on water. If I slow down, I will sink. I take my focus off the trail and dare a quick glance up the hill. I make out the shapes of the rest of my family through the heavy snow that is falling. My skis wobble and lose their edge as if trying to tell me to stay focused. I escape into the forest. I weave in and out of trees faster than a sewing machine. It feels like someone has given me an adrenaline shot. I am like a kid that’s playing a boss level in a video game: alert and focused. An asteroid can hit the earth and my confidence won’t falter in the least. I am Einstein doing first-grade math. My whole family loves this place just as much as me. But this is my happy place and nothing will ever change that.

The Fastest Game On Two Feet by Jake Bryson age 13

Smack! Whack! Metal hitting the frame of a kid that is rapidly moving is not something most kids enjoy. Nevertheless, bashing people until they retreat is something that is always enjoyable for me. Lacrosse is a game that can become warlike, fast, dangerous, and mentally tough. Not being the tallest or the strongest on the field is usually a downside in other sports but in lacrosse it’s often a benefit. The thing about lacrosse is the basics are some of the hardest things to perfect. Catching was my struggle and with the struggle came anger, fury and rage. Also felt my minutes on the field slipping out of my reach. The thing that separates lacrosse from other sports is you don’t have to be the tallest or the strongest -- all you need is a stick.

69 Green With Envy by Paige O’Brian age 13

Envy is a thunder storm waking me at night Urging me to cause them pain just out of spite Envy is like a vine wrapped around your heart even causing the best of friends to eventually part Soon it turns to tears streaming like a flooding river Realizing what has happened my whole body shivers Envy is like fire ready to ignite Envy is an emotion inside of me burning bright

City View by Dorcas Olatunji age 16

70 Untitled by Rohit Dharmadhikari age 18

Green is the most beautiful thing in the world. When I see Green it makes me so happy, Green is happiness, green is money, green is Boston. The Boston Celtics are the reason why I love the color of green,

Being born in Boston has impacted my life so much, Boston Celtics is the definition of happiness for me. Driving to Boston to watch a Celtics game is the highlight of my Thanksgiving weekend. Sitting down and seeing almost everyone wearing a green shirt

Rooting for the Boston Celtics make me feel like I am at home. Going to playoff games for the Celtics, seeing the players I can’t imagine something that can be better than seeing people and players Wearing green to show the Celtic Pride.

Watching Lucky the Leprechaun launching off a trampoline and doing flips is a once in a lifetime moment. Seeing the Green Leaf clover or seeing Lucky wearing all green is the most amazing thing. Walking in Boston, one can see that majority of the people are wearing green to represent Celtic

When I think of Green, I think about how hard I worked to get the color green Spending money which you worked hard for is the best thing in the world. Money cannot buy you happiness, but it can buy you things never imagine. When I think of Green, I think of nature dancing majestically with the wind.

Driving down a country road around you are trees and grass and open fields, That’s the most satisfying thing in the world. Driving for a long distance on a country road is the dream Sitting down on a bed of grass watching the sunset is a lifetime goal

When I think of Green, I think of Christmas. Sitting down sipping a cup of hot chocolate with your family is the most satisfying thing Green is the best thing in the world.

71 The Boat by Larissa Guilford age 17

This boat upon the salty sea, With its berth so wide, Is just but ghostly hell to me, Where regrets do lie.

A spirit came to me one night, As I gazed up high. Told me secrets with no light; I feared I may die.

The saline sea I gazed upon, Water in my eye, ‘Til from heaven did it dawn: I had no need to cry.

The stars reflect the sea so dark, Water rough and high. One look this world before I part Into the big night sky.

72 The Space Between by Samm Marvin age 13

73

Imprisoned by Christina Law age 13

Golden glints of sunlight Threads the bars of a flaxen sanctuary Inside holds an innocent bird The bird hops The bird sings The bird flutters its wings Yet the bird is forever destined to be Encaged in its gilded prison

Doubt by Phoenix Grimm age 19

Passed by mouth it enters my body as undetected as a breath and lashes out at my mind unworthy, it whispers unholy, it crones abhorrent, it screams its corrosion sly and thorough I become aware but it is too late for the abyss has laid claim to me

74 Flooded Field by Heather Sharp age 15 75 The Flower Boy by Adonte Dunn age 16

Flower Boy, Flower Boy, of any color sort. Blossoming alarmed, free like a Holiday resort. Your eyes are expressive, Your heart is wrenching. Without the notice of social injustice, Without the thought of judgement at tea. Even if it invalidates family and friends, it shouldn’t invalidate you and me. The affection of woman and man should not imply a utopia, The affection of man and man should illustrate a picture of insouciance, Love is love, not a dictator city. The smell of sweet citrus to us, is a sickening acidulated milk to them, They have what our fruity eyes can’t imagine. A carbon copy of a linear army, Main goal is to take out the county of flamboyance. They can take your job effortlessly, as well as your dignity. Can take your sanguine personality, and flip it into elegiac. Your exuberant dynamic mood into inflammatory rage. Decades of hiding, like a hopeless bird in a cage. To conquer the hate, to conquer the conciliator, Flower Boy, Flower Boy, must rise like the morning Sun, Give the light to people’s eyes, so they can comprehend us. So they can endow in our lifestyle, taste the sweet smell our citrus, Flower Boy must rise from the negativity, uplift the uneducated, March with your syndicates and fight the violence, No weapons, no hate, with love, with infirmity. Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transexual, rise above them. We are you. You are me.

76 Springtime by Amber Barlow age 16

77 Summer School by Stephanie Boys age 12

You’re sitting in class and your teacher is talking about figurative language. “Why do we need this?” you say aloud.

You look around the classroom, grimy as if it had just ran the mud run. This was the classroom for the troublemakers, the bullies. You wish you weren’t here. You wish you were in your room. You wish you were spending your summer vacation like everyone else! You were sent here because you were not paying attention in class, but you called it “creating counterfeit sunsets in my head because class is too easy.” “

Come to think of it, that’s how I go into this mess,” you mumble.

Suddenly, you hear the slap of a ruler on your desk. “What did you say, Natalie? Would you like to share it with the class?” says Mrs. Nelson, the teacher in charge of summer school this year.

Your face starts to get hot. “N-no, Mrs. Nelson,” you stammer.

“Please pay attention more, Natalie,” she says, as she walks briskly to the front of the classroom.

When she walks away, you mumble, “I thought school was supposed to be fun.” Then you sigh, and say “At least Sam isn’t here…”

Now you're sitting on a grass-covered hill. You wonder where you are, how you got here… then you see it. The radiant sun, dominating the beauty of the valley below. Then you see a small figure running up the hill shouting your name! “Natalie! Natalie!” Uncertainty runs through your veins.

“Sam?!?! What are you-” Then anger stops you in your tracks. Time slows down as you remember you said you never wanted to see her again.

“What happened?” Sam asks as she skids to a stop. “You look like a fugitive, all grimy, and scared, as if I’m a cop!” She laughs, then stops as she realizes that you are trying to hold back tears. “C’mon, what’s wrong? We had the potential to be siblings - we were that close! But why… why did you pretend I didn’t exist?”

This makes your blood boil. “How about this? Who was the one who moved from the city to a ‘better’ place? Who came back with a new best friend, and pretended I didn’t exist?”

