Stanford Anthology for Youth: Volume 23

Abigail and Brandon hurriedly finished their food and, very
slowly, the group hobbled over to the snake exhibit.
Peter looked at the entrance of the snake exhibit. Fake plants
grew in the tiny crevices of the brown rocks that were cut to cover
the hallway corners, and fake vines came down, covering the door-
way, with art structures of clay snakes surrounding the entrance.
Black Mamba, Corn Snake, False Water Cobra, he listed the
names of the clay snakes in his head, which he could recognize by
memory. He pushed through the fake vines, which spread around
him as he was immersed into a small jungle, humid and dim. He
turned around and reached into his bag, searching for his journal,
but his hand only touched the fabric at the bottom.
Peter’s journal was nowhere to be seen.
“Avril? Do you have my journal? If you have it, it’s not funny,
I’ve had it since I was eight and–” Peter panicked, but Avril shushed
him.
“I don’t have your journal, but you shouldn’t worry about it.
Just enjoy the museum. They have a Lost and Found box here, so
someone will just return it there.”
Peter felt like there were mites all over him–that pota-
to-stamp journal made of recycled paper and paint held together
by twine was his most prized possession, and he didn’t like being
without it, not one bit. “Okay,” he frowned, “but only if you promise
to get it back for me before we leave.”
“I, Avril Baker, hereby promise Peter of the Snakes to return
his reptile log, all in one piece,” she said as she put her hand on her
chest, then pointed to an enclosure that was to the right of them. A
glass wall divided a room with murky water and a basking area in a
heat lamp. “That’s an anaconda, right?” she asked.
Peter walked over and pressed his face up to the glass wall.
The anaconda was large, and its body was curled around its habi-
tat, his upper half in the water and the other on land. “They can eat
whole pigs, did you know that?” He excitedly followed the Anaconda
through the glass wall as it slithered around.
“Wow, that’s a cool snake,” Avril gaped in awe.

201

“Really cool,” Peter responded. “Cool enough to be semi-
aquatic.” He traced the shape of it with his finger.
A finger tapped Peter on the shoulder. “Hey kid!” The voice
cheered, and Peter spun around. Brian looked back at him. “You two
are part of Mrs. Baker’s group, huh?”
Peter nodded, then looked at his shoulder. A small snake,
no larger than two or three feet, was wrapped around his neck, not
enough to constrict him but enough to loosely hang on. “I see you
guys are looking at Kaa, here, our water boa, or anaconda, as I heard
you guys saying. This girl on my shoulder’s name is Violet. She’s very
tame, so would you like to pet her?” He offered, and pried her off his
neck.
Peter held out his arm, and the snake slithered towards him.
“Is she slimy?” Avril cringed.
“No, she’s not slimy, why don’t you hold her?” Peter asked.
Avril held out her hand and shut her eyes, and Violet slithered on to
her arm with no trouble.
“Oh, she’s not slimy,” Avril opened her eyes wide and curious-
ly watched. “Actually, snakes are kind of nice!”
Not before long, a crowd of students gathered around Avril,
and the snake was slowly being gently passed along from person to
person. Peter already had his turn, so was simply observing, and
then noticed Brian was not there anymore. “Have you seen Brian,
Avril?”
She shook her head and joined the crowd once more, and
then the kids around stumbled back like a drunken sailor in shock.
Peter’s eyes widened as he watched the snake slither away into the
rocks between the cages, a small crevice surrounded by moss. His
jaw dropped to the floor, and the chatter of the room dropped to a
small murmur. Avril shrieked, breaking the silence. “Where did it
go!?”
Peter pressed his lips together and slowly turned his head
around to face Avril, then wheezed. “Two words for you, Avril: bad
luck!”
“What? I didn’t cause this! If anything, this was your fault! I
202

wasn’t the one taking responsibility for it!”
“How was it ever my responsibility?” He backed away defen-
sively. “You were the one who wasn’t watching as it was being passed
from person to person! You didn’t even help me look for my jour-
nal!” Peter spoke through his teeth. Avril looked at him sadly.
“I didn’t mean it that way, I’m sorry.” She softly muttered.
Now, despite how Peter had the tendency to overreact, if
there was one thing that Peter was not known for, it was being a
mean person.“Let’s get the snake out together. After all,we both lost
it.”
He held out his hand, and Avril shrugged and shook it. “We
need to find Brian first,” she suggested, and pointed to the room to
the left of the enclosures, labeled Staff Only.
“No,” Peter shook his head. “We can’t go there. We don’t work
here. I think we would have better luck if we just searched around
the museum.”
Avril persistently pointed to the door. “No, he’s in there
alright. I saw him walk in there while the snake was being passed
around.”
“Why did you say you didn’t see him, then?” He sighed and
scanned left and right. No adults were paying attention to them, so,
as casually as they could, they snuck up to the door and made their
way inside.
Behind the door was a room painted dark green, filled with
shelves and drawers containing reptile substrate and food, freezers
containing mice for the snakes, and a few glass enclosures. Peter
stopped and looked at one of the three enclosures on the left shelf.
Inside was a chameleon, flicking its tongue as it searched for
the next branch to grip on to. It stepped onto a stone and changed its
colors from hickory brown to grey.
“We don’t have time for that, Peter,” Avril tugged on his arm.
They continued down a narrow hallway lit by overhead lights. The
further in they got, the warmer the hallway became. Suddenly, Avril
stopped dead in her tracks and held a finger up to her lips.
Shhh.

