Canvas Teen Literary Journal, Autumn 2013

8/14/2019 Canvas Teen Literary Journal, Autumn 2013

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CANVAS

CANVAS

Writers & Books

teen literary journal

FALL 2013


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All articles originally published in CANVAS Teen Literary Journal.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any

means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm, recording, or by any information

storage retrieval system, or used in another book, without written permission from the publisher.

Copyright 2013 by CANVAS Teen Literary Journal

Cover art by Cheyenne Zaremba


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ABOUT CANVAS

CANVASis run by and for teens. We publish quarterly and are open to

writers 13-18 years old in Rochester, NY and beyond. Visit us online

at:http://canvasliteraryjournal.com

Teen Editorial BoardANA ANAYA,EDITOR

DELANEY PALMA,WEBMASTER

TAYLOR STEVENS,EDITOR AND ART DIRECTOR

JULIA TAYLOR,EDITOR

AMELIA WILLARD,EDITOR

TORI WILSON,EBOOK AND TWITTER

ALI WRONA,EDITOR AND TUMBLR

PETER WOOD,EDITOR

VANESSA ZIMMERMAN,PDFLAYOUT AND FACEBOOK

Managing Editor

NINA ALVAREZ

Writers & Books Staff

KRISTEN ZORY KING

SALLY BITTNER BONN
http://canvasliteraryjournal.com/http://canvasliteraryjournal.com/http://canvasliteraryjournal.com/http://canvasliteraryjournal.com/


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CONTENTS

FOREWORD ..................................................................................................... 5

MOTHER NATURES FIRE....................................................................................

MEGAN MURATA ........................................................... 6

REFLECTIONS .....................................................................................................

CHEYENNE ZAREMBA ...................................................... 8

QUEEN OF HEARTS ............................................................................................

NELLY GREEN .............................................................. 10

TAKE ME HOME .................................................................................................

PENELOPE MOOGLE..................................................... 13

SECRETS OF THE NIGHT......................................................................................

NINA STORNELLI .......................................................... 15

GAZES OF THE SKY .............................................................................................

SIMONIA ZARETSKY....................................................... 17

HEARTS AND OTHER BROKEN THINGS ..............................................................

ALI MULKEEN .............................................................. 19

THE THEORY OF HORSES ....................................................................................


THE BLACK DRESS ..............................................................................................

KHULOOD FANIM ......................................................... 27

CHILDS PLAY .....................................................................................................

NELLY GREEN .............................................................. 32

VAST ..................................................................................................................


ABOUT OUR SPONSORS ................................................................................. 35


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FOREWORD

AUTUMN IS IN FULL SWINGin Rochester, which means manydark days ahead. For our wordsmiths, however, that onlymeans more time to sit down and write. Our fall submissionsbrought us a variety of creepy, supernatural stories, as wellas plenty in a lighter vein. The creativity and range of work

we have found in the Rochester area continues to impressus, and we even commented on the improvement weveseen from some of our veteran writers. This issue wasnt justconfined to Rochester, either. Were excited to announcethat as of this issue, we have officially gone international!

This issue also introduces a few changes to our staff.Taylor Stevens, our art director and creative hand behind ourfirst three magazine covers, is moving to Ithaca, NY. We willmiss her dearly, but also look forward to seeing the ideas ofAli Wrona, our new art director, in upcoming issues.

Another member of the editorial team, Abby Johnson,has left for college, but has the honor of seeing her playBiting Words (published in the Summer 2013 issue)performed at the Gevas Next Stage Theatre.

Last but not least, we are pleased to welcome a newestboard member, Vanessa Zimmerman from Wayne CentralHigh School.

Our Autumn 2013 issue promises to bring as much thatis fresh and new as is familiar!

-DELANEY PALMA,EDITORIAL BOARD MEMBER AND WEBMASTER


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CANVAS TEEN LITERARYJOURNAL AUTUMN 2013

6

Mother Natures Fire

Megan Murata

Summer starts the match

That consumes the trees

Just watch.

Coloring the World

With Flames.

Bright Red

And Orange

Yellow

And Brown.

These four colors herald the End.

The leaves are consumed

Leaving the branches naked

Stark Blackdeadagainst the

Steel Grey sky

Of clouds.

And the cold winds come

Zephyr and His brothers

Carrying the snow


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To the groundAs a blanket for the World.


