for Stanford
Anthology
1
Youth
**
a tumble
of
glorious
proportion
A collection of writing and art by San Francisco Bay Area middle-school students.
** Ashley Guo (cover art) is a 7th grader at JLS who loves to read and write. She
* enjoys competitive swimming at PASA, plays the piano, and dances ballet.
2 Copyright ©2015 Stanford Anthology for Youth
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or
reproduced without prior permission from Stanford Anthology
for Youth.
Published by Giant Horse Printing, South San Francisco, Calif.
Layout and Design by Helen Anderson
The title — a tumble of glorious proportion— is taken from “A
Day in the Sky of Life” by Emma Nathanson.
Stanford Anthology for Youth
[email protected]
Stanford, Calif.
Stanford Anthology for Youth strives to ensure the originality
of the submissions contained within this publication. Stanford
Anthology for Youth assumes no responsibility for any works
that may not be the original creation of the contributor to whom
the piece is credited.
DEar WritErs: 3
Stop us if you’ve heard this one before:
Once upon a time, there was a beautiful girl called Cinderella.
She lived as a servant to her cruel stepmother and ugly stepsis-
ters. One day, a royal messenger arrived—
You can fill in the rest. The story of “Cinderella” is so familiar
that most of us could recite it in our sleep. But that’s true of a lot
of other stories too. People have been telling tales for millennia.
After all this time, how can any story possibly surprise us?
Well, what if Cinderella is secretly a robot assassin? What if her
story actually takes place in a dystopian wasteland, where food
and footwear are equally hard to come by?
Even better, what if Cinderella discovers that her prince isn’t re-
ally so charming? What if the stepmother turns out to be a com-
plex character full of her own fears and hopes and vulnerabili-
ties? What if everything we thought familiar was in fact strange?
When we read your stories, we encountered the unexpected.
Instead of skipping happily off into the sunset, your characters
fell short of their goals, or discovered that what they thought they
wanted wasn’t really what they wanted after all. You led us down
paths that felt familiar only to veer off wildly into the under-
brush. You brought us right to the crumbling cliff edge, encour-
aged us to admire the view, and pushed.
This is how new tales get told.
It’s a dangerous business, going off-road. There’s always the
chance of getting lost. That fall off the cliff might even feel like a
failure. But failure is a necessity of risk, and risk is a necessity of
innovation. So, our advice to you: if you fail, fail magnificently.
Fail without fear. And then? Pick up a pen and write it down.
Editors, Stanford Anthology for Youth
June 2015
EDitOriaL BOarD
KENt BLaKE DaNa hUh
NiCOLE BLUM JULia MartiNs
JONathaN ENgEL JENNifEr PEtErsON
Maria grEEr Katy riCharDsON
4 fiND thE artists
giaNNa COLOMBO page 125
DaPhNE CrUM page 135
page 41
sOPhiE fLEMiNg the cover
ashLEy gUO page 52
pages 32 and 116
tOMMy hartMaN page 19
MaEvE hELLEr page 35
ryaN iKi page 79
NiCOLE LEE page 176
pages 86 and 110
ChELsEa MOrEyra pages 9, 47 and 191
aMy NgO pages 96 and 158
page 59
aNDrEW riCharDs page 169
aNgEL traCh page 29
JEssE UitErWiJK
JOCELyN WaNg
COrriNE WEBstEr
LiLy WOLfE
taBLE Of CONtENts 5
10 Maya PaChKOWsKi
1592
13 sErENa fUrUta
2043
16 BriaNa aMaya-aDLE
And So He Didn’t
18 BaNafshEh hUssaiN
Anonymous
20 BENJaMiN hUaNg
The Armor
27 MiKE fEDDOCK
Asphalt Tearing Terror
30 tayLOr sMith
Battle with the Waves
33 ashLEy gUO
Beyond
36 shiva shaMBayati
Blank Canvas
39 isha saNghvi
A Bug Named Hope
42 aDaM griffiN
Climbing Higher
45 gWyNEth BrOWN
The Cold Song
48 sOfia siErra-garCia
The Cosmic Essence of I
49 Marta BaUMaNN
The Crash
53 DaPhNE CrUM
Cutting the Strings
6 56 EMMa NathaNsON
A Day in the Sky of Life
57 EMMa ChaMBErLaiN
Delayed
58 aLExaNDEr Kaattari-LiM
Disappearance
60 NiChOLas LOzBEN
The Fall
62 MaDisON fOstEr
Feeling Freedom
63 BEN PUCEL
A Final Goodbye
65 DaPhNE CrUM
The Freezing Plummet
68 ryaN iKi
Heart Felt
71 hELENa siLEN
Hot Fire
72 EMMa arONsON
If He Comes
75 LExi BattagLiNi
Innocent
76 BriaNa aMaya-aDLE
Keep Running...
80 MatiLDa MONtrOsE
The Last Show
84 BEN PUCEL
A Life Never to be Seen Again
86 BraDLEy sChULz
Lonely Love
87 giaNNa COLOMBO
Lyrics of Defiance
91 MatthEW EisENBErg
Man Down
94 MaEvE hELLEr
Man’s Best Friend
97 JULiEt aBLaza 7
107
111 Message Sent
114
117 KENDaLL BUrLisON
120
123 Million Dollar Masterpiece
127
130 NiCKy DOvyDaitis
133
136 Missing
137
138 KathEriNE haNsEN
139
146 My Moment
150
155 giaNNa COLOMBO
156
Never Be the Same
ryaN iKi
Never Good Enough
graCE LEDWith
New Hope
KathEriNE haNsEN
One Day Only
WiLLiaM KEiM
The Opal Ghost
gaBriEL MONtCLarE
A Peaceful Place
sOPhia ChiaNg
The Pencil
EMMa saMsON
Poor Riches
sOPhia ChiaNg
Ready or Not, Here I Come
NataLiE BEiEr
The Rebel Children
MaDisON fOstEr
A Recipe for Fun
KatE LOvELaND
A Room Full of Boxes
isha saNghvi
The Seed of Hope
rEECE KUraMOtO
Set Free
8 159 COriNNE WEBstEr
160
161 She the Crow the Crow the Thief
164
165 graCE hELLEr
168
170 The Silhouette
173
174 BraDLEy sChULz
177
179 A Single Thought
181
182 Martha QUiriE
185
189 Sleeping in a Creek
192
193 MatiLDa MONtrOsE
Some Fears Aren’t Meant to be Faced
aDaM griffiN
Strength in Kindness
EMMa LarssON
Swings
Cathy hOU
To My Friend
gENNi shaNE
Trapped
ryaN BUssEr
Trapped Behind Bars
LOUis BULKa
Trenches
KaitLyN O’CONNOr
Untitled Poem
sErENa fUrUta
Wandering
aDriaN harris
A Whole New World
MaEvE hELLEr
Winter Wonderland
KyaN WaLKEr
Withered Time
sOPhiE harris
You Never Know What You’ve Got Till It’s Gone
**
9
10 *Maya PaChKOWsKi
1592
The records and books from the church lay on a large, splin-
tering, wooden table, which seemed to swallow up the entire
room. As I took a breath, my lungs felt the whiff of mildew from
the books.
The church was in the little town of Partigliano, Italy, where
half of my family originates. Partigliano was the third stop in our
family trip through Italy, yet this town seemed to be the most
important.
The church was small, only able to hold around a hundred
people, just enough to fit the population of the town. The build-
ing was detailed, with intricate engravings of people and symbols
portraying scenes of the bible on the molding, beautiful stained
glass, and ancient frescoes covering the walls. The altar was a
grand masterpiece with many small figures and multiple volumes
of the bible lining the shelves.
My grandfather was oddly silent at the time; it worried me
a bit. “Are you okay?”, I asked slightly concerned. He had been
tired but not usually this quiet.
He replied, “I’m just in awe of how beautiful this is.”
“I know, its fascinating.”, I said softly so I wouldn’t break the
somewhat awkward silence.
“I am still wondering how this is possible given the time it
was built.” My grandpa was very excited and in obvious shock.
He wandered around gazing at the walls, almost inspecting them.
I had seen many churches featuring the same aspects dur-
ing my trip, therefore the prospect of entering another church
* Maya is an eighth grader at Central Middle School who loves to go on adventures,
sing, dance and act. But when Maya is not performing she enjoys writing or read-
ing. Maya is currently working as the Student Body President and loves this lead-
ership role!
** Angel Trach (previous page) moved to Palo Alto in sixth grade. Although she
didn’t like art in the beginning, she has been drawing for several years. She just
started watercolor about one year ago and has enjoyed it since then. Her hobbies
include dance, reading, and abacus. She has two sisters, a hamster, two turtles,
and two dogs.
seemed boring. However, this church captured my attention. I 11
was excited to see where my ancestors had been baptized, mar-
ried, and laid to rest. The others were grand in size and with
great detail in the elaborate designs. Partigliano’s was substan-
tially smaller yet just as gorgeous.
Our distant cousin, Luciano, agreed to take us around the
town and into the church. I went to this church with my family in
hope of finding the names of our ancestors in order to discover
more about my mother’s family tree. Lucky for us, he even had
access to the old church records.
It was these records that laid out on the immense table be-
fore me. I scanned the table under the dim light from which there
was one window and an old, faint light on the ceiling. Though
the day was bright, the window was dusty making the outside
life seem cloudy and dreary. The excitement made me even more
warm than I already was from the humid weather of the after-
noon.
As I gazed upon the countless birth, marriage, and death
records, I saw it. I spotted an old book covered in an animal hide.