“But then when Susana moved back to the country, who was the one who had one friend, but she wouldn’t talk to me?” There was an awkward pause, then a few seconds later, “I’m sorry… I just want to be friends again…”

Again, there’s the slap of a ruler on a desk. “Natalie. You were daydreaming again.”

78 An August Fountain by Jackson Fox age 14

79 The Unwanted Gift of Sympathy by Aarti Itikirala age 16

The day upon which pity falls Will be the day I come to an end; The day upon which pity falls Will be the day the dark descends.

The day when I look into eyes That hold sympathy in place of respect; The day I strive for love and lies And come away with loneliness.

The day I am regarded by my peers With a compassion wise beyond their years, But soured by a childishness That cannot abate their fears.

The day upon which pity falls Will bring a never-ending rain; A flood that shall sweep over all I know And leave no part unchanged.

The day upon which pity falls Will be the day the truth is seen; But not the glorious flower of Righteousness But a bitter and withered seed.

The day upon which pity falls Will be the day that comes to all; When the pride I wear as armour Will be stripped to lay bare my soul.

The day upon which pity falls Will be the day the world shares my rues; But it is a day that will surely come And I am sure it will come for you.

80 Beauty in the Rain by Lauren McAfee age 13

81 Dead Men by Ben Murphy age 17

Faceless, pale, grim, the dead men come knocking Why would you make a deal with the devil? They know, the dead men have begun stalking, Now they’ve come for you, one, two, no, several. Poor unfortunate soul, you had it all, Money, fame, it was all flowing constant. You were finally free from your boss’s thrall, It’s too bad you didn’t read the fine print.

“Did you think we would forget what you owe?” Too bad for you, ghosts have long memories. Now that it’s your time, you don’t want to go, A lethal sickness with no remedy. Afraid, cold, ill, then midnight strikes the clock. Blood running cold when you hear...knock, knock, knock.

The Current by Ryan Hustedt age 13

Log falls, tree splashes. Stream is blocked. But the current carries me Where I want to go. Past the roadblock, Log lifts, stream keeps going. Over rapids, through the caves It gets darker and faster. Troubles can’t stop me. Because the current carries me Where I want to go.

82 Bye by Sarah Metcalf age 17

You were here and yet you left Without anyone by my side You ran away and so I stressed What were you trying to hide As you walked away from me I thought of all our memories No going back was guaranteed The time we had spent was centuries But you had been my only home And now I have nowhere to go I was now truly all alone Now my heart must re-grow Now hear I sit wanting to cry Why did you have to say goodbye?

Emotions by Sydney Scadden-Lorentz age 13

Why do I feel this way Why did things change so quickly Why my friend, once a friend, Now an urge Most urges go in a day or so But this one lingered, and corrupted my mind Like a dog outside a door Scratching and whining Testing my patience Waiting for me to give it attention once more I feed it, wanting it to go away But it always comes back Hungrier A vicious cycle Ultimately ending in acceptance The dog accepting that I won’t feed it Or me accepting how I feel Why

83 The Truth Untold by Arushi Sharda age 14

She vanished without a trace Within the flow of time and people Her identity, she wanted to erase Her soul swept into a black hole No one has ever measured Not even time What the heart can hold Forever, the sun doesn’t shine In the truth untold She always thought She could unbreak every fracture in her heart In a lie, she was caught Nothing in this world could tear that love apart She loved him Sometimes, he loved her The sun was left dim He said he would be back for sure Cruelty does exist Pretending to care Hidden within the mist Breaking her heart, he would dare She says nothing at all She stares skywards Watching the stars as they fall Her heart broken into million shards Time passes by Who knows what the heart can hold Nobody does She fell in love; that’s the truth untold

84 Breeze Off the Lake by Amber Barlow age 16

85 Meghan’s Multiplicity by Meghan Thomas age 14

86 The Field Trip A short novella by Mikayla Dayton Marissa Hawtof Lia Lloyd-Wood Nikki Loomis and Samantha Oliver

Chapter 1: Bryan’s Story by Mikayla Dayton age 14

I guess I kind of always had a crush on Reese. I loved her curly hair. I loved her smile. I just loved everything about her. I wanted to ask her to go to the haunted house. Together. But, my best friend since I was 5, Alyssa, developed a crush on me...I think. That complicated things. She’s very sensitive and I knew that if I dated Reese, she would be heartbroken and our friendship would be ruined. I couldn’t let that happen. And I didn’t even know if Reese liked me back. Like with Alyssa, we had been friends for a long time and I didn’t want to ruin our friendship. But, we could have something special and not even know it. While I was deep in thought one night, Alyssa texted me:

Alyssa: Hey.

Me: Hey

Alyssa: Are you going to the haunted house? :-)

I didn’t know how to respond. I wanted to go with Reese. But, I’m sure she wanted me to go with her. Together. Maybe it was best if I told a little fib. Alyssa wouldn’t be that mad, would she?

Me: No

Alyssa: Oh. Neither was I, but Megan begged me to so...

Like I said before, Alyssa and I have been best friends for forever. Does she not know that I can tell when she’s lying? And, Megan (our other best friend) never “begs” anything of anyone. It was obvious that she wanted to go with me. I felt bad, but I couldn’t sacrifice my own happiness because Alyssa wanted something more than our friendship. Our wonderful friendship.

When I was over at Reese’s house, playing video games, I decided to talk to her about the field trip.

87

“Reese… Are you going to the Haunted House?”

“No, why would I?” she responded.

I paused my game and looked at her.

“I want to prank Alyssa. It will be fun. We could be like a fake couple.” I said with a nervous grin.

Little did she know that I really did like her. She didn’t seem very interested but I kept mentioning it throughout the day.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be fine”

I finally got her to agree. She said that she’d meet me on the bus.

I decided to get there extra early to save us the best spot on the bus; the second to last row of seats.

The next evening, I arrived at 6:00p.m. To my surprise, there were already people on the bus. I felt my phone buzz:

Reese: We’re running a little late. Save me a seat?

Me: Sure

About ten minutes later, I saw a familiar white Toyota enter the school parking lot. It was Alyssa’s mom’s. Even though she was my best friend, I really didn’t want to see her. She walked onto the bus and to the third to last seat.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” she said.

“Changed my mind.”

I turned my head to look out the window. I could already tell that this was not going to end well.

Another ten minutes passed, but it felt like ten years. A mint green Volkswagen Bug pulled in and Reese walked onto the bus and sat next to me on the second to last seat. I could feel Alyssa glaring at her. Oh my. She is going to be so mad when she finds out that this is a prank. I couldn’t wait to see her reaction. Alyssa stood up and turned to me:

“How dare you. You tell me that you aren’t coming, just to decide that you are going with another girl.”

She looked as red as a tomato. How could I calm her down?

The bus driver told her to be quiet and she turned back around and sat in her seat. I felt even worse than I did before. Reese was buried in her phone with earphones on, so she didn’t even seem to have heard the encounter.

88 I was trying to think of what to say to Alyssa. Reese looked over at me with her beautiful blue eyes. It felt like she was talking to me without saying anything at all.

We began talking and laughing but all I could think about were her eyes. I could’ve sworn that she was inching closer to me. I leaned in. And kissed her. When I opened my eyes, Reese looked as if she had just been punched in the gut.

“Did I do something?” I said.

“No…” she said as she looked back down at her phone.

We arrived at the haunted house soon after that. Reese practically ran off the bus. Again, I could see Alyssa glaring at her, but this time, she was glaring at me too. I glanced at Megan and she seemed like she knew what was going on; her best friends were fighting.