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Reflections

Cheyenne Zaremba

IS IT POSSIBLE TO TELL YOU WHAT IAM? Where do I start? How do I say

it? Can you ever really know me, or will you know just the shadow

that you want to see? I speak in color, but you see in black and white,

and the point misses you yet again. Just over your head, and youll

never know.

How can I tell you what I am, if you cant hear the notes that I play?

You only know the sound of classical, and organs, and monotone,

and white noise. My symphony is one of loudness, not a lullaby, a

scream. No matter how high the volume, you cannot hear, because

you dont know what it sounds like.

Where do I find the canvas big enough to explain me? There is nobrush that can paint my mind, no pen that can write my figure, no tool

which can portray my posture. But that doesnt mean you wont try to

squeeze me onto a piece of paper. Stamp me, twist me, push me

together until I fit, and youre satisfied that this is me. This is what I

look like.

But it is not.

I am nothing you can ever create, and I am nothing youve ever seen.

Youve never heard me, or felt me, or known me. Your eyes may be

open, and your ears may be sensitive, but your heart is closed, and

you will not see me.


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Whatever you think I am, whatever you believe you know me to be, Ihave never been, I am not, and I will never be. You cannot see me by

looking at a mirror.

You have to look through a window.


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Queen of Hearts

Nelly Green

No, please! Please, Im too young to die.

Her squeaking voice was immediately silenced as I pressed theglinting blade against her cheek.You know what I hate? I asked, as I

slowly sliced through her cheek. Katie squeaked as blood beaded up

through the slit, ivory skin, and I leaned down until I was mere inches

from her face.

I hate when people say that, I hissed. Its just too generic. You

should come up with something more original.

Katie started to cry yet again, and her body shook with the force of

her sobs. I rolled my eyes and pressed the knife against her trembling

lips, shushing her. Youre really making this too easy for me, I said

with a sigh, I might actually feel some degree of remorse if you

hadnt turned into a sniveling, pathetic excuse for a human.

Im sorry, Katie whimpered, I dont know what I did, but Im sorry

J

Dont! I snapped, grabbing her by the throat, Dont you dare say my

name! You brought this on yourself, you little bitch! You were

supposed to understand! Why couldnt you understand?

This girl really was an idiot; the longer she kept me amused, the

longer she had to live. Now that I was angry, I was ready to kill.

I raised the knife from her face and started to trace it down her bare

torso. As I did, I made cuts in the crevices between each of her ribs.

Each time I did, Katie would scream and cry, and she fought harder

at the duct tape bonds that kept her restrained to the table.

Yell all you want, I said, licking my lips, No one can hear you.


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I dont think anyone knows how beautiful dark, deep blood looks in

sharp contrast to pale skin. Its art. Its sexy. Its complete perfection.

Nobody understood my fascination, but that was expected. Id tried,

dont get me wrong. I tried with all ages and genders, but once I

shared my passion with people, they freaked.

Then, they ended up like Katie.

Goodbye.

Katies eyes widened as I raised the knife in one hand above my

head and I winked before bringing it down hard. The blade sunk into

her chest with barely a sound, and Katie let out the loudest scream

yet. I winced at the decibel she was able to reach, and I swiped my

knife across her throat.

That silenced her immediately.

Blood streamed from both sides of her mouth, staining her porcelainskin. Katie made a gurgling sound as she tried to breathe through the

sea of blood clogging her throat. There was no use in trying, but I

didnt feel like telling her that. The way people clung to life as long as

they could was fascinating.

After a moment, I leaned over Katies face once again to see if she

was still breathing. To my surprise, she coughed, sending blood

splattering against my face. Instinctively, I jammed my knife into her

throat.

That ended her quickly.

I sat back and grabbed a rag from the table where Id kept my tools. I

wiped it across my face for a moment, and then I grinned as the real

work began.

I took my knife and carved it painstakingly through her chest. There

was the occasional bone, but I made quick work of them. I peeled

back the thick layer of skin, and there, resting in its home, was Katies

heart.

My new trophy.

I severed the heart from the veins it was connected to, and then I

grabbed the well-worn piece of leather from my table. Using the knife,

I lifted the heart gently from the chest cavity, and I placed it gingerly

on the leather cloth.

I grabbed the heart carefully and then tied it securely with a piece of

velvet ribbon. I tucked it into my toolbox in the hidden bottom, and

then I cleaned my tools and loaded them in the box above the heart. I


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pulled out the pay as you go cell phone Id gotten at Walmart, and I

dialed 911.

