Stanford Anthology for Youth: Volume 21

Stanford
Anthology

for Youth

restless voices

1

A collection of writing and art by San Francisco Bay Area middle-school
students.

Copyright ©2018 Stanford Anthology for Youth
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or

reproduced without prior permission from
Stanford Anthology for Youth.

Published by Giant Horse Printing, South San Francisco, Calif.
Layout and Design by Josh Wagner.

Stanford Anthology for Youth
[email protected]
Stanford, Calif.

On the Cover:
“Runaway Dreamer”... Mihika Sane has been exploring a wide
variety of art forms over the past eight years. She is especial-
ly interested in exploring impressionism and contemporary

art. Aside from art her other interests include playing club
soccer, baking, and going camping with her family.

Stanford Anthology for Youth strives to ensure the originality
of the submissions contained within this publication. Stanford
Anthology for Youth assumes no responsibility for any works
that may not be the original creation of the contributor to
2 whom the piece is credited.

editorial board

Ali Jet Vaughan
Alyzah Sky Fregoso
Brigitte Natalka Ahimsa Pawliw-Fry
Gordon Leo Blake
Julia Elizabeth Freels
Peter Emmanuel Caroline

Seth Chambers
Taylor Hendrickson

dear writers 3

Restless Voices
Perhaps the most common internal voice to pester any
young writer or artist is the familiar nagging one that ques-
tions “but what do I have to say?”
Among possible responses to this challenge are the options
to stare infinitely at the blinking cursor of a blank page, to
tear one’s hair out in agonizing self-doubt, or to allow one’s
creeping worries to balloon into catatonic inaction. To do
these things would be to give in the fearful uncertainty any
writer is tasked with in the process of finding his or her own
voice.
None of the writers or artists included in this year’s copy of
the Stanford Anthology for Youth gave in to the fear of say-
ing; with bravery, eloquence, and plenty of wit, they carried
their worlds through their words and said quite a lot in the
process. It takes guts and tenaciousness to communicate
one’s self in this way, and this year’s outstanding crop of sub-
missions demonstrates these qualities in abundance.
Restless Voices, the title of this year’s anthology, is a nod to
that ever-effusive energy which will always push back against
the hesitation inherent in undertaking a creative pursuit. It is
the confidence and conviction held by each one of these art-
ists and writers that reminds them of the importance of their
voices and the urgency of their stories.
SAY simply exists as a place for these voices to find an audi-
ence, as a way for the things that need to be said and made
to find their rightful place in the world. And while the voices
in this year’s anthology communicate in a variety of tenors
and volumes, each speaks with resounding importance.
The Editors, Stanford Anthology for Youth
June 2018

find the artists

akshaan ahuja page 144
nathalie auslander pages 18 and 101
suhrith bellamkoda pages 99 and 111
phoebe berghout page 106
sumon bomya page 163
samantha chuang page 137
sarah chun page 131
emily cooney page 105
kylie de la cruz page 79
sophia doyle page 35
emma grant-bier page 202
mary jane hartman page 63
cassidy hatch page 154
4 stephanie hsu page 44

dylan iki page 140
Anna iliaieva pages 147 and 181
Megan kelly page 108
jules kuramoto page 87
catherine liang page 161
natalie lo page 122
nicole maneatis pages 58 and 163
tessa metzger page 31
marta olson page 118
mihika sane the cover and page 170
alyssa sawyer page 63
isabella simon page 94
erin smith page 23
sophia smith page 67
keira swei pages 9 and 89
savannah voth pages 38 and 242
linna xia pages 56 and 170
brian ye pages 20 and 41