After we all got off the bus, I went to go find Reese, but, she was nowhere to be found.

I found a group of my friends, so we went into the haunted house.

Somewhere in the haunted house, I found Megan. She called me a “nincompoop,” whatever that is. I looked at her with a concerned face. She apologized to me and I knew something was wrong. Megan never called anyone names. She told me that Alyssa was really upset. I told her that it was just a prank. I also told her that I liked Reese. She told me that Alyssa probably wouldn’t talk to me again. I decided that in order to keep both Alyssa and Reese, I had to agree to date Alyssa. I would tell Reese that the “prank” is called off and tell Alyssa the “good news”. Megan left and went back to Alyssa

Before we filed onto the bus, I went to Alyssa. She smiled at me. What? Megan told her. She took my hand and we walked onto the bus. Alyssa was happy; that made me happy. Reese seemed sad; that made me sad. Maybe one day Reese and I would actually be together.

If only…

Chapter 2: Alyssa’s Story by Mikayla Dayton age 14

I was waiting all week to find the right way to ask him to the haunted house field trip. Sure, we all went as a grade, but it was obvious at these types of events who went together. Bryan was my crush since fifth grade and I wanted so desperately for him to ask me, but I knew that if I wanted something, I would have to go get it. However, I had to tread lightly. I never told him that I liked him. We went to the same elementary school, so we have been really close since kindergarten. I

89 wanted this to work out, but our friendship was on the line. If something was to happen… It wouldn’t. No. This will work. We will be the cutest couple. After two days of deliberation, I decided that the best way to ask him was casually, over text.

Hey.

Hey

Are you going to the haunted house? :-)

No

Oh. Neither was I, but Megan begged me to so...

I felt kind of upset, but I didn’t want to make him go. Not if he didn’t want to. I wanted him to go with me because he wanted to. I wanted him to want me. On the bus, who should I see, but Bryan, sitting by himself in the second to last row of seats.

“I thought you weren’t coming.”

“Changed my mind.”

Butterflies began to flutter in my stomach. Did he come for me? I wondered. I sat in the seat in front of him, so that if he decided that there was something that he wanted to tell me, I would be available. Before the bus left the school, a girl sat next to him. I had never seen her before. Did she even go to our school? She was shorter than me, with brown, curly hair. Bryan and she were laughing and smiling. Was he going to the haunted house with her? My hope quickly turned to rage as he leaned in to kiss her. What? I wanted to throw up. I could feel myself boiling. I was about to explode.

“How dare you. You tell me that you aren’t coming, just to decide that you are going with another girl.”

I was livid. I was about to say something that I would regret.

A familiar voice began, “Keep it down back there.” My bus driver looked at me through the bus mirror.

I turned back around and faced front. I slowly calmed myself and decided to read my book: Thirteen Reason Why. I know that I could think of thirteen reasons why I was upset with Bryan.

1. He lied to me. 2. He betrayed me. 3. He was with ANOTHER GIRL. 4. HE WAS ABOUT TO KISS HER. 5. He knew I liked him and he didn’t even have the decency to tell me that he didn’t feel the same way. 6. He made me feel jealous, on purpose. 7. He completely disregarded my feelings. 8. He destroyed our friendship; our wonderful friendship.

90 9. Nothing will ever be the same... 10. He is still sitting with her. 11. Not with me. 12. I’m all alone. Thinking about him. While he thinks about her. 13. HE MESSED UP EVERYTHING!!

We finally arrived at the haunted house after what felt like an eternity. That girl, whatever her name was, tried to file out of the bus before me. What the heck? Her seat is behind me. How rude. I definitely do not like this girl. I glared at Bryan and walked off the bus. Megan exited the bus before me, so I when I got off, I went to her and told her how I’d texted him the night before and asked him and how he said no.

Being the rational person that she is, she told me that maybe I was overreacting. Maybe I was just making a big deal out of nothing. Maybe he just made a new friend. Maybe he didn’t try to kiss her. I thought about it for a few minutes.

We’ve known each other for nine years. Of that time, did he ever lead me to believe that he would actually betray me? Of course not. Right? He really looked like he was going to kiss her though.

“Maybe he was just reaching for his backpack or something,” Megan pointed out.

I asked her to talk to him for me. She always had a way with words; a way to make people open up about their problems. I hoped that in an hour, Megan would come tell me that it was all a huge misunderstanding. Was that too much to hope for?

Megan wandered off to where Bryan was standing. I decided to meet up with some of my other friends while Megan did her thing. My hopes of reviving our friendship skyrocketed. My hopes of a romantic relationship with Bryan dropped like rock. Why was everything always so complicated??

I waited for Megan to come back before I went into the haunted house; I would never go in alone. She came back and said that she was “working on it”.

I ran out of the haunted house being chased by a clown with a chainsaw. I lost Megan somewhere in the haunted house. I was so scared, I almost forgot about my boy troubles; almost. I decided that I would go find that girl, the one who sat next to Bryan on the bus. I decided that I would give her a piece of my mind. I went to her and slapped her.

“Stay away. He’s mine!”

Where did that come from? I was being a real jerk. I walked away before I could do more damage.

Megan came out with a satisfied smile on her face. She had not been chased by clowns with chainsaws, like I had. In fact, she looked as if she had just stepped out of a rainbow, rather than a haunted house.

“I ran into Bryan,” she said. “He was going to say yes to you. He likes you too. It was all a prank but I don’t know if this is actually what you want. I want you to stop fighting with each other and I don’t want your friendship to be ruined by this.”

I could hardly hear what Megan was saying, due to the loud band music and the beating of my

91 heart. Did Bryan really want me? Wow. That was a lot of drama, but at least I achieved my goal. Bryan was going to be mine; finally.

The bus ride home was magical. I sat next to Bryan and we held hands. They fit perfectly, like it was meant to be. What a lovely field trip.

Chapter 3: Megan’s Story by Samantha Oliver age 14

There’s nothing quite like realizing that the two people you care most about in the world are fighting like hyenas.

Of course, there’s nothing quite like personifying your best friends as animals, but that’s a different. That day, school was a zoo as usual, different species fighting for dominance, clawing and howling and crying. The only way I made sense of it was by implementing rules. First and foremost was rule number one: do not get involved in other people’s dramas. It will drag you down and lead to nothing but heartache. Stay undefined. Stay on your own side, and there is no risk of getting hurt.

Today I broke that rule. Bryan and Alyssa were fighting, and something inside me went pop and snapped. The exact sound of a muscle tearing, or the jolt of a heartbeat. I didn’t want it to happen to them, what happened to so many others, I didn’t want to happen to them. I wanted them to be okay.

But on the other hand, I was Alyssa’s best friend. That loyalty had to mean something.

So I snapped and told Brian that he was a no good nincompoop.

He looked at me as if I had just electrocuted him. This was completely out of my character. Standing there looking at him, I was reminded of all the reasons that he was my friend. He might have made a mistake, but he didn’t need me yelling at him. I wholeheartedly apologized to him.

‘Twas the day of the haunted house and Alyssa was flipping out as we sat together on the bus. She looked ready to kill, or at least maim. Apparently she had seen (or thought she had seen) Bryan kissing Reese. I made a mental note to have a private talk with Bryan on being more sensitive towards girls who were in love with him. I told her to relax, and not to worry too much about it. I vowed that I would get to the bottom of it. Alyssa grumbled and begrudgingly opened a book. I closed my eyes and slept. But only for a moment. Alyssa had started furiously typing into her phone, eyes narrowed. I sighed.