Printed on the cover in gold was the year: 1592.
I picked the book up with a steady hand. The heavy weight
felt surprising for such a small item. Parts of the cover were soft
to the touch; others were crisp from water damage and age. I
felt as if the book would disintegrate right there in my hands. I
was scared to turn the thin and crumpled, yet rigid pages. But
I proceeded to open it anyway, it was an opportunity I couldn’t
pass up.
The edges of the pages were tattered and stained. The ink
lacked vibrance making it barely visible and the cursive was too
complicated to be recognized by a 12 year old’s eye. It seemed to
be untouched for many years, yet it remained well preserved in
the massive, locked wooden cabinet.
Holding this book made me go back in time. Running my
hand down the spine, I imagined the priests of five hundred
years ago who held it with the same care as I did in that moment.
It was a distinct difference in the style of the book from ours
now, I felt it was impossible for something so old to still exist in
this world.
I have never been more cautious in my life as I was when
holding this book. It was like cradling a newborn baby. Both were
fragile and held together by a delicate structure, meaning I had
to take appropriate care in order to keep it protected.
I scanned the pages up and down, intensely searching for
names of my distant relatives. While I was only searching for a
few select people, I felt connected to every person I saw listed in
12 the book. How many of these people were friends with my ances-
tors?
Then, I finally found one. Faintly written in the maze of
words, I made out the letters: S-I-L-V-E-S-T-R-I. Silvestri. The
name we had been searching for. Silvestri was the surname of my
Italian ancestors on my great-grandmother’s side. All I could do
was stare at the name in astonishment. I had never expected to
be successful in finding a name. But there it was, staring back at
me.
Looking around I saw my family’s faces, full of cheer and
energy. We had been searching for these names for so long, it
was a relief to finally find one. We had discovered a whole new
branch of our family tree. There was joy filling my grandfather’s
eyes every time we found a new person. It was his family that
was from Partigliano and he was overjoyed that he was able to be
there in that room with us. I felt extremely fortunate to share this
moment with my grandfather, as I realized this was a once in a
lifetime experience for both of us.
I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket, but I ignored it. This
moment was so unforgettable that I could not bear the thought of
ending it. My family was speaking around me in a normal tone,
but, to me, they were barely audible as I was seized by the glory
of my own little world. The small amount that I heard consisted
of comments of excitement and eagerness.
I wanted to spend days deciphering the pages. I longed to
know more about these people, not just the numbers that marked
the beginning and end of their lives. I wanted to know what their
story was: what challenges they faced, what family meant to them
and how our family has changed over time.
Finding the name was an achievement of mine that I don’t
believe most people would understand. It was a surreal discovery
in my family’s tree and I am proud to say I made it happen. This
was a mission for my family, an important one. Therefore it was
important to me. The people of my past have shaped the person I
am and will become by giving me the family I have today.
*sErENa fUrUta 13
2043
Cara creeped through the squeaky door, punctiliously placing
her old, worn shoes on the ragged carpet. She tried not to bother
her mother, as she always did, but her mother was on the couch,
sobbing, with Cara’s father wrapping his arms around her. Cara
stood at the door tensely.
“Mom?” Cara asked, her forehead crinkled. She started to
fidget with her pant pockets, and looked towards the ground.
“Mom, what happened? Did...did… someone d...die?” Cara could
already feel tears welling up in her eyes. Cara wasn’t ready for
someone to die. She would cry when even her mother caught a
cold.
“Oh, Cara.” Her mom couldn’t even look her in the eye, but
instead, deep in the ground, deep into nothing. “They passed it.
They passed the bill, and you have a C-.”
Cara’s eyes shot at her mom, then back down to the ground.
She was still, like a snake and though her eyes didn’t fill with
tears, they filled with complete terror.
She knew the exact bill her mom was talking about. The Bill
of Labor. Passed on May 12th, 2043. Since there was a shortage
of farmers, due to the unappealing lifestyle of pain and extreme
physical activity, every child in 8th grade or higher with a C- or
below in any or all classes will be forced into labor for the rest of
their lives, on the date of May 13th, 2043.
“Say it again, Mom.” Cara’s face was blank, but her eyes were
wide, and she stared at the ground.
“I’m sorry!” Her mom was sobbing at her feet, like a baby,
but it just made Cara feel angrier.
“Say it again, Mom!” Now she was yelling.
“They passed the bill, Cara! They are going to come and take
my baby away! The only thing with value in my life!”
That was tomorrow. The once merciful government was
going to rip Cara away from her family. For the sole purpose of
* Serena Furuta enjoys softball, writing, and reading. She currently attends Central
Middle School.
14 farming. Why would they do this to me? I’m just a child. Cara
thought.
But Cara knew. She didn’t have to ask why, or to get an
answer back. Cara already knew. A study by the government,
back in 2036, showed that children with a C- or below in or after
8th grade had an 86% chance of becoming homeless or dead by
the time they were 30. Congress saw this as an ‘opportunity’ for
children, to not be dead, and yet now, if you had a C- or below,
you were considered property. Not even a human anymore, just
property,
“We feel that this is a chance, a chance for redemption
for our falling country, due to the farmer shortage. A chance to
find our way through this darkness. It is the ultimate sacrifice.
My point being, you can’t have redemption without sacrifice!”
That was the president speaking on the old tv screen. President
Gabriel Albatross. A man who used to be one of justice. One Cara
used to look up to.
“No!” Cara screamed. “No! They can’t do that! They can’t
do that! I’m just a kid! I won’t do that!” Cara broke down into
large tears of pity. Pity for herself, pity for her friends, and pity
for the president, who doesn’t know how to love.
Cara kicked the tv off it’s small pedestal, the most expen-
sive thing in the whole house.
“No! I won’t! I won’t! I won’t!” Cara’s father pried her from
her place, as she kicked and screamed, and she couldn’t help but
wonder if this was happening to her friends, too.
“Any school who doesn’t give up transcripts, or any person
who gives help to property children,” continued the president.
“Will be charged with treason, and will be shot on the spot!” Cara
watched the tv, which was surprisingly still working, as if she
were watching a scary movie.
“Cara,” Her mother said with a dark voice. “We are going
to hide. We can go underground, and hide there forever. We can
eat dirt. We can do it.” Cara’s once so fragile mother had com-
pletely lost it. She couldn’t do it to her. Cara couldn’t let them
rot underground for her. Cara’s mother was being driven into
madness. If they hid, all of them would get shot, and Cara just
couldn’t do it to her mother or father.
“No, Mom,” Cara said, her voice filled with anger. “No, I
have to go. We are not going to go underground and rot. I can
feed you, both you and Dad.” And it was very unfortunately true.
It was almost a necessary evil.
Cara’s father was silent. Not a single tear was shed from
him. He blankly stared and didn’t say a word.
“John!” Cara’s mother said angrily. “Aren’t you sad? Aren’t
you going to give your only child some support?” Cara had never 15
seen her parents fight before, and she jumped back in shock.
It was as if she were the de-threader, and her parents were the
braking seams.
Cara’s dad got out of his seat, and to the fallen tv, where
the president was talking, and kicked it even harder than Cara,
until it shattered into a thousand pieces. Cara thought the tv
represented her life; shattered.
“I hate this! I hate this world! This isn’t humanity! It’s
been lost!” He started to sob. For the first time in Cara’s life, she
saw her father sob, and now, she didn’t know what bothered her
more, the fact she would be forced into labor, or her dad, crying.
“Dad, stop!” Cara screamed. “For all my life I’ve relied on
you and Mom for everything. I relied on you to feed me, help me
make friends, everything. I haven’t done anything in my whole
life that didn’t involve you. I can help you. I can feed our dying
nation.”
This time, Cara hated to be right. She wished her parents
would tell her how wrong she was, and she could be mistaken,
but she knew that she could help the country.
Cara stood her ground above her whimpering parents, like
they were helpless puppies.
“It’s not right,” her father said. “It’s just not right to rip
our kids away from home. Cara, you’re not a house, you’re not
property.”
“I know,” Cara said. “Maybe one day, when people realize
how bad it is, I can come back. I can live out the rest of my life in
peace.”
Cara was shaking as she collapsed into her parents’ arms.
Tears rolled down Cara’s face like leaves falling from a tree.
That night, Cara held her family as if it was the last day of all
humanity. But in a sick and twisted way, it was.
16 *BriaNa aMaya-aDLE
And So He Didn’t
One of the most significant moments in your life, takes place
in the end. The last moments of your life. When you’re at the fin-
ish line. We all experience it. You, me, and even him. This is his
finish line.
He laid there, wrapped in his covers, warm in his bed, staring
at the blank space in the ceiling. It was late, almost midnight.
The rain poured outside, pattering on the roof. All else was
silent. With his head resting on his pillow, he pondered of all his
adventure, his mistakes, and achievements in his life. The people
he had met, and the ones he had forgotten. All this clumped
together into his soul, that made him. He turned over to his wife,
who lay deep in her dreams, right by his side. He remembers her
chocolate brown curls that bounced perfectly upon her shoulders
on their first date at the carnival, all those years ago. And the
time he first held her soft dainty hands beneath the maple tree.
And the call he got during work, announcing that she was going
in labor with their first child. Thinking back on the feeling and
the rush he encountered while cradling his newborn son, taking
in every pulse of his tiny beating heart. His head so round and
perfect like a full moon on a cloudless night. He remembered the
tingling smell, that tickled his nose that was sweet like honey,
and soft like clouds. He then recalled looking into his wife’s crys-
tal blue eyes that haunted him of warmth and intimacy, that he
will never forget. He didn’t know what he would do without her,
and this new bundle of life that now depended on him.