911, whats your emergency?

Please! I cried, changing my voice to be deeper and less

recognizable, Please, my friend, shes dead!

Are you sure? the dispatcher asked, and I could hear the instant

focus in her voice and smirked. People were so easily riled up.

Yes, I replied, Yes. Please send someone. Were at the docks in

some storage shed.

Then, before the dispatcher could say another word, I pressed the

end button on the phone. I snapped it in half with little effort, and I

dropped it on the ground unceremoniously.

Why would I call the cops on a murder I committed myself?

I wanted people to see my art.

I grabbed my toolbox and took one last look at the dead girl lying on

the metal table. In death, your true beauty is revealed, I whispered,

and then I turned and stepped out of the storage shed.

In time, I might turn myself in. That would be when I had grown tired

of living, and I wanted people to know the name of the brilliant artist

who had created such haunting pieces of work.

For now, however, anonymous was my name.


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Take Me Home

Penelope Moogle

WINDOWS DONT HAVE NAMES HERE, or families or friends. Mirrors dont

have faces, and the walls dont know how to smile. Blankets cant

protect you, and bricks are nothing more than packed and dried mud.

In this place stuffed animals dont have fun when children play withthem, and swings dont send little girls to the stars. And no matter

how hard he looks the little boy will never find a dinosaur.

I dont like it here. The worlds that had existed before are broken,

carved into feathery shards that cut me when I try to put them back

together like the lonely puzzle pieces that glitter like dulled fingertips

on my floor.

I miss my old home, where I had friends in every room, in every

corner, because the bricks could whisper to me the secrets of the

house, and the windows could tell me about what they had done with

their siblings the other day.

I was smaller then, and I like that now I can touch the top of the door

and look down on my mom. But I miss feeling safe when I hid under

the covers, when I could disappear from the view of everything that

wanted to hurt me. But now Im not safe because everything that

wants to hurt me hides under the blanket too.

I wasnt brave when I was a little girl. The crunching and hissing of

the sink would send my running out of the kitchen, and I needed the

hallway


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light on when I went upstairs. But Im not brave now either, because

all I do is shelter myself behind hair that people make fun of and

hands that arent mine and arms that havent seen the sun in a long

time.

Im tired of this world and I want to go back to the one made of dusty

fairy tales where I had friends in every corner and I could hide under

the covers and the swings could send my flying to the stars.


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Secrets of the Night

Nina Stornelli

QUIETLY,ISLIPPED PAST THE ROW OF MAUSOLEUMS. The Mount HopeCemetery was eerie and shadowed in the midnight fog. In the hill

ahead was the large mausoleum, sealed off by plaster. By the light of

the moon, I could see what I had expected; instead of plaster, there

was an ornately wrought iron door.

I held my breath, slowly scanning for signs of movement. If I was

found by him- whoever or whatever he was- I didnt know what might

happen to me. Thankfully, there was no one around. I quickly ran up

the steps and, before I could change my mind, stepped through the

doorway.

The inside of the mausoleum was extremely gloomy. I was grateful

for the light of the full moon in addition to my flashlights weak beam.

My eyes began to adjust, and I could make out the walls. They were

covered in mosaics.

I stepped back to see better, but tripped over a large object. I hit my

head hard on the wall as I fell, and lay sprawled on my side. Weakly, I

coughed dust out of my lungs.

So youre that type, then, came a voice. It was lilting and musical,

but definitely male. Just too curious for your own good.

I kept my eyes closed and tried to look as limp as possible.

He laughed, and unbearably light and merry sound. Youre awake,

so dont pretend.

Slowly, I opened my eyes.


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Ah, he smiled. Both his smile and his dark green eyes glittered in

the dark. He pushed dark hair from his face. The secrets of the night

are not for mortals, not even those with prying eyes. It was foolish tocome here. There is far greater magic in this place than you will ever

know.

Even here, I whispered hoarsely, InRochester?

Oh, yes, he said. Magic is everywhere. He turned to the door,

singing quietly. Curiosity killed the mortal cat, and no satisfaction

ever brought it back. Sleep well, little cat.


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Gazes of the Sky

Simona Zaretsky

When she was happy,

the world blossomed.