203

“Why?” Peter whispered, and looked around, uncomfortable.
Avril looked at the way they came from.
“Brian’s over there,” She quietly muttered. Peter swallowed his
breath and walked over to him, his palms sweaty and cold.
You see, the thing about Peter, is that he is the kind of kid
who if he was playing Hide and Seek, and the seeker was in the room
he was hiding in, he would jump out in front of them, revealing
himself so as to relieve the discomfort of feeling that you’ll get caught
any moment.
Avril’s eyes widened and she failed to even whisper.
The room was tense, and nervous, and the warm hallway
suddenly felt cold and unwelcoming. They didn’t know Brian well
enough to know how he’d react, but if there was one thing you
should probably not do in a Reptile Museum is to sneak into the Staff
Only room. Avril quickly walked over on her tiptoes, because she
was not the kind who liked being alone in a long, dim hallway.
“Brian?” Peter meekly whimpered at the end of the hallway,
where the room filled with freezers and drawers met the place Peter
was standing.
Brian turned around and looked around the room. “Hello? Is
someone here?” He held his hands out, searching for anyone in the
room. “Brian, it’s me,” Peter sighed and stood right by him.
“Oh, hello. Where’s your group? You shouldn’t be here, this is
just where we store all of our supplies.”
Peter nodded. “I know, and I’m truly sorry, but me and Avril
were looking for you. Remember that snake you let us touch?” Peter
fidgeted, “Well, she got loose, and slithered into a nearby hole be-
tween the cages.”
“Alright, well why don’t you show me where, and we’ll get
them out?” Brian patted his back and pulled something displayed on
a shelf on the wall. “This is a snake hook, so we’ll be able to get them
out easily.”
Peter nodded and glanced back at the hall. Avril had a wor-
ried expression on her face. Peter mouthed back to Get out once the
door opens, but he wasn’t sure if she picked it up.
204

“Okay kiddo, let’s go see this hole.” He opened the door and
waited for Peter to pass through.
Then the door started to close. It was a heavy door, the type
that guards a classroom. Avril scrambled out as it was closing, her
right foot barely making it through.
She wiped the sweat from her brow and looked at the maze of
exhibits in front of her. It was going to be a long day.

–––
“That’s where she went,” Peter pointed to the crack between
the rocks. Brian nodded and stuck the hook in slowly.
“Hmm, there doesn’t seem to be anything in here, but I’ll give
it a minute. Are you sure it went into this hole?” Brian asked, and
Peter nodded, watching with intent. Seconds seemed like minutes.
And then there was a hiss. It was quiet, but with good ears
you could hear it. “Yep, there’s a snake down there, you’re right... And
I got it!”
As the hook emerged from deep in the rock, there was the
python, wrapped around it, curled up. Kids observing clapped and
cheered. “Good job, bud.” He held out his hand for a high-five, which
Peter slapped, and a wave of relief washed over him, but he still felt a
little worried. Where was Avril?
To answer his question, Avril severely underestimated how
big the museum was. Or, perhaps, she was going in circles, but it
was hard to tell at this point. She was using the iguana habitat as her
reference point, but by now all the animals seemed the same. “Peter?
Brian? ...Anyone?” she called out, but cut off her sentence once she
spotted her group, Brian, and Peter. “Hey, guys!” she happily called.
Peter looked at her with joy. “We got the snake out, Avril!”
He chirped and pointed to Brian, who had the snake coiled around
his neck.
“Thanks to you! Now, I think that I have something that be-
longs to you, kid.” Brian shuffled around in his backpack, and pulled
out a handmade journal. Handmade by Peter.
“I saw you writing in it back during when I was holding the

205

toad, and I thought you might want it back,” He held out the journal
warmly.
“Thank you,” Peter grabbed the journal greedily and flipped
through the pages, making sure there was no damage to the book.
“No problem! I must get going now, I’ve got to put this mis-
chievous reptile back in her cage!”
“I guess you really did get it back, after all,” Avril chuckled.
“C’mon, let’s look at the Burmese Pythons!” Avril tugged on his arm,
but skidded to a halt, and turned to face her mother with a cheery
voice.
“Hey, mom, I was thinking... Could we get a pet snake?”

END


206

Evan Morris *

Nerf Battle

Bam! Another plastic tipped foam bullet whizzes by my head.
I feel like I’m in a video game, except that I’m in real life. It doesn’t
hurt much to get hit by one, but I still despise it. I try to fire back.
“Click, Click!” I frantically pull the trigger to my gun, but nothing
comes out. I’m out of ammo! I look around for the nearest object to
hide behind–a chair, a couch, anything. I settle for a nearby couch
and run behind it, digging through my pockets for any spare bullets.
Success! I find a couple in my sweatshirt pocket and frantically start
to reload my gun. They start running down the hallway. My worst
enemies. They are the ones shooting at me, and they will pay for it.
“Faster, Faster,” I think to myself. The enemies are almost
upon me. I finally put the last bullet into the clip, snap the ammu-
nition clip back into place, and get ready to shoot. The enemies are
almost upon me. They are about to get to the couch when I whip out
from around the side and start shooting at them. They are surprised,
they didn’t think I had any more bullets, and yet I did. I keep shoot-
ing, and they start to fall back. But I can’t let them get away. They
shot at me when I was in a vulnerable position, and now it’s my turn
to return the favor. I run after them even though I only have 2 more
bullets in the ammunition clip. My enemies don’t know that. For all
they know, I have a second gun with a full magazine aimed at them.
They run into a nearby room and barricade themselves in it.

* Evan is an eighth grader at Central Middle School. He lives in San Carlos with
his two brothers and one sister, his parents, and his dog. He plays baritone for
the school band. He loves swimming, playing in the snow, and wrestling with
his brothers. He also enjoys traveling frequently going to Hawaii, Tahoe, and
Disneyland. His vice is video games, which he plays way too much of.

207

They won’t open the door until I leave. Or, at least until they think
I’m gone. I pretend to walk into my room, but instead I walk into a
nearby closet. I hear them open the door and walk out. I wait until
they have passed my hiding spot to attack them. I hear their foot-
steps come to the closet.
“Check it,” one of them hisses. “Make sure he’s not in there.”
“What? No!” the other one replies. “I don’t want to. You do
it.”
“Fine, you big baby.”
I hear the doorknob turn, and the door slowly opens. I start
to shoot at them over and over. They flee back into their room. I
follow them, shooting all the while. When I get to their room, they
are frantically reloading. But it’s too late. I step into the doorway and
start to shoot. They have no ammunition. They lay down their guns
and surrender. It’s over! And once again, I come out victorious. An-
other successful nerf battle in the books.