I bumped into Kit, Reese’s best friend, as I stepped off the bus and Alyssa stormed off to give Reese a piece of her mind. The look on my face must have said it all. “People are crazy,” she said.

“People are crazy,” I agreed. “Especially now that Bryan kissed Reese, even though he told Alyssa he wouldn’t.” As soon as I said it, I realized that I shouldn’t have. I quickly walked away before I could make the situation worse.

92 Alyssa had calmed down a bit, but she looked miserable. In an effort to make her feel better, I promised that I would talk to Bryan and find out what was really going on.

That I did. I only hope that Alyssa will be pleased.

Chapter 4: Reese’s Story by Nikki Loomis age 14

Everything would’ve been different if I didn’t agree to go to the haunted house. Alyssa wouldn’t have been glaring holes into the back of my head. In fact, until the haunted house event, she didn’t know I existed. She was too caught up in being with Bryan 24/7. Speaking of which, this wouldn’t have happened if that idiot never asked me in the first place. We were friends since kindergarten, but no one knew because we were never seen hanging out in school after elementary. We lived in the same neighborhood so we often hung out after school instead. Anyway, he clearly found his group with the populars and I was fine being alone with my few close friends. Everyone knew he existed and no one acknowledged the short girl with the curly brown hair. Just the way I liked it, until now anyways. It all started when he was over my house playing on my PlayStation, instead of doing his homework.

We were in my room and I was at my desk finishing up my Spanish homework while Bryan was on my beanbag chair playing Overwatch. He suddenly said my name, which he never does since he’s usually so engrossed in getting player of the game, but that day he wasn’t.

He asked me, “Are you going to the haunted house?”

I turned my head toward him saying, “No, why would I?”

Bryan set down his controller, took off his headset, and stared me straight in the eye. At the time, I thought he had something important to say because again, he rarely cared about the person who allowed him to be in her room. But I was disappointed in myself for thinking anything logical could come out of his mouth because he just smiled and said, “I want to prank Alyssa.”

So now here I am, sitting next to Bryan on the bus because I couldn’t say no to peer pressure. After he told me he wanted to prank her, I shot it down quickly. He just wouldn’t stop begging me and saying, “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine,” so I finally agreed to it.

What he didn’t tell me was that he was going to spread it around the whole school, starting with the gossiper of the school. Long story short, by the end of that day, the whole country basically knew I was going to the haunted house with Bryan. Sigh...He’s such a jerk. And to put more salt on the wound, I was talking to him, having as much of a good time I could, as well as faking a smile to get Alyssa jealous, and then he just leaned in and kissed me. After he pulled back, I was frozen. Not even a bulldozer could move me. He just took my first kiss, all for a stupid, unneeded, idiotic prank.

Needless to say, Alyssa was beyond angry. I could feel her flames of anger from behind creeping up my neck.

93

The rest of the bus ride consisted at Bryan staring out the window, hoping to get away from my glaring eyes, and me feeling suffocated by Alyssa’s anger. I wished I could just turn into the bus driver who couldn’t care less about teenage drama.

When we finally got off the bus, I felt a tap on the shoulder. Slowly, I turned around, waiting for the Avatar of Wrath to confront me, but it was just my friend, Kit. I completely forgot about dragging her with me on this trip. I was too worried about what would happen on the bus ride that I completely disregarded my friend.

She asked me, “Are you okay?”

My obvious response was “No. I’m not. I just want this day to be over with.”

Her reply was, “I wish it could too, but sadly it won’t end yet. Look over there.” while pointing in front of me.

There was Bryan, with his group of friends, waving me over to go with him. I glanced to the side and saw Alyssa clenching her fists.

“Fun.” I said sarcastically. “See you later,” I said while walking away from Kit and going to meet my impending doom.

Since it was such a large group, we all went in sections. Of course, I got paired with Dumb and Dumber, who were Bryan and Alyssa, and then her friend, Megan. Luckily, I had Kit too so maybe I could make it out alive. The only downside was that Bryan told me I had to stick by him the whole time if he wanted the plan to work. We had to hold hands the whole time. I had to hold his disgusting, grimy hands for more than thirty minutes. So, Kit and I could only share glances of sympathy at each other every once in a while.

We were the last group to head in, so I had the pleasure of hearing the alluring screams of all the other kids. When it was our turn, I made sure that Kit was right behind me. I practically dragged Bryan to Kit, not caring we were separating from his own clique of friends. He could deal with it. I had to deal with him for more than seven years, so this was nothing.

Fast forward to when we’re out of the haunted house, I did not have a good time. Although I seem tough, I was practically a banshee inside of there. I gripped Bryan’s hand to the point where I could’ve broken it a few times if he hadn’t pulled his hand off mine. I would say that it was karma, so I’m not sorry. Anyway, we were about to have lunch, but I forgot mine on the bus.

I asked a teacher if I could get it quickly, and he said yes. On my way over, someone shoved me to the ground. Great, this is turning into a stereotypical teen fiction story. I wasn’t really listening to what Alyssa had to say, but out of her annoying screeching, I heard her say something like “Stay away” and “He’s mine.”

I was going to walk away toward the bus, but she turned me around and slapped me. After that, I classify anything I did to her self-defense.

Sadly, I couldn’t do anything because Megan came to take Alyssa away, not before she did a classic hair flip, and Kit came to restrain me from going all Mortal Kombat on Alyssa.

94

Again, Kit asked me if I was alright. I wasn’t but I said yes and told her to go back. When she was out of my sight, my facade fell, and I started shaking out of anxiety. I practically ran to the bus and sat down in a seat and started crying. No...full-out sobbing. I didn’t even care that the bus driver was there because I was too busy replaying what just happened. I’m such an idiot. Why did I ever agree to this? All I got out of it was a kiss from Bryan and a slap from Alyssa. Wow, what an amazing trip.

Chapter 5: Steve’s Story by Marissa Hawtof age 17

I was playing Candy Crush on my phone in the parking lot when some kid tapped on the bus door. I reached over and opened the door, and the kid stepped onto the stairs.

“You can head on back and get whatever you need.” I said, looking back to my game. The kid, a short girl with dark, curly hair in a bun, mumbled “Thanks” and walked to the back of the bus. I heard some rustling around and the sigh of a seat cushion as she sat down.

Grab what you want and leave, I thought to myself. There were a few moments of silence before I heard muffled sobs.

I looked up. The girl was hunched over in her seat, almost completely hidden. Her shoulders bobbed up and down.

I stood up, walked to where she was sitting. Slowly, I sat down on the seat opposite hers.

“Let me guess,” I said softly. “Boy troubles?” She paused, wiped her face on her sleeve. The girl took a breath.

“That’s shallow,” she said. “But yes.”

“Well, I can’t say I’ve been through that myself”- she laughed at that- “but I do remember being your age.” . . .

When I was 14 years old, I broke my ankle. I told everyone that I was snowboarding and tried a double backflip, but they all laughed at me. Other parents asked my parents what happened- snowboarding didn’t seem plausible. They told the others what I told them, that I’d fallen off my bike. In truth, I was running in a field. There was a hole, a trip…and a broken ankle.