Color, vivacious and full of brilliant life

flourished and grew;

it breathed cool majesty into the pores of the earth,

and sang melodic tunes of magic,

entrancing the clouds and the trees.

All this the young girl could do,

all this when she was but a young girl.

It was her gaze.

Penetrating and deep,

but only if you let her in,

if your soul acknowledged hers

and granted permission.

And she would know the fates,

the unimaginable, swirling cosmic particles of dust


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that circulate

from your head to your toes,

winding through your fingers

and leaving starry traces in your eyes.

This gaze

that could read the heavens,

was a burdensome gift.

It was heavy, so heavy,

but she carried the weight with grace,

with elegance.

Of course she stumbled,

and even tripped at times,

but she always remembered to look up;

to rejoice in falling and commemorate getting back up.

She always gazed to the heavens,

here she could not read her own future

and smiled, deeply gratified by the mystery.


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Hearts and OtherBroken Things

Ali Mulkeen

CHAPTER ONE

I knew him like back of my hand.

It was the little things, really. Like the way his whole face lit up when

he ate his moms homemade chocolate cake. Or his carefree,

charming way of interacting with just about anyone he crossed paths

with. The little things about him all strung together to create this one

person who saw me in a way no one else ever did.

I knew the way he was and that was something solid that I took hold

of and carried with me even when I tried to let go of it. He was

engraved in me in a way that made me feel like he was always there

even when he was so clearly gone for good. He was a part of me. A

part that still remained even when time ticked on.

I never realized just how much of me he was going to take until after

he was already gone. I was angry with myself for letting him do that,

take and take until he had every last bit of me. I had never let anyone

do that before. I still couldnt figure out why it had been him who had

broken that wall that I had worked so hard to build. Maybe it wasbecause he said he loved me. I wasnt sure I ever liked the sound of

those three words until they had come from his mouth, quick and

flustered one late night.

I love you, he said, looking at me with an intensity that made me

feel like he meant it. His eyes were still that same blue even though it

was dark outside on my front porch.


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Brynne? he said, when I didnt say anything. I know, I answered.

And it felt right and real in all the ways I knew it should. Okay, he

said. He threw his shoulders back and moved away from me a little.

Good, he said, Im glad you know. He backed up a little more and

his head hit against the hanging porch light that was rocking back and

forth in the wind.

Careful, I said. He held hishead for a second before he let go and

looked me in the eye again in that same intense way.

Damn it, Brynne, he said. He wasnt angry. Just confused. I knew

what he wanted. He wanted me to say it back. I wasnt sure I could,

wasnt sure I was capable offeeling that much. I was quiet for a

moment longer and I watched him as he kept backing away, slowly at

first and then more quickly as the silence grew. Finally, he turned his

back. That hurt, for some strange reason, in a way I had never

known.

Shane, I called after him, but he kept on walking. He was moving

quickly down the street to where his truck was parked at the corner.

Wait, I tried again. I hated that he kept moving, further away from

me. So I followed him. That night was the first time I had ever gone

after him. Most times, he was the one chasing me. I shouldve known

after that night how little it took for everything to change. I shouldve

known how quickly he could just leave.

I finally caught up to him. His pace had quickened and I was in a

running motion now.

Stop, I said, yanking his arm.

Why should I? he spat at me, turning too quickly on his heels and

looking me in the eye again. His eyes were cloudy and I realized, for

the first time, that I had hurt him. I had said things to him before in

moments of anger that were harsh and cruel, but this was the only

time I had ever seen him this way.

Dont just stand there, Brynne, he said. The wind had picked up a

little and I was getting chilly even though the sun had been out just

hours before. His blonde hair flew around his face a little and his eyes

focused in on me. I should just go, he said, when I had gotten quietagain. No, I said. Please dont. He stopped again and I wasnt sure

why he wasnt gone already. I didnt think I was worth sticking around

for. Because, I said, I love you, too. He didnt leave. He moved in

closer and I let his arms fold into me. And I was scared of what we

had just said, scared of what all of it meant. But he was here. He

didnt leave me. And he loved me. That was all that mattered in that

moment.


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But he had lied that night. Because if he loved me, fully and truly, the

way he said he did so many times after that, he wouldnt be gone

right now. He wouldnt have loaded his things into his old, red pickup

truck that winter morning. He wouldnt have driven across the country

to a new life that was waiting for him. He wouldnt have left me behind

two months after he had told me he loved me. Just two monthsbefore, I had been so sure of him, of everything. I should have known

how badly he could break me. I should have been watching out for

myself the same way I had always done. Because when he left he

didnt just break my heart, he broke other things too.