Now here he was, a 75 year old man with ashen colored hair
that was combed precisely to the left side. Satisfied and fulfilled.
All he wanted in life, he had strived for, and ended up with. He
was happy. Although the past months, filled with limping around
with an old wooden cane, and needing three people to help get
him out of bed, had burdened him, he was happy. He wondered
* I love writing! I think its so much much fun, and I hope that in the future I will pursue
some sort of job that involves writing! I think this opportunity is so amazing and I can’t
wait to share my writing with you.
about yesterday and notioned about tomorrow. He closed his
heavy weighed eyes and fell through the portal of his thoughts.
Dreaming of a forest, with trees as tall as mountains, its leaves
a glowing green. The flowers, as bright as the sun, beaming with
life and safety. Animals of all species roamed across the fresh cut
grass, purely and gracefully. He stood there in his dream looking
at all the beauty and the color that flourished the fresh clean air.
In this dream that he dreamed, he felt young and vibrant like he
did on that day at the carnival, all those years ago.
He had found his safe haven. A place where no darkness ex-
isted, only serenity and blithe. So he wished upon the stars that
floated in the mystic sea above him, asking only that he could
stay there forever. He also wished and pleaded that his wife could
find it too, and that once she did, they could live there till the end
of time. Until there were no more stars to count. He didn’t want
to wake up from this beautiful dream. And so he didn’t.
17
18 *BaNafshEh hUssaiN
Anonymous
At school
People mess up my name
But when I get home
I shed the cloak of Banafsheh Hussain
And her ordinary world
I sit on the bed
And let my imagination take me away
I become
A schemer
A dreamer
Staring into space
Not seeing anything
Except
My own world
Where battles rage
And dragons roar
Where myths
And fantasies
Become reality
I dream
Of characters from ancient lore
And when I sleep
I dream
Of dark-hooded strangers knocking on doors
In the quiet of night
I dream
Of heroes
And flaming towers
* Banafsheh Hussain is a sixth grader at JLS Middle School in Palo Alto, California.
She has been writing poems since the age of seven and now also writes short sto-
ries. Banafsheh is an avid reader and is usually found curled up with a book.
** Creatively challenged, yet undeterred, Ryan Iki (opposite page) is an aspiring
writer in the eighth grade at Central Middle School. She finds inspiration in ath-
letic endeavors and motivation from a supportive family and group of friends.
I dream 19
Of riding into the sunset
But when I wake
I know I have to become
Banafsheh Hussain once more
In her ordinary world
**
20 *BENJaMiN hUaNg
The Armor
An old man. Stooped and bent in a dozen places with the
weight of countless years, hands gnarled with age, movements
rendered painful from old scar tissue riddling his body. His legs
plodded in the slow but determined manner of a tortoise. The
left leg was missing below the knee, replaced by a rough wooden
stump. His face was ancient and worn like rough leather, small
and pinched, framed by a corona of snow-white hair. His eyes
were wrinkled with laughter, and then re-wrinkled with the
crow’s-feet of despair and sadness. He laboriously pulled a
wooden cart, the wheels squeaking and churning in the mud of
the village square. Its cargo was obscured with a rough brown
blanket, only basic shapes and contours were revealed: hard, thin
angular lines, ridges, pitted surfaces.
All around him, the people of the village went about their
daily lives. Children played in the mud, laughing and shouting as
they slung handfuls of mud at each other until neither identity
nor gender could be discerned under a layer of muck. Stall keep-
ers called out their various wares. The odor of the village square
hung in the air - the smell of baking fish, dirt, roasting pigs turn-
ing over a wood fire, body odor and cow manure. For the village,
it was the scent of life.
It was market day.
Across the marketplace, a blacksmith observed the old man’s
progress. He scrutinized the mysterious object beneath the
blanket and idly wondered what it was. Some pots and pans? A
broken plow? Some scrap metal? The blacksmith pondered his
ten year old son James, who needed a new pair of shoes, and
his shrew of a wife. Always nagging him for repairs for their tiny
two-room cottage. The blacksmith let out a long, slow breath. He
hoped it was scrap metal.
Minutes crawled by. The tired old man drew some curious
* Benjamin Huang is an average 8th grader attending JLS middle school. He enjoys
reading science fiction novels and has been an avid writer since 5th grade.
glances. Finally, he arrived at the destination, straightening 21
up, wincing as he worked out the various kinks in his back. The
blacksmith greeted him with a smile.
“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked.
“I was jes’ wonderin’ if you could take this ol’ load a’ metal
off my back,” replied the old man. His voice was as rough and
husky as the bark of a gnarled tree, tinged with the rough burr of
a deep south-region accent. He adopted a guarded expression.
The blacksmith was already calculating, in his head, how
much this unexpected windfall would bring him. Ten gold coins?
No, fifteen - Ernest the scrap collector is a fair man, looks like
there’s a lot of junk under the blanket. How much did it cost
to get Alfie’s blasted arse down there last time he replaced the
shingles on the roof? Eighteen and a copper? Hmm...
The blacksmith came back to reality with a start.
“So, what’s under that blanket?” he asked casually.
The old man turned around and wordlessly yanked back the
covering. Lying on the rough wooden cart was a set of time-worn
battle-armor, stained and pocked and riven from use in countless
battles. The helmet sported a large gouge running from the eye
hole to the neck guard like a tear trail. It possessed the dull me-
tallic sheen of something that has been polished and repolished
over and over again. Something came into the old man’s eye as
he gazed at it.
The blacksmith was momentarily at a loss for words. All the
soldiers in the royal army wore some sort of mithril alloy now,
didn’t they? Nobody in their right mind would go to battle clad
in this rusting iron hulk whose joints might come apart at any
moment.
“...Ah...how’d you come by this fine piece?” said the black-
smith.
The old man grunted. “Didn’t find it by the side of the road,
if that’s what you’re implyin’. Served in King Harold the Fifth’s
royal army in the 40’s. Fought a real war with this ‘un, I did.”
“Must be a great story behind this ol’ - this ol’ armor, right?”
asked the blacksmith.
“You’re righ’ about that…” murmured the old man.
And now the old man’s guarded expression slowly dropped
away like a curtain, replaced by a faraway look. His eyes seemed
to see beyond the horizon to distant battlefields, faraway roads
stamped flat by the tread of armored feet in days long past. He
reached down and caressed the jagged tear in the helmet’s bur-
nished faceplate. The old man spoke:
“Got this in the first battle a’ Coasthedge. Gawd, not half
a’ the Fifth were still standing by sunset. An ogre, twelve-foot
22 monster, laid me flat with a club the size o’ a willow tree…” His
hand moved farther down, tracing a regular line of jagged holes
punched through the chestplate. “Two-inch dragon teeth, while
the 15th and 16th were clearin’ out a nest a’ cold drakes up in the
Eldenborns. Dang near bled to death”.
The blacksmith half-listened to this recollection, this picking
up and dusting off of old memories, and thought the words flow-
ing out of the crooked old man’s mouth were the mere gibberish
of one possessing a weak, fragile mind as he rambled on, eyes
still fixed on some indefinite point beyond the horizon, over the
hills and far away.
“This little nick here, got it from…”
“So he lunged at me with his sword and knocked me to the
ground, and I dang near thought I was dead until one a’ my bud-
dies stuck him in the side...”
“Beautiful place, you shoulda’ seen it - forests like green
blankets, streams clear ‘n’ cold as ice…”
The words, piling up like bricks, worked a curious effect on
the blacksmith. He, too, acquired some of the trancelike de-
meanor in his eyes, and as the old man’s words wove the tapestry
of an entire life lived to its fullest, he thought of what it would
be like to sleep under the stars, and see the distant green valleys
and snow-capped mountains and roaring waterfalls. To charge
into battle roaring out a battlecry, comrades on either side doing
the exact same thing, an exhilarating cry of defiance and fear and
excitement. To wield a sword instead of a workman’s hammer
and don armor instead of repair it.
But no. The blacksmith had a family now, and a young son
who would die of sorrow if his father was killed in battle. He had
a job that at least earned him a decent amount of money. And
now the old man seemed to come to reality as well and remem-
bered the dark side of war - the true side - he had witnessed.
Remembered the story behind the dented hole in the lower
back - where the arrow had struck as he, kneeling, held the body
of an unknown soldier whose face was hidden beneath a mask
of steel, weeping in a forgotten field as the crows scratched at
the dead and the dying all around. Remembered walking home
from that battle in the Nan Gohng citadel, triumphant, exulting,
only to find the village - their destination - burning. This same
hamlet that had showered them with kindness, let them stay
the night, sharpened their swords and wished them luck as they
traipsed off into the morning to fight, only to return and find it
a smoking, burning ruin, houses afire, the kind people who had
showered them with kindness slaughtered and lying dead. And
then the pain of losing the leg to the teeth of a manticore, the
fire and glory of war finally evaporating like a mirage, replaced 23
by a dead, horrified feeling, a numbness at the horrible loss of
life that shook him to his core. Returning home to the city of his
birth - he was unrecognizable after all those years of service, aged
before his time, eyes having seen the brutality of war, the darkest
depths of humanity. Without a leg, reduced to a wobbling hobble.
He had seen the carefully masked disgust and revulsion lurking
behind the eyes those once loved who’d turned him away, unable
to work because of his injury. He recalled the painful, shameful
years of begging on the streets during the day, squatting in the
mud and filth, arms raised in a gesture of pleading for money, for
food, for anything just to live another week.
