Stanford Anthology for Youth: Volume 23

“Wanna take it for a spin?” He asks, holding the key in his calloused
palm. I reach over and hesitantly curl my fingers around it. His skin
is warm and leathery, like the seats in the truck.
“Sure,” I say, a smile forming on my lips. I slide the key into
the ignition and turn it, only for the truck to cough, then shake itself
into silence.
Grandpa chuckles, his laugh deep and melodic. “It’s been sit-
ting here for years. It may take a few tries to get it started.” I turn the
key again, and this time the truck sputters to life. Grandpa nods and
smiles at the hum of the engine and leans over to turn on the radio
as I pull out of the driveway. Deep, twangy country fills the air, and it
reminds me of the music that Dad used to play.
“You know,” Grandpa begins to speak as we roll over the
uneven road, “Your dad loved this truck.” I can’t help but look at the
worn-in, leather seats, and the cracked, faded dashboard. Grandpa
notices my disparaging glance and laughs.
“I know, I know,” he says, “It doesn’t look like much. When
we got it, it was pretty well worn, but you should’ve seen the look on
his face when we gave it to him. Oh, how he loved this truck.”
“Really? This old thing?” I ask, glancing at the layer of dust
covering the dashboard. Grandpa nods and leans over to turn the
radio down. The country music fades into the background, and he
shifts a little so that he’s facing me.
“For weeks leading up to his eighteenth birthday, your dad
kept hinting at how much he wanted a car, specifically a truck.” I nod
and ease my foot off the gas so we’re driving at a much slower pace. I
don’t want to miss a word of what he has to say. Grandpa rarely talks
about Dad.
“Oh? What do you mean?” I ask, hoping he’ll continue.
Grandpa laughs, remembering the good old days. “For one
thing, he would slip pictures of trucks that he had cut out of maga-
zines underneath our pillows so that when we woke up and went to
make our bed, that was the first thing we saw.”
I laugh, and Grandpa joins in with me. “That was pretty
smart of him.”

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“Yes. He was like a dog with a bone when he wanted some-
thing.” He clears his throat before continuing. “Anyway, your dad had
just gotten his first job and was heading off to college that fall, so we
thought, why not go big or go home?” I nod along to the story and
lower the radio a little more. I want to know every little detail about
what Dad was like when he was my age.
Grandpa’s eyes roam around the truck, lost in the memo-
ries. “We didn’t have nearly enough money, even for a used truck,
so your grandma and I picked up extra shifts at work. Some nights
we came home way past dinnertime, but it was worth it to see your
dad’s face that morning. The night before, we slipped the keys to the
truck under his pillow and parked it in the driveway. Your grandma
even used some of her fancy red ribbon to tie a huge bow around the
hood.”
Grandpa sighs. “He took this truck everywhere. It went to
college with him; it took him on road trips with his friends. Some-
times, he wouldn’t even drive anywhere. He would just sit inside,
with the windows down, and turn the volume all the way up so that
country music would blare on the radio.”
Grandpa stops and strokes the seat, tracing patterns into the
soft leather. “Sometimes, I do the same whenever I’m missing him.
Now that he’s passed on, I don’t know. I guess his truck brings me
closer to his memory.”
Tears blur my vision as I look at him. The truck has slowed
to a complete stop now. “Why don’t we do that then? For old times
sake.” Grandpa smiles and nods, a tear tracing its way down his
wrinkled face. I lean over and turn the volume up and roll the
windows down. Our voices pour into the night along with that old,
twangy country music. I can imagine Dad sitting here now, his
fingers wrapped tightly around the wheel, and his sleeves rolled up
to his elbows. I hear his voice, deep and filled with emotion as our
words join together.
I sigh, out of breath, and slump down in my seat as we ap-
proach Grandma and Grandpa’s house, the lights inside spilling out
onto the lawn and a part of the orchards. Grandpa turns and faces
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me once Dad’s truck is parked safely in the driveway, and the
music has died down.
“You know,” he begins, his eyes shining, “We never use this
truck anyway, it would be a shame to let it go to waste. Would you
maybe want to take it?” Despite the rough interior, the weak engine,
and how beat up it is, I know that this truck will bring me as close
to Dad’s memory as I possibly can get. And knowing that, I respond
with no hesitation.
“Yes,” I say, grinning from ear to ear, “I would love that.”

* “Midsummer Glow,” Amelia Renfro (next page). Amelia is an 8th grader at Blach
Middle School. In her free time, she enjoys reading, drawing, acting, playing basket-
ball, and equestrian vaulting.

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Safina Syed *

The Cycle of Purpose

From the day of our birth,
Our lives are a cycle of learning
composed of first.
Life;
The sequence of a human being from birth
to death
One’s evolution through existence.
Life is a story
and each person who has
come and gone is
a diverse interpretation,

Looks.

Personality.

Strengths.

Weaknesses.

Morality.

Status.

Minority.

All things that are comprised of one’s actuality,
that foresee what their interpretation will be.

* Safina has always had a passion for writing, especially poetry. Her passion for
poetry started in elementary school. As she has gotten older, she has discovered
how much she enjoys photography and many different kinds of art. Over the past
year, she has taken photos at every opportunity. Blending writing and photography
together has been an amazing experience.

106

Yet with billions of humans, all are aiming for similar
plots. We all search for fulfillment,
whether it’s
within or
outside of you.
We’re all just hoping to feel
something,
And that our lives will be filled with emotion,
happiness and passion.
Each one of us is a star,

in a deep dark sky
awaiting to find your purpose,
at times you’ll be lost drifting aimlessly through the night…
but one day you will find someone who ignites the happiness you’re
craving to find.
Something will spark that emotion inside of you.
Time, it can feel everlasting.
Take a closer look,
And see
how much of your life has already passed by.
You’ll see that time is fleeting.
Know that things won’t always happen when you’re looking,
sometimes you have to look away to find what you want.
Purpose,
In a way so similar to the sun,
every planet is your emotion and experience revolving around it.
You are a solar system, stunningly complex and diverse with emotion and
experience revolving around it…
your purpose.