* “hey dude,” Aijia Zhang (opposite page). Aijia is a thirteen-year-old girl. If you
ever see a girl carrying a violin and a huge unzipped bag containing a sketch-
book running down the sidewalk, it might be her.

208



Tanay Doppalapudi *

The Cross Country Meet

The sound of the reverberating horn that started the race
startled me. I sprinted to get into the front pack. The runners and I
ran directly into the scathing breeze. The spectators around us were
deafening. Somewhere in the immense crowd was my mom. The
heat was killing me. As we entered the track, sand was lifted into the
air all around me. This only intensified the heat. I felt like I was being
fried by the sun. Beside my competitive opponents, I ran on the
street, through the enormous school, past the baseball diamond and
back on to the slippery, sandy track. The heat was killing me. Time
passed and my arms were tired, my legs were tired, my feet were
tired, my lungs were tired, and even my brain was tired. A burning
sensation prickled in my thighs. I was suffering from fatigue. I heard
the opponents who had been way behind me panting right by me
and I began to lose hope. Every time somebody passed me, it was a
stab in the heart. The heat was killing me. This was all indicative that
I needed to train more often. But I was way too determined to give
up then. I told myself, “One step at a time, One step at a time, One
step at a time...” I kept on repeating the line. Fortunately, I realized
that the finish line was less than 150 yards away. I pushed my legs
forward and I pushed my arms forward with all my strength. The
adrenaline flowed in my veins. My hands curled into fists as I sprint-
ed vigorously through the crushing heat. All of a sudden, I was a
cheetah. I could feel the warm breath of the sweaty runners around

210 * Tanay is an eighth grade Blach student who enjoys all types of art, whether it is
music, writing, or drawing/painting. The activities that are the most important
in his life are running, playing piano, and playing basketball.

me as I crossed the line with one final forward lurch. I felt stripped of
muscle as I tumbled into the grass at the end of the race. I was im-
mobile. Then I counted the people in front of me...6...out of 120!

211

Katherine Silva *

Volleyball

There are goosebumps on your legs as you stand in a ready
position, your arms hanging long and loose in front of your knees.
Despite the thunderous noise echoing throughout the building, you
can hear the ball bouncing in the girl’s hand, matching the beating
of your heart in your chest. To you, everything is silent. There is no
crowd; there is no noise, only the fear pulsing through your veins.
You stand far from the net, maybe twenty feet or so, and can’t
help but stare at the vastness of the empty square of court in front
of you. All that area is yours to cover, and you’re terrified of making
a mistake, sending the ball far away where no one can get it. Your
palms are sweaty, so you wipe them on your jersey, and when you
exhale, your breath is shaky. In your mind, you send a silent prayer
to God, hoping that the ball is served to anyone else on the court,
anyone but you.
Your eyes, like a hawk’s, watch that girl holding the ball,
trying to determine her every move. She’s facing you and that empty
square of court in front of you, and at that moment, your heart leaps
into your throat. She’s sending that ball to you, and you know you
have to pull yourself together before she does. You sink even lower
in your position and take a timid step forward, trying to make the
square a little smaller, but it’s no use. To you, that square is huge,
and you can’t protect it. It’s a target begging to be hit.
The ref raises her whistle to her mouth, and you push your

* Katherine’s life consists mostly of volleyball, with some time for school work.
Her favorite subject at the moment is history. She lives in the Bay Area with her
two parents and an incredibly annoying younger sister.

212

worries out of your head and tell yourself that you can do this. You
have to because you can’t let your teammates, your sisters, down.
Sure enough, the ball heads right for that empty square, just as you
predicted. It’s just out of reach, and you dive forward, saving it, as
your chest collides with the ground. The air is knocked out of your
lungs, but you ignore the pain and scramble to your feet, ready for
the ball to come back to you. In a matter of seconds, you’re in the air,
soaring above everyone else. You don’t know how you got there, and
it doesn’t matter. All that matters to you is striking that ball down
the line where no one can get it, and that’s exactly what you do. The
impact of leather against skin stings your hand, but in a good way,
sending tingles down your palm.
As you land, your feet slamming to the ground, you see the
ball land right where you wanted it. Fierce pleasure courses through
your body, and you feel pride bubbling in your chest. Your team-
mates swarm around you in a sea of black and red jerseys, and the
sound of the game comes roaring back to you. At that moment, you
forget all about that fear you once held, as you raise your stinging
hand in triumph.

213

Ela Weintraub *

Best Friends

You stand on the right side of the step in front of her door,
hoping the wall would give you a good hiding place to surprise her
that you arrived. But she knows it’s you, she knows you’re coming
over. Her head pops up in the window making a silly face to you,
and the door creaks open. You’re once again greeted by the faces of
her family members, and others coming to visit for the holidays. You
smile, unsure whether to stay longer and start a conversation. You
want to go see what she wanted to show you, but you don’t want to
be rude.
Luckily she grabs your arm and pulls you away. She doesn’t
want to waste time, she knows your brother is waiting for you, just
across the street at the park. She skips down the hall to her room,
making you laugh as she creates her own weird dance moves. Such a
familiar path, you could walk it with your eyes closed. You jump on
to her bed, and reach for her cat, just sitting at the other end. He is
sleeping, and you remember he isn’t well enough to play. You
have known him as long as her and he is just as much a friend of
yours, as she is to you. Always sitting nearby, allowing you to pet him
whenever, you have never met a cat as perfectly gentle as him. You
stroke his fur and his eyes slowly open. Your smile fades a little when
you see his one eye create a little hole inside you. You want to give
him a hug but you’re too afraid to hurt him. Turning back to her, she
shoves a present in your hand. It’s shaped like a book, and you don’t

* Ela is an 8 foot tall, purple giraffe. Just kidding! She goes to Central Middle
School, in San Carlos, California, and enjoys creating art, hiking, reading books,
and not having to wake up early.