It was the first day of my senior year at Mountain Creek High School.

It was the second time I had seen him.

The first time had been three days earlier at Petes Grocery Store on

a warm August afternoon. I didnt usually do the grocery shopping,

but my dad had roped me into it.

Brynne, he said. He appeared at the doorway of my room dressed

in a navy blue suit and a matching striped tie. Fancy, I said to him.

He frowned. He had never been one for humor. That had always

been my mothers job. She just wasnt around to do it anymore.

Can you run down to Petes please? I looked up from the book I had

been pretending to read when I heard him come up the stairs.

Now? I asked.

He nodded. Jacks out. I have a meeting in less than an hour. I

should be on the road already. There was no point in arguing. So I just nodded and looked back down at the small, black print lying on

my lap. I expected him to leave right then, but he didnt. He hovered

there for a second too long and I could feel his presence just like I

always could whenever he was around, which wasnt all that often.

I wont be back until late, he said. Okay, I answered. He didnt

leave after that either. He just looked down at his cleanly polished

shoes. I was able to get a good look at that slight bald spot that had

been growing near the back of his head. He was young, too young to

be losing hair. I assumed it was the stress of work and the late hours.

There were other reasons too, I knew. Some I tried not to think about.

Theres some money on the counter. You can pick up something for

dinner for you and your brother. I just nodded at him and wondered if

there was something else he wanted to say, some other reason he

wasnt already on his way to that meeting he claimed to already be

running late for. Was there something else? I asked. He shook his

head. Dont forget those groceries. And with that, he left. I didnt put


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the book back where it had been collecting dust on my desk until I

heard his car pull out of the gravel driveway.

Along with the money he left for dinner, my dad also left a

handwritten grocery list on the counter. This wasnt the first time he

had done something like this. He was a very particular person. A

perfectionist.

I stared at his neat cursive handwriting on the piece of folded

notebook paper I knew he had taken from a drawer in his office. I had

only seen the inside of that room a handful of times. It was just too

much organization in one place for my liking. I took the list and the

keys and the money for dinner. I arrived at Petes Grocery Store five

minutes later in the beat up Jeep I shared with my brother. It was

warm outside and I could feel the sun radiating through the windows.

I had been trying to enjoy the last few days of August sunshine. I

knew as soon as September came, the temperature would start

dropping in Mountain Creek. It was like clockwork every year. It wasrelatively warm in July and August and every other month out of the

year seemed to be tainted with a chill in the air.

I approached the door of the familiar grocery store and wheeled a

rusty shopping cart through the main entrance. The store was empty,

just like I thought it would be. The weather was too nice for anyone to

be grocery shopping.

I read my dads list carefully, making sure not to miss anything. He

would notice, I was sure of that. Aside from being particular about

everything, he also had an extremely good memory. I think that was

part of the reason he was the way he was. He remembered too

much.

The hum of the refrigerators in the dairy aisle seemed to be my only

company. But around the bend near the registers I could hear voices.

You have any experience? I knew the voice was Petes. He was the

older man who had owned the store forever. He was the only thing in

Mountain Creek that felt consistent to me. Nope, said the second

voice. It had a slightly deep, unfamiliar tone. There was a pause in

the conversation and I waited in the dairy aisle for it to resume. Youll

need training, Pete said. He sounded hesitant, like he was unsure

about some important decision he had to make. Im a quick learner,

the second voice said. I tried to put a face to it, but I couldnt. That

was, until I reached the end of the dairy aisle and was forced to turn

the bend to where they were standing at the registers. Pete was

looking down, scratching his balding head. He pushed his glasses up

on the bridge of his nose and took in a long, deep breath.


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Neither of them heard me approaching. But when the wheels of the

shopping cart got close enough and were too squeaky to ignore, they

both turned around. Well, hello there Ms. McGovern, Pete said to

me. He had a way of smiling that always made me feel like seeing me

actually made him happy. Hi, Pete, I said. I loaded my groceries

onto the checkout counter.