107



Madelyn Doohan *

Up There

“The speed of light in a vacuum, commonly denoted as C, is
a universal physical constant important in many areas of physics. Its
exact value is 299,792,458 metres per second, approximately 300000
kilometers per second, 186000 miles every second...”
What?
I laugh in my head as I listen to you rattle off facts to the
teacher. She nods her head as she jots down what you are saying on
the shiny white board. You sound like you are reading off a script,
but it’s just you loving science. You know it like the back of your
hand. I sit beside you, my body sunk into the cold and clammy chair.
Keeping myself occupied by chewing my bubblegum, blowing it as
big as I can and watching it slowly deflate under my nose.
“... And also appears in the famous equation of mass and
energy. That’s basically it.” You blush, and everyone turns their heads,
looking at you, whispering. Your flawless eyes, paler than the sky,
shoot to the ground. And you start shagging your hair that covers

* Madelyn, an eighth grader at Central Middle School, enjoys tennis and volleyball. She
plays the violin and recently got into acting. She is proudly a water sign and part of
the Scorpio squad. If she is lucky and her teachers don’t give her homework, she will
gladly watch her favorite Youtuber, Danny Gonzalez. Loving most of the rides at Great
America, she wishes to gain the courage to go on Rail Blazer. She loves jamming to
songs, especially Post Malone’s.

* “Constellations,” Olivia Moon (opposite page). Olivia is a 7th grader at Blach Inter-
mediate School. You can find her drawing, reading, or writing up a storm in her bed-
room. She enjoys painting with acrylics, using chalk pastel, or just randomly sketching
in one of her sketchbooks. What she writes depends on what inspires her, and she’ll
read whatever she can get her hands on. Her favorites include pigs, the color blue, and
sushi. Salmon sushi.

109

your forehead. Your hair is umber, but then lightens up on the tips to
the color of hickory. With your fair skin, it gives you the look of a
vampire, but you are nonetheless a science nerd.
I snicker and nudge you with my elbow.You say the same
thing as always, “It’s really not that hard.” Whatever, I smile back. I
don’t know you that well, but you are fun to mess around with and
talk to.
“I couldn’t have described it better,” Ms. Crenston replies with
a wide smile, happy that she’s finally got a student that understands
what she’s teaching. All of the other students are lazy and unmotivat-
ed.
The rest of the class goes slow. It is just you teaching with Ms.
Crenston.
My gum flavor goes flat and my boredom drifts into sleep.
I feel a hard nudge on my arm. As I slowly raise my head, the class
room lights blind me. I turn to you. “What was that for?”
You look at me and laugh, “There’s only 5 minutes left of
class!” I stretch my arms and yawn. As I straighten myself out, I turn
my head, looking up and around. I peer at your shirt that is a navy
blue with a cartoon moon plastered on the center of it, I snicker.
“Why do you wear those dumb shirts?” I point and smirk. I
think to myself, your weird shirts always have these puns and jokes
on them, only about Space.
You look at me like you just got complimented.
“I’ll go up there one day,” you exclaim with such pride. You
focus your eyes on the cartoon moon, grinning.
“Pshh, yeah right.” I roll my eyes.
The second period bell blares and everyone disperses into
other classes.
The rest of the day goes by in a blur, and the next morning
comes too quick.
Each day goes by like the rest, but you don’t come for three
days, which is not normal for you. But don’t worry, you haven’t
missed anything interesting.
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When will you be back? Are you sick or something? What
happened to you?
Day 4 of you not at class:
You didn’t come again.
Ms. Crenston is shy and quiet. And she doesn’t seem like she’s
slept in a long time. She has bags and a wrinkle tatted between her
brows. You could tell she didn’t put effort into her outfit. She’s wear-
ing sweats and a baggy sweatshirt, and her hair is thrown up in the
messiest bun you’ve ever seen.
Ms. Crenston clears her throat, “I am sorry class, I have not
been myself lately.” She stands there with her hands gripped together.
She is tapping her foot anxiously.

She begins,”Noen will n-n-ot...He will not-” Her eyes get
glossy, and puddles form at the bottom part of her eyes and then
stream down her face. She looks up at your seat and then at me. I tilt
my head, confused.
“I am so sorry.” Ms. Crenston mutters under her breath. She
walks across the room to grab a kleenex, and as she walks, everyone’s
eyes follow. She dabs at her eyes and blows her nose.
She pauses to take a deep breath.
“Noen thought that he had a stomach flu but what was actu-
ally happening was that his liver was failing.”
Uh huh
“When this happens–”
Blah blah blah
She keeps talking about all of these bodily concepts, you would
probably know because you are so smart. I try so hard to understand
what she is saying but, her words go in one ear and out the other.

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But only one sentence remains:

“He passed away last night at the hospital.”
It echoes throughout my body.
The whole class is hit by a wave. Jaws are dropping, eyebrows
are furrowed, and propped up backs turned to slouches. Ms. Cren-
ston breaks down and scurries out of the class.

What?

My breath shortens and I feel my lungs being restricted. I feel
tears, but none show. I feel my body get heavier. I feel your absence.
I see that hideous shirt. I hear your childish voice going on and on
about science and algorithms. I see that wide grin that you showed
when you talked about space. But you aren’t there.
I think of the last words I heard you speak to me. “I will go
up there one day.” I wake my frozen body up, and my eyes blink re-
peatedly. I have this realization, feeling like I just figured the mean-
ing of life. My innocent mind thought “up there” meant something
else, but I was fooled.

You left.
You disappeared.
You vanished.
You went up there.

112

Matteo Navarro *

The Hat

Shaking with anticipation, I sat at home with a Floyd B. Parks
hat held tight in my hands, waiting for the news to come back about
my grandpa. He was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s eight years ago, and
it had just taken a huge turn. Not that I never noticed it through the
years; he couldn’t drive, he would forget who I was, and he would
scream in the middle of the night, but I always hoped that was the
worst. Until recently, he was going to the emergency room almost
every week for something new each time. His body wasn’t breaking
down liquids or solids right, so his feet were huge from too much
water, his heart was weak, and his brain was deteriorating quickly.
I remember it like it was just last year, moving into my grand-
parent’s house as my grandpa’s mind started to go bad. His screams
at night scared me, his personality confused me, and his actions wor-
ried me. He acted like a child. “I can’t finish this, I don’t want this,
I’m not hungry.” Everytime I came home from school, I would see
him in the same position: slouched into the pillows, legs spread in
his comfortable position, his head elevated to keep his blood circu-
lating. One time when we visited his doctor, they explained to us that
his sleep apnea was reducing the oxygen to his brain at night, slowly
withering away his brain cells and causing his Alzheimer’s diagnosis.
Although he had been diagnosed for 8 years now, we had
been living with him for 4. Supporting him at home was the best for
him, but it had its challenges for me. I lived a whole city away from

* Matteo is an 8th grader who enjoys basketball, animals, music and more. He loves
movies, and his favorite T.V. shows include The Office and Parks and Rec. He will
always take breaks for his dog Fiona, named after Fiona from Shrek.