All that fuss, over a bone snapped! I didn’t mind the injury much though, because I still got my prize: a chunk of honeycomb, still dripping with honey and safely contained in a mason jar. The crutch didn’t matter; neither did the bee stings. The next day at school, I could give it to Lucy.

Out of all the girls in the eighth grade, Lucy was… well, she was Lucy. She was the one for me. One day in class we were talking and she mentioned how she always wanted to try honey straight off

95 the honeycomb. She loved honey. So on Valentine’s Day, I went to school with crutches, bee stings, a jar in my hands and a smile on my face. . .

“Well, I can’t say I’ve been through that myself, but I do remember being your age.”

The girl looked at me with red, puffy eyes.

“I went through a world of pain for the girl I loved.” I twisted the ring on my finger, smiled. “The one I still love.” She smiled softly.

“Do what makes you happy. But you have to do something. Don’t just wait around for him to come to you, or for something to happen. If you do that, you will wait forever. Take it from a man who has waited long enough.”

I sighed and stood up, groaning at my aching joints.

“Now, young lady,” I said, turning towards her. “Go get your boy. I have a phone call to make.”

I turned and walked to my seat. With trembling hands, I pulled out my phone and started dialing.

Chapter 6: Kit’s Story by Lia Lloyd-Wood age 14

So I don’t know when the drama first started… but I’ll start from when I first heard about it.

I think it started around when Megan told me that Alyssa invited Bryan to go to the haunted house together or something. He rejected her, but he actually was going to go with Reese. Obviously I had to tell Reese, like duh, and I guess that’s when I became part of whatever happened.

I didn’t want to go on the trip, but Reese was going and BFFs stick together. Since Reese was going to sit with Bryan, I sat across the aisle so I could still talk to her. I nodded to the driver and climbed into the back of the bus.

Reese, with her hair in a bun, started a conversation with me about something stupid I’m sure, but it stopped as soon as Bryan sat down with Reese. After that I don’t remember much, I’m pretty sure Bryan tried to kiss Reese or looked like it or something, but I was too distracted on my phone to really notice.

What I do clearly remember is that Alyssa freaked out about something with Bryan but me being the oblivious person I am, didn’t pay attention. I should start noticing things more, though. When we arrived, I waited patiently until I could clamber off the bus. Reciting a thank you to the driver, I hopped off the last step to see the haunted house.

Sigh… why did I even decide to go?

96 Anyway, the haunted house was… haunted I guess. It wasn’t too bad, but I eventually noticed that Reese wasn’t with the group anymore. I assumed she needed a break or something… so I just went back to exploring each room by myself, to see what exciting things were set up.

After the whole group was finished in the haunted house we all climbed back onto the cramped bus. I smiled at the bus driver, went all the way to the back, and sat down in my seat. Eventually during the ride, I noticed that Reese was in a bad mood. I’m not really sure why but I’m sure it was something to do with Alyssa, Bryan, and Alyssa’s weird obsessions with Bryan. I don’t think I was a great friend that day because I was completely oblivious to whatever happened. Anyways… I think that’s it, at least from what I can remember from that day.

The End

Delaney’s Multiplicity by Delaney Wenner age 13

97 •What Love Shall Be• by shyla oommen age 17

a woman is a delicate butterfly shouldn’t be easy to catch but flies with beauty and dignity and she should be admired and desired, but should hold herself up until one proves himself to fly with her.

a man should always recognize and observe the radiance of a woman. the beautiful wings she has, the elegance she carries as she glides past his wandering eyes. he should want to fight for her. to have her, to hold her. to show her the love she deserves and give her everything he possibly can to shower her with pure bright and soft smiles. and he should put the woman first, looking up to her and listening to the wind moved by her intricate motion.

he should value the uniqueness of the butterfly. he should protect the butterfly. he should never be ashamed of the beautiful butterfly, only caring what The Creator Himself thinks. he should put the butterfly first and have an open ear to her before anyone else, anyone else.

And the butterfly should do the same for the man who does all of this, being truly and deeply loved and appreciated, in a joyful manner.

working as a team, they will begin to fly together, forever and ever in love.

98 View Beyond the Seas by Deborah Olatunji age 16

99 Dulce et Decorum Est by Mallory Snover age 18

A drop of scarlet falls onto the parchment, Then the burning, Like tears falling from the eyes, The gray that chokes, Of those that once loved, Fills the atmosphere to dimness, Those whose wounds bleed and drip. And what of the deer that pranced among the poppies, The way they take their heels and, Oh! Rub out, Their charred bodies lie across the ashen fields, The cigarette, Unrecognizable flesh, The one, In the crossfire. That sat upon their lips, With each inhalation the ember Sirens sing and bullets soar, Glowing and once again turning to pensive gray. Welcoming all into the fold, It feels so tender to finally have that Bright poppies in California fields, Intimacy with another human being, Their petals opened in the slightest, If only to bleed out thereafter. Their lips curled and their bulbs swaying, In the soft breeze that you can, The robins shall still fly, Feel on your face, Over the heads, Even now, Over the graves, While the fire begins. Their crimson bodies, But flashes of splendor to those below them. And at once the dry brush is ablaze, With the fury of god, (There is no god, Or rather he does not intervene) Smoke, And gray, Billowing up to the sky, A crimson sunset revealing itself in the long night.

100 Opium by Samara Durgadin age 15 watercolor, ink & markers on Bristol board 101 The Factory by James Stokes age 17

I have no good ideas My art is uninspired And my writing is emotionless.

I have no new feelings Nothing makes me feel love, Hate, happiness, or sadness.

I have no machinery The gears in my head are broken, Metal grinds to a screeching halt, And my thoughts cease as my lights go out.

My factory is on fire, the glass shatters Ideas spill out, yet they only create pollution Poisoning the supply, the factories around begin to shut down.

The cleaning crew arrives, sent from other factories. “Can we clean this mess?”, they ask They set to work, pushing the waste into a flask The flask is tied, and hung around the factory

Keep it closed, they say, placing guards around Our enemies may come, it must not be found And so they protect, the factory begins rebuilding. The flask is buried deep, and there it remains unbroken.

New management in place, The gears are repaired and oiled. The engine creaks back to life, And once again the factory produces.

102 Trashy Fashion, Made Entirely Recyclable by Shyla Oommen age 17 tinfoil, magazines, newspapers, tissue paper, cardboard

103 Bye Bye Baby by Grace Bentley age 16

Bye bye Baby, What a lovely year it's been. Bye bye Baby, With all the pain you've hidden. Bye bye Baby, It's the same old story at the end of the day. Bye bye Baby, Watch as her love crumbles away.

Your baby is gone, your baby is tired, Your baby is sick of being “girlfriend for hire.” Your baby is hurt, your baby is weak, Look at the girl you’ve brought to her knees. Your baby wants you, your baby wants love, Your baby is done with all of the above.

The screaming, the crying, the promises never kept, The fighting, the recovery and every night she's wept, Fighting for something that's never going to be there, Only when fights clear the so-called air.

The same air that suffocates laughs of joy But again it seems she's just your little toy. Something you beg for day after day, Giving it minimal attention when you finally get your way. And yet it sits, collecting dust and pain, Memories dripping down that final drain.

So here she sits collecting a layer of dust, Loosely filled with secrets and trust. Nights were spent spilling them out Even though the spigot’s now a drought. Pipes run empty from all that once was, Now can you finally see her cause?

The screaming, the crying, one final plea. But now it's time go. Bye bye, baby.

