WITS 2010-11 Digital Anthology

Cover Photo by: Lauren Van Steuven, Grant High SchoolTitle Page Photo by: Amy Navarrette, Madison High School

Introduction 6

Writers in the Schools 7

The Dream — Elizabeth Fields 8

Unique Hunger — Tomas Montoya 9

Arizona, 2011 — Kian Dye 10

The Forgotten Penny — Emily Reeves 11

Wake Up — Caroline Baber 13

Untitled — Brenee Pryor 14

The Menacing Mind — Adam McDonald 15

Run-On Sentence — Akiko Gorowski 17

I Am Who I Am — Renold Turenne 18

My Simple Story — Linette Meshack 19

Shattered Glass — Casey Hess 24

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Contents

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Dear Reader,Writers are called to imagine their territory, explore their obsessions, and articulate their vision of what it means to be alive in a specific time and place. Alongside the print anthology, No One Carries An Umbrella Here. these digital chapbooks provide a playful frame for a diverse collection of poems, plays, comics, fiction, and nonfiction written by high schools students in Portland. In 2010-11, WITS placed 23 local professional writers to teach 49 semester-long residencies in Portland’s public high schools, serving over 1,100 students. WITS served an additional 1,500 students through mentoring, author visits, and books, as well as tickets and transportation to literary events.

During a fifteen-week WITS residency, writers model the writing life, teaching students to focus first on exploring and playing with language. Our writers then teach strategies to sustain and develop a piece of writing. They share their expertise regarding the art, craft, and discipline of revision. During the final portion of the residency, students have opportunities to share their writing through public readings at neighborhood bookstores and cafes and through publication in our print anthology and digital chapbooks.

After fifteen years of service to Portland Public Schools, WITS continues to grow and change to meet the needs of students and teachers. Last year more than 1,200 high school students attended a literary event at Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall. We also piloted a college essay-writing workshop in partnership with Franklin High School, training mentors to work with students on the essays students need for college and scholarship applications.

We are lucky to live in a city where people are excited about reading and writing. At Literary Arts, our mission is to support writers, engage readers, and to inspire the next generation with great literature. Each year we raise over $180,000 to provide the Writers in the Schools program to students attending every Portland public high school, and we’d love your help. To order a print anthology or make a donation, visit us at www.literary-arts.org.

Mary RechnerWriters in the Schools Program Director

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WRITERS IN THE SCHOOLS 2010-11

WRITERS-IN-RESIDENCE

Angela Allen, Turiya Autry, Lorraine Bahr, Carmen Bernier-Grand, Chris Cottrell, Hali Felt, Nicole Georges, Cindy Williams Gutiérrez, Hunt Holman, John Isaacson, Karen Karbo, Jennifer Lauck, Elizabeth Lopeman, Amy Minato, Renee Mitchell, Laura Moulton, Alexis Nelson, Mark Pomeroy, Ismet Prcic, Donna Prinzmetal, Joanna Rose, Matthew B. Zrebski

VISITING AUTHORS

Natasha Trethewey, Tracy Kidder, Joanna Rose, Renee Watson, Amanda Gersh, Michele Glazer, Wes Moore, Art Spiegelman

PARTICIPATING TEACHERS

Kelly Allen, Amy Ambrosio, Kathy Anderson, Matthew Boyer, Richard Brown, Annelies Bulow, Gretchen Craig-Turner, Michael Cullerton, Anne Dierker, Jennifer Doncan, Bianca Espinosa, Kelly Gomes, Ben Grosscup, Rebecca Gundle, Cindy Irby, Glen Jacobs, Tom Kane, Paige Knight, Steve Lambert, Eric Levine, Eve McAlister, Pat McCormick, Manuel Mateo, Darryl Miles, Kate Moore, Julie O’Neill, Pam Quale, Nora Robertson, Al Rowell, Alicia Smith, Sarah Steiner, Amy Taramasso, Henise Telles-Ferreira, Trisha Todd, Dana Vinger, Kristin Wallace, Janice Wallenstein, Ellen Whatmore, Amy Wright, Elisa Wong, Tracey Wyatt, Jamie Zartler

WITS LIASIONS

Matthew Boyer, Linda Campillo, Michael Cullerton, Paige Knight, Eric Levine, Dave Mylet, Sarah Steiner, Dana Vinger, Virginia Warfield, Tracey Wyatt

PARTICIPATING PRINCIPALS

Sue Brent, Petra Callin, Peyton Chapman, Paul Cook, Kelli Clark, David Hamilton, Toni Hunter, Shay James, Fred Locke, A.J. Morrison, Steve Olczak, Frank Scotto, Charlene Williams

DISTRICT LIAISONMarcia Arganbright

DIGITAL CHAPBOOK STAFFAcacia BlackwellMel Wells

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The DreamElizabeth Fields, Cleveland High School

The ocean crashes onto the beach, making the children and seagulls run away.