113

all my friends, but despite this, my parents allowed me to still go to
the same school as them. This made it all the more challenging to
get to school on time, but I could care less about a clean attendance
when it meant I was able to give my grandpa the help he needs. I
didn’t want to accept the little time he had left. All I could wish was
for more. The last time he went to the emergency room, the doctor
told my dad that my grandpa didn’t have much more life left in him.
I didn’t want to accept the doctor’s judgement because I couldn’t see
visible deterioration in his behavior, but for someone who didn’t see
him as often, his state was very, very bad.
Late nights, I would be up finishing homework while he was
wide awake. I thought of him almost like a bat: asleep most of the
day, but awake in the afternoon and night due to his sundowners
syndrome, which is common in people like him. Not too long ago,
when my dad came back from a doctor visit for Grandpa, he ex-
plained to me the doctor’s crude analogy for the situation. “He’s like
an old car going into the shop, ‘cept his engine is falling apart and no
good.” That night, none of us slept good. We all had Grandpa on our
minds.
It was late when my mom and dad got back. I wanted to hear
their news, but at the same time, I didn’t. My grandpa had been in
the hospital for 14 hours now. Before he had Alzheimers, Grandpa
wished not to be kept on life support, so the doctor told my dad he
only had a couple hours left. The news came as a huge shock. “Aus-
tin, you have to understand, Grandpa is doing really bad, and there’s
nothing we can do about it.” Lately, I had been telling myself that he
still had a month of life left because I couldn’t even imagine having
only a couple hours left with him. I couldn’t fathom the truth. No
matter what anybody said.
I didn’t want to.
I fought back tears, attempting to keep my mind occupied on
something else, trying not to focus on this thing that would change
my life with my family forever. No more Christmas mornings with
him, no more prayers before Thanksgiving dinner, no more visits, no
more long talks about the Navy, no more singing together, and no
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more goodbyes.
“Dad, am I still going to school tomorrow?”
“No, Austin, you can take the rest of the week off, everybody
will understand.”
I nodded my head in approval, then I wondered, do all peo-
ple who have their grandparents pass away miss school? I asked my
dad, and he told me that in almost any case of a close family member
passing away, people will miss work or school. Understanding that
everyone feels pain and grief at the loss of a loved one, I was more
at ease with how others would respect my grief. But why must they
pass away when least expected? Many nights I would stay up, kicking
my bed and punching my pillow, wishing that I could spend more
time with him. I had so many chances, but I always took advantage
of time. I did other things like watching TV or playing video games
when I could’ve been talking to him and asking him questions.
Looking back at his life, he did a lot such as leaving sunny
San Diego port with 2 years of service at sea. On his trip aboard the
Floyd B. Parks destroyer he saw many sites, a wartime era changing
into a time of peace. After the war, he began a new life, started a fam-
ily, received his real estate license (although he never did anything in
real estate), worked as a grocery clerk for a variety of stores, retired,
helped doing traffic duty at a school, acquired a key to the city, and
many more things. In 10 years, he had 7 kids, 2 girls and 5 boys, one
of which is my father. I may not show it all the time, but I respect my
dad more than anybody I know. He’s a hard worker, a loving dad, a
great husband, a caring son, and an overall amazing person.
Later that night, we all drove to see Grandpa at the hospital–
my brothers and I, my aunts and uncles, and other close relatives and
friends. It was a gloomy night with twilight fog blocking the street-
lights. The heavy rain built up water on the windshield, distraught
with water running down my cheek as they did the windows. The
longest minutes of my life were spent on that car ride, shaking in
suspense to see Grandpa before he passed. I gripped the Floyd B.
Parks hat with me, I never wanted to let it go. This is what kept
Grandpa and I together. When I would ask him about Floyd B. Parks,

115

it became almost like he never had Alzheimer’s. His brain would
immediately wake up, and he’d tell me the same story about going to
China and learning the languages there.
As we walked into the hospital, I could taste the sickness in
the air, sore throats, fevers, coughs, allergies, and much more, all
filling the aroma. Further down the hall, a lady sat at a desk explain-
ing to my dad that Grandpa was down the hall and to the left. As we
walked down the hall, I saw people praying, crying, laughing, joking,
and watching TV in different rooms. People only one room away
from each other, never knowing one another, yet we all shared one
thing in common: we were hurting. Everybody there was hurting
from something, whether it be the loss of a loved one, a loved one’s
physical impairment, or their own illness. Yet why is it that every-
body hurts, but nobody wants to accept it? If everybody accepted
that we all hurt, that might bring everybody together to understand
each other’s similarities instead of differences.
Before the Alzheimer’s was bad, my grandpa once told me
after picking me up from a bad day at school, “if the world tries to
change you, you change it first by being you.” He would finish with
his Mahatma Gandhi quote he always told my brothers and I, “You
must be the change you wish to see in the world.” Finally, I realized
that if I wanted to make a change in the world, I would have to ac-
cept that we all have a limited time on earth, and we have to use it
wisely. Grandpa used his time to do many amazing things. He made
his impact on the community, and on me. Accepting that Grandpa
would be in a better place and that no one lives forever was the first
step to changing the world, and without Grandpa, I would’ve never
known that.
Clenching Grandpa’s hand with mine, holding the hat with
the other, I sat with my family for his last few minutes of life. His
heartbeat only nine beats per minute, slower and slower the tempo of
beats went as time progressed. The priest already gave him his final
blessing, so he had all of his sacraments done. I looked around at my
family, and they were all staring at Grandpa.
“Beep.........beep......... beep.........beeeeeeee.”
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Against my sweaty palm, I felt Grandpa’s cold and rough
hand. Still holding the hat, I hugged my dad as tight and snug as
I could, I leaned into Grandpa’s ear and whispered, “I love y-you,
Grandpa.”