104 Saudade By Grace Bentley age 16

Take my hand and one day we will forever fall victim to the stars in the sky An atmosphere of atoms and compounds illuminating the dim world below Where a couple will lay and ramble into the null about their days and everything under those same stars

Where you and I will sit and one day look down on them So young, so free, just like you and me once were You claimed to see galaxies in my eyes but only now do I understand that they were not my own but they were the ones that you and I would one day live amongst

Whether it be together or apart those same stars will continue burning bright Bright enough to keep us all around

And one day, they too, will fall victim to the stars.

105 “It all goes down in the box” by Alex Brennan age 13

TWEET! The referee blows his whistle as my teammate disappears inside a cloud of cleats, mud and determined players. I should take the penalty kick, says my impossibly irrational brain. But you could miss and then you will look bad in front of everybody, says the small logical part of my brain. My heart and my brain fight an unwinnable battle. “Lemme take it!” I yell to my teammates, startling them. As I step into the box, the ball practically gains 10 tons. My imagination breaks through and I'm in the World Cup; the eyes of the world are on me. I think about where to shoot, but the goalie catches my eyes. My anxiety is like a dam about to break. This is probably what the goalie wants. Why am I taking this? I get nervous. I look over at my parents, then my brother and sister. They look at me so enthu- siastically that I feel as though I must score; this is not a maybe, this is a must. I step for- ward to shoot and time stops. The world around me grinds to a halt but I'm still moving. Suddenly, all of the practice hits me at once. Profound confidence courses through my veins as the world around me is held at a standstill. As I strike through the ball, I hear the satisfying whoosh! of it flying through the air. The ripple of the ball hitting the net washes away my nervousness. I turn around, my head held high, as joy floods through my body. I will always remember the time it “all went down in the box”.

106 We All Scream for Ice Cream! by Jane Burns age 14

The aroma of the freshly pressed waffle cones mixed in with the salty air from the ocean. As I wait in the big line with my cousins, we all discuss what flavors we are going to get. Closer and closer we inch up to the counter like snails. Happiness glows from within all of us like the stars in the night sky as we reach the window. I order my ice cream and wait patiently with my cousins. We take in the beautiful view of the beach and watch the mobs of joyful people walk around. As I hand the money over, excitement rushes through my body. This will be my first ice cream from the boardwalk of the summer. She hands over the frosty soft serve. “Thank you,” I say, taking the ice cream and licking it. The mint and chocolate flavors mix together and create the best flavor ever. As the creamy soft serve slides down my throat, I remember that this is why I love Ocean City, New Jersey so much. The coolness chills my arms and the sprinkles start to disappear. Now that we have our ice cream, gleaming smiles show on our faces. My ice cream starts to vanish like the ocean during low tide. As my stomach becomes full, I look around at my wonderful home for the summer. Now, can I have another?

107 My Angel by Hannah Campbell age 16

I miss you everyday when I’m alone. I really want to call you, but I know You are not around to pick up the phone. Without you just me, I feel so low.

I want you to always be proud of me. You have helped me come out of my safe shell. With you, I was always filled up with glee. Never gave up on me, we went through hell.

But, I know you will never leave my side. You were always there and knew what to say. When you passed away a part of me died. You would always know how to make my day.

My angel, I'll always remember you. Without you everything's unfamiliar

108 Rainbow Vortex by Isabelle Cerasari age 13 colored pencil

109 Hope is an impossible thunderstorm by Eva Dolde age 16

It tingles your gut and stays that way, Time and time again - It betrays, Churning, destroying, the sky turns grey, The sky opens up and rain falls in ablaze.

However, on few and rare occasions, The clouds part their ways and their barriers fade away, Darkness that grew won’t stay a-blazing, It starts its journey with just a praying.

The sunlight beams from the heavens, Glistening the twinkling dew, It is merely an incredible blessing, It is as if almost knew,

Hope is an impossible thunderstorm, And is itself its own chloroform.

110 Periwinkle by Eva Dolde age 16

With fairy dust in the air, And magic in one's eye, One can only imagine periwinkle is close by, To hold you tight and let your dreams fly

Periwinkle seems special, Maybe just to me, Because the color seems not boastful, As yellow is to a bee,

Nor does the color droop, Painting everything a solemn color, Nor does it stoop, To the dear level of brown to a brewer,

Gently stirring his coffee, And watching his world go by, And with one last plea, He realized he’d watch the world fly

No- the color periwinkle is true It has magic around its edges Just a small hue, Just as a lover blushes, It makes me believe, That maybe magic can’t be relieved.

111 Natural by Arielle Flaherty age 13

In the forest, humans do not surround. The blaring lights of shopping malls do not clutter every step I try to take. I am free from the rhythm of daily life. There is no list of things to be done and an abundance of exploration awaits. The wind rustles my hair, the breeze re- freshing like a glass of frigid lemonade on a sizzling day. The straps of my backpack press upon my shoulders. Somehow, having everything I need in one bag is a burden and free- dom at the same time. Aspens oaks, and birches tower above, but not in the sense of sky- scrapers. Unlike smooth and rigid metal, they are friendly and living, growing and chang- ing, providing crisp air to inhale. The scent of pine wafts up my nostrils, sweet and aro- matic, unlike the reek of pollution. In the forest, with every step, something new is experi- enced, whether it be the soft tweeting of a robin or the crunching of leaves. I am able to let go because not every move is scripted.

112 Untitled by Arielle Flaherty age 13

Click... Click... Click...Click... My fingers tap harshly against the keys. Nothing is coming, flu- ently flowing. Strained statements forcefully falling on the page. Searching for words filled with meaning but finding nothing but empty expressions. The hum of the air conditioner rings in my ear and the fluorescent light shines upon the table. Nothing is natural. Faint footsteps pass outside the door. Whispers are afraid to disturb the continuous silence. People pretend to work but really the quiet is invading. I am executing excuses for why I did not complete the assignment. Like a fish without a school, I stare at the page. I am lost. But then a spark of thought glitters by. Fills my brain. Creeps into every corner. I am alive with thought. It is funny how the change can happen in an instant. One second begging for words, thoughts and meaning, the next, ideas flowing effortlessly. Click. Click. Click. Click.

113 Cruel Love by Phoenix Grimm age 19

my hands bathed in heartblood my sins visible as silver scars painted across my body like scarlet letters my fears, shadowy demons that refuse to depart my heart, broken and hardened by a cruel world and the words I love you on my lips