214

doubt it is. As she apologizes that her wrapping skills aren’t as good
as they were a week ago, you rip off the wrapping paper. Then you
stop when you see what it is.
You almost want to jump up and down, or maybe even cry.
But you’re not that kind of person. You gently stroke the laminated
picture of your two faces smiling together on the front cover. Then
you move your hands down to the words printed on: Five years of
best friendship. You look back up to her and you can tell by her eager
expression that she wants to know what you think of her gift. You
smile, and give her a big hug. You look back down hoping to get a
quick look before you have to go.
She has managed to do something that you hoped you could
have done, she captured the best gift in a small package. The gift of
your best friendship. You give her another hug, taking six seconds to
realize how much she means to you.

215





Carter Norton *

Doggo
Doggo in the rain
A beautiful sight it is
Dark black silky fur

Carter is an 8th grader at Central Middle School. He enjoys playing saxophone,
listening to music, and hanging out with his friends.

* “Dancing Dolphins in Sunset,” Khushi Kolte (opposite page). Khushi loves
to write and make pieces of art. She specially likes painting, and gets painting

* ideas from what she sees outside. She uses her own inspiration throughout her
artwork.

218

Natalie De Marco *

A Rainbow in the Clouds

I have been here for several years and have seen many people
walk by. This shelter is my home and I have rented it longer than any
other. No one stops for more than a minute. The ones who do stop
and look at me, quickly say some variation of, “look, this dog Blake
is cute and fluffy. Aww, he’s so tired.” Tired, my least favorite word.
I have never heard anyone call a puppy tired with a face of pity. For
a long time, I didn’t understand why, but after many years of be-
ing here I finally figured it out. They look at me and see a dog, who
doesn’t even bother to acknowledge their presence, who just lays
there and waits for them to leave.
I just wait for the day that my owner comes in. I have never
seen or heard him but I can picture him, the wrinkles covering his
face, his eyes full of wisdom, ready to care for an elderly dog like me.
I know that not one kid will want me. Kids have youthful eyes. When
I look into their eyes, I see hope and energy, that energy needs a pup-
py. We get new puppies every day, they are rainbows in the shelter,
coming for just a split second.
Tucker is a puppy whose name I envy. I will never forget that
running machine who didn’t have a clue in the world. I would wake
up and just watch him. His tongue flopping out of his mouth while
his legs moved crisply across the grass. Workers brought toys and
threw them up as high as possible and waited until it dropped on his
face covering his nose. The workers would fall on the floor laughing.
I had never seen them laugh before. Of course, a couple days

* Natalie is an eighth grader at Central Middle School, who would stop for any 219
type of cookies. You can usually find her eating, sleeping, or dancing. Most of
her life is consumed by ballet and pointe dancing.

after he came, he left. I saw it happen, when the door opened, I
glanced over and saw a young girl say “Look at this one, Mommy!
He’s so cute, look at him play with the toy.” They locked eyes and it
was over, a kid wants a kid. I wanted to celebrate Tucker, but some-
thing inside wouldn’t let me. I wanted to be so happy for him but I
didn’t even know how because I don’t know what it’s like to leave. I
don’t get to feel that joy, am I the reason I don’t get adopted, or is it
just the people who come in?
I don’t remember many people who came in, my head
just stays low, my eyes closed. There is one person I do remember
though. A little boy with jeans three sizes too big and bright
blue sneakers. He walked past the puppies right over to me, a big
brown lump with his head on the floor. The squeak of his shoes
sounded near like maybe he was watching me, I looked up at him
not knowing what to expect. Our gazes met and the rest was like a
fairytale. I did not have to try, happiness just poured out of me. Our
interaction had no words or motion, just our eyes locked together,
no one else just me and a kid. The one person I thought I could never
connect with, but here I was having the most meaningful experience
in my life. “Come on Jack let’s go look at the cats,” a woman motions
to him, he seems to be her son. The story ends as all fairytales must,
but my memory does not disappear. That moment is a movie in my
head playing over and over again. Who would have thought a little
boy and I could share a moment together? Together, my new favorite
word, a small word with the strongest meaning. Reminding me I was
a part of a bond bigger than just myself. Jack, a rainbow in my sky.
220

* “Sad Puppy,” Sophie Rong. Sophie is an 8th grader at JLS Middle School. In her 221
free time, she enjoys drawing, playing piano, and reading.

Annabelle Lee *

Pitter-Pat

It was a cold and dark night. Rain splattered against my
cornflower blue poncho and slid down the sleeves, dripping off my
fingertips. I shivered, and the wind blew, momentarily sweeping
my hair across my eyes. I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets,
where I could feel the hot hand warmers my mom had bought for
me. It was a good thing I had remembered to take them out of my
suitcase since it was such a rainy night. I was glad that I wasn’t at the
back of the line like I had been earlier, and was instead at the front.
The trees stretched into the gloom, their branches reaching
into the fog. I could hear tree frogs croaking, and there were a couple
of bird calls. But the rain drowned out almost everything else.
Pitter-pat. Pitter-pat. Pitter-pat. More rain. It drummed
against the hood of my poncho, creating a beat. I squinted, trying
to see if there were any puddles ahead that I could avoid. I heard a
murmur of pleasure behind me as we passed a pretty grove of trees,
but all I could think about was how dark and cold it was. I hated it.
Pitter-pat. Pitter-pat. Pitter-pat.
We weren’t allowed to talk, but I wanted to beg my field
instructor, Crow, to let me go back to the warmth and safety of the
cabins. But I couldn’t. I could barely see anything anyway. What was
the point of this hike? The only thing I was doing was getting my
sneakers wet.
Light. Where was the light? I hadn’t realized that I had valued
light this much...until now.