* “The Praying Madonna,” Sophia Lee (previous page). Sophia is an eighth grader
at JLS Middle School who yearns to discover what is unknown to our world. She
is passionate about drawing and writing, but, most of all, enjoys doing things that
fuels her curiosity to explore. “The Praying Madonna,” is a recreation of the original
art piece painted by Giovanni Battista Salvi da Sassoferrato during the 1600s.

118

Kylie Outten *

Cherry Tree
I remember my grandparents’ cherry tree
In spring
Flowers bloomed
Blossoms rich with life
Colors of cotton candy and bubble gum abounded
Scents of floral and bitter sweet cherry
Candy everywhere I looked, but none to eat
The meadow woke from a winter’s rest
Water glistened from the abundant rain
A new beginning
Like a new book flipped to the first page
I skipped past dandelions
Watching them flutter
My worries whisked far away
I splashed through the creek
Seeing trees like giants, dancing
As the wind increased its tempo
Sunshine broke through the mists
Gleaming as I daydreamed
A gentle breeze tickled my face
Flourishing flowers teemed in the meadow

* Kylie is a student at Blach Middle School. She has an active imagination and likes 119
spending time with her family, friends, and two dogs.

My mind was free
As I ran into my grandparents arms
Warmth filled my heart

I entered my second home
Dancing atop the stairs
My footsteps lingered
My socks slid across the floor
Echoing to the floors below
In summer
The woods throughout their backyard
were thick with jade leaves, a jungle to my young eyes
I played hide and seek
and shrieked with glee
at the bees hidden in the grass below my toes
In fall
The leaves, now gold and red, twirled and dropped
Creating a carpet of wonder, magic, and awe
They combined with the patina of age on the old swing
I soared in that swing as the wind blew
The kaleidoscope of leaves swirling around me
I swung until my legs could not pump anymore
In winter
The worn swing is now old
Its ropes fraying at the ties
Salt and pepper appeared in my Grandfather’s hair
like the frost that decorated the windowsills
The Christmas tree rose
Reaching to the skylight

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Crystal snowflakes illuminated against the dark sky
Falling in layers pure and flawless
Waltzing and prancing
They melted on my tongue
and coated my eyelashes with a sheen of white
My eyes sparkled in happiness

Soon,
The leaves were gone, a distant memory
The lawn that was once green and lush Is now wilted
slouching, lazy, and tired
Nothing moved in the yard
Even the swing sat idle
It was time to leave
I woke up early with tired eyes
Leaned my palms against the chilly car door
My breath released in a puff of warm air
Swirling, clouding around me
I watched the cherry tree fade from my vision
and it slipped through my fingertips
I didn’t know that this would be the last time I would see my grand-
parents cherry tree
I wish I had said goodbye

121

Michael Dai *

Survivor

My church hosts this annual Thanksgiving party with
speed-eating pumpkin pie contests, and they let us kids play video
games and ride on scooters outside. They also have this tub filled
with fish. To catch the fish, we use plastic spoons and then put the
fish in a cup. One year I caught about ten, whisked them home, and
plopped them in a tank. After five months, all of them died except
for Survivor. He was a guppy, about two inches long with bulging
eyes.
Survivor had an orange body with gold shimmering fins
and scales. His tail was like an orange fan. I fed him pellets of who-
knows-what, and he was content. Grandpa said that Survivor would
live for only “about two to five years.” I wondered what I would do
without Survivor’s goofy little eyes staring at me when I came home
from school each day. Grandpa helped me clean the tank that held
a castle the size of a coffee mug and plastic seagrass, where Survi-
vor could hide and peek at me through swaying green. Whenever I
changed his water, I had to put him on a plate, and he would wiggle
out. He was mischievous like that. I worried that one day he would
escape. “Survivor is much like you,” Grandpa said. “He doesn’t lis-
ten.” I found this funny because fish are just fish–they don’t have bad
behavior.
Grandpa used to take me and my sister to eat at this fish
place, and he would order tuna or salmon, and I would always say,
“No! Don’t eat Survivor!” My grandpa had a booming laugh. He was

* Michael is an eighth-grader at Sutter Middle School. He enjoys coding video games,
reading books, fighting evil, and writing fiction.

122

nice like that. We would talk about random things, like his favorite
Chinese dramas or the weather. I wanted to know about his life, so
I asked him, “Grandpa, what was your house like when you were a
kid? What clothes did you wear? Did you ever have a pet fish?” He
answered all my questions as if he didn’t care about anything else but
me.
One day, Grandpa was standing in the bathroom and he just
collapsed. When I visited him in the hospital, he said, “I’m fine. Quit
fussing.” So I told him about the fidget spinner craze at school and
my new cell phone and the kid who rides his skateboard all over
school even though it’s not allowed.
As I sat in the hospital room with Grandpa, I thought of all
the things he had done for me and my sister. I remembered the times
he brought home those huge chocolate bars full of almonds and
nougat. My sister and I loved those candy bars, forgetting our man-
ners and grabbing them out of his hands and stuffing our chubby
faces until we felt sick. He liked to make us Chinese fried bread and
soy milk. Once, I strode into the kitchen and went straight to where
Grandpa was making the fried bread. I literally stuck my face onto
my plate and munched it all up, only stopping to drink some soy
milk. Another time, when my parents went out to a birthday party,
he let us stay up late watching The Mist . He sat in the chair next to
us, munching on popcorn and looking unfazed at all the blood and
gore. He smiled when the monsters came out as if he were expecting
them, while we screamed our heads off. That night, as my sister and I
went to sleep, I was afraid that the mist would suddenly spill into our
house and the creatures would take us into the foggy depths, never to
be seen again.
A year after Grandpa died, I came home and saw Survivor
floating in the tank, upside down. It was a Friday, and it felt like
something good would happen. Boy was I wrong. I took him out into
my backyard and buried him under the grapefruit tree because he
would always stare at it through the window with his big guppy eyes.
I was glad that Survivor had been a part of my life and that he was
there for me for as long as he was. I sat there and cried under the tree