114 Masquerade by Phoenix Grimm age 19

The string music carries through the white hallway. Lying sprawled out on the floor at the foot of the staircase leading to the ballroom is a girl. Her blonde hair fanned out around her like a halo. Covering her face is a mask tied around her head by two silk ribbons. The uptempo of the music rouses the slumbering girl. Her long lashes open to reveal the blue irises beneath. She braces her palm against the cold tile and pushes herself into a sitting position. She glances down to find herself clothed in a lavish ballgown. “What the hell?” She breathes. The girl forces herself to her feet, nearly falling over her dress in the progress. She wraps her fingers around the ruffles and pulls her dress up to reveal her feet clad in emer- ald green, strapped heels. She glances down at her wrist to see her prized charm bracelet. She fingers one of the charms. The action soothes her. The music’s tempo quickens and through the door she can hear murmuring. She glances around, taking in her surroundings. She may not know where she is, but wherever it is, is beautiful and rich. There is a single rising staircase that leads to the double doors of the ballroom. Covering the middle of the stairs is a dark blue carpet that ends behind her. The life beyond the doors seems to beckon her. Grecian columns line either side of the stairs. Tentatively, she sets foot on the first step. When it doesn’t vanish or set off an alarm, she lets out a relieved sigh. She ascends the stairway, pausing after each step to check her surroundings. She halts at the top of the stairway admiring the extravagant doors that stand before her. She inhales. If the richness of this place isn’t intimidating enough, its size is. The stone arch above the door is carved with images of winged males and females sur- rounded by clouds and gates of horn and ivory. Her eyes fall to the silver door handles that have been wrought to wings. She takes another deep breath before wrapping her hands around the touching han- dles. The coldness of the metal chills her to the bone. She turns and pulls. The doors gasp open, revealing to her the extend of the life that lies beyond. A staircase mirroring the one she climbed minutes ago is all that stands between her and the ballroom floor. She grips her dress tighter in an effort to still her trembling hands. She has never flourished under attention instead preferring the solitude. A few of the guests turn to look at the new arrival. She feels her face heat up be- neath their observant gazes. They could be picking apart her flaws as she stands here. A mask and gown does not hide everything. She surrenders to her body’s will and allows her feet to carry her down the stone stairs. The carpet mutes her footsteps. The ballroom-not including the stairs-is larger than her home, she would guess it is larger than the gym and cafeteria at her school combined. The floor is composed of white, stone tiles with grey vines running through them. Above her head is a mural that extends the length of the ceiling. It appears to depict a series of events beginning with a creation, followed by a rebellion and finally the rise of a new age. The mural looks like the ones painted on the walls of the Vatican. Silver runs up and across the white, stone walls, lining the arches and flowing in and out of the curves. The only natural light is the full moon 115 streaming in through the near constant windows lining the back of the ballroom. Thou- sands of multicolored lights the size of fireflies float through the room. She reaches up to touch one. Her fingers pass right through the soft light. She runs her eyes up the back wall, following the bulge of white stone. It wraps around to form a semi-circular balcony. Adorning the top is a silver railing twisted into intertwining curves. Seated behind the wall on an elaborate throne is a male around her age wearing a crown. Two shadows seem to spill from over either side of the throne. Even from the ground she can see how handsome he is. As if he can sense her gaze he turns his eyes to her. She blushes and diverts her gaze, finding sudden fascination with those around her. All of the guests are dressed in elaborate costumes to which her dress pales in comparison. Their faces are shielded by masks, some full face, some partial. Some of the attendees are wearing gaudy jewelry or silken gloves. She almost questions if they are real or figments of her overexcited imagination. She couldn’t be anymore out of place if she was wearing a cashmere sweater and jeans. The soft, swinging music becomes louder, sharper calling her attention. She looks past the mingling crowd to the group of masked musicians set up in front of the left wall. Couples begin pairing off and sweeping onto the dance floor. She shuffles off the dance floor into the nearest empty corner. Gasps and whispers fill the room. She raises her head to find the crowned male gliding down the center of the room. The crowd parts for him, a mixture of awe and fear filling their features. She gasps as she realizes what she thought was shadows is actually two dark blue, angel-like wings dotted with small white lights that resemble stars. The music seizes as does the whispers. All eyes are locked on his moving figure. He either is pretend- ing not to notice or doesn’t. She raises her head to find his gaze locked on her. Something about him makes her feel like a mouse in the sights of a cat. The prey about to fall victim to the predator. The wicked curve of his smirk, the self-assured way his body moves when he walks, and the essence surrounding him is a warning itself. Yet, she cannot bring herself to look away. He stops in front of her. The smirk fades. “My lady,” he extends a hand to her. His voice alone is a symphony, as sweet as honey and as alluring as a lullaby. The room around her seems to spin. He is overwhelming. “May I know your name?” For a moment, she doesn’t respond only stares dumbly at his hand. Amusement crosses his face. She snaps herself from her trance. “Crescent. My name is Crescent.” A true smile takes ahold of his face. “A divine name.” She notices for the first time an accent she can’t place. “May I have this dance?” Crescent glances up, behind the form of the mysterious winged man she can see all the guests staring at her, holding their breath, anticipating her answer. The male is as ob- servant as he is handsome. “Pay them no mind. They are as insignificant as the lights dancing around us.” Those words could make the coldest of hearts melt. “I can’t dance.” She admits, glancing down at her ballgown. “Then allow me the honor of leading you through this.” She meets his eyes. There is something in them, in his voice urging her to accept. Finally, she slides her hand into his. “I would be honored.” She accepts with slight curtsy. 116 Rapunzel by Phoenix Grimm age 19

Rapunzel Rapunzel unfurl your dreams so he may snatch them away and leave you weeping and trapped oh, Rapunzel weave your dreams into a map and set yourself free from the treacherous prince

117 Emotions by Raphael Kim age 14 beneath the painted smile she’s crying eyes lined with silver she holds in the sobs she has to be strong beneath the painted smile she’s furious hands balled into fists she holds in the anger she has to be calm beneath the painted smile she’s screaming throat tight and choked she holds in the fear she has to be brave she must always be strong she must always be brave she must never show she’s sad and afraid beneath the painted smile

118 The Power of Women by Emani Larkin age 13

A woman is a woman is a woman Fixing her crown, never bowing down A woman is a woman is a woman Stop underestimating our warrior queens Believing them to be fragile and docile Society in its current state has simply made a huge mistake Men and their prides will lead us to the world’s demise Now we shall give women the chance To lead us in the following chant,” A woman is a woman is a woman” Perhaps if you read it once more You’ll finally understand who it is for An empress. A queen. A warrior. A leader. A woman is a woman is a woman I shall say this one last time Let it remain in your minds Nothing less. Everything more. A woman is a woman is a woman

119 How to Enjoy a Cold, Rainy Evening by Rebekah Marvin age 18

Step One: Make some tea Coffee will do but for the true feeling in my soul I need tea

Step Two: Grab that one giant hoodie While most of my hoodies are big enough to swim in There is only one big enough to warm my cold soul And therefore the only one I will wear on rainy days

Step Three: Put on playlist Chill vibes never sounded so good Dance music never made me want to dance so hard before this day

Step Four: Turn off the inner critic I am alone here on my rainy day No one to worry over No one to see what a slob I am No reason to overthink everything Why am I here? I could be doing something else

Step Five: Breathe This a safe place No demons can touch me today No whispers in my ears No thoughts of how I look Only the rain and music by my side

Step Six: Find that one book That one book I love to read on rainy days The one with beautiful poems That makes me think of my love’s eyes That make me ponder what other things lay beneath the surface of my thoughts

Step Seven: Text love Love has not heard from me in a little bit Love will understand that I am relaxing today and will text them as soon as possible

120 Step Eight: Enjoy what I have Today is a gift right now The rain makes everything look like it’s covered in a shiny coat It’s magical out there And warm in here

Step Nine: Come back to reality While imagination is fun Reality is where I live

Step Ten: Find peace

Repeat as needed And feel free to change the order to whatever you wish

121 At the Pinnacle by Deborah Olatunji age 16

122 Reflection by Deborah Olatunji age 16

123 Futuristic by Dorcas Olatunji age 16

124 Skyscraper by Dorcas Olatunji age 16

125 •Frozen• by shyla oommen age 17

Over in the machine bird that carries so many souls I realized something Something that I’ve never thought of Something of perception Something that the worlds never taught us