* Annabelle is a 6th grader at Santa Rita Elementary School. Her hobbies are
reading and writing while listening to music, and playing the violin.

222

I stumbled in the dark, nearly tripping over a small rock.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. I hate this hike. Not only is it dark, but
I’m also wet and cold.
I could hear Crow’s voice, quiet and hushed. I could barely
see where he was and hissed in annoyance when rain splattered on
my glasses.
“Alright, we’re going to be walking on this trail,” Crow said,
waving his hand toward a muddy path. “Hold onto this rope attached
to the trees–” he gestured toward a long rope attached to tree trunks
that disappeared into the fog. “But there’s a catch. You’ll be walking
with your eyes closed with only the rope to guide you.”
There were a few unhappy murmurs, but Crow took no
notice and motioned for me to start. I stared into the dark, shocked.
I was not going to walk blindly in the dark, hanging only onto a thin
rope!
You’ll be able to go back to the cabins sooner if you hurry, a
small voice in my mind reasoned. I frowned, considering whether I
should just go or if I should run away.
Taking a deep breath, I grabbed onto the rope, closed my
eyes, and started forward. I had the rope to guide me in the dark, yet
all I could think about was how damp it was.
At least this was better than the solo hike earlier. That had
been horrible. I remembered that I had been so nervous. What if I
got lost?
As I had walked and walked and walked in the dark, with
only plastic candles to guide me–
“Oh!” I let out a startled squeak as my hand slammed into
something wet and cold. My eyes flew open as my train of thought
was abruptly stopped. I jumped back, almost falling over. Wiping
away raindrops on my glasses, I looked around and realized it was
only a tree. Feeling foolish, I continued. I wished that there was some
light like the solo hike. I had been so scared during the solo hike,
though. I had kept my eyes fixated on the candles, softly chanting
light, light, light, light as I went.
Am I lost?

223

Surely not.
I hope that I’m almost there…
I was too afraid to look up in case there was a terrible mon-
ster behind me. It sounds silly and babyish now. Maybe I was baby-
ish. Always complaining.
“ Rope, rope, rope, rope. Rope, rope, rope, rope.” I muttered.
Unable to use my vision, I gripped the rope so tightly my fingers
hurt. “Light, light, light, light,” I whispered, even though there wasn’t
any light. When would this end? The rain continued to drum.
Pitter-pat. Pitter-pat. Pitter-pat.
Suddenly, the rope disappeared from underneath my fingers,
and I nearly fell over.
“Don’t worry, you finished.” A familiar voice said, and I im-
mediately opened my eyes, glad that it was over. Crow stood in front
of me, scanning the gloom for the other campers.
As I stood there, I felt super relieved. I had done it! I had
gone on a solo hike by myself, without my sight, in the dark! It sort
of felt like I was the main character in a fantasy adventure series
when the main character conquers their fears and saves the world.
But when I reached into my pocket for my chapstick, my
mood dampened even quicker than the rain wetting my hand. I
remembered that I had dropped it when we had started the first solo
night hike, the one with the candles. I regretfully licked my dry lips,
trying to give them some moisture. The skin had split and stung like
crazy. Any happy thoughts I had been thinking vanished, and now
all I could think about was how much my lips hurt.
Pitter-pat. Pitter-pat. Pitter-pat.The rain pounded mer-
cilessly against my face and glasses as I looked up. The moon was
obscured by dark gray clouds. What was the point of a hike at night
if there was no moon or stars? As my thoughts got more negative, my
mood got worse.
Pitter-pat. Pitter-pat. Pitter-pat.
This rain is driving me crazy! I thought, frustrated and an-
noyed. I watched the other kids struggling along the rope hike, then
turned away to sulk over my lost chapstick.

224

A few moments later, Crow gathered us into an extremely
lumpy circle. I shifted from one foot to the other awkwardly.
“I’ve been on many different night hikes,” Crow began in a
low, hushed voice. “When the moon is full, it’s easier to see because
the moon provides light. It’s very pretty.”
I thought of the forest bathed in moonlight, and then I
thought of the rainy forest right now, with puddles everywhere. I
wiggled my wet socks in my soaked shoes ruefully. “Aw, man...” I
sighed, thinking of the lost opportunity.
“And I heard someone say ‘Aw, man’ just now!” Crow whis-
pered, and I flushed with embarrassment. For the first time that
night, I was glad that it was dark so no one could tell that I was the
one who had complained.
“But think about it! This night hike is also beautiful! The
chorus of the rain and the frogs... the fog and the trees!” Crow said
enthusiastically.
Really? He actually thinks so? I thought. I hadn’t thought of
the fog wrapped around the tree branches, or the singing of the frogs
and the beat of the rain.
Pitter-pat. Pitter-pat. Pitter-pat.
Now that Crow says it like that, I guess the rain is pretty, I
thought. Crow always seemed to have fun. Was it because he always
looked at things positively? I wanted to always have fun like he did.
I thought about how grumpy I had been earlier because of
my negative thinking and wondered if I could have had more fun if I
had been more positive. I regretted not being able to enjoy the night
hike.
As Crow started telling us a story about edible glow-worms, I
closed my eyes and listened to the sound of rain all around me.
Pitter-pat. Pitter-pat. Pitter-pat. Pitter-pat. Pitter-pat. Pit-
ter-pat.


