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2

Acknowledgments

Young Writers Project is made possible by hundreds of people who have donated money, time, expertise, ideas and advice: from students and teachers to business leaders and professional writers, from arts organizations and media outlets to educational experts and foundations. So many people make this project possible. Each week, YWP publishes great student writing in 12 newspapers: St. Albans Messenger, Essex Reporter, Colchester Sun, Burlington Free Press, Stowe Reporter, Waterbury Record, Times Argus, Rural Route Today, Addison Independent, Rutland Herald, The Valley News and Brattleboro Reformer. We also select one piece – and accompanying podcast when available – for Vermont Public Radio on vpr.net. Thanks to each for their generosity in affirming students’ ideas, opinions and creativity. � 6SHFLDO�WKDQNV�WR�RXU�PDMRU�GRQRUV��Bay & Paul Foundations, A.D. Henderson Foun-dation, Green Mountain Coffee Roasters, FairPoint Communications, Vermont Community Foundation, Windham Foundation, National Life Group, KeyBank, Main Street Landing, Susan Cross and our founding sponsor, Vermont Business Roundtable. Board chairman Stephen Kiernan has been instrumental in helping the organization grow; his energy has been a lifeblood for YWP, its staff and its financial stability. And to YWP’s board members past and present, including: Douglas Beagley, Suzanne Beste, Lynne Bond, Luanne Cantor, Tom Carlson, Lucy Comstock-Gay, Dave Demers, Barbara Ganley, Hasse Halley, Sabina Haskell, Rick Machanic, Michael Mathon, Molly McClaskey, Rachel Morton, Bobbe Pen-nington, Alysia Perkinson, Sara Quayle, Jeffrey Rutenbeck, Bob Stevens, Marc & Dana van-derHeyden and Lisa Ventriss who all helped push our ideas further. Thanks also to Melanie Roberts who designed our logo; attorneys Joe Sano and Serge Bechade of Prince Lobel Tye in Boston; and Virginia Roberts who helps with the books. This book was made possible by YWP board member Kathy Folley who has donated countless hours of help proofreading, selecting work and mentoring teachers; her tireless spirit, knowledge and understanding of writing – and kids – have been immeasurable. Kate Fallone, now getting her Master’s in Education at UVM, has been remarkable in her tal-ent and hard work and, with Renate Dubois, a senior at University of Maine Farmington, has helped pull together the initial selection list. Susan Reid, YWP’s new content coordina-tor, proofread the book several times. Andrea Gray, our graphic designer, and Queen City Printing once again did their magic. My hearfelt thanks to our finalist judges Bill Schubart, Phoebe Stone and Erik Esckilsen, three superb writers who set aside their writing projects to read and select the student work in this book. A special thanks goes to Physician’s Computer Company and one of its founders and YWP board member John Canning. In early 2007, I received an email from John, posted at 3:29 a.m. typically enough, introducing himself and asking, “How can we help?” Oh my, let me count the ways. John has been an inspiration to me and this organization; his gen-erosity, ideas and expertise in building nonprofits has been critical to our success and is a major reason why we are dedicating this book to his company. Because PCC’s support goes way beyond John. A host of others have willingly offered ideas, advice, technical help and expertise. A few who should be singled out: Deb Bergeron and Jen Loiselle for their patience and help with innumerable projects big and small; others include Katy Demong, Bill and Paula VanDeVenter, Chip Hart, Erica Greenwood, Jay Schuster and Brandon Smith. Thanks to all of you for supporting young writers, our next generation of words and ideas. Nurture them well.

— Geoffrey Gevalt, YWP director and founder

3

We are pleased to dedicate

this anthology to

Physician’s Computer Company,

an organization that has unwavering

belief in the value of young people.

PCC’s support is deeply appreciated.

! "

4

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5

Introduction

If Vermont had tall buildings, skyscrapers even, I might be able to craft an ‘elevator pitch’ that I could complete by the 101st floor. But maybe not. Young Writers Project enters its sixth year as full and complex as ever with components that many — including you readers – may not realize. For instance, we are partnering with a school in Shanghai, China, and another in Uganda, all with an idea of bringing Vermont students together with kids who live in different worlds. We now work with well over 12 percent of students in grades 4-12 in Vermont. Our ‘after school’ Web site now boasts nearly 1,000 visitors a day. We have four fabulous former teachers in the field helping teachers make the transition to the Digital Age. And… and… and…. Whew. I think we’re at Vermont’s top floor. Let me express it to you this way. The book in your hands right now represents our main purpose: give audience to as many young writers as possible, particularly those who, before they encountered us, might have told you that they thought writing was, well, boring and pointless and not something they could do well. We believe that, as a first step, giving students authentic audience affirms their ideas, creativity and sense of worth. It also gives them purpose and the confidence to express what they observe, think and believe. YWP began as an idea to show that writing is vital to a child’s development and that more attention must be given to its instruction. We began as a newspaper feature in 2003, became an independent nonprofit in 2006 and have grown to a multi-faceted digital learning enterprise. With a tiny staff, YWP:

�� 6HOHFWV�DQG�SXEOLVKHV�EHVW�VWXGHQW�ZRUN in 12 newspapers and Vermont Public Radio each week during the school year. Since 2006, we have received nearly 30,000 submissions.

� Maintains a civil, student-led RQOLQH�ZULWLQJ�FRPPXQLW\, youngwritersproject.org, that has approximately 4,000 active Vermont and New Hampshire teen users.

� Runs the <:3�6FKRROV�3URMHFW, a comprehensive writing program for schools that includes yearlong teacher training and leading-edge private Web sites for teachers and students to use as digital extensions of their classrooms. In 2011/12 we are working with 50+ schools, 500+ teachers and 8,000+ students.

� Sponsors monthly slams and SHUIRUPDQFH�ZULWLQJ�HYHQWV as well as a variety of ZRUNVKRSV and other programs in our Winooski headquarters and around the state.

� Works with colleges in Vermont and New Hampshire to provide trained college PHQWRUV�who give feedback to young writers.

That’s a lot. And we keep long hours, stay up late at night, stretch our knowledge and capabilities, say ‘yes’ to most anything the kids want to do because of the little things – those moments when we realize that just by gaining an audience, young people’s views of themselves have changed. A secret: I love calling the kids in this book to tell them their work was chosen out of 7,000 others as the best of the best. If only we could bottle their reactions; if only we could share their joy and pride and giddiness, we’d probably be able to cure the Monday morning blues, the bleakness of rainy days or, well, just about anything. So my thanks, as always, goes to the kids: You make my days. Cheers and keep on writing!

gg

6

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I feel like taking flight,leaving my troubles behind,with all my might,fly to the stars’ light,the Earth, blue and green.All the people who were bad,all the people who were mean,are all just ants on the world,The world of the stars,seeing Mars,and all my stress melts into space,but lonely...how I long to see your face.I can’t confine, how lonely I am,I am yours, you are mine,so let’s fly to space together,hand in hand,light as a feather,no rain, just fine space weather,so stars pour silver light on our dance,As I whisper into space,“I no longer miss your face.”

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PainNeedles piercing my skinLeaving ink of colors that will be foreverForever on my armIt hurtsBadIt makes me question why I’m doing thisBut only for a secondI’m here because I’m that girlThat girl who wears too much blackThat girl who has too many piercingsAnd soon to be that girl with a tattooThe rebelMeIt’s who I amMaybe not who I want to beBut there’s no turning backI’ve made that girlMeThere’s nothing I can do nowIt’s my reputationIt’s not easy to change a reputationSo why botherJust keep going father and farther until I

accept itPainNeedles piercing my skinLeaving ink of colors that will be foreverForever on my armBecause I am that girl

7

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Part of me feels foolish – like that was ever even possible. But most of me knows no regret, just circles – winding wildygrowingspinesandteethwithTIME. It’s a shifting of gears, a stopping and stuttering and grinding (again to life) that’s only audible when you slow your blood at night to devour, in earnest, that ancient machinery resting, silently, above us. The semblance of motionless matter that binds us, reminds us to look up when we haven’t got anything better to do anyways. I feel like there are continents asleep on your nightstand. I feel like there are so many roads left for us. I find myself salivating. I find myself following your hoarse laughter through time, changing slowly, shifting and churning like a pair of runaway stars – nestled in not-knowing, orbiting one another. And I guess I’ve been holding on to this, like one of the many-colored pens inside my back pocket that I fumble for when life begins to roar, like television static, and I don’t have the heart to dial it back in again.

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In the chipped paint and overgrown violets

of half-abandoned houses,I’m dancing at the fringes,trailing my fingers alongpeeledrailingsand neglected vines.Because there’s something magnificentabout old houses:something in the scent of ancient

wallpaper,elegance in the water-stainedfloorboards and sun-splintered shingles.“Antique” is precious becauseYou cannot fool Time,and History is embedded in the very

heartof civilization(and its materialism).We hoardbecause the story of somethingis often just asbeautifulas thething itself.We live lives full of circles,intersecting with the mindsand bodies of other humans,yet the allure of relationshipsis the chance to truly understandsomeone.Whether or not we like it,we carry our stories aroundwith us. They shape our mindsand our actionsand in time,webecomeour history,and our houses.