At this recollection the elder’s face slipped back into a
hooded expression. He lifted a finger toward the rusting armor
on the cart.
“How much’ll I get for it?” he asked softly.
The blacksmith scooped out a handful of golden coins and
briefly counted them. He dropped them into the old man’s
gnarled cupped hands.
Now the blacksmith voiced a question he had been holding
for a while.
“Why’re you selling this anyway? Seems pretty precious to
ya...” And now the old man straightened up and looked the black-
smith squarely in the eye.
“Because I ain’t got nothin’ left. After the war, after Beatrice
died, I was jes’ an old cracked war veteran settin’ by the road,
beggin’ for money...food...anything! This ‘bout the only thing in
the world I got left, ‘sides the clothes on my back.”
The old man chuckled for a moment, then went on.
“This ol’ battle plate, more precious to me than gold or silver
or anythin’, saved my life from arrows, spears, swords, clubs,
and other whatnot so many times that I’d a died two-score times
over if not for it. And now I can feel death closin’ in on me, boy.
This winter’s gonna be a tough ‘un, and a penniless old man like
meself ain’t gonna last. Brother death is peekin’ through the
windows now, rattlin’ at the doors now, but he ain’t gonna get in
yet!”
A spark of defiance kindled in the old man’s faded dark eyes,
like a spark of youth. A racking cough like a death rattle worked
its way up his body, culminating in a hacking fit that bent the
elder’s body in half. But he soon straightened himself and contin-
ued, determined to make what he had to say heard.
“This armor’s the one thing I’ll leave on this sweet Earth after
I’m gone. It tells a story, sir. Every crack and scar and dent tells a
story. If’n I don’t sell it to someone who’d hear me out, someone
24 who’d listen to a crazy old man and think his ideas somethin’ else
other than just endless words, it’ll just be melted down to scrap,
turned into a cooking pot or somethin’. This armor’s gonna
be the only clue after I pass the horizon for the final time that
Thomas More ever walked the Earth. I’m trustin’ that you’ll keep
it safe.”
The blacksmith nodded slowly.
“Will do!” He said with a smile on his face.
The old man turned and, with the same speed as which he’d
come, slowly dragged the wooden cart and pulled it across the
village square. The blacksmith watched the old man’s progress,
the smile fixed on his face, and stayed that way long after he had
left.
He lay in the bed of his small 2-room cottage, listening to
the snores of his wife beside him, the gentle pattering of rain on
the wooden roof like a multitude of fingers drumming on a table,
the creak and groan of the house settling. The same thoughts
churned over and over in his mind like a dog chasing its tail.
What should he do? Maude was still badgering him about the
leaky roof. He could hear the occasional plip of a drop of water
falling through the thatch put in 2 years ago. He was also grow-
ing old. He could feel the fingers of old age grasping at his joints
and muscles, hindering them, working their influence, adding a
small ache occasionally when he moved or flexed. He’d probably
need to hire an apprentice for the smithy soon.
At the center of the blacksmith’s thoughts was the bat-
tered armor that still lay in the smithy where he’d left it and not
touched it again. Heck, he thought, times were growing tough
on the kingdom - the war up in the wintery, frozen north was
flaring up, and King Leopold had raised the taxes again. Dang
him. Probably stuffing his face with cake and wine as his soldiers
charged into battle with no shoes and dull, old swords. Selling
the metal - it was, after all, just scrap - would probably make a
good thirty to forty Gs. That was enough to get Alfie down here
and fix the darned leaky roof. And cover the cost of a few day’s
food, maybe a week.
But…should he, though? Now the blacksmith’s thoughts
turned to what Mr. More had said that morning, matching his
gaze with eyes as beady and black as a crow’s:
This armor’s gonna be the only clue after I pass the horizon
for the last time that Thomas More ever walked the Earth. I’m
trustin’ that you’ll keep it safe.
Now there was a piece of work with history behind it: a story
and adventure behind every scar, like an odyssey narrating old
Thomas More’s adventures in the Royal Army. How hard could 25
it be? Just keep the thing in the back room where the tools and
metals were and forget about it. Maybe polish it once in a while…
The dog fruitlessly pursued its tail, unable to catch it long
into the night, until it drifted off into the dark oblivion of sleep.
The next day dawned clear and cold. A tang of winter hung
about the town, swirling through the air on the wind. The black-
smith walked to his smithy. Along the way, he saw a group of
people whispering and murmuring near the doorstep of one of
the infirm houses - a large ugly brown brick rising out of a muddy
earth of the same color where you dropped off your venerable
and elderly, too weak to work and growing senile with age. As the
blacksmith watched from the side of the street, a respectful hush
fell over the crowd. A somber pair of men, pale and dressed in
black clothing, emerged from the dim hallway carrying an open
box.
Thomas More lay within, eyes sightlessly staring up at the
turbid slate gray sky like marbles.
The box was loaded onto a horse-drawn coach.
The blacksmith walked on.
The carpet of clouds began to break up was the day pro-
gressed, and little specks on sun shot through like golden spears.
By midday, the market was bustling again, and the sky was
mostly cloudless, although some large stragglers hovered over
the city like large blimps.
Now a horse-drawn cart made its way across the market. The
wagon behind clanged and rattled with the sound of metal, for
this was the cart of Ernest the scrap collector, and his cart was
strewn with the cast-off metal items of the town - cracked pots
and pans, broken ends of knives, other unidentifiable pieces. The
blacksmith plunged a red-hot chunk of iron into a nearby vat
of water, producing the hiss of hot steam. He dropped the iron
onto the cluttered workbench and strode forward, enclosing the
Ernest’s hand in a warm handshake.
“Mornin’, Ern,” he said.
“Mornin’, Jerold. Got any scraps for me this week?”
Jerold the blacksmith walked back and picked up a heavy
iron bin. Returning, he upended it onto the cart: even more
cracked broken pieces of iron, steel, and other alloys flooded out.
A soldier’s articulated gauntlet, some snapped silverware, even
what looked like a heavy antique candle mount. The two men
briefly conferred over the price, and soon a trickle of coins fell
into the blacksmith’s hand. Ernest was turning to head back to
his cart when...
“ ‘Ey, what’s that?”
The blacksmith turned. The plate armor lay on one of the
scarred worktables like a corpse awaiting dissection where he had
left it the day before. Ern rubbed his left eye with a soot-stained
knuckle, squinting.
“Issat - issat armor? Gawd, it’s scarred. Prob’ly seen a lotta
action, what with the crack in the faceplate. Where’d ya get it,
Jer?”
The blacksmith replied, “Old man gave it to me. Told me a
helluva story. Died a’ the damp this morning.”
Ern walked into the smithy to examine the armor further.
“Looks like - looks like one a’ them old models back when
Harold was still alive and kickin’. Haven’t seen one a’ these in a
while - thought they all got melted down. Give ya a good price to
take it offa your hands…”
I’m trustin’ that you’ll keep it safe.
The blacksmith turned to face Ern.
“No, thank you. I’ll keep this one.”
26
*MiKE fEDDOCK 27
Asphalt Tearing Terror
I took a ride in my venerable old ‘83 Mercedes 240D. Two
point four liters of raw power, 4 cylinders of asphalt-tearing ter-
ror with 67 rompin’ stompin’ horsepower at my beck and call.
It’s stock, all right, nothing done to it, but it pushes the 3,200
pounds of German engineering around with AUTHORITY. I’m
always catching mopeds and 18-wheelers by surprise...
I was headed back home from Baskin Robbins with my man-
ly triple-latte cappuccino blast (“No Cinnamon, ma’am, I take it
BLACK”), when I stopped at a streetlight. As the 240D rattled its
throaty idle around me, I sipped my bold beverage and wiped the
white froth from my stiff upper lip.
Minding my own business, I heard a rev from the next lane. I
turned, made eye contact, then let my eyes trace over the com-
petition. Geo Metro -- a late model, could be trouble. Low profile
tires, curb feelers, and school bus-yellow paint. Yep, a hot rod,
for sure. The howl of his motor snapped my reverie, and I looked
back into the driver’s intimidating eyes, nodded, then gunned my
own throttle (Rattle Rattle!!).
I tugged on my driving gloves and slipped on my sunglasses.
Gotta look cool to be fast.
The night was split with the sound of seven screaming cylin-
ders. Then the light turned.
I almost had him out of the hole, my four pounding cylinders
thrusting me at least a millimeter back into my seat, as smoke
poured from the exhaust pipe... I’d let it sit and idle too long! I
saw in the corner of my eyes a yellow snout gaining, the roar of
his three cylinders. He slung by me, right front wheel juddering
against the pavement, and he
flashed me a smile as his gasoline powered 1.1 liters of motor
stretched its legs. I turned off my AC to gain 10% more power
and kept my foot gamely in it. Then I saw a glimpse of chrome
* 14-year-old Mike Feddock lives with his family in San Carlos, CA. He loves to fix up
cars with his dad, and ride his bicycle and longboard everywhere. He enjoys reading
constantly, whether it be a comic book or novel.
28 under his bumper, and knew the ugly truth... He was running a
custom exhaust -- probably a 1.5-into-1 dual exhaust... maybe
even cutouts! Darn his hot-rod soul!