123

for ten minutes. I told him, “I’ll miss your guppy eyes and mischie-
vous behavior. I wish I could
bring you back, but my mom says that every living thing eventually
moves on and that it’s something everyone needs to get used to.”
I don’t know why I cried so much. Survivor was just a fish,
after all.
124

Grace Ker *

Spirits From China

I woke to the sound of coughing and realized that it was
coming from my parents’ bedroom. It was pitch black in my room.
Down the hall, the light turned on and footsteps scuffled across the
hardwood. I sat up on my elbows and pressed the light button on my
watch. It was a gift from my dad, who liked to quote Anthony Oet-
tinger: “Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana.” It was 4:37
a.m. Out the window, rain poured like small stones on the roof. My
feet were as cold as ice. Shivering, I lay back on my bed and pulled
the covers up to my chin. I stared at the wall of my room, which
was painted lilac, my dad’s favorite color. Next, I heard the inhaler
and more coughing. My father couldn’t seem to stop; the coughing
turned into retching as if he were choking.
Then a shiver ran up my spine as I thought about evil spirits.
In Chinese culture, evil spirits take revenge on those who have
harmed them, or on those they are jealous of. I wondered what my
dad had done to make the evil spirits haunt him. Did something
happen in the past that I don’t know? Maybe his ancestors did some-
thing terrible, and now the evil spirits had come all the way from
China to punish him.
“Evil spirits fear the red paper pasted on windows. Red is
a lucky color. Red is the color of blood. It is the color of love,” said
Grandma. My grandma had come to stay with us from Long Quan.
I respect my Grandma because she brought Chinese culture
to our home in California. Because of her, we invite family and

* Grace is a seventh-grader at Miller Middle School in San Jose, California. She en-
joys reading fantasy books in her free time and writing about those small moments
in life. She is also a nationally recognized fencer.

125

friends to our house on January twenty-fifth, Chinese New Year.
Together, we exchange red envelopes and share our dreams. Because
of her, I get to taste tang yuan (sesame-filled glutinous rice balls) and
taro-filled buns. Thanks to her, I speak fluent Chinese and learned
how to use chopsticks. I also now know how to keep the evil spirits
away.
The morning after my father woke up coughing, I cut out the
Chinese word that means “luck” from the red construction paper
in the computer room and taped it upside down to the window. I
watched the sunlight shine through the crevices in the paper; I felt
it’s warmth.
A few weeks later, my dad came home from Stanford Medical
Center wearing lilac pajamas. He looked tired, and with my mother’s
support, he ambled slowly to his room. Having him home, I felt relief
like that of a passenger on a small plane that has just landed safely in
a storm.
Today, my dad is fine, but his cancer could always come back.
It is like evil spirits. They are always hanging around. Next time, we
may not be as lucky as we are now. So I’ll keep the red cutouts on the
window on the window, just as Grandma says.
These days, I’m happy when my dad takes me to school and
we talk in the car about when time machines will be invented and
how he loves to fish. I am happy that he is still here with me standing
on planet Earth, and I hope he’ll be with me for a long time.

* “Sunset,” Dina Goldman (opposite page). Dina is an 8th grade student at Blach, and
she loves painting all kinds of things–especially cute animals, landscapes, and recent-
ly she’s been experimenting with people!

126



Colin Ternus *

Cadamil
Cadamil
The color of the saplings
Small and frail
But evergrowing
Cadamil
Cadamil is the opening of a good book
And the joy it brings
Cadamil
It is camping
Spending a week in the cold
Not because we are forced to
But because we want to
Cadamil
Cadamil is the color of the guitars
And music players
That rest in your house
Cadamil
It’s the collecting of families for tradition
Gathering around the Christmas tree
Or baking food for a large Thanksgiving

* Colin is an avid reader who enjoys writing poetry. He likes playing the guitar, racing,
photography, science, and math.

128

Cadamil
Cadamil is the colors in stores
Jumping out at you
Trying to grab your attention
But you just ignore them
And walk away

Cadamil
The color of the sports cars that come and go
Flying around the track
The smell of gasoline and burning rubber
That fills your nose

Cadamil
Your family’s old car
You know that you should get rid of
But you don’t want to

Cadamil

129

* “Autumn Silhouette,” Rena Kim. Rena is a 7th grader at Castilleja School who
enjoys all forms of art, from dancing, to writing, and even photography. She draws
inspiration from the people, nature, and environment around her.

130

Myesha Phukan *

Autumn

The trees seemed to be filled with lines of wisdom.
Their bark rough and corrugated to the touch.
Seemingly knowing when to shed their leaves.
The month of September brought a

Parade of leaves, each tree having its own special pattern.
Both the fallen and living leaves
Fluttered in the wind.

Vines with purple flowers were intertwined with the fence.
Flowers quite like light bulbs hung from the trees above.

The morning dew on soft lamb’s ear plants
Glistening in the sunlight.
Every so often,

Magenta flowers were to be seen.
Peppered around the grass,
Small bursts of color,
Appearing everywhere.

Cream colored roses hung upon mountains
Of thorns.

The swirl inside was like that of a lollipop.
Violet petals adorned short green stalks,
As an ornament does to a Christmas tree.

* Myesha is a 7th grader at Georgina P. Blach Intermediate School. In her free time, she 131
likes to read and write, as well as play soccer and bake.

Leaves who had reached the end of their cycle
Littered the ground.
If you looked down,

A medley full of fall colors would appear.
A mixture of rust, yellow, orange, and others

Could be seen among the dirt.
The dirt itself,

Grainy and sand like.
It could have reminded you of the beach.
Little puddles of water fell around the soil,
Accompanied with light green patches of grass.

The sky was wonderful.
Marshmallow like clouds spotted the blue.

Rays of sun streamed down upon you,
Bathing you in a mass of warm, golden light.
Sometimes, the rays even going so far as to
Peek through cracks in fences and those in the branches of trees.
The gusts of wind blew my hair left to right,

Swirling around my face.
The sound of bees buzzing filled my ears.

Shades of green blotted the horizon,
Different shapes emerging.

It was really the perfect autumn day.

* “Barcelona Duck,” Kylie Outten (opposite page). Kylie is a student at Blach Middle
School. She has an active imagination and likes spending time with her family,
friends, and two dogs.