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A faux cashmere wrap,green like unripe kiwislining the bottom refrigerator shelf;black seeds the irisof an omniscient core, a jade-tainted

white pupil.Threads peppered with deoxygenatedfragments of leaves,a brown-veined stem,twisted by youthful fingers,once bursting in the harvestof autumns past.From the dayI pretended to be aGrecian princess.And cloaked my body inthe finest silkseast of the Adriatic.Sandalswere the only thing I was missing.Seven-button sweater;plain, unassuming.Yet sponge of the saline Niagara.Half-hearted cornflower bluewith cerulean tones to matchthe ocean’s deepest trench that day.Too loose around the middle,arm length underachieving – again.But witness to the sorrowno other clothing could absorb;survivor in the woven lifeboatamong a sea of fabrics.

10

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The tide rolling in and out like my breathWaves crashing down upon the shoreQuiet breezeA bursting sunset in the distance

Waves crashing down upon the shoreCalmness sets in my heartA bursting sunset in the distanceYour gentle arms around me

Calmness sets in my heartThe beautyYour gentle arms around meNow I can sleep tonight

The beautyPeacefulNow I can sleep tonightYour soft smile

PeacefulQuiet breezeYour soft smileThe tide rolling in and out like my breath

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When I get achanceto really seeall the greatwonders that arein front ofmewhen I lookoutthrough the window,

Why,I could seetrees and buzzing beeswhen I lookoutthrough the window.I could see thesky,and I could seethe birds thatareflying highwhen I look upthrough the window.I could seeLance,one of myscurrying antswhen I look downthrough the window.I could see treesand buzzing beesand I could seebirds that areflying highandI couldseeLance, one of myscurrying antswhen I look all aroundthrough the window.Why,I really wish I had some timeto really see the wondersthat are in front of mewhen I look outthrough the window.

11

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You like me, I like him,He likes her,She likes you. She likes you, But you like another,He likes me,And I like the other. I think we’re friends,You think we’re more,He thinks they’re friends,But she wants to be more. Confusing, understandable,Annoying, and crazy,The whole situation’s a little bit hazy. Do you like me?Do I like you?Does he like her?Does she like him? If she likes you, But you like another,If he likes me,And I like the other,How does this all play out?For you, For him,For her,For me,Does she like him?Does he like her?Do I like you?Do you like me?

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I saw you across the way that day back in summer.

You looked up and smiled at me and my feet began to float forward.

Moving my feet through the grass, I saw bricks begin to block my path bit by bit.

My heart leapt with panic and I began to run toward you.

As I ran a seam in the sky tore and rain poured down on me,

ripping holes in my conviction.Doubt began to seep in and my heart

grew heavier, slowing my pace.The distance remained no matter the

steps I took through the rain.The wall kept growing.Soon I began to doubt I’d seen you at all,that it all was a cruel trick of the mind.I stood in the wet grass and peered

through the sheets of worry.In the haze I thought I saw your shape.It was only just a shadow, but that was

enough for me.The wall grew to waist level and I found

myself finally blocked.I searched for the shadow,I searched for the boy who smiled.If only I realized I could climb the wall,the wall I’d made.I would see you waiting for me just

across the way.

12

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My classes go hand-in-hand,circulating through the school hallwayslike unconventional couples.Pre-calculus is inseparable from U.S.

history.When I allow a math problemto overwhelm me with its cunning

impossibilitiesI think of Andrew Jackson:would he shrink before an equation?Never! He would challenge every

variable to a dueluntil they cringed and surrendered the

answer.Chemistry class hooked up with chorus.Songs are word-electrons orbiting in lip-

shaped spheresaround a positive pulsing core, pure and

elemental.French married painting, words coloring

canvasesje t’aime red and je ne t’aime pas blue.And English? It’s on-and-off with P.E.Some days, writing is a speed workout,arduous, drawn-out, unpleasant.Other days, it’s like rock climbing,searching, cautious, a little afraid.But most days, it’s like the high ropes

course.I dangle in a chasm of nothingness,alive and acutely aware, harnessed by

isolation,but made breathless by the sensationof incandescent freedom.

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Red is fireRed is dustThe color of dirty rustRed is your bloodRed is your heartIt is the bite of a sour tartRed is a morning yawnThe breeze of morning dawnIt is brave with all your mightIt is also the morning lightRed is the remaining of a late dusk fightRed is a rash, the sun, roasted crisp of a

hot dog bunRed is furyRed is mightThe argue that makes things rightRed is love, the color of a mourning

doveIt is fallIt is a foxRed is the brush of a painted boxRed is a roseIt is embarrassmentThe strongest colorRed is me, youRed is the colors’ dew.

13

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He just sat there, frustrated, thinking of what to do. He knew his deadline was Friday and he still had nothing. All day he had been setting up different objects, trying to find the right angle, and then tearing it down, thinking it wasn’t good enough. You see, the Metropolitan Museum of Art was looking for young, unknown artists all across the country, and Matthew was one of the chosen few. He just had to come up with a decent painting by Friday in order to have his work displayed there. He decided to go for a walk to try to find some inspiration. As he walked down the snow-covered sidewalk, a million pictures came to mind. He decided snow was definitely going to be in the picture. As he walked back home still thinking, someone walked up to him. It was the neighbor from across the street. She said, “Matt, I’m sorry, but can you watch my kids because I need to run to the store?” “Sure,” Matt replied. He sat on the step when it suddenly came to him. He would paint those children playing in the snow. He paced back and forth, wishing Lisa would be home soon. Finally, after 15 minutes, she arrived. He rushed into his house and grabbed his utensils. Then he sat there. What viewpoint would it be from? He tried the sidewalk, steps, balcony, porch and roof, but nothing worked. Almost giving up, he went inside and sat back at his desk. He looked up, and then he finally saw it. He found his painting through the window.

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The wintry frost cut through my camouflage coat, radiating icy cold heat. I could feel the snow crunch under my steel-toe boots, the leaf-colored ones that cost so much. A scentless spray covered me from head to toe, encasing me in a blank smell. My brother stepped softly down next to me, and then he gripped my sleeve. He silently pointed ahead. I looked up with curiosity. I wanted to know if he was pointing to a random piece of beauty or if we had a target. Up ahead there was a ledge about 100 feet tall; the coarse rock was comforting to me. A group of deer pawed around in the early snow on the ledge, trying to find a few shoots of grass. My brother silently slipped the rifle off his shoulder and pointed the barrel at the beating heart of the buck. I put my hand out, pushed the gun down. “Don’t,” I breathed. The breath that came from my words was a silvery mist. My brother gave me a glance, and his face reflected my admiration of the deer’s grace. Together, we turned and began the long hike home. The forest was silent around us, and the only sound that could be heard was the crunch of the icy snow under our well-insulated feet. The magic lasted.

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15

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I have been climbing this staircase for the past ten years

The wind still howls through the cracks in the brick in that same lonely way.

You think you’d get used to it. Well –You do and you don’tStill that same song that wakes you up

at nightAlmost – almost a comfort sometimes. They say a lot can change in a year.

Funny, how they never sayHow little.I have learned even lessabout these new types of love and loss.And I have hated, and gainedand loved – and lost But it’s still a cold day in March,And I’m still wearing that same old

sweatshirt,And the stairs still stand, and the snow

still fallsAnd the wind still wails Between the brick.

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I would give away my Xboxto have a healthy family,to see my grandparents more,and for life to slow down.

I would give away my phone and iPodto go on a vacation with my family,to spend a couple of weeks with just us

four,no worries or complaints.

I would give away my TVfor the family time I never had with my

cousins.

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ElectrifiedStatic pulsesstreak through the air,leaving behinda sharp stream of light.Clouds –pale gray,glow with eachcrack.Wind swirls,and a plethoraof leavesdances in the flashingsky.

16

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Slow down for a second,hold your breath;don’t keep rushing,take a rest.Open your eyes,breathe in for a minute;life goes on,you’re not in this to win it.We jump too high,we run too fast;listen to the musicbecause the song won’t last.Don’t forget to rememberalways wear a smile;enjoy life when you can,it only lasts a while.Hold on to what you have,don’t ever let go;love every moment,take life slow.We jump too high,we run too fast;listen to the musicbecause the song won’t last.

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I watch as darkness starts to envelop the sky,

Subjugating all but a few faint slivers of light.