The footprints in the sand follow each other up into town.

The ticking of the clock is the only thing I hear when I lie awake in bed at night.

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Unique HungerTomas Montoya, Roosevelt High School

My hunger is unique; you have never seen anything like it

My stomach is like a black hole eating everything in its way

My stomach is like a bottomless pit, never knowing when it’s going to end

My traits are like a buffet; I have many to choose from

My stomach is like a black hole eating everything in its way

My stomach growls like a pack of wild animals looking for food

My traits are like a buffet; I have many to choose from

I am so thirsty, I will drink the ocean and still want more

My stomach growls like a pack of wild animals looking for food

When my stomach growls, it scares people away

I am so thirsty, I will drink out the ocean and still want more

I see the world as a plate of food; everything can be eaten

When my stomach growls, it scares people away

When I eat, I am like a person who hasn’t eaten in weeks

I see the world as a plate of food; everything can be eaten

My stomach is like an earthquake, never knowing when it’s going to hit

When I eat, I am like a person that hasn’t eaten in weeks

My stomach is a bottomless pit, never knowing when it’s going to end

My stomach is like an earthquake, never knowing when it’s going to hit

My hunger is unique; you have never seen anything like it.

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Arizona, 2011Kian Dye, Cleveland High School

As she woke up, the world was crumbling around her. Hundreds of people

were dying; thousands more would soon die in Iraq. There was a mixture of over-

powering joy and unmatched sorrow in the hospital. It was the happiest time in their

lives, and it was one of the worst times in our country’s history.

Nine years later, she is the future. Her neighbor brings her to meet the

congresswoman. This is going to be a big day. She can feel the electricity in the air.

She is wearing a blue-checkered dress and her church shoes.They arrive in a blue

Jetta. It’s busy. They walk inside and see the congresswoman. They walk over and

introduce themselves.

Then he walks in. The gunfire starts and everyone starts screaming. The

congresswoman gets hit first, then the girl. Her dress isn’t just blue anymore. This was

supposed to be one of the happiest times in her life; instead, it’s the worst one. Just

as she was brought into this world, she is taken out. In the darkest hour, she is a light.

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The Forgotten PennyEmily Reeves, Wilson High School

“If you don’t tell him, I will,” threatened my mother, once I got done telling her

the news in the car.

“But, Mother, it’s not a big deal. I mean, come on, he’s not going to miss it. I bet

you ten bucks he doesn’t even know that he dropped it,” I said.

“That doesn’t matter, missy. It was wrong of you. Is that how I’ve raised you?”

she asked me.

“Yes, Mom, it is how you raised me. Because you do it all the time. But I don’t

judge you,.”

“That’s not the same thing. I’m your mother,” she said to me while she was

turning the car around. “Now I’m going to take you back so you can return it to that

gentleman.”

“This is beyond stupid. This, this is bonkers! He won’t miss it. So let’s just turn

around and go home. I’ve got loads of homework.”

“I don’t care that you’ve got homework. You’re going to return that to that

man.”

“FINE, Mother,” I said coldly.

Five minutes later, we got to the grocery store.

“Oh look, there he is. Now go give it back,” my mother said while giving me a

little shove.

“Um, excuse me, sir, but you dropped this penny and I thought you would like

it back,” I said with my hand extended to him with the penny in it.

“That’s perfectly fine, little girl, I’ve got millions,” he said and walked away,

without the penny.

Wow, totally unbelievable, I thought to myself while standing there.

“Now what did I tell you, Mother? Oh yeah, something along the lines that he

wouldn’t miss it, or care,” I called to my mother over my shoulder.

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“What did you say darling? Did he take the penny back?” my mother

asked me.

“Never mind, whatever. No, he didn’t take it,” I snapped to my mother. “Now

let’s go home. I have homework. Remember that?”

“Gladly, because I don’t want anyone to see me with you and know that you’re

my daughter with this terrible attitude,” said my mother quickly.