225



Luca Barros *

Into the Deep

I hear creaking in the pipes and crackling in the windows as
the submarine sinks into the black abyss that is the Arctic Ocean. I
picture my fourth-grade class, the place where I first saw a picture
of the Antarctic. That same year, my teacher gave me the picture.
She said it would be put to better use with me than it would hanging
in the classroom, collecting dust. Little did she know, years later, I
would be hanging it in a submarine, studying the depths of the Arc-
tic.
“Depth 117 meters,” Jack, who’s in charge of diving and
surfacing, exclaims, pulling me from my thoughts. I turn to look at
him as he looks at Jesse, head of sonar and documents, who doesn’t
immediately reply.
“Roger that,” Jesse finally replies, sounding rather calm. Or
maybe he’s annoyed with him; it can be hard to tell. Jack’s always yell-
ing his report, and in close quarters like this, it can get on his nerves.
We could probably whisper, and it would be fine.
“Pressure is at 170.47psi,” Elizabeth, our pressure monitor,
reports. “Tristan? Temperature...”
“Oh...yeah, right, the temperature is 2.6 Celsius,”
“Stay on task, Tristan,” Stewie, our captain, commands.
“I was on task, just not involved in the conversation,” I

* Luca is an eighth-grader at Central Middle School. During his spare time you’ll
often catch him contemplating the meaning of life or maybe cooking a perfect
meal. He sometimes plays video games and watches YouTube although he
knows it’s bad for him.

* “Drowning,” Saanika A (opposite page). Saanika is an 8th grader from Blach
Intermediate School. She loves to read, draw, and paint. She also likes to create
digital art.

227

whisper to myself, hoping he couldn’t hear. After routine reports are
finished, I look at the picture, studying it, my eyes almost glued to
the glass surface. I’ve studied this picture thousands of times. The
ice caps perfectly floating upon the water’s surface, so peaceful, so
delicate. I often wonder about the possibilities that lie ahead on this
mission. If nature will act so friendly and sensitive, or if it won’t.
“An unidentified object has recently formed upon the sur-
face,” Jesse proclaims, “And it’s increasing in size.”
“Sounds like a snowstorm,” Stewie says, seeming calm. “Tris-
tian, temperature?” Just great, I already hate compressed spaces, but
being trapped? That’s even worse. “Temperature has decreased 0.4
degrees and is now 2.2 Celsius,”
“If the condition worsens, then our main ship will have to
retreat until it’s out of the storm,” Jack, yet again, yells. Since we’re
in such a small space, even normal talking can sometimes seem like
yelling.
“Elizabeth, pressure?” Stewie asks.
“The pressure is still around 170 psi,” Elizabeth responds.
“I’m gonna take us around,” Stewie says.
I see everyone nod in agreement except for me; I’m too ner-
vous about what is to come even to speak. Submarines are never fast.
We’ve been in the ocean for about an hour now, I don’t think we’ll be
able to make it back in time. With the new objects appearing upon
the surface (likely ice), we won’t be able to surface and replenish air.
“The object is still increasing in size, and in some areas, den-
sity.” Jesse alerts us, “By now, it’s stretched almost a mile.”
“How much battery do we have?” Stewie asks
“Uh, around twenty-one percent,” I reply.
“Twenty-one percent...Jack, how long will that last?”
“Around 35 minutes.”
Don’t you think we should have enough battery life to make
it to the perimeter and make it back,” Stewie yells, his face suffused
with rage and anger.
The ship goes silent; we all look at each other, knowing one of
us will have to respond.
228

“Ummm, yes sir, this submarine was designed with observa-
tion in mind, but the access tools we use, such as the thermometer,
take up extra battery life,” Jack whispers. Nobody speaks. We all
know that we have to surface, but can’t. My panic sinks in. I lose all
control of my mind; I even begin to think I’m going to die. I feel my
face become red as the panic gets worse. I panic once in a while–it’s
hard not to when working in a submarine–but I’ve never panicked
this bad. In my peripheral vision, I see Stewie. I’m sure he can see
that I’m panicking, which just makes it worse.
“Tristian, you ok?” Stewie asks, raising one of his eyebrows,
seeming concerned.
“Yeah, I guess,” I respond, keeping my eyes on the screen.
“You worried?” He asks.
“Yeah,” I say, still avoiding all eye content.
“About us making out of this place?” he asks, leaning in
closer.
“Yeah.” I respond, still looking at the screen
“Here’s a piece of advice that’s helped me a lot ever since my
first days of being a captain,” he says.
“Okay.”
“If you let go of your worries and fears, that will help you
solve what is causing your worries in the first place,” he says, his eyes
filled with empathy and sorrow. I think about what he has said; I’ve
never viewed my problems in that way before.
“Okay,” I respond
Putting it into simpler terms, the only thing that’s keeping
you from solving your problems is the fear of those problems in the
first place,” he says with a grin.
“Okay, thanks, Stewie. I’ll try it.” I look away from the screen
and grin back. Stewie nods, then returns to his station. I begin to
monitor the temperature. If I am concentrating on something, then
I can’t have many thoughts about other things, right? I look further
up the screen where the battery percentage is, and there it is, a giant
warning sign saying ten percent. All these worries rush into my
head, so many that I just stall. I sit there, staring at the warning sign

229

feeling my neck begin to heat around my collar and my heart start to
pound faster in my chest. But I remember what Stewie said and clear
my thoughts. I attach no feeling to the ideas, and with nothing to
hold onto, they begin to disappear.
“Battery at ten percent,” I call to the crew.
“Great, just great,” Stewie says, defeated. “How far are we
from the ship?”
“A little over a mile,” Jack says. This time his voice is steady.
The awful images keep disappearing, allowing me to remem-
ber. There was a book I read when I was informed that I am going
on this mission about how military submarines emergency surface
through ice. One of the steps was finding a crack.
“Jesse, are there any weak points in the ice?” I ask. Everybody
stops what they’re doing for a brief moment, seeming surprised that
I asked a question.
“There’s a crack. But the structural integrity of the submarine
isn’t high enough to puncture it to surface.”
“That’s ok,” I assure the crew. I mentally flip through the
book.
“Go towards the crack,” I say. Stewie seems confused at first
but confirms the order.
As we head towards the crack, the battery power reduces to seven
percent. Once we reach the break, I decided to widen it by slowly
rising and pushing the ice apart. Once the ice is weakened, I order,
“Dive! Dive! Dive!” The crew looks at Stewie for assurance, Stewie
nods, and Jack immediately opens the valve to fill the ballast tanks.
We plunge 70 feet, with only 3 percent of battery left.
“Emergency surface,” I say. The crew don’t look at Stewie this
time, and Jack empties the ballast tanks. The submarine groans as we
rise 70 feet, perfectly aimed at the crack. Smash! The whole subma-
rine jerks as it breaks through the ice and settles on the surface. We
did it.
After we surface, we run the diesel motor to charge the bat-
teries, open the air vents, refill the air, and begin our journey to our
ship. As I return to my station, I see the Arctic picture. It’s calm and
230

peaceful; I will never view it the same way.
231

Jay Iyer *

Contemplation
I’m confused.
Where should I start
I feel incompetent
Is it just me?