I poke the campfire with a long twig, urging it to stay awake,

But with a final yawn and shudder, it dissipates into a snake of smoke,

Twisting and writhing in the wind.The clearing around me is silent, but for

the soft whispers of the ocean.Its gentle hand of water grasps at the

shore, washing against the sand,And under the waning light of the

horizon, I can observe its slow movements,

Tired after a long day of crashing against the shore and cascading through the sand,

Tired after a long struggle to reach the tree line.

Sunshine is departing, chased away by the moon.

But before it leaves, it hugs my shoulders and face one last time,

A warm embrace of farewell.And though I know it’s only goodbye

until tomorrow, I lament its leave,I always lament its leave.

17

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I cried again last night. There is no way of knowing when spring will finally come, and the sun will break through the mask of clouds that forms for the majority of Vermont’s long year. I feel as though I wait for a wish that will never come true. For how can it? There seems to be no end and no escape. The only thing that keeps me from falling into a pit of nothingness is the light of memories. The memories of the warm summers and the fairy tale back roads leading to hidden scenery that now seems so unreal. Scattered with wild flowers and a symphony of bird songs. I sit waiting for the time when I can feel the sun radiate into my skin and warm me to my heart. The faces of these small towns, plastered pale and gray, wait with me. Some say they love the cold, the snow. That is all fine if they say so. But then, why do so many of their faces reflect my despair for the dismal darkness that is a definition for this setting? But there is more than the gray; there are the little rural towns that are scattered with a few houses and lined with great distances. The short days that bring upon a darkened night with nowhere to go but home, for no place remains open and welcome in the late night but the warm woodstove hearth. I cried again last night. For the summer that seems to become more distant as the hours, the days, pass. As I wait for the excitement to come, and a place to go, and the sun to shine, I wait, and hope that my wishes will come alive. I don’t want to cry tonight.

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Trickle downTurn aroundSweaty hands hideInside deep pocketsCurled around a wisp of hopeSoft heart beatsPlodding feetEyes may stare downBut this winter breezeCarries a soul adriftIn a dreaming world

Sleeping worldBeneath the wildest imaginingWhirlingTwirlingA mindless danceA baseless plea…I will never be anythingMore than just meIt’s true:Afraid to askIf that could everBe enough for you

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I glideover the streets,(paved with the stuff of stars)below the universe,(gilded with beauty)beside the sky,(blended with the hues of a rainbow)and could not help but noticemy home scattered below,like the rest of the land,[lost]between the folds of time.

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POH-i-treeCryptic words that sit in semi-tangible

silence on empty lips,Singing in jingle and ring that please the

ear in unknown ways,Written by heretics and followers alike

who chant in mordacious rhythm,All swaying to an imperceptible beat, a

chimeric urge,To writePoetry

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We are flying feathers,dancing in the shadows of the moon,dancing into the light of the sunas it wakes in the morninguntil we just disappear in its reflection.And we are windmills who tamper with

the winds –we send petals amongst the breathsand molecules and dying heartbeats;we are rooftops, broken in the center,forced to bend but it’s for the good of it

all.

We are flashing lightbulbs,singing our light out into the distance,singing into the eyes and ears until

everyone can noticethe flicker of the lights.And we are the pages of the books of the

children –worn with touches, breaths,

unconditional love;we are the quills that turn into pens,

wrung with ink-blotchesthat swim out onto white spaceuntil it becomes an array of black,but one day the black will become white

again.

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My younger childhood years sitgently on the rack,waiting for more pleasureto be had.Now being more grown upis fun and all,but sometimes it just gets boring,so I put my childhood on.My childhood is pink and purplewith swirls and designs,with a twist of banana,now ain’t that justdivine!With some beads hereand there,and somedoodles and sketches,everywhere!

With some glue andsome tape and somepaper too!With pictures of me,my family –hey, it’s true!On my childhood I’ve gotstains and splotches,and messes too,anything froma horse toa kangeroo!With thousands of name tagshere and there,with veggies like carrots,and fruits like pears!But on my childhoodis a most important thing,it’s a glued-on shape where myheart should be.Now it’s not perfect,and it’s not the best,but what it is is my heart,and the same as the rest.

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24

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(I think) it was in the wind the rainon black days thatyou wrote the sad poetry (yellow paper running ink a boy in

Maine)and (I think) I loved too much andtoo little (things and people and hearing

my name) toworry orto leavethe faces I need are not the places I neednor are they in the places I needto be inI’ll (maybe) sit in melancholic universe-

threadswhile you tell me whichNew York school to choose and be (and live)as if I’m breaking little partsto get the bigger ones as if we all deal in andfear consequenceI just put the broken things (always) inmy dresser ormy pockets

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The only thing that kept me from bolting from thatchurch was himhis hand in minehis smelland his faceand his smile and his shoulderhis shoulder that I rested my head on. The only thing that kept me from excusing myself andpolitely sprinting from that room was him sitting with me whileeveryone else stood and sang, and sat, and stood, andsang again. His bodynever moving away from menever budging, evenwhen everyone else stood, and wewere the only two who stayed.All through the service, Idoodled on the program, Idrew stars around the words, Icolored in the spaces.And all through the service, heheld my hand, and helooked at my doodles, mybursts of nervous creation, and he said, “What pretty stars.What pretty stars.”

26

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I wander an empty town where the light inside the street lamps has resided for years

My thoughts bounce around inside the soft walls of my mind

I walk alone, hearing only one set of footsteps treading upon the old faded concrete

My deep brown eyes stare blankly into the unknown ahead

I pass withering weeds, watching as the green bleeds from their stalks

Abandoned houses haunt the town’s neighborhoods watching with their dark windows

Spirits drift aimlessly staining the air with curling tendrils of invisible white

Faint whispers of lonely children echo in the effortless wind

The walls of my mind are damp with tears from sad silver clouds

My cardboard walls are ripping, falling apart, tearing at the taped seams

My mind is a lost package in the mail bin, soggy and forgotten

With an address to the abyss and a shadow’s kiss for a stamp

I am misunderstood

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Maybe I made a mistake by being borntoo late -for holding her fingers, slipandfalling, alwaysmistakes, mistakes. MissTakes, come andget your test, you’refailingagain.Failing, Miss Takes.Miss Takes, re-takes, re-learns,never re-newsthat biography of Mark Twain with

pictures in the middle...children never smile in old pictures.I can listall of myrecorded inconsistencies, all of my

wrongs,rewinding the tapes in my eyes,

wallowingin the past – the past has passed and Miss Takescan’t re-takeLife – sowe move on.

27

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So much dependsupon a blueribbonwith goldlettersglistening inthe sunwith fadingrufflesso perfectand straightbutmy girlDenawould rather havehaythan adumbblueribbon.

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I’m from gazing at the starsEvery clear nightI’m from my dad’s deliciousGrilled dinnersI’m from the feel of damp moss

squishing under my feetFrom the cold of winterChilling my bonesI’m from the maple treeI so often climbFrom the paintings of animalsHanging from my wallI’m from a gnarled old oakTall and proudBut bent with ageEach branch representingOne soul, one lifeWhen this tree diesMy family withers away.

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What a queer old woman she was. More bird than human and more bird’s skeleton than bird. She hopped along the busy sidewalk exactly like a songbird, her head bobbing along and with no more than one foot on the sidewalk at a time. On her head, a wilting daisy pushed into the ribbon of a shapeless violet felted hat, wobbled this way and that, always in opposition of the direction of her head so that it looked like an antenna feeling the space before her. Her jacket, hanging loosely over her crooked frame, was of the same felt as her hat and was belted by a thick piece of some reptile’s skin. In one claw hand, she clutched a long tartan umbrella that she used half the time as a cane and the other half as an extension of her arm, prodding interesting things (a dropped handbag, a newspaper, a probably dead homeless man). The other hand swung freely, like the gentle arm movements of a contented baby. This hand was decorated with an immense ring, an amethyst set into wreaths of gold, a gargantuan ring that must have weighed more than she did. As a bus packed with cooing tourists drove past her, her jacket was lifted by the gust of wind revealing a skirt with little cornflowers growing on a field of blue. The skirt was too short for her, perhaps she had worn it in childhood, for the hem fell two inches above her knees. From the hem descended a pair of black stockings that clung to her scrawny calves and shins in lumps and bulges. On her feet was a pair of delicate heeled boots with little silver eyelets that shone against the black leather; they looked like they’d been fashioned during Edward’s reign. A queer old bird, poking and prodding her way along the sidewalk with her flapping, purple overcoat and wobbling heels.

29

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Welcome to a world where just being you is never enough

the real world,young and innocent,we are toldto be ourselves,to be boldbut as we growwe learn the truththat we are born to be molds,the perfect soldiersa fake smile here a fake laugh there,just want toscreamloud and clearbut that’s just a dreaman improbabilitybecause I don’t screamnot any moreI can’t even whisper like the windhow can I ever roar like the lion?