“Whatever,” I said, walking toward the car.

“You need to be nice to me. I drive you everywhere, feed you, buy you

clothes, and you treat me like crap sometimes. Well, more like most of the time,” my

mother explained to me on the car ride home.

“I’m a teenager, Mom. What do you expect? Yes, you do all that for me, but

that’s what you’re supposed to do. That comes as part of the package of being a

mother,” I told her with lots of attitude. “Plus you just drove me to the store, again, for

a stupid, pointless reason. To go up to a man, a stranger, and ask him if he wanted this

penny, not special, that he so didn’t want back. Gosh!”

“Well, you know what? You just got yourself grounded, Debby. Two weeks with

nothing,” my mother told me.

“Like what in the world would you take away?” I asked her. “My cell phone?

Wait, I don’t have one because you don’t want me to have a social life. My computer?

Oh, also don’t have one. We don’t even have a freaking TV that you could tell me

not to watch.”

“The penny,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m taking the penny. You can have it in two weeks when you’re ungrounded,”

Mother said, outside of our house now.

“Fine. Take the stupid penny,” I said, flipping it at her and closing the car door

and heading to the house. “You can keep it for all I care.”

“Nah. It’s a worthless penny from the ground,” she said, getting the groceries and

following me to the house.

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Wake UpCaroline Baber, Cleveland High School

“When are you going to get up?” asks my mom.

“Five minutes,” I respond.

“You need to clean your room,” she says.

“I will,” I say.

“When?”

“Five minutes!” I say.

“Five minutes when?” she asks.

“Come on! Can’t I just lay here for five more minutes?”

“Take your shoes up and go clean your room.”

“I will.”

“When?” she asks.

“Five minutes,” I reply.

“Fine.”

“Good,” I say.

“If you don’t clean your room, you’ll be grounded,” she says.

“I will.”

“When?”

“Five minutes.”

“Fine.”

“Okay!”

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UntitledBryony Pryor, FOCUS

Isn’t it better this way; groggy emotions pour out, backfire wood burns out,

the road to my neighborhood begins with utter zen, splinter daggers, smoldering love

and catchphrases. It begins with someone else translucent agriculture fireworks of

educating facts, me I’m just there adding happiness maybe bitterness/tartness, ‘cause

no one’s perfect, things to the atmosphere. But you’re a great girl. I once believed you

said this but now all experimental jibber-jabber. Isn’t it better this way?

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The Menacing MindAdam McDonald, Wilson High School

The terrifying pitch of the alarm clock woke Jaison up as it did every morning –

he would often refer to it as “the sound of pure death.” His eyes shot open, allowing

the surrounding world to fill him with pain and misery. The hatred he felt for having

to wake up early could be compared to the way Pluto must have felt about the

International Astronomical Union’s decision committee.

However, the sweet warmth of joy that the daily shower brought him would

always restore his faith in the universe. After the completion of the daily routine, he would

head off to school, which he didn’t care for, though not in the way that others didn’t

care for it. Unlike most people, Jaison hated the social aspect of high school.

“It’s like preparing a meal, no matter how good for you that fruit is, or how

much healthier your body would be later on, most people always go for the meat,”

Jaison would tell people. “And for the record, meat is both figurative and literal in that

sentence.” Unfortunately for Jaison, he found that by trying to push people away, they drew

closer to him, as if he was a magnet for people he didn’t want to talk to.

Don’t let any of this be misleading; Jaison was a very happy guy, perhaps happier

than the rest of his peers. Emotions were always something Jaison liked, for he saw

them as in his control. If he didn’t want to be angry, then why be angry? As a result,

Jaison was always blessed with a constant good mood. He would never describe it as

a sunny disposition, but rather the lack of a sad nerve.

He figured that everyone else must be crazy for letting themselves get so

emotional about something that they started feeling bad. He would often ponder

what was going through their brains to want to be sad, or angry, or depressed. “It’s all

a frame of mind,” he thought. Shortly after pondering this he chuckled and realized he

must be the crazy one, for if everyone else were normal then by default that would

leave him in the loony bin.

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At the end of the day, all Jaison ever had to worry about was what he thought of

himself. Though he feared that a deep inner part of him might be looking down at his

being, as if it were all a lie, and his lack of a sad nerve was only a cosmetic feature. That

perhaps he was cheating himself out of real happiness as opposed to artificial happiness.