An old lady passing us on the crosswalk cast a dirty look
in our boy-racer direction... Yet still I persisted, with my four
pumping pistons singing a steady, deep, diesel song, wound fully
out. Though only a few handfuls of seconds had passed, we were
nearing the crosswalk at the other side of the intersection, and I
heard the note of his engine change as he made his shift to sec-
ond, and I saw his grin in his rearview mirror fade as he missed
the shift! I rocketed by!
Not ready to give up so easily, he left his foot in it, revving,
and I heard one wheel almost chirp as he finally found second
and dropped the clutch. We careened over the crosswalk, now
going at least 15 miles per hour. A bicyclist passed us, but intent
on the race as we were, neither of us batted an eye. I was waiting
for the first dot on the speedometer to tell me to shift (no ta-
chometer here!). Shifting, I nursed the clutch gently to keep from
bogging, keeping my motor spinning hot and pulling me ahead,
now trailing a cloud of stinking clutch smoke, no that’s diesel
exhaust again...
He slowly pulled abreast of me. Neck in neck, I shifted into
third at 38 MPH - a little early, but better safe than sorry. The
scream of motors deafening all pedestrians within a five foot
circle. He nosed ahead as we passed 42 miles an hour, then eased
in front of me, taunting, as he shifted into fourth. I decided to
keep my car in third, counting on the ability to pump out the
power at higher speeds and lower gears.
I was staring up the dual 6” chrome tips of his exhaust,
snarling, my cappuccino forgotten, as he lifted a little to take the
next corner. I saw my opportunity, and counting on the innate
agility of my trusty steed, I pulled wide into the number two lane
and kept my foot buried in carpet. Slowly, I inched around him,
feeling my German Diesel roll slowly to the left as I came abreast
in the midst of this gradual sweeping turn. I felt the front start to
push a little, so I added more power only to realize that was all I
had! But, I saw the right rear wheel lift on the Metro and realized
he had reached his limit! Slowly I gained on him through the out-
side of the turn passing him with ease!!! The Metro driver beat
his wheel in rage as my car eased past him on the outside, my
P175/R14’s screaming in protest, as we raced to the next light.
We coasted down, neck in neck, to the red light. I tightened
my driving gloves, ready for another round, when this WIMP
in the next car meekly flipped his turn signal and made a right.
MB superiority reigns!!! I drove off sipping my masculine drink,
awash in my sheer virility, looking for other unwitting targets.... 29
Perhaps a Yugo, maybe even a Volkswagen Van!
**
30 *tayLOr sMith
Battle with the Waves
The forceful wind collides with my hair and pushes it back in
a wavy motion. The rope connecting my inner tube to our boat
tightens as the boat bounces in front of me on the choppy water.
Dad, at the wheel, jolts the boat suddenly to the left. The boat
approaches a wave and bounces over it. I am jostled this way and
that, struggling to hold on. Kneeling, I crouch down closer to the
tube. I put extreme pressure on the handles. My body leans hard
to the right to keep from falling off. I tense up as I try to recover
and sit up straight. But I don’t. I am whipped off of the tube and
sent flying through the air. Soon, I plunge down only to land in
the boat’s unfriendly choppy wake. I am sent into a movie film
which is only in black as I enter the water’s eerie surroundings.
I think of only seconds before, when I rode calmly on the sur-
face of the beautiful lake. I rounded the narrow bend anxious to
not fall off and wipe out. My eyes were shut, holding back water
from spraying into them. I opened one eye just to make sure I
was still attached to the boat by a thin rope. “Yup still attached,”
I thought to myself. My knees, red, from falling off of the inner
tube the previous rounds. The clumps of eroded rock sat calmly
on the algae-colored bottom of the lake, many feet below me
seconds ago. The native birds stood tall near the shoreline. Speed
gaining, my eyes start to burn from the water pelting down on
my face. But this is not fear. It is pure joy. Everything seemed to
be perfect and as it is meant to be.
Whoosh! The dampened sound of the water screams to me
under the surface. The water, green with envy, comes to life and
yanks at my hair tie, trying to pull it out. My legs trail behind me
as I turn forward in the water, leaving behind a trace of bubbly
foam. I am trapped, underneath the waves. If I were to call, it will
* Taylor Smith is a creative and unique 8th grade girl. She is an actress and has a
very hilarious personality. She also loves to spend time with her two dogs, friends,
and family.
** Lily Wolfe (previous page) is responsible, nice, and fun to be around. She likes
playing volleyball, soccer, and softball outside of school. Some extracurricular
activities include photography and baking.
be devoured by the crashing of the majestic arcs scattered above 31
the water. The water surrounds me like a hug, except this hug
doesn’t want to let go. Fear of drowning puts me into complete
shock and a worried state of mind.
Everything is black and silent. The dark encloses all around
me. What if I never come up? I think to myself. I push that
thought aside and think about the positives. When I find none,
I start to really freak out. The darkness of the water everywhere
around me is overwhelming and claustrophobia fills my stiff
body. It is like the walls are closing in on me and there is no light
at the end of the tunnel.
The sun’s glowing light starts to shine brilliantly through the
mucky color of the water. I can still see this vibrant glow even
though my body is submerged in water. The green algae-colored
water now parts from the neverending sky as I am slowly reach-
ing the surface. My legs reach the surface as if they are a magnet
being pulled out of the water. The rest of my body follow my legs
as they too are being pulled by a magnet. When my head finally
pops up, I immediately gasp for air. My lungs expand as if they
are taking their very first breath of air. I am reunited with the
familiar sounds and scents as before. The boat is now in view as
well as my family.
“Whoo hoo!!” Dad shouted at me from the boat. “Yeah!
Nice job, Tay!”
“Thanks!” I shout back.
What did I do that was that amazing? I ask myself. Didn’t
he see I just fell off of the inner tube and was about to drown?
Didn’t he see my body come hurdling down like pelting hail?
Doesn’t he know when that happens to you, your body aches
and it is like you are hit with a wave of tiredness? Maybe he just
didn’t see me under the water spinning? No, I wasn’t submerged
that far underneath the tumbling frothy wake. Maybe my tumble
only lasted for a few seconds. That is the answer I come up with.
Because of the fact that I was below the water for a few seconds,
he didn’t have a chance to see me. He also had the task of driving
the boat and make sure that he didn’t crash into any nearby jet-
skiers or waterskiers. I forgave Dad inside my head for not seeing
my tumble.
My whole body feels lazy from the torture just seconds ago,
as I try to swim back. My legs are limp and I can’t move them.
This is harder than I imagined! I think to myself as I am reeled in
with a rope. I sluggishly climb onto the boat’s small blue water-
proof deck with assistance. I sit in the front of the boat in the
sun to dry off. My hands look like shriveled up raisins from the
lukewarm water.
32 My body lies limp and motionless but my family, cheering for
me, seems to be proud of me, as if I did something heroic.
I used to always think if I wiped out on a run or just swam in
the water, sharks or fish would come and attack me even when
mom would tell me there was nothing to be afraid of. “Some-
thing might be lurking down there, waiting for the right time to
attack.” This is what I would think to myself when I would swim
in water where I couldn’t clearly see the bottom. But now I have
overcome my fears and that feeling compares to nothing else. I
now feel proud of my “battle with the waves” and I smile to my
family.
**
*ashLEy gUO 33
Beyond
The fastest animals in the world, cheetahs, can run up to sev-
enty miles an hour. Cheetahs live out their adventurous lives in
the open savannah, slinking around in the tall grass and chasing
down prey. On the other hand, the housecat is a small, usually
furry, domesticated creature, simply called the cat. I am an ordi-
nary, typical cat, for I am a Siamese. Life in my world is comfort-
able, quiet, and uneventful. The only person in my life is Lydia.
Lydia is the cheery singer who always breaks out into a
white and perfect smile when she sees me. She loves me, and
I love her, but sometimes I wonder what my life would be like
if I weren’t just a simple Siamese. Sure, Lydia is a kind owner,
but sometimes I look out the window to the huge field beyond
our home and like to imagine that I am the cheetah, a marvel of
evolution. Sometimes I race around in the house, occasionally
knocking down furniture here and there. Lydia may believe that
I am chasing the infrequent mouse, but in the boundless world
of my imagination, I sprint after the gazelle, leaping through
the fresh air and thick grass. Pouncing, I grab my prey. I am the
winner, the champion, the conqueror. I prove myself ruler of the
savannah. But then of course I have to jolt back to reality. My
imagination is the most adventure I can get, I have to resign to
the make-believe land in my head.
Early in autumn, Lydia was leaving on a business trip to Swe-
den. The day before she left, Lydia whispered when she pet me
on her lap, “Oh I wish I could bring you with me Ari. You have
the whole house to yourself, but don’t go past the field. The forest
past the field is dangerous. I wouldn’t want to lose you.” Upon
hearing about the forest, I suddenly light up. The forest would be
a perfect spot for an adventure. As she packs her luggage, I lay on
* Ashley Guo is a 7th grader at JLS who loves to read and write. She enjoys com-
petitive swimming at PASA, plays the piano, and dances ballet.
** Maeve Heller (opposite page) is an 8th grader at Central Middle School. She
loves to read, play sports such as soccer and volleyball, and loves to spend time
with her family and friends.
34 the bed in thought. Slowly, my eyelids grow heavy as I fall asleep,
dreaming about my crazy idea.
I wake up the next day, and the house is silent. I sneak out
through a window that Lydia left unlocked, and leap. After a long
fall, I land on all fours, feeling the soft dirt beneath my paws.