Alone, shattered, misunderstood and misjudged

the doll stands herself upa spider web of cracks on her face creakas they blow dust off to face the sunbecause sometimes we have to rescue

ourselvessometimes we have to be our own

prince charmings.The doll smiles,she never had cared for fairy talestoo predictablein an unpredictable worldthey weave a false sense of securitythe doll with a spider web faceturns to themandroarsloud, pure, rawa beautiful distastea glitchlike raindrops falling upbecause sometimes,we do things that defy gravity.

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Clink. Clink. Four quarters are deposited on a table. Clack. Clack. An insignificant waitress moves across the tile floor in a tired, over-used pattern to gather her tips. She is nameless because this night is not her night. This story is not her story. She is part of the scenery much like the inconsequential noises of her shoes. Hiss. Hiss. A bottle of cleaning solution, mostly water, emits a thin stream to drive away spilled salt and ketchup stains, or at least make them less noticeable. The sounds combine with the soft murmur of late night small talk and tiny collisions of fork on plate. All at once, there is a shift. Something has changed. A car pulls into the parking lot but it’s different. The car isn’t moving slowly. It resonates with the energy of a young, exuberant driver. Every move it makes is definitive; pulling into a spot, parking, the sudden shutting off of headlights, the door opening and closing after a young female driver gets out. This is the part that matters. Life fills the lungs of the girl with each breath, and youthful vibrancy puts such a spring in her step that the ground seems to be walking with her. It’s throwing and catching her like a gymnast on a trampoline. She won’t be alone. She’ll bring others. They always do. One voice becomes many as they stumble in. Each one is drunk with fun and giddiness. There is a dying gasp of the serenity that once ruled before it is consumed by the noise. Teenagers. The waitress guides them to a booth. She knows this’ll be the last time she’ll have control over them tonight. Menus are handed over and eyes turn to address them. French fries, milk shakes, sandwiches and salads. What are they craving? Sweet? Sour? Salty? Savory? Spicy? They planned and laughed and counted and laughed and spewed filth their parents wouldn’t approve of. They talked about booze. They talked about music. They talked about drugs. They talked about movies. They talked about sex. They talked about partying. They talked about what classes were and weren’t good that day. Because it was raw. Because it was real. Because they could. Annoyance swelled against them like a tangible force. Old men glared. Couples whispered. Some even pointed. Their laughter took on an undertone of strength. They’re no longer individuals. They’re a gang. They defiantly go eye to eye with whoever gets in their faces. They express displeasure in mocking, condescending tones. They practically beg the old man to complain to management. “Throw us out! We’ll go somewhere else. Call me a name! I’ll think of a worse one for you. Judge me! Scorn me! Look down on me! I have three friends here tonight who think you’re full of it!”They’re wearing rose-colored glasses and the world has taken on a happy, pink hue. Leaving. Laughing. Piling into cars. Music blaring. Waitress sweeping, finally collecting her tips.

31

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You were probably too fastmoving for windowspositioned in a corner locking you outlocking you in. Trees never looked so green as that day when your infantile hands reached up and over the bars of your crib(you always had a taste for freedom).You wanted to befastmoving like the lightlike the sunlike the stars. Understanding never came so easy to you as thatday when the sun fell out of the sky. The world fell apart –every plant turned black but tears never graced yourgrey-blue-storm eyes,worry never crossed your infantile mind. A crisisthey insisted. A tragedythey screamed. as the world fell darkand fluorescents litalleywayschurchesmountain tops andyou always told us that wewere neverclose enough

to the skythe moon the stars.Your observation skills had always

surpassed those of the fire hydrants. You would yell at meyell at usfor being comical in times of heartbreak

and that sun falling from that skyyou yelledthat was heartbreak on a massive scale. You warned us about the oceans, you warned us about the forests. We would have to pour oil into the

oceans, spread napalm on the forests (light them on fire)

just so we might have light for a weeka dayan hour. Because, honey, we are human. It’s not that we need to destroy; it’s that

we need to create destruction. This is destruction by fire; this is trees falling away, oxygen becoming as rare as petrol.

This is a world-wide water shortage and

no-more blue jeans. I try to explain this to you and your

infantile mind yourinfantile hands still reaching for some

light stillreaching for some understanding and,

honey, if you find itlend me some.

32

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I would like the federal government to make education the focus of national attention and investment. Top economists, journalists and educators insist that education is our means to a more productive and technologically advanced economy and society. A better-educated society will yield a better-educated workforce, capable of innovation and leadership in new industries. What we know to be true about the relationship between academic rigor in education and economic recovery and growth, is confirmed by the OECD’s (Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development) recently released PISA (Program for International Student Assessment) results. This is an assessment of knowledge and skills of high school students around the world. Academically, American high school students lag behind their counterparts in Shanghai, China, Hong Kong, Singapore, South Korea and Finland. In fact, our nation’s students were 17th in reading, 29th in math, and 23rd in science, far from a standard of excellence. Our comparative academic disadvantage should be a wake-up call to Congress and to our nation because this academic lag will affect our economic strength as a nation. Education, knowledge and intellectual capital are necessary components of both short- and long-term economic recovery, and for economic development and leadership at home and abroad. The well-respected economist and Nobel laureate Joseph Stiglitz emphasized this when he described South Korea’s transition to a modern economy, and to a dynamic learning society. “Before, it was a shortage of capital that was thought to hinder economies…but it is in fact the shortage of knowledge that matters.” It is this shortage that must be addressed by the federal government. One solution has been outlined by Harvard-based education expert Tony Wagner, who explained the three key skills students need to thrive in a knowledge economy: critical thinking and problem solving, the ability to communicate effectively, and the ability to collaborate. It turns out that the countries whose students scored well in these skills have something else in common: they invest heavily to recruit, train and support their teachers, in order to attract and retain the best. In addition, as author and New York Times columnist Thomas Friedman wrote recently, parents must turn off the TV and video games, check that homework is finished, encourage reading, and elevate learning as the most important life skill. Robert Samuelson of The Washington Post echoes this view, reminding parents to play a key role in their children’s academic success. The more we demand from teachers, the more we have to demand from students and parents. We must also reward academic excellence as demonstrated by individuals and schools.

33

If we do all of these things, we can serve as leaders in future economic growth areas, including renewable energy, energy efficient products, clean power systems and emissions-free transportation. An educated youth is a formidable force in our country, especially in times where innovation and invention are so important for development, progress and prosperity. Our nation’s leaders must collaborate to reevaluate the priorities of the nation. More attention and investment must be put toward the education of our children – the future of this country. Whether you are on one side of the aisle or the other, whether you are from Alaska, New Mexico, Ohio or Vermont, Americans all agree that knowledge is a public good, and we must all be invested in its pursuit.

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34

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I am Saran WrapI wrinkle and contort and frustrateI stick to whatever is nearbyAnd when there is nothingI stick to myself.I suffocateI wrap myself around the fresh necksThe surrendered leftoversThey can’t escape meDewy moisture dangles from my insidesThe perspiration, condensation, sensation

of longingMy preserves condensing under the

tightly stretched plasticThey can see right through meA lucid vision through one dimensionThe simplicity of my purposeUnderestimated.I sit in the drawerI am a shadowA roll of predictabilityFor the first sheet matches the secondMatches the thirdMy matter is identicalMy identity doesn’t matter.I coil around a hollow tubeShrivelingConstrictingSuffocation to the rhythm of temperatureAs warm fingers rip me from my

dimnessDragging me along jagged teethUntil I breakTearHoping I will fit their needsPulling me tighter and tighterStretching me until suffocation is the

only power I possess all my ownThey can see right through me.I am fake.I am plastic.

They ball me upThey throw me in the trashThey use me until I’m uselessUntil my insides are rotten.I am Saran Wrap.

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My sunburn skin is peelingalone and I thought you’d be hereto pick me freshin the mid-afternoon butthe bed is unmade againand our wine glasses, flutes and stemsthat soaked in and made patterns on the

carpetblood puddleslike when you nursed me back to healthin a Saudi compound in 1991kissed my bile clean as dirty love(or was that just on the television?but aren’t we every late night black/

white film?)I’m no innocentcould be convicted by a jury for treasonexcept I’ve sworn only on the abdomenrib jutted specimen ofmen, and their skin never peels awayat the centerrings of dead white fleshdead white wine bottles, and redfor the multitude of tongue flavorsand I thought you’d be herefor the aftertastebut it is all a matter of personalpreference –why pick me fresh skinwhen I can certainly do it myself. Heartbreak is more exfoliationthan anything less concrete.

35

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Stories are just that,stories, flights to pace and prowl;the skeletons of rusted paradigms: into these we build our lives. Do you rememberthe stories from your childhooddo you - ever let those musty bookstake purchase in your mind? Do you ever let those figuresreassemble:the bones of creation,the archetypes of nascence,to be filled in by theflesh and facesof real time? That woman on the cornercould be Rapunzel,skinny and cigarettedher walk-up patio perched highagainst a low-down world;if I wanted to see herI’d take the stairsbecause her hair’s too short and smoke-

stainedto ever really shine. Or – Snow White for the modern ageEastern chambermaid, mildly bredemptying the wastebasketevery morningon the corner of Seventh and Main.Rapunzel smokes,oblivious to the congressof colliding talesjust below her window,every morning.