Nobody could blame him for the creation of this theory, for that is what you get when

you are left alone with only yourself.

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Run-On SentenceAkiko Gorowski, Cleveland High School

When I am happy, I hide behind my fingers, and compliments make me giggly

and I end up biting my lips really hard, songs fly in and out of my head, and the song

switches to every bounce I take, my closet looks so glorious I have to try everything

on and when he compliments me butterflies give birth to hurricanes in my stomach

which nearly makes me melt to my feet where I will roll on the ground laughing and

crying, drenched in my exciting sweat, and I wish he’d join me because I have a crush

on him, yeah, I have a crush on him.

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I Am Who I AmRenold Turenne, Roosevelt High School

I am who I am.

Nothing can change me.

Hating on me won’t change anything.

I’ll do what my heart desires.

Nothing can change me.

If you kill me I will arise from death.

I’ll do what my heart desires.

If you hit me I’ll hit you back.

Some say that I am an odd man,

I say let me be odd.

Some say I need to get stronger.

Some say that I am an odd man,

I say let me be odd.

Some say that I need to get stronger.

Hating on me won’t change a thing.

I am who I am.

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My Simple StoryLinnette Meshack, Roosevelt High School

“I can’t take this bullshit any more!” I screamed and slammed my bedroom

door. “I miss my dad being in my life!” I threw my backpack in the corner and jumped

on my pillow-top bed. “A man needs a male role model in his life to look up to,

right?” I yelled to my homeboy Jay as he sat on my bed.

Jay’s a kid from around the block. He’s about two years older than me and he’s

a very convincing fellow. He can convince you to do about anything. That’s how he got me

into the gang that’s now like a second family to me. I took off my black hoodie and

grabbed a hanger from my small, tightly packed closet.

“Man! I didn’t mean to make my mom divorce him.”

I passed Jay the blue and black brand-new Jordans he had stolen a couple days

ago.

“Man, can’t you just get over it? What’s done is done,” said Jay, hoping I would

change the subject.

“NO! I can’t just let it go! He won’t even accept my apology. Maybe if I had

never caught him cheating then maybe we would still be a happy family. They were

married ten years with no problems until he messed up!” I hung my sweater up and

walked over to my computer desk, put my elbows on the desk, and buried my head

into my hands. “Now my dad is getting more sick everyday and he won’t even let me

help him,” I sighed.“I wish I could just tell him how much I love him.”

“Then tell him!!” Jay interrupted.

“I would if I could, but he wouldn’t even give me a minute out of his day.”

After Jay changed his shoes, he told me he’d be back the next day and left.

Later that night, my mom sat me down for a talk. As she rubbed her smooth light

brown hands together, she calmly said, “I got a call from your school today.” She

looked at me as I pulled out the dining room table chair to sit down.

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“They said that you haven’t been there all week!” she continued.

I didn’t want to tell her that I was actually skipping to go handle business with Jay.

Business that I really shouldn’t been involved with in the first place. So instead, I just

told her the first thing that came to my mind

“Mom, they’re lying!” I said as I stood up and pushed my chair back in.

“The school wouldn’t lie about something like this!” she screamed back as I

was already headed up the stairs to my room.

I knew that being around gang members wasn’t good for me but with a mom

who’s always gone and a dad who completely hates me, my fellow gang members are

all I have to turn to. I closed the door to my tiny bedroom door and kicked off my black

Jordans and slowly rolled into bed as I pulled the blanket over my shoulders. I turned

onto my side so that I was facing the blank white wall.

“I hope and pray that my dad will be okay as I close my eyes to sleep; I give

you my heart as yours to keep. Amen.” I couldn’t stop thinking about my dad and

how much our relationship had really fallen apart.

I woke the next morning and jumped out of bed, determined today would be

the day I would go to my dad’s house and try to talk to him.

By the time I was done getting ready, the ground outside was completely covered in

rain. I walked about a block to get to the bus stop and waited a couple minutes until

the bus pulled up and I stepped in, not noticing all the people sitting there. I took a

seat and began dreading the day ahead of me. Before I knew it, I was stepping off

the bus and right into my dad’s small yard. My heart began to race, wondering what

I was going to say. I slowly walked up to the door, my hands shaking in my pockets.

Somehow I managed to make it to the door. Bang! Bang! Bang! I stood there waiting

for him to answer the door.