132



Josi O’Brien *

The Skipping Stone

“Come on, Noah!”
Addison sped ahead of her older brother. The lake shim-
mered in the afternoon sun, and the image of a running little girl and
boy rippled among the tiny waves. Mother had told her and Noah to
play at the lake today, and Addison had darted out the door scream-
ing, “Race you there, Noah!”
The sun was high in the sky, and a cool breeze tossed Addi-
son’s loose hair around her face like the wind blows the ocean’s water
into waves. Her dress had a flowy skirt, which billowed around her
darting legs, puffy clouds following her around. The water lapped at
the rocks as she climbed and jumped and hopped between them.
“Be careful!” Noah yelled from behind. But Addison pre-
tended not to hear. She kept jumping and climbing and... slipped.
Addison hopped off of a giant boulder and landed on both feet, only
to have one slip on the slimy algae and into the shallow pebbled floor
of the lake. Lake water splashed up her leg and soaked the left half of
her dress skirt.
Addison kept moving. So what if she got a little wet? Sure-
ly it would dry in the hot air of the late June day. Finally, Addison
stopped, panting. She stood on a mini island, a circular patch of sand
among a wall of rocks and the great blue lake. Her boots made foot-
prints in the perfect sand. They called this place Jolie Ile. Addison
took in a deep breath. She smelled all sorts of things. She smelled the
saltiness of the lake and the warmth of the sand. She smelled the

134 * Josi lives in Mountain View, California, and she has a sister named Samatha and a cat
named Luna. She likes to read, hang out with friends, do arts and crafts, and write
stories!

earthiness of the trees and the petrichorus scent of the rocks. Addi-
son loved Jolie Ile more than anything. It was like her second home.
“Ad-Addison!” Noah came panting from behind a large
boulder, pulling her out of her trance. “Ple-please don’t run ahead
like that.” He dropped down to the sands of Jolie Ile and laid down,
making sand angels. His blond hair, like Addison’s, blended perfectly
with the sand of the mini island.
Addison giggled. “Get up!”
Noah rolled over on his side and his eyes spotted something.
“Oooooo!”
Addison looked around. “What?”
Noah sprung up and snatched something out of the water.
“Look!”
Addison stood on her tip-toes to look at what her broth-
er was holding. It was a rock. Flattened like a fluffy pancake, but
smooth as glass. “What is it?”
“It’s a skipping stone,” Noah replied. “Look.” Noah stretched
his right hand across the front of his body, which stood sideways,
and flung the stone. It skittered across the water like a frog leaping
from lily pad to lily pad, and eventually screeched to a halt and sunk
into the water.
“Woah! How did you do that?” Addison had always believed
in magic, and this skipping stone was the most magical thing she
had seen, besides of course Jolie Ile, which was her paradise. “Let me
try!”
Noah and Addison crouched down above the lake’s water and
searched for the perfect stone.
“What about this one?” Addison held up a 3D oval-shaped
stone, which looked like a raindrop.
Nope. It needs to be flatter,” Noah said dismissively, and con-
tinued his vigorous search.
“What about this one?” Addison held up yet another one.
“No, that one’s too...” Noah stopped short as he stared at the
stone in Addison’s hand. It was grey, with a slight gleam to it from
the thick drops of water that dripped from its surface. It was perfect:

135

thin as a fluffy pancake and smoother than glass. It was a slight
oval shape and had just the right weight. “...Perfect,” he finished. He
reached for the stone, but Addison held it higher, out of his reach.
“I want to throw it. I found it.”
“Fine, then,” Noah said. He showed her how to throw the
stone. He told her to stand sideways and to bring the stone back and
release it with a flick of her wrist. Addison followed everything. “And
then, you throw.”
Addison took a deep breath. She gazed out to the wavy
surface of the lake, seeing in the distance the shore on the other
side. Little sea birds nestled into the sand and watched the view,
which was truly marvelous as the sun set behind the mountains that
skimmed the horizon, tinting everything orange and pink. Then, she
flicked her wrist and released the stone, sending it tumbling across
the lake’s surface, perfectly gliding along the waves. Noah and Addi-
son both cheered.
That’s when it happened.
“What the...?” Noah squinted at the distant edge of the lake,
and Addison did the same. Then she saw it, too.
The stone, once a tiny dot in the distance seemed to be get-
ting bigger.
“It’s... it’s coming... back.” Addison would have blinked to see
if she was imagining it, but Noah saw it too, and she didn’t want to
take her eyes off the stone. It glistened in the sinking sun, hopping
like a rabbit on a field, back to the shore of Jolie Ile. It plopped back
down at Addison’s feet, like a puppy waiting for you to throw it a toy.
“What in the world?” Addison picked it back up and ran her
finger along the glassy surface of the rock. Then, it started to glow.
136

Amelia Renfro *

Edge of the Unknown
The wind

Gallops across sand
Stinging my face, flinging my hair every which way
Stealing the breath from my lungs
It is laughing and playing
The whole world its playground
It tumbles and tears through trees
Then
In a split second
It is a million feet in the air, soaring, floating, among the fog
The wind touches everything in its wake
Leaving its mark
Telling its story
Whooping
Wild
Free
The fog
Gusts over my skin
Leaving tiny droplets of cool water on the tip of my nose
It is like a great sleeping wolf
Docile in the moment, peaceful
With fur of soft, thick, frosty grey tufts
But
It is always ready to pounce

* Amelia is an 8th grader at Blach Middle School. In her free time, she enjoys reading, 137
drawing, acting, playing basketball and equestrian vaulting.