Snow Whitestands under five feetand she’s gotthin Asian lipsand a home-stitched facenot anonymous enough for comfort,and no one will exalt herin a transparent coffinwhen she pops off. Snow thinks the subway isa luxury:for all its jerks and belchesthere she can rest herbound and weary feet.Sharing her low-slung plastic benchis the girl in yesterday’s makeupand last week’s clothes.Frosted hair won’t comeback into fashion in greater Manhattan,but her crowd appreciates it; they’re the ones flicking cigarette ashinto drainpipesand fending off the down-lowsin their potbelliesand leather jacketswho crave more tricks thanthey can pay for.Where is she going, dressed like that –is there an appointment in the worldworth requiring such an abusive shade

of red? I’d like them all to meet, somedayin that pub above the Laundromat.Rapunzel with her bored lips,Snow White with her deference,Sleeping Beauty with her pierced-heart

narcolepsy.Each asleep in one way or another;each missing a piece potent enough towake up her corner of the world.

36

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Close your eyes. Close your eyes. Watch those patterns that only you can see projected just above the screen of eyelids, shapes and streaks in purple, yellow, white. Watch them play out and watch them fade. This is a dark you visit every night, the dark that stays with you, clings to you, and shreds itself into milliseconds every time you blink or think of stars think of stars think of fires by the side of the fields by the side of the road where the glass glitters where the glass shatters where the glass reflects. You drew patterns on your arms with charcoal that you crushed with your fingers, still warm. You painted your lips with it, licked it from your hand, and left streaks of black on the skin of anyone you touched and even through the flicker of light on smoke you could still see constellations. Sometimes you can stare at nothing much and see those shapes, see a two-second clip of some memory distorted by recognition into something you can still understand. Sometimes you try to capture that, remember it, but it turns into the next thing someone says or the song that’s playing in your head or the rhythm of your own

1DWDOLH�5HGPRQG(VVH[�+LJK�6FKRRO��*UDGH��

37

steps across the floor. Sometimes you don’t care. Sometimes you tug at your earlobes, or chew your lips, or hook two fingers round your lower jaw and pull just to see if it comes off and you end up biting your own hands in self-defense. Sometimes you stare at yourself in the mirror for minutes, trying to equate your view with those eyes, those eyes, those eyes that move. Sometimes you lie still and count your breaths and wonder which one of you is real, the one that’s doing the counting or the one that’s doing the breathing. Here’s a hint: you lose count but you don’t die. When you think about sleep it doesn’t come. You almost like the hallucinations that arrive with 3 a.m. You can’t keep your balance and you don’t know if the floor is real, and if you fall you barely notice because it doesn’t make a sound. You think you can hear music or someone calling your name but it’s just the hum of the refrigerator or the water heater switching on. Once you helped a friend look for an earring but you found her whole life instead, and when you turned around to give it to her, she was gone. You never read horoscopes in the newspaper, but you read the obituaries sometimes and their predictions are always right. You pretend the columns of text are trees, and the pictures are Technicolor canopies, and the occasional little headlines are birds just lighting there for a moment before they fly away and turn back into the Dow Jones Industrial Average. The ink smudges your fingers. Like charcoal. You wonder sometimes about the patterns blood makes on bones because you’re used to just skin, or skin that heals. And you’re not all there. You’re not all there, you’re transparent, you’re fading, you’re not all here, you don’t remember the last time you were anchored to Earth, pressed down to the floor with the force of gravity, something you could feel on the soles of your feet and the top of your head and the slope of your shoulders rounding down to hands loosely grasping something real.This is real. Remember this, this is real. Close your eyes. Now wake up.

38

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It feels like I have been a part of this world for longer than my life,

like I was born into these twisted wordsand thoughtful imaginings,thinking up the story of my life before it

even began. My mother assures me that I kicked in

the womblike any normal baby,but I wonder if I was really kickingand not throwing notebooks of

unfinished piecesin complete frustrationat their failure to get across my feelings

and emotions.I wanted out of that balled up space,into the open air of the world where I

could breatheand contemplate my thoughts,your thoughts, their thoughts,the actions of that man who knocked

over my mother in his desperation to get away from the

store where he had just stolen a coatfor his little daughter.I wonder if I know her,have ever seen her before,bumped into her in the never-ending

hallways of high school? I remember kindergarten and preschoolwhere the teachers’ rules meant nothing,nothingto me, and I broke them over and over

and over,all the while moving ahead of my friends

and classmates,reading full sentences and chapters of old

Englishway before they could,and then, later, writing sonnets and love poemsbefore they could even begin to fathom

the depths of high school love.

I’ve been called “normal” by some,but what is normal,and do I really fit that category?How many of you were writing on the

inside of your mother’s womband leaving messages for the little

siblings you knew would follow after? And while my peers spend their time

trying to understand each other,I am trying to understand the world.I mean seriously,why are teachers paid so little and

treated like nobodies?Because you must notice that the

somebodies would be “nobodies,” too,if it weren’t for them. And what about this racial prejudice and

hate of anyone who’s different?Don’t tell me that it doesn’t exist

anymore,look around you.Terrorist jokes?Gay intolerance?Political assassination?People have views, and they show them,but is the way they do it really

necessary?People call me insane because I question

society, but I have a word for youand your non-respectful, hating,

prejudiced language:acceptance. Acceptance. I don’t understand why or how or when,but I know that all this time I have been

putting thoughts on paperand fighting for what I believe. I think my mother was wrong;I was not kicking in her womb;I was busy writing and hurling

unfinished notebooksin pure frustration at the chaos of words on paper and the failure to portray this strange world.

39

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Her name is Sarashe is 15 years oldfive foot sixand seventy-five pounds,she thinks she could stand to lose a few.When I hug herI don’t knowif I should feel her ribsagainst mine.I don’t know if I can take her handwithout breaking it.Or if her hair should be that thin.Or her eyes so sunken.And when I see herWhen I really see herShe’s beautifulHer body’s beautiful,but it’s not really a body at allA body is muscleand fleshand loveand memories.A body has marksto remind youthat life isn’t perfect.A body has curvesIn all the placesThat were not meant to be straight.

But her bodyIs not a body at all,It’s all skinand boneWith nothing leftAnd nothing to hold her.She’s delicateAnd vulnerable.Her body is full of painand hurt,and sadness.Her bodydoesn’t really resemble a body.And I want to help herAnd I want to listenBut there are fingers in her mouthWhere there should be words.And she needs to listenShe needs to understandShe’s beautifulBut she needs to go back,she needs to learnwhat a body really is.

41

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Fools.Uncross your eyes and the stars will

align.There are no star-crossed lovers;only cross-eyed stargazers.

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I talk softlyFor fear the wind will hear meand carry on my voicewhispering to the treesThe birds listen inflying my words to the mountainsdropping themsetting them freeThey float softly downnestling in the snowstaying there foreverSo I talk softly

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There was a timewhen my place wasat the foot of the drivewaysitting tight against themailbox post.Prickle grass ate throughmy sundressesthe ones mother had socarefully sewnuntil the small patchesof my knee capshad stainedbright green.Naked toeswiggled togetherintertwining themselveswith softdandelion stems.Soft palmsfilled with blueberriesrefused to feed the cat as itcried and rubbed against my legs.I ate shortcakein the afternoon sunthe tinfoil casing folded backpink juice trickling into my lap.Sticky and smilingI ambled back homewhen it got darkbut could not bring myselfinside the house.Just steps from the doorI lay on my backas an entire worldof endless starsdanced just for me.A growly stomachturned into sleepand those stained palmsbecame imprintedwith the prickle grass.

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Perhaps it was the clamswho stole theburdensome pearlfrom the longer green oysterwho couldn’t hold a note underwaterif its place in the sand depended on it.Perhaps it was the solemn starfishwho choked onseaweedwhen the old man threw it head firstback into the reef.Perhaps it was the foreign snorkeler who,lovesick seasickadventuresome pride,started to drown whenshe lost sight of the skyand was savedby the underwater mountain that drewblood from her toes.Perhaps it was those bittersweetlullabiesthat taught children tofear the depths of the sea.Fear the tide!Fear the figures pushing you awayfrom the walls and into themiddle of the carpet themiddle of the room themiddle of the ocean whereyou can swim on your own withnothingto assist you but the muscles in your legsyou grew from running back and forthaway from the rising tides.