“Maybe I shouldn’t be here; maybe I should just go home; maybe-”

My thoughts were interrupted as he opened the door, slightly. He was smiling,

then his smile completely disappeared. He didn’t bother to say hi or how you doing. He

just looked at me for a second and said, “I told you to never come to my house!” His

breath had the smell of alcohol.

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“But, Dad,” I cried.

“I told you to never call me your dad, because I don’t have a son!” he snickered.

“You can’t disown me. I’m your only child!”

He frowned and attempted to shut the door in my face, but I quickly jolted

close to him and put my foot in the doorway. As he stumbled back, I was trampled

with a strong smell of alcohol. Tears filled my eyes.

“It is not my fault that you decided to do what you did! So don’t blame it on

me!” I sighed. “Dad, I am your only child and you cannot just act like you hate me!” I

took a deep breath and continued, “Dad, I’m sorry for taking part in your divorce, and

I’m sorry that you can’t get over it.”

As my voice grew louder his facial expression turned from madness to sorrow.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I screamed “I love you and I need you!” Tears ran

from my eyes I moved my foot and quickly began to walk away. I heard him say “wait”

right before I turned the corner but I was too upset to face him.

During that week my dad tried to call a lot of times, but I was extremely upset. I

didn’t want to see anyone: not Jay, not my mom, no one!

It took many hours being by myself to decide I didn’t need to be in a gang.

When I told Jay and the others, they didn’t take it very well, but I didn’t care. I got

myself together and started focusing on school.

While I was in class one morning, my phone kept going off. It vibrated every

second as I was trying to concentrate. When my math teacher finally finished up

with the stupid daily lessons, I quickly left and answered it.

“Hello?”

“Hey!” my mom said, all worried.

“What’s wrong!” I screamed.

“Come straight to the hospital!”

“What’s wrong?” I screamed, as students looked at me like I was crazy.

“No time to talk, just come!”

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I ran to my locker and grabbed my bags and before I knew it I was at the

hospital. I couldn’t stop wondering what was going on.“Is it Mom? Or Jay? Or…Dad?

What’s wrong?” I kept asking myself.

As I made it to the lobby of Emmanuel Hospital, I saw my mom and Jay.

“Come this way,” my mom said, pulling me towards the light brown room door.

“All he wants is to talk to you!”

I knew then it was Dad. I walked into the room. I looked ahead of me and

stopped in my tracks.

“Dad!” I yelled.

I dropped my bags and my eyes began to get watery when I saw him lying in

the hospital bed with an oxygen mask and a lot of machines around and wires at-

tached to him.

“Come here,” he whispered, signaling for me to move closer to him.

With every single step I took, I shook more and more. When I stood beside him

he grabbed my hand. I didn’t know what to think or do, after everything that we had

been through I kept wondering if I really should have been there.

“Dad, what’s wrong?”

“That doesn’t even matter. I wanted to tell you I was wrong.”

I couldn’t believe my small ears. I had been waiting a long time to hear that. At

that moment it felt as if time had stopped.

He continued. “I was wrong for blaming you. I just didn’t want to accept the fact

that it was my fault that I lost the woman I love and destroyed my family. I’m sorry for

not being there for you when you needed me.”

I stood there, shocked, not believing what I was actually hearing.

“Dad, it’s okay. I just want to know if you’re going to be okay.”

“Son, I don’t know.”

His eyes began to get lower and his lips slowly stopped moving.

Beep-beep-beep-beep... I looked over at the machines and I couldn’t believe

what I was seeing; his heart rate was dropping!

“NURSE!” I screamed.

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The nurse rushed in, screaming that they needed more people to help;

someone was trying to escort me out the room. I was hesitant to leave.

“Dad!” I yelled, hoping he would say something back, but instead the beeping

from the machines just grew louder and louder in my ears.

“Dad!” I yelled again.

Then there was one long beep.

There I was, hanging on to the handle of the cold hospital door, when the

nurse declared that my dad was dead. A heart failure.

When I finally had gotten what I wanted, when I finally got my daddy back,

when things where finally going to be okay, when he finally talked to me!

I slid down against the door, put my face in my hands, and, for the first time in

a long time, I cried like a baby.

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“You piece of crap.”