Tearing through the grass, I felt free. Tears of joy leak from
my eyes as I finally break out into the world. The crisp air runs
through my smoky fur as the wind caresses my face. Tumbling
about, I fantasize that I am a cheetah. I race through the tall
grass at top speed, but suddenly shudder to a halt as a line of tall
trees looms before me. The forest is dark, the trees so close to-
gether, that no light penetrates their leaves. They creak and sway
seeming to want to chase me away. For a moment I am scared. It
would be so easy to just turn around and stroll through the field,
climb back into the cozy house and take a nap… but no. I am a
cheetah, the strongest, most tenacious cat there is. I pluck up my
courage and march into the forest.
As my eyes adjust to the dark, I feel exhilarated. I breathe
in the scent of the pine needles and finally feel like the powerful
wild cat I know I am inside. The forest is amazing. As I climb a
tree, I look up to the sky and feel free for the first time. I clam-
ber up the wide trunk and notice a pair of yellow eyes glowing
in the darkness. As I peer into the shadows, the owner of the
eyes appears and squawks at me. It is a great grey owl, an owl
that wouldn’t prey on me, but nevertheless still dangerous. Its
sharp talons gleam and its long wings stretch out to a wingspan
of about five feet. It shrieks, irritated at my intrusion upon its
home. The huge owl takes off, talons skimming my back, and
soars away.
I gasp, trying to regain my senses. That was a close one. I
am suddenly aware of my surroundings. The freezing wind chills
me to the bones as I shake and shiver. As I stare down into the
ground, I see a small cave just a little distance away. I look down,
and leap. A bone-jarring landing brings me shuddering and roll-
ing through the dirt. I squint and see the cave. As I limp slowly
to the cave, I pant and tremble. This adventure wasn’t anything
like I thought it would be. This was supposed to be a noble quest
in which I would reach my full potential, but no. This is a painful
ordeal, a nightmare that I have entered and can never leave. But
I am free, not sitting on the couch, dreaming of this moment. I
am living life. I drag myself into the cave and spend the night in a
fitful sleep.
The forest is so dark that you can just barely tell day from
night. I awaken from my restless sleep to the sound of heavy
breathing. I slowly turn around, and I find myself face to face
with a grizzly bear. I turn back around to quietly slink away, 35
but step on a dry twig that gives an earsplitting crack. The bear
awakens and approaches me, infuriated upon seeing a trespasser
in its home. I stare into its black, unfeeling eyes as I break into a
run. I try to dash as fast as I can, but the massive bear takes me
down in one leap. His teeth clamp down around me, and pain
sears through my entire body. I struggle to escape, but one blow
knocks me to the forest floor.
As I lay there, waiting for my end, I see myself at home.
Lydia is singing and giving me food as I lazily meander over to
her. That is what my life could have been, idle and soothing, but
I would be trapped in that house. Penned in from the real world
like a bird shut in a cage. I breathe in the scent of pine needles
and sigh. Despite my end, I am thankful for the freedom I have
been able to taste. As I stare off into the trees, the green begins to
fade. I see an open savannah, a vast blue sky, and a gazelle rac-
ing away into the endless grassland.
**
36 *shiva shaMBayati
Blank Canvas
Her body ached, a pain releasing from her feet and echoing
outwards to the rest of her limbs. The soreness enveloped her
small frame. She kept strong, yet every part of her wished to
relax. All the practice endured for this moment wouldn’t go to
waste. It was what kept her sane.
The hideous, throbbing blisters and bunions on her feet
were covered up by worn satin pointe shoes, but every other flaw
would become obvious on stage. The faults were what pushed
her to achieve grace, to hone each step until it became the epito-
me of perfection. Ankles stretched, toes pointed, feet turned out,
legs straight, arms graceful, head focused. All were needed for
each and every movement.
The instruments rustled in the background of her
thoughts, but they weren’t visible. All she could see was dark-
ness stretching across the grey, blank floor. The floor that would
become her canvas, where she could paint the movements across
the stage with her body until the rest of the world saw their own
painting. It was their canvas too.
A familiar tone began to ring around the congested theatre
as the piece began. It captivated her thoughts and words that
floated endlessly in her mind until just emotion remained. De-
sire to move released from every pore in her body, begging to be
communicated to the restless crowd.
As much as she had rehearsed and stretched and the orches-
tra had practiced and fine-tuned, she still had an anxiousness
rumbling inside her stomach as she lightly stepped out from
behind the velvet curtain. The only way to free the feeling was to
* Shiva Shambayati is a very clumsy 8th grade student who enjoys writing and has
a tendency to talk continuously. In her free time, she dances, sings (badly) in the
shower, and is a self-professed Percy Jackson fan-girl (insert high-pitched squeal
here).
** Nicole Lee (previous page) is currently an eighth grader at JLS middle school.
She lives with her dad, mom and little brother. In her free time, she likes to draw
and watch movies.
dance it out of its cage, into the waiting eyes of the audience for 37
them to gobble up in their insatiable hunger. Every last second
of this performance had been corrected and adjudged, but today
was important. For today every last second had to be executed
impeccably.
The spotlight was switched on. At first, just a faint glow
then evolving into a beam of bright, blinding rays. It glistened
off the sleek, familiar stage. This was her home. It was her
comfort, her solace, her love. Sounds from the orchestra pit grew
slightly louder.
Her cue.
The music was absorbed by her ears, pulsing through her
body. It calmed her nerves while simultaneously pumping
adrenaline through her veins. It pushed her to the limits of
strength. It enslaved her.
The controlling sounds tightened her muscles and let them
relax. Her face contorted into a pained, yearning expression. As
she emoted, the whole of her body followed suit, gliding into a
new persona for the time she had on stage.
She slid into the first step with a poised grace.
The first step. It could be the grand entrance. Or the fall
of a performance. She controlled the outcome.
The music pulled at every limb, forcing her to conform to
its desires. Her arms extended in preparation. Her mind lost in
the sounds. Her feet possessed by the will of longing notes.
Her left foot rolled up until she was perched atop the flat box
of her pointe shoe, while her arms curved into her chest. The
toes on her right foot acted as if they were surgically attached to
her knee. Her core tightened instinctively, her heart protruding
outwards, ribs stretching the fabric of her leotard as the feeling
held inside of it attempted to burst out and into the audience.
The straining chords took her with the music, turning her
as if she was a puppet, it her master. She spun. Once. Twice.
Three times.
Her creamy blue tutu wrapped around the turn, as if encas-
ing her in colorful tulle packaging. The cobalt leotard seemed
to support her slightly arched back in the pirouette, as if the
thin layer could withstand the entirety of her torso weight. Pink
tights were stretched thinly over taut leg muscles.
At that moment, the strings of the puppet master let go. But
she was still his doll.
Her smile was never broken. Her toes never flexed. Her legs
never altered their positions. Her eyes never left the crowd. Yet
the crowd wasn’t there. All of her surrounding had disappeared
to make way for her reply to the music. The only thing left in the
starkness of her mind was the echo of an orchestra.
She kept spinning in her empty, barren thoughts although
every movement defied natural ability. Her heels yearned to
make contact with the floor again, thirsting to touch the smooth,
hardened surface.
The music didn’t allow it.
Twice more she turned, until her foot was finally granted its
denied freedom once again.
Immediately after her foot graced the floor with its presence,
a loud, crazed applause exploded from the invisible crowd. They
had found a soul in her skillful art, a purpose to the grace of her
dance. A pride grew inside of her, wrapping her heart, contain-
ing it within herself. It was a success. The audience had found a
painting for her blank canvas.
38
*isha saNghvi 39
A Bug Named Hope
Dewy mornings were always my favorite. Racing into the
garden, watching beads of water race down peach blossoms.
Sitting in daddy’s lap as he told me the story of the blue-nosed
dragonfly. The story in which a curious girl with a toothy grin
opened a box unleashing all the evils ever known to man. But,
a meek butterfly flew out. It was the only hope men had, but it
was that kind of hope that grew until it could grow no more.
It was a dewy morning. Thin flickers of light trailed from
the sky, hitting Mother’s crooked nose. She knit her eyebrows
and stifled a gag while striding through the vague city filled with
stubbed cigars. But under the fluorescent lights of the lampposts,
the rich men and women looked vibrant in their spring garb,
while the little boys and girls pleading with their tin boxes were
all black and white. I wondered what it was like to hold a tin box,
one that looked nearly as empty as their eyes.
After catching the eye of a little boy, I looked down furtively,
when the voice of an elderly lady rasped, “Dearie, would you ‘ap-
pen to spare any change?”
“Ignore them,” My mother hissed. Whilst clutching my hand,
she warned me of the violent men that preyed on little girls who
didn’t listen to their mothers. Hearing this, I rolled my eyes and
glanced at mother’s face. Her eyes remained blank, anxiety aged
her face.
It dawned on me that mother was afraid. After all, she lost
Father here. I didn’t think she could afford to lose me. So, I
clutched Mother’s palm and regaled her with the latest gossip
from Winston Church Elementary. She smiled occasionally but
her smile never reached her eyes which were fixed on the road
before us. I gave her a reassuring squeeze to which she tight-
ened her grip and pulled me to the side, where I clattered to the
* Isha Sanghvi is an avid writer, blogger, and debater. From finishing her latest piece of
prose to singing and spending time with her friends, she has big dreams for a future of
being a professional author.
40 ground.
I picked myself up, and brushed my skirt when I felt a small
tap on my ankle. A girl with dirty blond hair held her fist out to
me. Opening it, she revealed a watch and a toothy grin. Needless
to say, it was my expensive, gold watch. Instinctively, I brushed
the emptiness of my left hand, reaching out to take the watch
from her hand, when Mother snatched the watch from the girl’s
callous fingers.