44

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Seldom can I find the words to express my true intentions, and I often let phrases slip from my lips like little bullets to shoot the conversation dead. I’ll watch the subject matter fall to the ground, and in one last attempt to resuscitate it, I will apologize for my inability to be a social butterfly. In doing so, I lodge another bullet deep into the heart of the matter. I make a promise to myself to be silent, observant and to keep any ideas contained. This is a vow I keep for all of three minutes until the topic changes again, and I find myself bursting to add my voice. My lips once again become the smoking gun, and I, the shell-shocked girl whose finger slipped on the trigger. If it were up to me, I would speak in phrases solely musical. Throbbing chords and drawn-out bass notes and flighty arpeggios that pull bystanders in and drag them under, all expressing my intentions perfectly. Excitement would be expressed by a trilling flute rather than high-pitched chatter, and my melancholy complaints would be written in the air by low, slow cello strokes as opposed to choked, whining phrases. No fumbled bullets here, just truth, and everyone would always understand because the international sign for happiness is a C Major chord. Sadly, I was given vocal cords instead of a symphony, predetermined notes that always seem to fail me when I need them most. Instead of a graceful melody, the only noise I can make is dissonance, a sound remarkably similar to the shot of a gun.

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They say when you die all your lost loved ones come to greet you. But do they mean the people you love, or the people who love you? Because here I am, lying on this floor, scribbling out this one last message to you, and I hope it’s not a mistake. Don’t be afraid by my words; actually, I hope you’re comforted. When it’s time for you to leave this world, and you fly through that tunnel, or whatever you’ll do to move on, and all your lost loved ones come to greet you, I’ll be there. I hope I’ll have to wait a long time. You deserve to live longer than I do. There really won’t be a five years from now for me, no, “Remember that boy you thought you loved?” and we all laugh. I won’t get that. My mom doesn’t want to believe it, but I know this is the truth. At least this way I can say for sure: I love you. That won’t change. I know you’re in love with another girl, one who doesn’t know you, and I hope one day you’ll get the guts to ask her out. Don’t ever feel guilty for loving someone because of this letter. For me. I have songs I downloaded onto my personal iTunes playlist, songs I wrote. Albums, songs, lies, diary entries, songs I sang when I couldn’t admit aloud the truth. Listen to them please, listen hard to the album For You. Because those songs are exactly that. For you. I want to let you know I love you, even if you don’t love me. I don’t regret one word I said to you and don’t feel guilty about some words you said, or didn’t say, to or about me. For me. If one day you come to join me wherever I’ll go, I hope I’ll be able to greet you. And if I can’t because you never loved me, I’ll find a way around it. Somehow, someday, that day, I’ll be waiting for you.

47

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48

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+DUWIRUG�0LGGOH�6FKRRO��*UDGH��

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49

0RWKHU�RI�WKH�1LJKW

(OL]D�*LOHV&KDPSODLQ�9DOOH\�8QLRQ�+LJK�6FKRRO��*UDGH����

As the night quietly listens…With her ears in the wind,And her eyes in the moon,She watches over her childrenIn their darkest hour.Protected and out of harm’s way,She moves with the nocturnal.With the stars as her earrings,And the leaves in her hair,She waits for the sunriseAnd dances with the daylight When together they turn the world gold.

6ZLUOV�5HG�DQG�%URZQ�

6DPXHO�3HUU\&URVVHWW�%URRN�0LGGOH�6FKRRO��*UDGH��

Autumn comesand the light and dark are equal for one day;darkness comes,shortening time for play.The leaves fall to the ground in swirls of red and brown,and the fruitful harvest is ready to be picked.Chopping rings in the air as wood is split,and animals hide from the cold.The fire warms through the grate in the floor,and a knife cuts eyes in a pumpkin.The land sheds the last of its flowers,and the cold wind comes,kissing people’s unprotected faces.

7ZR�7KUHDGV

&KULVV\�6PLWK:RRGVWRFN�8QLRQ�+LJK�6FKRRO��*UDGH���

My breath was almost stolen once. I failed to quite see a luminous glow in the distance. The walls began to crumble and sink; They drew together like large, cruel lips Cracked with decisions of past generations. I wondered what savior was watching, if any. I cursed myself too, for breathing too much life Into my creations of evil. In a moment of light, however, I realized I was not alone. A force brought me to the surface Bruised, lacerated, most likely internally bleeding But alive. Weak, and alive. And that was the day that I promised My life would be dedicated to this force, An immensely powerful spirit who lifts me. Up beyond the clouds, beyond grief and happiness Beyond any obstacle life could throw at me That was the day we determined the rest of our lives. I’ve never been so sure of anything. Two threads intertwine, meet, separate and continue into the horizon Indefinitely.

50

,W�'LGQ·W�5DLQ�7RGD\

&ROOHHQ�.QRZOHV3URFWRU�-XQLRU�6HQLRU�+LJK�6FKRRO��*UDGH���

It didn’t rain today. We all thought it would.The whole village stood in the square,between all the houses,waitingfor the sky to break.The clouds were black there,swooping like vulturesand eagles,but giving us nothing except empty hope. One drop.One dropfell from the sky.We all watched it sail downslowly(it wasn’t actually slow, but it felt like an

eternity)until it exploded on the cracked ground,the dry ground. We waited all day for it.We waited all night for it.We waited all... My mother started crying.She grabbed my sister’s tiny,tiny hand, andwalked back to the little house,the little wooden house where I grew up. My father’s face grew red,red as the blade of his knifewhen he killedthat rabbit,all those months ago.Red as the blanket we used to cover its

corpse,cover it until we were ready to cook it.Red as the herb my mother grabbed

from the earth

at the edge of the woods while we raninto the forest to stew the rabbit secretly.Red as my mother’s eyes as we ate it,(ashamed)(quietly)(quickly)so no one in the town would know that

we had this precious gift. That one drop.That single drophad made my father’s face red again –had made my mother cry again –but this time with rage and fear instead

of shame. The people walked awayslowly,whisperingand muttering. It didn’t rain today. And then I stood alone.Me and the small patch of groundthat the one drop had hit.The earth had soaked it up before we

could even blink.Maybe it was an illusion? No.The sky still churned. My father’s boots had left marks in the

dry,cracked,forsaken ground,leaving a path through the parched villageinto the forestof shame. I touched my forehead to the ground

and sent up aquickwhispered prayer to the gods.I prayed for my father.I prayed for the rain.

51

3RHWU\

0DJJLH�6XOOLYDQ0LOWRQ�+LJK�6FKRRO��*UDGH���

I found it in stray shoeboxes left on the floor until someone stepped on them, breaking the cardboard shells.Written words and smiley faces with extra dots that turn into accidental noses, awkward alien smiley faces written down on paper next to the words.These are the things I kept in those boxes, along with the names of the days that were either good or bad. Names of the people who are either good or bad.I found it stuck on the bottom of my old rubber shoes, squished like gum into the flattened crevices of my path. My whole journey documented, my whole story written.I found the anger in my fists when I raised them up high. A protest, a non-hate face.I found the terror.I found wiped-away goodbyes,

too-long-to-remember hellos, and I found forgotten eyes. I found sorrow.I found how just a few words, just a few sentences, just a few names with those stupid labels, those stupid Goods or Bads can mean everything in a simple moment.I found it; I found life in those stray shoeboxes left on the floor until I let myself step on them.I am angry at my fingers for exposing the words that I always hid in the back of my throat. I wish they’d float-float away. I’m angry at my mind for always running and my soul for jumping out in a butterfly sort of heartbeat, suddenly out of my chest without even an emergency surgery.Suddenly everything is out, my cardboard shell shattered.I found these things when I started to write. These images and these emotions come alive.I found it in these places.I found poetry, and it is alive.

52

/RRNLQJ�7KURXJK�WKH�(\HV�RI�$VSHUJHU�6\QGURPH

&ODUN�+DPP%UDWWOHERUR�$UHD�0LGGOH�6FKRRO��*UDGH��

Some people are special. Sometimes in a good way, sometimes in a bad way. Me? Well, I’m both. Being smart and somewhat neurotic is confusing. What I mean is that the way I act is weird to people while, to me, I’m just doing my regular thing. The reason I act weird is because I have a disorder. Some people have Down Syndrome, some people have ADD, some have ADHD and some people (like me) have Asperger Syndrome. For those who don’t know what that means, let me explain it this way; I have a very high intelligence, but I’m socially challenged. From my point of view, it’s like being in a mosh pit: no communication and everything all scrambled together. It has affected me since I was in kindergarten. I didn’t have a lot of friends. I didn’t have a lot of friends because I acted different from the other kids and to them I was not “normal.” I was the “weird kid who was too sensitive and always was picked on for being different.” When I was 10, my mother signed me up for a therapist. She worked with me on my talking abilities and making friends. That helped, but very little. I have since gotten better, but there was something missing, something important. That thing was a friend who I could relate to, a friend who had gone though more hardships than I could have gone through in a lifetime. At the beginning of the school year, I found that person. When I first met her, she helped me so much. In the past months up until now, we have become the best of friends and started our own band. So, in conclusion, just know that even when everything seems dim or all hope is lost, there’s always a light, even the tiniest light, in this big, dark void of a world. This I believe.