Windows filter out the happiness the sun brings. Gray walls focus our attention

onto a common goal, shared by the class. Our bodies go through torment day in and

day out. Our feet spread onto the ground like a starfish on a rock, except we have the

power to leave our foundation and return, for the most part, unharmed. Bars line the

walls; they are placed so high that even the tallest in our class looks undersized. Mir-

rors line the front of the room. We stare at ourselves for the entire day, all sixteen of

us. They are needed for correction, but all we see is the nonexistent image of a butt

that sticks out by six inches, and a stomach clearly displaying last night’s dinner mixed

with this morning’s breakfast.

“You ignorant child.” The teacher is staring at me, firing a fully loaded gun of

dreadful words.

I have been in this room seventeen times, and seventeen times have I worn the

awful uniform of black tights and a white shirt. My nerves respond to the sensation

of the sweat migrating from the depth of my pores to the tip of my nose. A mixture

of colognes and deodorants floats freely into my overworked nostrils. My legs have

the power of the sun; my ankles are as fragile as glass. Every time I bend my legs and

push the ground away with all my might, I take myself to the past. I detach from the

ground and my short-lived battle with gravity begins. As I begin to lose the all-out war,

memories of the past flash through my mind. I see a moon on an ocean. The water

moves so slowly that I see the moon’s reflection as if on glass. My feet roll down and

my ankles bend. Gravity crashes down onto my ankles; the pain runs through my

entire leg and I am forced back to the present.

“You don’t deserve that scholarship.”

The words being yelled at me scrape the inside of my brain, clawing at the

emotional barriers I have put up. I repeat the combination countless times; gravity

Shattered GlassCasey Hess, Grant High School

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continues to pound the will out of me. I have no emotional support; it seems as though

the San Francisco Ballet is out to get me. My parents are back in Portland, carrying

on with their daily lives.

I look at the man conducting the class. I see last night’s dinner mixed with

morning’s breakfast in his stomach. His golden complexion is accentuated by the sun

gleaming behind him. Jorge does sixty pushups every day, but not a single crunch.

He smells of fresh air, left over from his motorcycle ride to the studios. He is staring

straight at me; I am weak to his will.

“You are the worst dancer I have ever seen; you don’t listen to anything I

ever say.”

I stare back. The most important rule of ballet runs through my brain: always

agree with the teacher, always agree with the teacher. My mind retreats to the furthest

depth it can go. My ears muffle the sounds being yelled at me. I am surrounded by a

sea of eyes; gravity has left me vulnerable and defenseless to the teacher’s words. I stand

frozen waiting for this awful scene to end.

At the end of class, I leave my stuff where it is and quickly grab my phone. I

run outside in my tights and walk behind an alley and squat into a tight ball. I quickly

dial my mom, holding back the tears that are about to burst. I tell her that I can’t do

it anymore, that my ankles feel like glass shattering from the powerful hit of a careless

child, and that I don’t want to dance. She reassures me, but nothing more.

“It’ll be alright,” she says, “just pull up those bootstraps and keep going.”

I hang up and look at my feet; my arches are beginning to send pain through

my body. The sun is hidden under clouds; my happy memories are buried deep inside

me. Thunder roars overhead, shaking my soul loose from its spot of security. Cars

drive by but do nothing. I feel no reassurance from my mom, or the countless doctors

that have told me that everything will be okay. My emotional barriers are broken and

gravity has won. I feel the beginning of the end engulfing my body. As the tears begin to

roll down my pale cheeks, I smell them mixing with the sweat dried onto my face.

As soon as my soul hits the bottom of my stomach I am sent into a state of

uncontrollable shaking.

I expand my body into a standing position. The waterfall of tears has run dry.

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My mind begins to peek out of the hole it burrowed into. The roaring clouds thunder

back at the teacher. I start the trek back to the studio; each step brings a token of

confidence. By the time I make it to the doors of the San Francisco Ballet, I feel

determination running through my veins. My feet and ankles are tingling of numbness,

my hands are shaking from the self-assurance I have given myself. I open the doors

and walk inside.

I am giving myself a new beginning. I see Jorge approaching, I give him a slight

smile; he turns and starts his descent on the stairs. The sound of him proceeding

down the stairway makes me feel like I am on top of the world. The taste of victory

runs through my mouth. My stomach growls at his shadow. Clouds lay a path to my

lunch. As I bite into my sandwich, my friend lays his hand on my shoulder and tells

me that it will be okay. As I experience the reassurance of my friend’s hand resting

on my shoulder, a new idea comes into sight.

I decide my own life.

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925 S.W. Washington Portland, OR 97205