“Thank you,” I croaked quietly when I felt a light spank on
my back. My cheeks burnt as my mother dragged me. As I looked
back, the girl’s silhouette faded into the darkness of the city.
Mother reprimanded me for speaking, to which I re-
spectfully reminded her that I would have lost my watch other-
wise. She spanked me again for this remark—rather harshly to
add. In the silence, I subconsciously smoothed my watch and
glanced back at the little girl. The little girl who was probably half
of my age, but with hands more calloused than mine. Her face
embellished with puffy red eyes and a toothy grin.
Her toothy little smile reminded me of father’s. While being
drowned in the thought of him, I heard a shriek. Along with sev-
eral others, I glanced back to find puzzle pieces: a man running
with a tin can and the little girl pounding her fists on the ground.
With my hand in mother’s, I furrowed my eyebrows, “Why isn’t
anyone helping them?”
And mother—of all the things in the world she could have
said—spat, “They’re impoverished.”
I stared at Mother’s taut face and back at the contour of the
girl. And of all the thing in the world I could have done, I sur-
prised everyone, let alone myself—I broke the rules. I ran back
and stopped before the little girl’s hunched body and held out my
hand. She opened them up with her tiny fingers and smiled. And
when she smiled, her smile reached her puffy red eyes.
Mother asked why. For all it was worth, it was a simple
straightforward question. But sometimes, it’s the straightforward
questions that have complicated answers. So, I just shook my
head and said, “He would have done the same.”
Mother looked down at me with a smile, a genuine one as she
squeezed my empty hand in silent comfort.
I looked up and in that dewy morning, I could see myself
sitting in Father’s lap as he told me about the little bug named
hope.
41
**
42 *aDaM griffiN
Climbing Higher
My younger sister, Cara’s, voice rings across the meadow.
“Adam! Hey, Adam!”
I glance back over my shoulder, smiling. She is sprinting
towards me across the grassy field, her disheveled blonde hair
waving behind her like a flag in the wind. Her face is flushed with
the excitement of playing tag between the rows of sunflowers.
Her feet, like mine, are bare. She returns my smile. Squinting in
the bright afternoon sunlight, I wave to her, motioning without
words that she is welcome to join me.
The weather is perfect; the sun shines brightly in a clear blue
sky, the occasional breeze meanders across the meadow, and a
few fluffy white clouds drift lazily overhead.
All around me, visitors on the farm talk and mingle. Their
laughter echoes across the fields of flowers, filling every corner of
the landscape with happiness. Each time laughter rings out, my
own heart swells, and I think of how happy I am to be here, at a
cute, small sunflower farm in Oregon. Yet since we are just taking
a break from the agonizingly long car ride, this trip will be brief. I
hope we don’t have to leave too soon.
Cara runs up behind me, chasing the wind up the gently
sloping hill. She scrambles to my side, breathless and grinning. I
can see Cara’s excitement in her smile. Her eyes shine. I glance at
her, then we both tilt back our heads and look up.
Beautiful. Its leaves twirl gently in the wind, making it seem
as if the entire tree is rippling and flowing with each soft breeze.
The sunlight shines brightly through each fluttering leaf, illu-
minating its veins and casting the entire hillside in warm green
light. Slender branches bend their way into the sky, reaching out
Adam is in 8th grade at Central Middle School. He is one of four siblings, has two
cats, and enjoys playing trombone, both jazz and symphonic.
* Sophie Fleming (previous page) has a dream of becoming an exobiologist,
engineer, and/or an animator. She sketches pictures of robots and future worlds
** whenever she has time and loves to program and write. She hopes to make the
world a better place with her ideas.
their crooked arms towards the sun. In the afternoon heat, the 43
bark is rough and cracking, with peeled flakes sprinkled onto the
sod below like slivers of decadent chocolate. The willow tree’s
leaves hang down almost to the ground, sweeping the grassy
hillside with a soft caress.
“Are you gonna climb it?” asks Cara, tugging at my sleeve.
“Of course,” I reply, returning her smile. She and I are
equally excited to be clambering up into the branches of the tree.
I can feel the sun’s intense heat on my back. A thin bead of
sweat gleams on my brow, damp because of the heat of this July
afternoon. Suddenly, a slight breeze blows across the field, ruf-
fling the acres of sunflowers and making them whisper and mur-
mur to one another. I sigh as the refreshing wind cools my face
and makes my T-shirt flutter in tandem with the leaves of the
billowing willow. I gaze up at the graceful tree and smile eagerly
as I perch lightly on the balls of my feet, ready to jump.
I leap, my hands outstretched. For a split second, I feel the
exhilaration of flight. The wind blows in my face and rushes past
my ears, whispering inaudible melodies. It blows back my wavy
brown hair as my feet leave the damp ground. For just a moment,
I feel as if gravity has no effect on me. I am as light as a feather,
and it seems as if I could soar into the heavens if I wanted to. So
this is what it is like to fly. No resistance, no limits; utter free-
dom. This is amazing! I squint, because of the wind, the sun, and
the fact that I am smiling in pure bliss. As a joyful laugh escapes
my lips, I realize that I am completely happy, and my smile
broadens.
Suddenly, I remember that I am in the air. I had become
lost in thought, and the branch was now looming in front of me.
Reaching out in haste, my fingers close over the first branch. The
rough bark lightly scrapes my calloused palms, but I don’t mind.
Nothing can destroy my good mood. As I grab hold, I brush
through the hanging branches, bright leaves tickling my face. I
scramble for a foothold, skimming the thick trunk beneath me
with my bare feet. Finally, my feet alight on a twisted knot, and
I start to pull myself up. After much effort, I am on my stomach,
draped over the twisted branch like a towel hung out to dry. I
swing my leg over, managing to squat on the bent arm of the
majestic willow. Finally comfortable, I am able to appreciate the
beauty of the tree that is no longer just above me, but all around
me.
Looking at something and experiencing something are two
completely different things. A feeling that was before apprecia-
tion is now replaced by awe. I am not only under the tree, I am
now part of it. I am in my own cocoon of fluttering leaves, all still
44 shining with the sun. An aura of green surrounds me, relaxing
me and making me smile. Blanketed in happiness and light, I
gaze up, past the intertwining branches and the quivering leaves.
Through the tangled canopy above me, I can just make out the
sky.
“Adam?” Cara calls, breaking my trance. “Can you please go
faster? We wanna come up, too.”
“Huh? We?” I ask, peering around a slender branch. Next
to Cara stands my older brother Daniel, brown hair tousled and
grinning, arms folded and looking up at me with an attitude of
mock impatience.
“Well?” he says, chuckling. “Can we have a turn?”
Scrambling out of the way, I let them through. Cara climbs
up first, and she is now halfway over the branch. Brow furrowed
and tongue protruding from her lips in concentration, she perse-
veres, until she too is perched in the massive tree. Soon, Daniel
joins us, and begins gazing around just as I had done.
Smiling to myself, I stare out through the dense branches
at the breathtaking skyline. Dense acres of sunflowers cover the
ground, varying in height, color, and size. All of them comple-
ment the others with their unique hues, making the sight even
more astonishing. Past the farmland are fields of lush grass,
which lead to a forest of thick trees. The trees stand protectively
over the meadow, as if they want to guard both the landscape and
the experiences shared in it. The forest stretches to the horizon
itself, trees blending into sky due to the afternoon haze. As I gaze
out over the landscape, I try to treasure this moment and hope
never to forget it.
Yet as we sit there happily, my mom walks up behind us.
“Okay, guys. It’s time to go,” she says as she approaches our
tree. Her arms are full of seeds, flowers, and other things she has
bought. Daniel and I glance at each other, disappointed. But deep
down, we know that we have to leave. So we dejectedly climb
down. I can still feel the heat on my back and the bark against my
palms. I can feel the cool breeze and see the horizon. But it feels
different now that I know that I will never see it again. As much
as I am looking forward to going home, I am sad about having to
leave this place behind. Yet I know that I will always remember
this place and this experience.
As we walk to the car, we drag our feet behind us. But I look
back, and I see our tree, leaves still billowing in the wind as if
they are waving goodbye.
*gWyNEth BrOWN 45
The Cold Song
Nine degrees and snowing. I could barely make out the im-
age of the Christmas decorations. A big tree stood at the center of
the arena and was covered with blue icicles and white snowflake
ornaments. Snow covered the star on top of the tree. The smell of
burning wood filled the air. I thought of being near a burning fire
soaking up the heat waves. The thought taunted me. I wondered
where the smell was coming from.
All the babushkas were huddled together with their hats and
blankets in their stalls, mumbling Russian words which I could
not understand. I wondered what they were talking about. Were
they talking about the cold? Are they cold? They were trying to
sell their items to any passerby. They would speak Russian words
to signal them. Some selling Russian dolls while others were
selling handmade glass Christmas ornaments. They all looked
so warm with their hand knitted blankets and hats. I craved the
blankets and hats that they had.
I was only seven years old so I had never experienced bit-
ter cold like this. I always imagined the snow lightly falling and
covering the ground just enough to make snowballs. This was not
what I had imagined. This was a blizzard.
My purple hat was tattered, and had two little purple string
braids coming off of where my ears where covered. The fur in the
middle was matted. My jacket was purple too and had matching
snow pants. I shoved my hands in my coat pockets and felt a gum
wrapper that i disposed earlier in the day. My thin boots were no
match for the winter’s cold. My feet were soaked in cold water
from the melted snow in my boots causing my socks to become
* Gwyneth Brown loves to travel around the world. She loves to write about her
experiences. She also enjoys competitive cheerleading.