53

5HDOL]DWLRQ�RI�)ULHQGVKLS

%HFFD�5XVVHOO&URVVHWW�%URRN�0LGGOH�6FKRRO��*UDGH��

Friendship is the drift of the wind caressing your face. It’s the sun when there is rain. Friendship is that fun thing to do when there is nothing else. It, or rather, your friends are your armor when you do not know how to defend yourself. They are your blade to stab backat the sight of your blood or tears. Friends know how you feel and they feel how you do. And they know you are there for them, as they are there for you.

:DQGHULQJ

/LDP�/XVWEHUJ7KH�5HQDLVVDQFH�6FKRRO��*UDGH��

The face of flameBasking in all its deadly beautyTongues of smoke lick at the grassReaching slowly up to go higher and

higherFingers of fiery steam envelop the trees

and whisper words unknownA swirling red vortex engulfs the forest,

the world at its fingertipsOn silent wings, it floats eerily above the

groundLike a bird gently taking flight.

'HVWLQ\�%XOODUG(VVH[�+LJK�6FKRRO��*UDGH���

54

$SSOH�7UHH��$FURVWLF�

,]]LH\�:RRGZDUG(QRVEXUJ�)DOOV�+LJK�6FKRRO��*UDGH���

,t was a:arm summer day. Not those days that$re unbearably hot, but6imply a lovely temperature. I had*otten a frozen smoothie,2range flavored., was sitting against a tree trunk,1ot having a care in the world. I heard a*ong ring in7he distance, and2f course it made0e think of you.$lready I missed you, and I.new you would be back in two weeks,

but(ven one day without you was7oo long. I+adn’t written you any letters yet, and, was terribly6orry. I wished I could6ay that everything was fine, and that$ll was well, but that would have been

a lie, and<ou know, could never/ie to you.2ut of all the days you could have been

gone, that was the9ery worst.(ven the cats missed

<ou. Yes, the weather2utside was perfect, and I seemed fine,

but8nderneath I was falling apart, just%ecause what was the8se of a beautiful day7hat you weren’t there7o appreciate with me?+ow could I enjoy sitting under this$pple7ree alone?, heard the6wallows6inging. I climbed the tree and settled2n a branch, sprawled8p there with the leaves and sap, at

home in1ature. I liked it up there, completely

hidden from the2utside world. I could pretend I was5eally Harriet the Spy. Do you

remember how, used to love that book so much?*rowing up,, carried a1otebook with me everywhere so I

could be just like her. I$lmost wrote Secret Journal on the

front, but that was so unoriginal. I wrote I

/ove you on it instead.

55

/LNH�)DWKHU��/LNH�0H

/DXUHQ�'XQGDV&KULVW�WKH�.LQJ�6FKRRO��*UDGH��

Sometimes I’m not sure if you know me. My face is just yours, reversed with a mix of feminine features and my mother’s boldness. Could you recognize me through my thoughts, the things that set me apart from the other faceless beings? You are stuck in the parallel dimension that takes you from me, me from you. Your phone has grown onto you from constant familiarity of being closer to you than I am allowed. Like vines, it has weaved its way into you, covering all of your words. Your attention span is flakey towards me, always moth-wing fragile when it flutters towards me. I find myself lost between myself and the glass wall you set carefully between us, making sure not to cast fingerprints upon it. I could sing to you the button songs you play when I’m around, as if too much conversation with your child scares you. Do I scare you? Have you ever recognized the way my seaglass eyes turn a pale green when the sun hits in on a slant? Would you be able to list my insecurities, my doubts, my loves? Would you be able to name anything about me, anything that makes me specific? Because I know that your eyes are hazel, with little flecks of sadness in them. You stress too much about work, about money, about the life you want to provide for us, but when do you ever get to live that life? I know the things that make you weak, the things that make you strong. I am you, and you are me. You hide your secrets deep inside your drawers, under your socks and ties. I find myself down there, hiding with them, sharing the stories we never knew about you. I am your daughter, and you are my father. We are the best of strangers.

6DPXHO�6ZDQNH(VVH[�+LJK�6FKRRO��*UDGH���

56

6HVWLQD�RI�D�%URNHQ�+HDUW

$GG\�&DPSEHOO0W��$EUDKDP�8QLRQ�+LJK�6FKRRO��*UDGH��

Rain pours on a humid summer day.Young people – too young to be old

friends – sit on the porchof the old house, drooping in the middle

from endless treading feetFrom their slackened lips hang the

burning embers of a lit cigarette.They are so young.But one would never know. One wonders about those heads of theirs

– how much do they know?They sit quietly, talking and listening to

the rain: just another ordinary day.It’s still light; the night is youngyet they sit there on that porchthe stub of his drenched cigaretteflopped beside someone’s bare feet. Blankets, those countless feetof plaid, cover the couple. From the way

they cuddle one will knowThese two have been together forever.

Long enough to know the other’s favorite kind of cigarette,

at least. What a dreary day,for those tired souls outside. But there,

on that porchthey are content, forever young. A drenched robin pecks at the muddy

lawn, searching for a worm for her three young

and joining her in the wet are a few brave pairs of feet

dangling off the edge of the old porch.

One begins to knowthis is their favorite kind of day:this lazy summer evening in the

company of friends and a good cigarette.

They talk about their problems: why he

first picked up a cigarette,and why they do what they do so

young,so early, what brought them to this place

today.But the thing is they don’t want to

change. They love themselves from their heads to their feet.

They love their minds; all the things they do and don’t know.

And they’re thankful for companions and over their heads, the roof of the porch.

He thinks about life, and how much he

wants a hot cup of tea, as he watches the couple and feels the worn grain of the porch,

the edges indented, whittled with pocket-knives and burned from the tip of a harsh cigarette.

Why are we here? he wants to know,and how can I feel so old, when the

math makes me so young?He examines the stains and calluses of

his summer feetas the minutes drip by, and collect into

the puddle of another well-spent day. He remembers the previous day, spent

on another porch,when his bare feet overlapped hers, and

from his lips hung no cigarette.He was too young, she had said. That’s

what hurt the most to know.

57

:DUQLQJ�6LJQV

0HOLWD�6FKPHFNSHSHU8����+LJK�6FKRRO��*UDGH���

Early Sunday morning, hushedby the air-conditioned chill of her

grandfather’s flower shop,she, no longer a child, but still so youngshe has never been kissed,watches rare blue roses fan open their

fingerslike ultraviolet ghosts. Amid their more conventional cousins (Christ’s Blood red, Virgin white)they are surreal, andit would be easy to believewhat her grandmother told her:It’s unnatural.Dishonest knives and tainted tinted watermade them like this.

The shop is still, its ceiling heavy and muffling.

A sterile draft from the fans wafts through her,

muting her thoughts, brushing over them with pale fingers

until they are almost as smooth and safeas the beads of a rosary.

Yet there are still half-heard sounds:children outside playing in the warming

spring morning,her grandmother callingHurry or we’ll be late for Mass!and a wordless voice humming in the

back of her head,the notes cradling impossible images –the glowing lady saints and martyrs in

the cathedralslip free from their stained glass frames,

smiling,hands offering roses as blue as secret,as blue as boundless summer sky.

.DWKU\Q�/RXFNV&KDPSODLQ�9DOOH\�8QLRQ�+LJK�6FKRRO��*UDGH���

58

,�&RXOG�)HHO

%DLO\�&UDZIRUG0LOWRQ�+LJK�6FKRRO��*UDGH���

You know how there is an infinite amount of numbers

that stretch on forever, and then,in between one and two there is another

infinite amount of numbers again? Well, driving down that water-logged

street I could feel all of them – along with every pothole between

you and me.I could feel the moonlight making my

skin blue,as if it stole the air from my lungsmaking room for everything that could

have been done,stored away with no chance to ever

become. Above a flooded beach that only asked

us to leave when the sun went behind the mountains that weren’t green.

They aren’t green, they’re blue.And when the sky is, too, you wonder

where they’ve gone.We lay down to watch them, so it’s the

only place I feel I belongbecause I will always feel out of placeabove my feet,In a mirror-based insanity.I will always feel the tickle in my throatthat makes me chokeon my hereditary vanity.And I will always hate why I hate myself. And enjoy my abilityto decipher the tragediesthat are real.Because I could feelbecause I could feel the impact of the car.I could feel the recoil of the gun that

would end the excuse for the war.