I look around.
Why can I not think,
My mind is blank
I can’t do anything but sit here and blink
If my brain was a
vast sea of
Murky
Water
I would be the hopeless man,
Caught in the waves, knowing there is no
escape or chance at life left.
I feel trapped,
I wish to escape.
If only some superhero
Donning a cape
Could fly in and help me
Could save me from my plight
For I cannot think.

* Jay is an eighth grader at Jane Lathrop Stanford Middle School in Palo Alto. In
his free time, he likes to read, play and create video games, and play badminton.
He enjoys writing fiction and poems.

232

I sit in this classroom, my
Mind
Is
so
EMPTY
So hopefully the bell,
Which rings every hour
Will help save me,
From this eternal torture

But here I am.

233





David Henri *

The Rebel

Rock music posters were plastered against the walls of his
room. It was like navigating through a jungle, with wrappers strewn
across the floor, empty energy drink cans tossed randomly across
the room. Stains covered his carpet, hair gel covered his dresser. His
phone’s screen was cracked, and it was out of battery, no longer sal-
vageable. Uncapped cans of spray paint leaned against the wall, torn
jeans were thrown on his dresser. Shattered glass covered the corner
of his bed, his room unseen by his parents. There was a long forgot-
ten torn book next to that. The book was a textbook, and he hadn’t
opened it since he got it. Ripped overdue assignments lay on his desk
like a layer of leaves on the ground in Fall. Accompanying the ripped
papers, snapped pencils lay on the desk.
The walls had numerous dents and scratches covering them,
with a half completed paint job attempting to cover them. With its
water splotches, the roof was barely able to keep the harsh cold of
winter out, or the sweltering heat of summer. On his dresser was a
smashed piggy bank, it’s ceramic shards decorating the plain wood.
There were three quarters at the bottom of the pile. On top of the
pile, there were a couple of dollar bills, all the money that he had. His
backpack leaned against his bed, empty. With its missing zippers, it
was no longer usable. His bed was unmade, its sheets draping on the

236 David enjoys soccer, tennis, many other sports, and reading in his free time. He
enjoy writing fantasy pieces, as well as other fiction genres.

* “the end,” Aijia Zhang (previous page). Aijia is a thirteen-year-old girl. If you
ever see a girl carrying a violin and a huge unzipped bag containing a sketch-

* book running down the sidewalk, it might be her.

floor. Underneath his bed was a collection of tests, with the grades
scribbled over by dark pencil marks. The bed’s corner tapped the
floor, the base of the bed smashed. Laying on the floor was a school
yearbook, hid away in the shadows. The faces had been drawn upon,
and it was ruined. A tiny radio lay propped up against the wall,
music sputtering out of its broken speakers. It was the boy’s favorite
band, their music warbled and unrecognizable. With its almost dead
batteries, the radio was about to fizzle out. Earbuds were draped over
his broken lamp, their cords snapped.

237

Lindsey Bastis *

Hours in the Morning

I sat stiffly in the dark that filled my room. Shaky, rever-
bed-out guitar seemed to surround the left side of my brain, prevent-
ing me from thinking of anything. All that mattered at the moment
was how I played the music. The pitch changing between thin nylon
strings. How every note blended together, creating a smooth sound,
the harmonies of the instrument bouncing off of each other as the
note fades out into the still of the room–the darkness, the parts of
the room that were too dark for what my eye could comprehend. My
paper-thin blinds let in the gentle light customary to the first hours
of daylight in the morning. The start of everything, the clock that
resets day after day. The same light I knew so well that lit up less than
half of me, making the strings barely visible enough to see.
My fingertips creased into the strings and my other hand
plucked the same ones on the lower end, while my eyes were locked
onto the faded piece of paper in front of me. It was a methodical pro-
cess that just fit. The gears turned in your head and the two parts just
clicked in perfect sync. If you tried to split the parts up, you would
lose track of what you were doing. Together, they just made sense.
That’s what the darkness provided, ambience that let everything ring
without being interrupted by the sound of a bird sweetly singing, or
a dog barking. The darkness went hand in hand with the plucking
and the certain fingerings to create a chord or a note. Those were the

* Lindsey is an eighth grader, and an aspiring artist. In her free time, she likes to
play guitar and paint landscapes.

* “Valiant Apollo,” Sophia Lee (opposite page). Sophia is an eighth grader at JLS
Middle School, who yearns to discover what is yet unknown to our world. She is
passionate about drawing and writing, but most of all, enjoys doing things that
fuels her curiosity to explore.

238



parts of everything, the only thing I needed in the early hours of the
morning. The hours of the morning that sent electric shocks to your
eyelids, causing them to close, the hours of the morning that cradle
you to sleep.
The steady rhythm was interrupted by a shrill sound, and a
jolt in my middle finger. Thin nylon sprinted against my skin, un-
winding from the bridge pins, then traveled up to the varnished
headstock. Where my finger once plucked and rested, there was
nothing. Only the string that flung off from the result of tension and
wear. My hand jolted back in shock. I tried to do my best to exam-
ine what happened to it, only seeing the crease of where I had been
playing and only feeling the rough texture of my worn out fingertips.
240

Blanche Li *

An Effortless Instrument

You call me when I’m downstairs eating a turkey on white,
saying things like, “Practice with me,”
or “Finish your lunch quickly and come to play.”
You’re the shape of a pear, but much prettier.
You are glossy brown with horizontal stripes,
and you sound like a breezy wind and church bells ringing.
You feel like cool maple,
and the sun’s rays shining on a warm day.
Your smell is like a peppermint candy cane,
on a frosty, winter evening.
While I hold you, you rock back and forth like a lullaby.
On good days, you will cooperate with me,
and on bad days, you will produce a flat tone.
Playing you will let all my rotten thoughts come out,
like cavities and trouble I can make in school.
Your rosin makes streaks as I drag my bow across the strings.
You have tenor and bass,
You’re a Painite wrapped in gold.
In an orchestra, you’re an everlasting flapping wing
that makes an immense echo.
You never stop,
and you never give up.
“Boom!” you make the crashing sounds
of the wind in the song “Into the Storm.”