To gnash its enormous white teeth, and decimate everything in its wake
It is not afraid to turn its temper into tempests
Its claws to cyclones
Its brashness to blizzards
For now though, it rests
Idly flowing over hills
Misting the world in its drowsy breaths
Covering the world in a blanket of grey
The ocean
Sprays icy water into my face
Dusting my lips and eyelashes with salty sweetness
I look down and see it
Swirling, whirling beneath me
Vast, unbridled power
Comforting in its presence, yet daring in its entirety
The sea is ruthless, relentless and rhythmic
It surges up and slams against the cliffs below
Bursting into salt, froth and frigid liquid
It then collects, swirls together, and glides back to the depths to plan its next strike
Over
And over
And over again

138

Nisha Shenoy *

The Dragon’s Call

The moonlight glares against my eyes as another drop of
melted snow seeps into my room through the damp, wooden boards
in the ceiling. Welcome to Norvegr. A village isolated from the
world, yet it still receives the same amount of snow that Greenland
does, every ten years. Nobody understands why my people want to
live here, but they don’t know the full story. They don’t know about
the magic in this town. The magic of the wind. As my eyes stare at
a large clump of dark navy wool that floats into my room, an idea
pops into my head. Slowly drifting further away from me, the strand
of fur gazes at every inch of my room, pausing at the clay sculptures
my brother gave me. I push the white blankets off my body, observ-
ing the snow-mound looking lumps that it forms. A small chuckle
escapes my lips.
Sitting up, I glance at the door, trying not to make a sound.
I push my legs to the side of my bed and relax. Dangling my sore
feet off the edge, I begin to lower them onto the hard, wooden floor
beneath me, a loud creak echoing through the room. I stop in my
tracks. Rotating my head to the right, I gaze at the exit. I close my
eyes and listen to the gentle breeze that brings a smile to my face.
A thundering roar breaks the silence as I rush to the window
by my side, not caring who hears me. Squishing my face onto the
glass, I peer out into the thick forest in front of me. Above my head,

* Nisha believes that life is meaningless without a little magic, laughter, and happiness,
so she spends her time chatting with her friends and family, working on merit badges
for Scouts, playing the piano, or rereading The Candy Shop Wars by Brandon Mull for
about the seventh time. You can’t judge her and it’s a great book so.........please don’t.
139

I see a large shadow glide towards the moon. Another roar erupts
from the shadow, but this time a flash of light is projected onto it.
Though I can only see it for a second, I notice every detail on it. I
can see its slender, ivory body and its wide, light turquoise eyes with
rings of gold and white speckles. Its long, shiny tail being flicked
beneath it. I close my eyes, thinking about the magnificent creature
above me, yet when I finally open my eyes, the shadow is gone from
the sky.
The smile falls off my face, my bright, bluebell eyes now a dull
grey. My lips parting, I take a deep breath. The distinct roar echoing
in my head over and over again. Getting louder and louder each
time. I drag my eyes back up, stopping midway. I see the dragon once
more, yet this time it’s standing right outside my window.

* “The Guardian,” Olivia Moon (opposite page). Olivia is a 7th grader at Blach
Intermediate School. You can find her drawing, reading, or writing up a storm in
her bedroom. She enjoys painting with acrylics, using chalk pastel, or just randomly
sketching in one of her sketchbooks. What she writes depends on what inspires her,
and she’ll read whatever she can get her hands on. Her favorites include pigs, the
color blue, and sushi. Salmon sushi.

140



Danica Madan *

Cerulean

Now I look up at the sky,
my heart soars,

reaching higher than the tall green mountain.
I want to jump,

wind sliding through my fingertips,
the breeze keeping me afloat.
Closing my eyes,
savoring the crisp color,

sharper than a winter morning’s bite.
Turn my head up towards the sky,
purple sliding across the horizon,

traces of gold highlighting underneath.
Sunset.

Pink speckles the setting sky,
wiping away any thoughts of day.
Yet darkness does not fall until there is balance.

The stars start to sprinkle,
and slowly

the curtains of night are drawn.

* Danica is a 7th grader who is the kind of person that likes to Google the names of
colors, and then click images of the most exotic ones. In her opinion, cerulean is the
best shade of blue, and no better than when it is slipping into purple at sunset. When
she’s not writing, you can find her playing her violin or paddle boarding on Bodega
Bay.

142

Avni Nath *

We Are One

The moon beams down on Mount Lunenlita, no clouds in sight.
Failing to fall asleep after the bizarre events of the day, I slip out of my cozy
cottage. My silver hair gleams bright in the moonlight as I walk over to
where Silvesse, the best alicorn in all of Faerieland, grazes.
“Silvesse,” I whisper. “I could not sleep. Would you care to go for a
ride?”
The beautiful alicorn ambles over to me and gazes into my eyes,
making sure not to poke me with her horn. Sure, Lenora. I would love to go
for a ride.
I grab her mane and heave my body onto her back, careful to
mind the wings. As I settle into a comfortable position, I stroke the silvery
strands of my alicorn’s mane. As soon as I am ready, I tell her, “Go, Silvesse.
Fly!”
Silvesse flaps her wings and we rise up, speeding towards the deep
blue sky, leaving the ground behind and all my worries with it.
We fly towards the stars that gleam bright in the dark night. Lumi-
nous and radiant, the moon shines down upon us, coating our figures in a
silvery light. We soar through the air, wind whipping my long, lustrous hair
around. Silvesse loops and flips, in sync with my mind and my body. Clos-
ing my eyes, I let my mind relax, the chilly air whisking all my thoughts
away.
I have always believed that Silvesse and I were meant to be. We
have a connection, something special that keeps us together, even when we
are apart. We are similar, yet we are the same. After all, we have the same
hair color, silver; the same eye color, purple; and Silvesse and I can read
each other’s minds, which happens to be the ultimate connection between

* Avni is a seventh grader who loves to read fiction. She does it in most of her free
time. Her head is filled with daydreams about unicorns, faeries, and other dimen-
sions. As a result, she loves to write stories and put her fantastical ideas on paper.

143

an alicorn and their faerie rider. She is mine, and I am hers. She
is my other half, and I am her other half. We are one soul in two
bodies, until we soar through the sky. Then we are a single being, no
boundaries between her and me. That is the magic of our connec-
tion.
I peer down towards the ground and see Mount Lunenlita,
with its pale yellow wildflowers and green grass. It’s peak slowly
slopes up to meet us, but right as I think we’re going to crash, Silvesse
flaps her wings and we glide higher in the sky.
Gazing up at the stars, I take in the sparks of light scattered
across the sky. My favorite constellations shine down on me, showing
me the way.
I shut my eyes, my mind finally at peace, and breathe in the
clean, fresh air.