And as my feet tried to run from what death was,

my ignorance was already done digesting his worth because

they were both traveling in circles.The boy was speeding and the man was

hiding.And whether they were leaving or they

were just arrivingmeans little to moonshades of blue. And that’s why I might as well keep

driving towards you.Even thoughI could feel the timelineI could feel the futurepiling promise at my feet.Telling me to go find people to meet,go get accomplished so I can feel complete.I’m here to live on a tempo but forget

I’m being timed.I’m here to make my own path as I

follow the lines,And somehow get back after I’ve left it

all behind. I’ll take these last few years of claritybefore the faulty finish linesof the rebound rat races get to me.I’ll look only at the eyes of those who let

loving come easyand sing only to the ears that will hear

and believe meand live only with the fear of fears so bigthey’ll scare me into giving up my ability

to see. Yes I could feel our counter attackagainst the reasons I wouldn’t come backreinforced with ignorance. I could feel the strength I lack,and every goddamned pothole on that

street.I could feel you move to the backseatof a future, with an awful truth coming

out on repeat “up there’s too crowded for me.”

59

2EVHVVLYH�&RPSXOVLYH�

&KLDUD�(YDQV�&ROFKHVWHU�+LJK�6FKRRO��*UDGH���

Rows of booksKept perfect, clean, and alphabeticalSpines erect at a 90-degree angleThat’s not the worst hereAll is alignedDust cannot existEverything has no pair: it has to be oddJust like meBed is made and I get it washed every

other dayThe mirrors are covered but I can’t say

whyThe dresser is ridiculously ordered (I’m

told)Colors each with their ownLabels are on every drawerMy room is square, nine-by-nineWhen I wash my handsI get a new bar of soap each timeIf I don’t open the door three times

before I leaveThe world will end, even if you don’t

believeIt’s the same to close that doorPictures are straight, frames never hang

crookedPictures themselves must be black and

whiteThe cacophony of colors in the real

world is too brightI wear only one color a day, mostly

blackSpeaking of wardrobe, all is uniformJust different colorsWhen I go outsideI carry Purell in handTo wash away any germsI step on no cracks, no leaves, or twigsI cannot go out in the rainI am obsessive-compulsive for nowMy world is organized, color-coded,

straight

Odd, predictable, and square in spaceI wasn’t always this wayChaos would reignI got wet in the rain, stepped on cracksAnd I opened doors without closing

themAfter you left, the world went in its placeI have my little spaceButSomehow even if I open and close a

door three timesOr wash with new soap each occasionThe covered mirror can only hide me

from myselfTruly, if I must be honest here,When you moved on and left foreverI became obsessive-compulsive in my

fearI just can’t let the world disappearNot from you

1LJKW�'DQFHUV

*DEULHOOH�%HUWKLDXPH0DOOHWV�%D\�6FKRRO��*UDGH��

Swooping, diving, flying.Who who, Who who.They begin their ballet.Silent they are as they prowlThrough the night.But at the first crack of dawn,All do say goodbyeTo the graceful night dancers.

60

.LG

-XOLD�+DQFRFN�6RQJ3DFHP�/HDUQLQJ�&RPPXQLW\��*UDGH��

Editor’s note: This is fiction.

Sit down. You’re in trouble, kid. Busted. Grounded. Toast. Maybe we pushed you forward but it’s you who crossed the line. It’s you who’s been shut up in your room all week doing God-knows-what, coming out God-knows-when but never when we were around, coming out to eat and use the bathroom but always slinking back into what you shouldn’t have to think of as a refuge. A refuge from what? Your family? Look at me when I talk to you. Look. At. Me. What are you hoping, the table will have more interesting things to say? I don’t know what went wrong with you, kid. You were doing fine with your classwork, your friends, your attitude, and then you just... retreated. Like a turtle into its shell. You do not have a shell, okay? You’re a human being and not a turtle, and you need to act like it because if you keep this up, I’ll start feeling like it’s my fault. Like I didn’t, we didn’t, raise you properly. God knows what you’re doing in your room, but you keep the door closed. When we asked, you said you were cleaning or working, but why do you have the door closed? It’s like you have secrets now, kid, secrets from your family, and I hate that I don’t trust you and you must not trust me and I shouldn’t trust you. That’s what I hate. I hate this back-and-forthing; I hate these circles you drive me and your mother through. Look at me, okay? This shouldn’t be happening. Why won’t you look at me? I’m your goddamn father, and I’m not going to hurt you. Toast is a metaphor. What did I do wrong? You’re supposed to be growing up and you’re growing down. Supposed to be becoming a responsible young adult and instead you do... nothing. You do nothing, kid, and I should have taught you to do something. You don’t talk; you only eat when we make you, your only friends are your imaginary ones. You’re a broken child. God, I’ve raised a broken child. A vegetable. Toast; you’re already toast. I raised a robot. What did I do wrong? Talk to me. Tell me. Speak up, I’m not the table and my ears are on my head and not the floor. Look at me when I’m talking to you. Grow better at what you do, kid. I know you have talents because even vegetables have talents. Get a job, kid. You’re almost old enough, and you need money so when I’m old you can help me out. Make money and help me out. Why won’t you even look at me? We’re your goddamn parents, the people who swear they want to die before you do. You don’t talk to us, you don’t take our advice, you don’t even trust us.

61

Grow up, kid. That’s what I want. Grow up and grow out of this phase(godletitbeaphaseandnotsomethingpermanent) and grow into a job and success and happiness and money. A parent wants their child to love them. A parent wants their child to not need them anymore. Stop needing us, kid. We want you to be independent, and in some ways you are, but we won’t let you leave home if you only eat when we tell you to. Grow out of this house. Study hard now and become somebody important. Don’t forget us. We tried, we tried to raise an unbroken child but your eggshell is cracked as they come. But remember how hard we tried. I tried to understand you when you tried to talk to me but it, it, it didn’t feel right. Grow up and make money, kid, but goddamnit, don’t forget me. Don’t let me become nothing to you. I was a god in your eyes, kid, and I know that’s supposed to change, but not into this. This can’t be right. What did I do? Don’t forget me, kid. Please don’t forget me. God, if you forget what I’ve sacrificed for you... Look at me. I’m talking to you and this is goddamn important. What happened? You’re repelling us now. Blocking us out of your life but we’re supposed to be in charge of it. Don’t let me go. Don’t let me disappear from you, goddamnit. I’m not a god in your eyes anymore but at least let me be a human. Look at me, kid. Goddamnit, why won’t you look at me? Look at me. Look. Goddamn. Up. Why are you crying?

62

Follow the light, follow it! Now!6\DRUDQ

I speak emotions, and sometimes words.3HDFKHV

My extremities are close to numb./L]D

Inconclusiveness thrives through destitute writing assignments.)HOL[�WKH�*UHDW

I wouldn’t know (I’ve never died).VRPHERG\

It takes two to whisper quietly.ZDUULRUNLWWHQ

You have to break the walls.IOXII\NLWW\QLQMD

I will always hold on. Always.WKDW�ZULWHU�NLGGR

What is the time Mr. Wolf?3XJ

Darling, it pretty much never does.4ZHUW\*LUO

I wish I could tell you.1\[

That might be a bit uncomfortable.JUDGVWHU�

I know where our dreams go.NFS

Brick walls can be so forgiving.%DLO\UDHH

Life’s like glue; it tastes bad./DXJKLQJ)DFDGH

I never wanted to go back./XQD6XQVHW

And then I saw its tail.ZKLWHKDLU

You never left me any stardust.0F:ULWHU

Can I try that again, please?$ORQHZLWK)ULHQGV

It is her life, not theirs.LQWUHSLGBKHDUW

It was probably beautiful — I forget.VRPHERG\

I wish someone would answer me.FODLUH\�EHDULH

��:25'6

On youngwritersproject.org there is often a little ‘widget’ on the front page where young writers post their mini-stories, sometimes a sentence, sometimes a paragraph but most often six words – no more, no less. We have a collection of more than 6,000 of them from the last year or so. Here are some that struck us, with the online usernames of the authors:

63

The truth is always there. Ask.$QRQ\PRXV

Can you see it? The world?LDPWLPH

Let me figure it out, please.,ULV'ROO

We counted down until six, laughing.'DUN'HFHPEHU

When I was young, I listened.=DELUD�6LOYHU

The snow fell early that August.6WLOO6HDUFKLQJ

Play with their expectations, my child.&LUFH

How’d you work that one out?VRPHERG\BHOVH

That monkey ate my shoe. Again.7LWDQLD

Well THAT wasn’t what I expected.(OHDQR5RRVHYHOW/RYHU

Just toured my future personal hell.WKDW�ZULWHU�NLGGR

My white light has gone out.RLDZFE

Mailing herself letters written in cursive.,]]LH\

My soul is gone. I’m scared.$QRQ\PRXV

I die slowly when doing homework.1DFKR

Roosters never made sense in Spanish.JUDGVWHU�

I’m too tired to be reasonable.VKHOE\QFE

64

Student Writers and Artists

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He who holds on, but expects the world to changealways seems to rise before the sun, and watch it in exchange.In the morning glory though, the color truly prances,and with the eternal gaze, real also,he dances.