* Blanche is a 6th grader who enjoys writing and playing cello. She hopes to 241
someday share her passion for music with the world.

Together, the cello and I are an oak, with winding but strong branches.
Branch by branch, we build up to a beautiful melody,
and we drift off into a symphony of notes.
242

Olivia Moon *

The Blue Danube

One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.

The soft head of your brush swirls around, gliding along the
surface of the hardened pot of marigold paint, coating the smooth
tip in a bright yellow hue.

One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.

Drops of water spill into the little pot in the palate, and after
it’s full, the tip of your brush touches the water. A bloom of yellow
pigment erupts from your brush under the water, and you add some
red as well. A touch of brown, and it should be set.

One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.

The three colors collide in the water, pushing and swirling
against each other like pillows. You slowly dip your brush in the
water, stirring it slowly, and you watch as the three tones whirl into
wisps of pigment, and then mix together into a bright, fiery orange.

One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.

* 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 acryl-
ics, 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.

243

You inhale the musty, woodsy scent of the fresh sheet of water-
color paper, and you set it on the board, being careful not to smudge
the thin graphite lines that form the skeleton of the painting. Picking
up your brush, you survey the array of colors that you’ve created.

One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.
Blossoms of murky, swampy green and brighter olive shades
unfurl on the paper, blending together until you can’t tell where one
value starts and the other one finishes.
One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.
Leaning back, you study your work so far. The background is
finished, a beautiful blur of all different shades of green. It captures the
aspect of an unfocused camera, and you sigh in relief. That’s exactly
what you were going for.
One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.
You take a deep breath in and start on the main subject. Petal
after petal, your brush works magic, adding layer upon layer of peach,
gold, tangerine, orange, scarlet. Using some paint from the back-
ground, a thin, proud stem is created.
One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.
Layer after layer, hour after hour, color after color, your paint-
ing starts to build up. Dimension is slowly forming, then contrast
is developing. After that, the tiny details that are only visible to the
trained eye. People say that art is time-consuming, and now you’re
starting to believe them.
One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.

244

The painstaking process of layering and detailing is finally over,
and now you take colored pencils. Sharpened to the thinnest of tips,
they glide across the shadows of your now-dry painting, emboldening
the sharp shadows and defining the soft shapes.

One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.
At last. You take a dark brown colored pencil, it’s smooth
weight in your fingers reminding you that finally, finally, you are fin-
ished. Signing your name in the bottom right corner is easy, and you
finish it with a small flourish.
One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.
You stand up, taking a step back from the easel. Your eyes slide
in and out of focus from the hours of strain, and your neck aches from
bending over, but at last, you see all of the work, the time, and the
commitment that you’ve put into this one painting.
One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.
And as the final note rings in your mind, a crash of trumpets
and violins and so many other instruments, you realize that this whole
time you’ve been singing the classical waltz song, The Blue Danube, in
your head. You straighten your back and smile at the beautiful flower
that you’ve created, a delicate yellow rose, and you know that it was all
worth it.

* “Blooming,” Olivia Moon (next page). 245





Aden Richman *

Down Under

I stand a few feet before the edge. A swirl of loud music and
chatting voices dances around me filling the air, environment, and
my head. The warm, humid air spreads over my skin like a blanket
right from the dryer. I feel a strong desire to leave this place. My eyes
search for a patch of open blue, along the surface of the bright blue
water. The sunlight shines bright, reflecting and refracting around
the surface of the water. I find an area and turn towards my landing
zone. One unknown face is swimming in the direction of my splash
spot. I need to move fast. I spread my feet apart and hunch my
back slightly, preparing for a run and jump. They are getting closer
now. Go now! My legs seem to move on their own. Thump, thump,
thump. I feel moist brick underneath my feet. Careful! Don’t slip.
Only a few more running steps and I’ll be free to jump. I feel my dry
hair on top of my smooth, square-shaped forehead. I know I have
to take in these moments while I’m still dry. As I near the edge, it
feels as though it is the time to jump. I kick both my feet off the solid
ground. I pull my flailing legs to my chest and wrap my
arms around to secure them. Adrenaline rushes to every inch of my
body as I realize, there is no going back. I take one last look at the
bright, colorful surface before I close my eyes, hold my breath, and
wait for water.


* Aden is an 8th grader at Central Middle School who enjoys acting, eating, sleep-
ing, and listening to music. He has always been a large fan of thriller, mystery,
and comedic movies, one of his favorites being the movie “Clue.” He was born
in Connecticut but later moved to California. His writings are mostly influenced
by his day to day life, friends, and family.

248

It seems to come immediately. I first feel it at my feet. Then
my hips. Then the wet, blue blanket swallows me whole. Instantly the
sound leaves my ears and I’m left with complete silence.
This is the best part.
The peacefulness of the underwater is why I enter every time.
I open my eyes to a bright blue surrounding. I look around and every-
thing is falling upwards. I don’t mind. No one is as low to the water’s
ground as I am. I feel as though I am the most peaceful person in the
world. My need for air intensifies and I know that I must go back up to
the loud surface. I look around one more time taking in the beauty of
this underwater world and shoot up for air.

249