And thats when I saw him. The mysterious person Pete had been

conversing with. He was looking right at me with the bluest eyes I had

ever seen. He had light blonde hair that reached past his forehead

and fell just above his eyebrows. He was tall and his shoulders were

broad, but his arms were thin, kind of like his face. His nose was

pointed and dusted with a few light colored freckles. And he was

smiling at me with a wide sheepish grin that made me feel like he had

a weird, sarcastic humor about him. It confused me and I wasnt sure

if I should be insulted or not that he was looking at me in such a

strange way. It made me immediately feel defensive. I didnt smile

back.

Hows that twin brother of yours? Pete asked me. Hes good, I

answered. And your father? Holding up okay, is he now? I just

nodded and tried to force a smile that wouldnt come.

Well, Pete began, and he turned towards the strange guy. I guess

this will be your first customer. I glanced over at the guy and his eyes

widened and his smile grew bigger. Really? he asked. Pete nodded.

Goodluck, he said and patted him on the back. Hang in there,

kiddo, Pete said to me. He winked and headed to the back of the

store carrying large cardboard box.

I could feel the guy looking at me. I made it a point to focus on

something other than his gaze. The nutrition facts on the gallon of

milk I had placed on the counter were suddenly the single most

consuming thing in the room. His hand reached over every now and

then as he scanned the groceries one by one. He did this pretty

quickly for someone who had just claimed to the storeowner that he

had no experience.

That comes to thirty-four fifty, he said, sounding all too sure of

himself. He held out his hand as I reached for the cash I had stuffed

into my wallet on my way out the door. I handed him two twenty-dollarbills and watched as he stared at the cash register with a look of

complete confusion on his face. He clicked a button or two and the

machine groaned back with an irritated beeping noise. He looked up

at me for a quick second, I guess for some kind of direction or

guidance that I clearly did not have.


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First day, he said and shrugged. He was smiling again, the same

way he was when he had watched me approach the checkout

counter. I just looked away.

Ah, he said after a few more endless seconds. I heard him click a

few buttons and watched as his smile grew with satisfaction. The

register dinged with life and he inserted the cash I had handed him.

Thanks for waiting, he said, when he handed me my change. Sorry

it took so long, he tried again as I collected the bags of groceries. I

could almost hear the smile in his voice, if that were even possible.

I carried two bags of groceries on each arm and headed towards the

door. I could see Pete restocking the shelves in the back. He waved

and I waved back. I could still feel the guys eyes on me as I inched

closer to the door. See you around, he said. I pushed through the

door without a word and stepped outside into one of the final days of

summer.


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The Theory of Horses

Simona Zaretsky

The wind kissed the sky,

but the sky resisted.

The insistent wind grew restless.

Angry and abused,

betrayed and broken,

wind limped and shuffled

through high dusty plains

and low silken meadows.

Wind sniffled through shadowy,

damp forests,

but branches and leaves grew impatient.

They pushed and shoved,

hurling the dejected wind

from their rough claws

and into the mud,

freshly brewed

from a cascade of skys mocking tears.

Panting and selfish

the wind

mutinously planned.

Shaping and stitching


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pinching and pressing

The horse came to be.

Fast as the wind,

ignorant of the sky,

and hungry for life,

he soared.


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The Black Dress

Khulood Fanim

THE BIG VILLA IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD ACROSS THE STREET IS NEVER

DARK. It is also never silent. The residents of the house are always

inside entertaining guests, hosting parties, or sitting around lazily all

day. This means that no one is ever outside in the glorious flower

garden that is grown and tended by the maids. No one walks around

them, taking in their sweet scents and beautiful colors. In this garden,

these flowers are merely an unnecessary waste of space, so what do

I do?

I steal them.

Stealing flowers is easy. They are plentiful, and no one misses them.

Sneaking in through the gates of a villa unseen by security cameras,

unnoticed by guard dogs, and out of sight of the people who work

there is another story. I don't even know how I manage to do it, but I

do. How else am I supposed to get by when I live with my elderly

father in what basically is a tiny attic of a crumbling building? How amI supposed to do my share in feeding us?

I wake up at 5:00 a.m. in the morning and turn around on my

mattress to face my father. He is already awake and is sitting up,

muttering a prayer. "Good morning," I say softly.

My father looks at me with his gentle, twinkling eyes and smiles. He

ends his prayers and opens his arms, gesturing for me to hug him.

He kisses my head and whispers what he says to me every day: "I

prayed for you this morning." When I was thirteen, right when I

started stealing, these words made me feel so guilty I would burst out

crying. Now, at sixteen, my heart is as cold as a stone. Lying comes

naturally to me now, and there's no going back. I smile up at him as

genuinely as I can, then I get up and start getting ready for my day.