144

Francis Luo *

An Alien Assassin

The planet Earth disgusted her. It was dark, greasy, grimy; un-
healthy in general. Smoke filled the air of what they called “major cities.”
Their forests and rivers were polluted with chemicals and burning wastes.
She thought back to her home planet. It was a hollow planet, much small-
er than Earth, and everyone lived on the inside. The residents had built a
beautiful, artificial sun on the interior of the planet. The sky was always
dark, but the streets were always bright, and everyone there was happy.
Despite the darkness in her current location, it was still too warm for her to
be comfortable.
Nya was currently located in a small, discreet factory that her client
had shown her. She didn’t really know who exactly was paying her to do the
job, just that he was rich and had money that he would willingly give her
to do it. Soon, she would have the resources to make a home on this grimy
planet—she had been taken here by a one-way ticket from Carrania, where
she had been before. Carrania had been launched into a revolution, so she
supposed that this filthy excuse for a planet was a preferable alternative.
Nya pulled one shining saber from the sheath at her side. Her
blades were very important to her. Even in this dark twilight, they shone
like the sun of her home. Her home.
A long time ago, Nya thought she would spend all her life on her
home planet of Xyria. Xyria had been a beautiful planet, a wonderful place.
She had lived in her family’s grand palace, heir to the throne of Xyria. That
was before the invaders arrived.
A sudden creak startled her out of her reverie. Nya flinched,
eyes and ears swiftly alert. She did as she had been trained to, long ago.
1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8…9…10. No further noises sounded, so she re-
laxed, though still tenser than she had been before.

* Along with writing stories, Francis enjoys playing the trumpet and listening to music. 145
All his favorite songs are from before the second millennium.

Her parents had given her beautiful blades to her when she
had just been five. A Xyrian princess was expected to train in the
blade and to defeat any enemy in the kingdom. That was how she
had become an assassin—her skill with the saber. Her saber was
long, thin, delicately styled. These days, it was the only thing she
cared about. She had no friends, and she had left her family far be-
hind her.
It doesn’t matter now, she thought. She continued crawling
forward. Her target would be up ahead any second now. She pulled
out three other knives from their sheaths. Two of them were for
throwing, and one was longer, for stabbing. Nya held them all in one
hand in the same grip she had practiced for years.
After the invaders had come, they had taken up a permanent
spot in her parents’ court, feeding off her parents’ generosity like the
parasites that they were. Soon, each decision made by the king and
queen was influenced in one way or another by the villainous syco-
phants.
Nya vividly remembered finishing off the invaders. Standing
behind their positions in court, she had done the first one in with
a swipe to the throat, dispatched the next two with her throwing
knives, and stabbed the last one in the back.
It took her five years to work her way out of the Xyrian prison
where she had been locked up. She remembered the pristine white
walls, the lasers that would inflict so much damage upon her every
time she lost her senses and stepped too close, the cellmates that
always seemed drunk. She never forgot the malicious, tearless eyes
of her parents as she was led away. They never saw the invaders as a
threat, and yet the invaders had ruined her life.
Now, Nya was a freelance assassin—she didn’t care where the
money came from, as long as she got it. Many influential Carranians
had at least a few enemies on Earth, who had fled during the gov-
ernment persecution of the Krosians a decade ago. Most Earthlings
weren’t even aware of the many so-called “aliens” on their planet.
The few who did were considered cranks, eccentrics, people who just
wanted attention. The real extraterrestrials maintained their guises as
146

humans without much effort. Humans were idiots.
Nya’s earpiece buzzed. It was perfectly shaped to fit the con-
tour of her ear, something she had bought as soon as she could afford
it. She lifted one hand and pressed a button on the device, and her
client, whoever he was, came online.
“Are the targets nearby?” asked Nya in a smooth, silky voice.
“Yes,” responded the client. “Would you like to see the live
camera footage?”
“No, thank you,” replied Nya in a controlled manner. What
difference would it possibly make? She turned the earpiece off in
preparation for the upcoming task.
Nya thought back to her life after her escape. She had spent
most of her last four years doing odd jobs for people: cleaning hous-
es, mowing lawns, and on one occasion, cooking. It hadn’t been until
last year that she was first hired as an assassin. Her client had been
the leader of a faraway planet—she didn’t remember which one—and
she had been hired to assassinate one of his rivals. Those were good
old times. After the successful assassinations, she went public as an
assassin for hire, except for on her home planet. She swore to herself
that she would never return.
Nya couldn’t keep track of the countless people she had
killed. She had assassinated several government leaders, killed many
prominent businessmen, and more. Frankly, the kills all blended
together now. However, she always made sure to remember the face
of each of her victims, as a way of honoring their deaths.
Footsteps sounded from around the corner. As soon as they
popped into view, Nya lashed out with her saber, buried her two
knives in the other target, then stabbed the first one in the chest.
Her victims were her parents.

147





Anika Mohan *

Dawn

I remember trailing my hand against its firm clay, memorizing all
of its hollows and dips, crevices and creases. Letting out a pensive breath,
I studied its appearance: it had a cream-colored tone to it, with a one-way
glass covering the eye holes and a dome overlaying the mouth. Tied to its
sides were raven black ribbons that extended twelve inches each, enough
to wrap around the average head securely. I wore it every day. Not out of
choice, for its dull appearance I found somber, but out of obligation. While
distant memories engulfed me, I seemed to have lost track of time. Not
wanting to cause a commotion at First Meal, I threw on my customary
day clothes: white linen pants and a white cotton full-sleeved shirt. After,
I slipped on my black socks and gloves, tying my hair in a neat ponytail
as well. Making sure not to forget my final and most important accessory,
I fitted my mask on my face. Its cool, smooth surface pressed against my
skin, causing me to shiver slightly as I put it on and tied its cord around my
head. Stepping out of my sleeping quarters, I strode through the narrow,
dimly lit hallway, hearing my steps echo with every move I took on the
hard concrete. As I reached the dining hall, where everyone had assembled
in a line for First Meal, I quickly shifted behind the last person in line. A
man marched by the line, who I knew to be a guard, for he was wearing
leather combat boots on his feet. Shoes were an indulgence that only mem-
bers of the government would receive. Bowing my head in respect, I waited
for him to pass me. Once he reached the end of the line, he called out three
codes, of those who were to be chastised for neglecting the rules of con-
duct.

* Anika is an eighth-grader at Horner Junior High School. In her free time, she enjoys
reading, writing, singing, and horseriding.

* A Walk in the Forest,” Abirami Kumar (previous page). Abirami is a 7th grader at
John M. Horner Junior High School. She is passionate about math and art. She loves
swimming and badminton. She paints and reads during her leisure time.

150