** Angel Trach (next page) moved to Palo Alto in sixth grade. Although she didn’t
like art in the beginning, she has been drawing for several years. She just started
watercolor about one year ago and has enjoyed it since then.Her hobbies include
dance, reading, and abacus. She has two sisters, a hamster, two turtles, and two
dogs.
46 soggy. I longed to be back home, in San Carlos where the winters
often reach 60 degrees and there was never snowfall.
The snow covered each stall that held all the homemade
crafts and the babushkas that made them. Everyone huddled in
the stalls to escape the blizzard’s fury. Frosty icicles hung from
the roofs of the stalls. All the little Russian dolls where covered
in fresh snow. I felt my hands becoming numb. I feared that if I
took off my gloves my hands would be a frostbitten light blueish
purple. As each unique snowflake touched my glove, it melted
away. I reached up and grabbed dad’s hand to savor any warmth
he had left in his mittens. My nose was running and my cheeks
were bright red. My teeth were chattering and my feet were so
cold that I could no longer feel them. My toes now felt like they
would snap off at any moment.
Every step I took was more painful than the last. My legs felt
frozen solid. My knees could no longer bend. I looked down to
see my purple and white striped mittens. Mom had bought them
earlier in the day for me because the mittens that I wore the
market where too big. My old mittens let the cold air in. My new
gloves were warm and they contained the heat.
I couldn’t take it anymore. The snow hit us hard as we
worked against it to continue shopping for Christmas presents. I
suddenly slowed down. I placed my hands on my knees and bent
down. It was too cold for me to handle. I wanted to cuddle up
into a ball to relish the last waves of body heat my I could pro-
duce. “I need to go home, it is too cold.” Dad took my hand and
told me to continue walking as it would make me warmer.
As I continued walking it was getting harder and harder to
take each step. I could feel all the hot chocolate sloshing around
in my belly. When I drank the hot chocolate, it was only hot for
a couple of minutes, then it turned to chocolate milk. I could
see my breath making a quick fog in front of my face each time I
exhaled. I constantly licked my mouth to warm my lips with my
body heat. I could taste the hot chocolate on my lips from earlier.
I again, slowed down.
Dad tugged on my hand. I looked up at him with droopy
eyes begging him to go home. I sat down. He glanced at me. He
hauled me back up. He whispered and sang, “This is how we
walk, this is how we walk, this is how we walk in Izmaylova!” I
was confused about what he was doing. I didn’t want to listen,
I wanted to go home. He started to walk faster. “This is how we
walk, this is how we walk, this is how we walk in Izmaylova!” I
didn’t care. He is not making me warmer. He sang again.”Come
on, sing with me!” he said. I decided to give it a try. I am never
going to see these people again. All this song can do is help me
or do nothing. Then our fast walk progressed into a skip and 47
both started to shout “This is how we walk, this is how we walk,
this is how we walk in Izmaylova!”
With every verse I sang, it was getting easier to skip and
move. My jacket had gone from a bitter cold to a toasty warmth.
My knees where moving to the beat of my skip. As we skipped
through the market, I could feel my whole body warming up.
I saw all the babushkas staring and smiling. I didn’t care. All I
cared about was that I was warm. My face was no longer frozen,
it had a smile on it. Snowflakes hit my face but it didn’t bother
me. I was happy and warm. I no longer wanted to go home. I
wanted to stay and shop for Christmas gifts with my family. Dad
looked at me. “Are you warm now?” “Yeah!” I shouted. I watched
snowflakes hit my skin and melt away.
**
48 *sOfia siErra-garCia
The Cosmic Essence of I
I want to wander the forest. Climb the highest mountains
and play in the dunes. I’d like to spend more time with animals.
Feel the salty water of the ocean engulfing my body, entering
every crevice. To be underwater. Submerged in question. Feel
lost, with no destination in mind. Constantly learning about
all objects, with and without a heartbeat, around me. I desire
to feel like I am part of this universe. A universe of beings and
creatures, organisms undiscovered and known, and the beauty
of earth’s greatest wonders. Witness a sunset, to fly high, feel a
wave of emotion, and be part of a birth. I wouldn’t mind com-
panions, a friend or two. With whom I’d swim a hundred miles,
just to see the unseen. Or risk my life and ability to do, so we can
have a memorable time. Hold them close and take their hands,
so we can all feel like we finally belong. Whisper words in an-
cient dialect, mispronouncing their true meanings. To laugh with
them. And if the simplest things in life, like a song or a smile, can
bring us happiness, then I tell you, we are rulers of the world. We
will have no need of money, just a few clean shirts and enough
food to keep moving, this way, we can adventure for days with
no end. We will sleep in cars, shelters, and dirty hotels. Under
stars, and over blankets, we will dream of tomorrow. Don’t call
us ‘deadbeats’, we prefer the term, ‘drifters’, because we have
more life than a lot of people out there. We are far from dead.
But at the same time, very near it, for we have tiny lives. I want to
ride the wildest, most unexpected, turn-filled, and insane roller
coaster that is life. I hope it will leave me feeling like I met life
long friends and did fulfilling things. To leave this earth with a
purified and dirt filled soul, and a smile on my face. Ready to
greet what lies ahead in the after life, ready to face new adven-
tures.
* Sofia enjoys listening to music and spending as much time as she can in the ocean. Sofia
also plays upright bass and electric bass for her school orchestra and for her personal
pleasure.
*Marta BaUMaNN 49
The Crash
Dad was driving me to Daisy’s house so we could go to Michi-
gan’s Adventure. It was finally taking place, I was so excited, my
heart was pounding out of my body. Dad flipped on the radio and
started to sing along. He’s the worst singer ever. “If you ask for it
cuz you need one, you see I’m not gonna write you love song, cuz
you tell…”
“DAD, you’re awful.”
“Fine, don’t like how I sing, well I can rap.”
“NO!!”
I finally just tuned him out and looked out my car’s window
and saw the clouds moving in one direction, synchronized. Why
don’t I see any shapes? Has my imagination gone away? I told
my dad, “I see cotton balls, how about you?” I glanced over at
him, his eyes were so focused on the road. He always gets ner-
vous about driving and especially on the highway.
“Not now sweetheart, I am getting onto the highway.” I knew
he would say that.
The highway’s bricks were all covered with graffiti. I always
wondered what the graffiti words meant, if it was their own lan-
guage, or just made up words.
All the cars passed by, or maybe we passed them, I couldn’t
tell. The green sign above the road said Maryville, ½ mile away.
It’s a drag that Daisy had to move houses, apparently they
needed more room in their old house and they didn’t want to
renovate. They lived right next to...
“DUCK!” my dad yelled to me. I looked back in a glance
and saw a car coming at us at least 90 mph from the right lane.
I ducked and grabbed onto the leather grey handle to the right
of me. Will I have another day to live? I looked up at my dad, he
had no idea what to do. His face was tangled up with thoughts
just like mine. I closed my eyes, trying to think of positive things.
* Marta Baumann is an eighth grader at Central Middle School. She plays viola in the
schools orchestra and she does Peninsula Youth Orchestra. One day she would like to
go to the Olympics for diving.
50 CRUNCH. SHATTER. I got jerked forward. My head hit the
glove box. My airbag didn’t go off. I saw nothing but darkness
and I couldn’t feel anything in my body.
Something weird was on my lips. It felt like my yorkie, Doo-
by, was here kissing my face. I first saw my mom when I opened
my eyes. Except that the wetness on my lips wasn’t from my
mom. My mom was sitting on the end of the bed crying. I glanced
to the sides of me and saw, Drew and Daisy standing by my bed.
Now I knew. Drew had kissed me.
Why were they crying? I was just in my bedroom, wasn’t I?
I looked around and saw get well balloons and teddy bears all
around me. “Where am I?” I asked. Daisy and Drew looked at my
mom.
“Sweetie you’re in a hospital, do you remember two days ago
when that car ran into you and your dad?” Mom said slowly. I
vaguely remembered what happened. Dad said to duck and I did
what I was told.
“Kind of.” I looked around the white sheets surrounding my
body. I lifted up my arms out of the sheets but my right arm was
caught. I couldn’t get it out. “Mom, will you help me get my right
arm out, it’s caught.” Mom looked at me with sappy eyes.
“Honey, I don’t need to help you.” I looked at her funny.
I pulled off all of the sheets. Where was my arm? It vanished.
I closed my eyes still envisioning the non-existing arm. Why?
What was I supposed to do now? All I could do now was dream
it was there. That I still had an arm, like I could still write. I
thought, panic swelling up inside of me. But, instead of thinking
about myself for once I thought of Dad.
“How’s dad?” I asked.
“Oh he’s fine.”
“That’s all, just fine?”
“He’s in a better place.”
“ ...he died, didn’t he.”
“Oh my gosh no!”
“Well you made it sound like he was… so what’s he really do-
ing? And where is he anyway?”
“He’s in a different hospital that’s better than this one.”
“Oh.”
Drew and Daisy already left. It was 7:00 pm. Apparently
time for me to go to bed, says the nurse. I personally don’t agree
with such an early bedtime. My mom stayed with me, so I had
to sleep. The moon shone into the room glazing everything in its
path.
The words you are searching are inside this book. To get more targeted content, please make full-text search by clicking here.
An anthology of writing and art by Bay Area middle school students compiled by Students at Stanford University. Published May 2015.
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