My father heads to the door and waves. "Have a great day at the

restaurant, Mona!" he says and walks out.

As far as my father knows, I work at a restaurant serving and making

tea and coffee. My shift ends before his at the factory does, which


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explains why I am always home before him. He knows nothing of the

girl sitting on the sidewalk somewhere near the metro station, selling

beautiful things at prices the people of Cairo can't believe.

I sigh as I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. Under my first mattressand inside my slightly hollowed out bottom mattress is where I keep

all my stolen goods. Most of the flowers survive, since they're only

there for a few hours after they're taken. The hiding place is ideal for

everything else I take: jewelry, old toys, old cups and plates, and

basically everything that rich people have but don't need, and is

accessible to me.

The weather is nice today. I hug my bag tightly to my chest and take

a deep breath, trying to enjoy the fresh air before the traffic starts and

the air is replaced by the smell of petrol.

I run to my spot on the sidewalk and begin setting up my things.

Soon, the early Sunday crowd begins approaching, and my money jar

slowly begins to fill up. Of course, most people at the metro station

are in a hurry, but I am grateful for the few who take some time to

consider buying from me.

After seven hours of work, morning slowly bleeds into afternoon and I

pack my things, giving myself a lunch break.

Looking suspicious as I walk around doesn't worry me anymore. I

definitely would have felt safer if I were working legally at a

restaurant, but in the end it doesn't matter. In the crowded areas ofCairo where I like to walk around, everyone has a story, and there's

much worse than a teenager who steals things for a living.

Which is why today, when I walk into a little shop, I am taken aback

when the storeowner approaches me and begins to question me.

"Do you plan on buying anything?" she asks, crossing her arms.

I narrow my eyes. "I'd like to look around before I decide, if that's

okay with you."

She shrugs. But when I begin walking around, looking through theclothes, she follows me. I do my best to ignore her and look as

though I really am here to buy something, although I don't have the

slightest intention to do so. Not until, at the back of the store, I see

the prettiest black dress I have ever seen. I rush to it and finger the

tiny embroidery on the sleeves. I spread out the skirt, and I am

transported to the best day of my life.


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29

I was eight years old, and my mother was still alive. We lived in an

apartment that had a beautiful view, and my father managed a

supermarket. My mother was standing in front of a full-length mirror in

her bedroom wearing a dress that looked almost exactly like the one I

am standing in front of. It was a gift from my father. He had saved up

for months just to buy it for her, insisting that everyone should ownsomething that could make them feel special.

Two years later, our building burned down with my mother, her dress,

and all of our money inside. My father had taken me with him to the

supermarket, and we only found out later that night, five hours after it

had happened.

When I look up at the mannequin that wears the dress, all I see is my

mother's face.

I look at the price tag and close my eyes. I could sell things forever

and still not have enough to buy the dress. I look back at the storeowner behind me and smile. I can see sympathy in her eyes when

she smiles back, but I take it as a good sign. It will be easier to steal

the dress and get away with it if I look weak and emotional. I rub my

eyes and walk out of the store slowly.

I don't go back to the metro station that day. Instead, I go back to our

rooftop home and lie down on my mattress.

I begin having wild daydreams where I use the money I have to buy

my father and I plane tickets to another country. I think of how

different I'll feel, boarding the plane in my black dress, and how much

richer I will feel when I bid the alleys I've lived in here in Egyptfarewell.

I don't realize that I've fallen asleep until I am woken by the sound of

my father letting himself into the room. I sit up and wave at him.

"How was your day?" he asks as he sits next to me.

"It was okay," I say nodding.

My father leans back against the wall and crosses his legs. "I was

offered another job today," he says.

My eyes widen in surprise. "So you're leaving the factory?" I ask.

"No, it's a part time job. I'll be going after my shift at the factory. It's at

a supermarket, so it shouldn't be too hard for me,"

I stand up. "Dad, you get tired easily. You can't come home later than

you already do. It'll be too much!"


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30

"But it won't go to waste!" He protests. "Think about it, Mona. Think of

all the money I'd earn at the supermarket, added to what I already get

at the factory and what you get at the restaurant. We could actually

afford a decent life," he sighs, gesturing around him.

I shake my head. "I don't want all that if it means risking your health."