From the ground we see fast motion Things going as they are Time limits short hours The next tragic not so far We see people walking and running and people taking many actions

We see risks and dangers And that is only just a fraction We see trees wave and wave And the ocean doing the same We are always in a rush We never think that could change

Well up there on that bird I was the world for itself Everything is frozen Touched ground and everything melts

Up there it is slow motion Up there is peace Up there is without worry Up there fears cease

Everyone’s thought processes in such a rush down on soil With so many worries With so many cuts But here I see it’s all just frozen And it’s a beautiful picture Now I took this knowledge And took it up a level Just to imagine what He sees from way up Is just so much more

126 The thing about Him is that He sees our worries from down on earth too But He sees from up there too He sees the icicles He controls He knows what He is doing

Trust Him Put your worries away Because we are all just in a rush A rush that needs to be hushed

127 •Teardrops• by shyla oommen age 17

Tears can bring one back to life And be, just be so grateful... The real you The pure you The untouched and unchanged you The you that only you know Your heart warms with collapse of chaos Into your sinking mind But something is reestablished And that thing exactly is who you are Rebuild off of your emotions Rebuild yourself off of your tears For they are a reminder of what you have lost and what you can get back Yourself The real you. precious you :)

128 It’s Just Lovely Old Me Here by Shyla Oommen age 17

129 Freedom Lacrosse by Jackson Redd age 13

I sit still on this hot summer day in Philadelphia, this place with so much history - as we are going to make history ourselves. I breathe hard as sweat drips down my face. With the sun beating down on me, my coach says, “Let’s start getting dressed.” I unpack my lacrosse bag and pick up the damp gear immersed in sweat. I put on each piece of gear, keeping in mind the people that have played before me: the Native Americans who started this game to honor the Creator, Jim Brown, Kyle Harrison, and many more. I feel bigger than myself. As I put on my helmet, my confidence ignites like the sound of a sweet new sports car. I am ready. As I gather with my team, I can sense the determination from everyone. The feeling is as good as breakfast and Saturday cartoons. We walk over to the field with confidence oozing out of us with every step we take. During warmups, I can sense a bit of fear stirring up in my stomach, but I can’t pay attention to that. We end warmups and my coach calls the team over. We huddle and get hyped. “’Freedom’ on 3: 1, 2, 3, FREEDOM!” I step out on the field and the energy is flowing from my head to my toes. “Ready… Set…” The whistle blows.

130 House Of Cards by Arushi Sharda age 14 (inspired by the music of BTS)

Just One Day was all it took For my feelings to pour down like Rain It was as if I had entered a Magic Shop I knew you didn’t feel the same, yet my heart screamed So What I’m Fine is what I say, not what I feel Even so, you Save Me from the dark, cold ice The ice making me feel like there is no Tomorrow When my eyes met you, you said Hold Me Tight But then, I heard someone say Wake Up Just For You, I stay strong and I don’t show my weakness I will never Let Go You’ve never been So Far Away Close enough to set my heart on Fire Just more proof that I Need U You will never know that my Love Is Not Over Like a Butterfly, you flew away Regretting when I could’ve said Don’t Leave Me You had put me in a state of Euphoria Now I was broken, as if I had experienced Fake Love You weren’t aware of my love; it was barely noticeable like Crystal Snow When you left, you unknowingly knocked down my House of Cards

131 You Never Walk Alone by Arushi Sharda age 14 We may be covered in scars But we will go far Walking into the great unknown You will never walk alone

Your hands become my wings Will you forget about the dark and lonely things? These wings sprouted from pain Your love that I now gain

But I would’ve flown if I could But now, I don’t know if I should Will you fly with me? So I can be set free

So we can reach each other So we can be together This road may be long and arduous With you it will be innocuous Look into my eyes There are no lies I will be your backbone You will never walk alone

To reach the edge of the sky We will fly Once you have flown You will never walk alone

We may fall But together we can crawl If you and I can be together, I can laugh You are my other half

We have come a long way All night and all day Look how far we have flown You never walk alone

132 The Fall by James Stokes age 17

I am chasing nothing, but I am chasing myself. A dog runs in fear while chasing its tail. I lay in a broken body upon a dusty shelf A constant feeling of falling, never to prevail

The sharp outcrop of victory so close, My rope cracks like a whip. As I tumble I become only a ghost I fall into the enveloping smoke.

133 The Face of the Woman I’m Stuck With by Dana Townsend age 19 charcoal & graphite pencil

134 Reading by Sameer Vidwans age 14

As I turn the page, I submerge into the book, all my worries disappearing before my eyes. When I’m reading, I care about nothing but the book. If my parents have been yelling at me and I want nothing more than to scream back, what do I do? I read a book. I experience nothing but pure joy when I’m reading. It’s almost like a drug, creating hundreds of thousands of colorful images from a couple of words. From something as simple as a couple of scribbles on paper, I could fly like Superman, soaring through the air, or I could be the driver of a car in a daring heist. I could swim across an enormous lake, water spraying behind me, or swing through the trees like a monkey, with colossal crocodiles clawing at me from below. That’s the beauty of books; they allow you to become everything you are not. When you are reading a book, you are a god. When you’re reading, you are limitless.

135 Running by Sameer Vidwans age 14

Pain. That’s the only thing I feel as I limp-run my last mile. Why do I run, then? What is it that drives me to do something that causes me to ache, cramp up, and go through pure agony? Simply put, it’s the rush that goes along with the pain of running. I feel elated when I’m pushing my limits, when I’m struggling to achieve my “impossible” goal. The adrenaline flooding through my veins, labored breaths escaping from my lungs, my feet tearing down the road; that’s exactly why I love to run. Knowing that this isn’t something that’s going to be easy for me, that I will be gasping for air by the end, nearly passed out, is exactly why I run. While other sports seem impossibly complicated, running is pretty simple. Just one foot in front of the other, over and over and over.

136 Dragon’s Dictionary by Ashleigh Umbrecht age 16 colored pencil & sharpie 137 Whispers by Hannah Ye age 15

It was the whispers she couldn't take anymore They hinted at her imperfections—the scratches on a diamond She tried so hard to get rid of them—the flaws And tried so hard to live up to their expectations But she always failed somehow—one way or another The whispers crushed her and she Couldn't Do Anything

Trapped in an endless void of doubt She lost control of who she was However, as time passed by and healed her She realized it wasn't her problem It was theirs And so she stopped caring

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Flickering Flames by Hannah Ye age 15

The whispers fueled the raging fire

And slithered like snakes through the halls

Alas, they finally reached her open ears

Entranced by the enigmatic embers

The flickering flames she did not fear

She let her walls down and one by one

They tore her down

139 Autographs, etc.

Where do you picture yourself in 5 years? 140 141 Julia Tucker, Claymont Library –Program Coordinator Sara Thomas, New Castle Public Library – Editor Kevin Turner, Bear Library – Editor Cheryl Clem, Hockessin Library – Layout & Design Jean Kaufman, Brandywine Hundred Library – Manager Liaison

A very special thank you to all our Delaware Teen Library Staff for their assistance, support and promotion of IMAZINE.

Look for the online version of the magazine at: http://www.nccde.org/371/IMAZINE and delawarelibraries.org/imazine

The submission period for volume 9 is March 1 through November 30, 2019. Look for information on our website about how to submit your work and about upcoming workshops

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