"Mona, isn't there anything you wish you could have?" I think about

getting an education and I think about the dress. I nod slowly. "Well,

you can have that! We can do anything if we resolve to work hard!

When we have the money, I promise I'll get proper medication."

Reluctantly, I nod. My father opens a bag of food he brought home

with him and we have a small dinner. As I eat, I think of my father's

willingness to work as hard as he must to give us a dignified life. I

think of how special the dress would be if I could pay for it, have it put

in a proper bag, then carry it around with nothing to hide.

That night, I decide to sell the last of my stolen goods, buy the dress

with all the money I have, then try to get a job at the restaurant I

should be working in.

It feels good to have ambitions, and it feels really nice not to feel

guilty for once in my life. I am still smiling when I fall asleep.

Two weeks later, I sell my last flower. I stand up and stare at my

empty bag, then look around at the metro station, mentally saying

goodbye. I throw the worn-out bag in the garbage bin and walk away.

I walk through a street where a bazaar is going on. I don't seeanything of interest until I reach a stall that is selling fabrics. I look

through the different colors and pick one up to feel it. I must have

taken a little too long with it in my hands, because a lady next to me

turns around and asks, "Are you going to buy that?"

"No," I say, putting it down.

She looks at my untidy hair and my dirty clothes. "You were going to

steal it," she says.

This is the last thing I want to be accused of doing after today. "I

wasn't going to steal it," I say calmly.

"Don't lie!" She shouts. She slaps me and I gasp. "It's people like you

who ruin this country's reputation! Leave my stall before I call the

police!"

I run away with tears in my eyes and anger boiling inside me. I keep

running until I reach the store with the dress. I stop at the door and

catch my breath. All the things I talked about with my father suddenly


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31

don't matter to me. I walk into the store, pick up the dress, and put it

on in one of the changing rooms. Then, I stick my head out of the

changing room, making sure the storeowner has her back turned, andI rush to the door. I run out into the summer air.

As I run, I keep looking back to make sure the storeowner isn't behind

me. I keep my ears alert for police car sirens. I avoid looking at the

other people, but a girl in a dress running as fast as I am looks

suspicious anyway. As far as I can see, though, no one is surprised

by me. No one stops to wonder about the girl in the black dress.


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32

Childs Play

Nelly Green

Long forgotten toys rise,

Sending towering shadows to dance,

Dance across the dark turquoise ceiling.

Piles of dirty clothes morph,

Transforming into the shape of horrifying monsters,

Teeth snapping in hunger.

I pull my blanket up to my trembling chin,

And squeeze shut my watering eyes.

I hear them moving,

Crawling,

Staggering toward my bed.

They jeer at me, calling me names.

Cry baby,

Chicken,

Coward.

I cant take it anymore.

I let out a piercing scream,

Sweat mixed with hot tears streaming down my face.

I am frightened in my own world.


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And,

I cant get out.


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Vast

Simona Zaretsky

ADMITTEDLY,IT WAS A FAIRLY BAD IDEA, but since we all came to the

same conclusion it seemed reasonable. Half of a round moon hung in

the sky, looking like a pale quarter, neatly bitten in half. Stars dazzled

our eyes and gave us the impression that with so much tinsel

shimmering in the air this was a celebration of magical proportions.

We dropped our towels letting a warm breeze tickle our arms and

legs, wreaking havoc with bathing suit strings. Our toes lined up onthe edge of the light, steel dock as it bobbed gently on the surface of

the inky depths. The air was permeated with the smell of damp mud

and infused with the occasional whiff of mystery. The looming trees

stretched their arms up to caress stars, their thick, rough bodies

melding to create a barrier, a divide between this moment and the

rest of eternity.

We lost ourselves in the jump; plunging into bone tingling cold waters,

deep only in the sense that all we could see in the depths was the

darkness of a world we did not know. A quick brush of scratchy

seaweed seemed to be a kiss from the Loch Ness Monster and an

accidental kick to the calve from a friend became the slimy hand of

Grendels Mother, dragging us down down down.

It was terrifically terrifying; we screamed in absolute delight, as the

moon winked down on us and the stars smiled serenely. The trees,

our protection from reality, sighed with envy and a touch of

melancholy as the yellow dock light nodded approval.

Suspended,

we waited for release and hoped it would never come.


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Canvas Teen Literary Journal, Autumn 2013

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