table of contents 5

10 sofia antebi

11:30 PM

11 bryn kelly

A Brighter Place

15 Samara smith

A Familiar Touch

19 savannah voth

A Word

21 dilara sumbul

Adra’s Dance

24 maia politzer

Alone On A Path To Nowhere

25 clio halpern

Anywhere

26 amelia wiggin

Archaeopteryx

30 mira morales

Awakening

32 Mia Webb

Be The One

33 Marta olson

Bruise

36 Jerry xia

Bubble Man

39 parker gates

Coffee Mugs

42 Ben hughes

Coincidence

45 Alannah blumstein

Daughter of Magic

57 oren schube

David has Brown Hair

60 gabriel madan

Dehli: A Sensory Experience

62 sofia antebi

Fallen Petals

64 gael fonseca

Fat Nugget

68 Madeleine chen

Fight

84 Isabelle Simon

Finding Home

88 Anna Iliaieva

Fool’s Gold

90 stella lin

Furball

95 katie tsang

Gone

6 97 sophia doyle

Grandma’s Quilt

100 amelia wiggin

I Hear You Singing in the Shower

102 ellie power

I Survived, I Don’t Care

110 charlotte berry

Identical

112 sumon bomya

It Smells Like Pollen

116 alannah blumstein

Lady Knight

132 julia jeffries

Layers

134 audrey shen

Lessons Learned

138 lauren wu

Little Miss Geologist

97 sepiuta tuionetoa 7

Meeting Sasha Velour

145 Emma Grant-Bier

Memories of Tradition

148 sophia smith

Mist of the Torrents

150 larry shi

My Piano Teacher’s House

152 Grace Raymond

Name Calling

155 wilson crum

Not the Only One

160 Mia padilla

Papers

162 Abigail milne

Performance Tonight on Fermata Street

164 stella lin

Rearview Mirror

169 isabella walker

She Was Everything

172 mary jane hartman

Some Days

174 Anika Seshadri

Song of the Isthmus

176 wilson crum

Standing Up

184 Abigail milne

Starting from Sketch

197 kailee kee

Stronger

198 Ananya narasimhan

Superhero: A Short Story

206 catrina yang

The Ascent

208 Laura ma

The Fallen Angel

210 roxane dobrer

The First Drop

213 abbie williamson

The Harp

215 Evelyn hsu

The Malingerer

220 alex loveland

The Old Apple Tree

223 Allison teo

The Return

224 parker allen

The Shot

227 ruthie lax

The Unexpected Blaze

231 Taryn Lawas Morales

The Watermelon Dream Slush With Extra Nerds

235 nikita jayaprakash

Truth

8 238 veena sumedh

Turn on the Light

240 ella blaney

Varsity

243 charlottle apfel

Water Dripping Down My Face

245 joanne park

What It Takes

250 Chloe johnson

Wooden Splinters

252 mary voorhees

Your Hero

9

Sofia Antebi

11:30 PM

Smeared pencil all over the tip of her thumb,
A healing paper-cut on the other side
And doodles spreading past her wrist from her fingers.
Holding a large pen, or was it a marker?

Gloriously drawing butts on her sister’s back
While she was trying to do her homework on the cluttered
floor of her room
Because she had nothing better to do, aside from going to
bed,
Which she clearly wasn’t ready for

10 COULD YOU NOT?!?!?!?!?!?! her sister began to yell,
but pulled back to reality, realizing mom already irritated
enough, she lowered her voice
She laughed, reaching for the pen.

Keira Swei (previous page, “Reaching Roward the Flames”) is an 8th
grader at Central Middle School. She enjoys art, math, coding, baking
and soccer. In her spare time, Keira hangs out with her friends and
younger sister.
Sofia is a 16 foot tall purple, polka dotted platypus... Just kidding, she just
doesn’t really know what to add to her bio.

byrn kelly

A Brighter Place 11

White. White snow covers everything. I watch the snowy
white world flit past my window as the bus moves forward.
I know this road like the back of my hand. I know this small
country road, and the wide open space surrounding it. I know
these barren trees in a field that white instead of green. I
know that creamy white house with the lovely garden and red
roof. I know this road. I walk to the front of the empty bus
with my big brother, Teddy, as it comes to a halt.

Whoosh!​The bus doors fly open, allowing the frigid air to
find us. A single snowflake drifts through the open door and
onto the bus. It struggles to stay above the ground, finally giv-
ing up and collapsing down onto the ground. In a second it is
gone; it has melted into nothingness.

Bracing ourselves for the cold, Teddy and I carefully step
off the bus and onto the ground, slick with melted snow.

“Thank you!” we shout to the bus driver. He replies with a
smile. With a screech, the bright yellow bus speeds off into
the distance, and it is just Teddy and I at the end of our long
shared driveway, waiting for our mom or dad to drive down
and pick us up.

Snowflakes start to trickle down from the sky, wandering
through the wind. They are calmer than raindrops; instead of
propelling themselves downward, they dart through the sky,
almost flying. They are calm, leisurely but falling all the same.
I imagine myself a snowflake, letting the wind gently pick
me up with its cold, swirling arms and carry me around. The

Bryn Kelly is a student at Georgina P. Blach Intermediate School who
enjoys writing, art, and dance. She pursues these hobbies in her free time
and draws inspiration for her work from personal experience and books
that she’s read.

snowflakes are friendly. They are fairies, dancing around me,
flitting and flying. I wish I could dance with them.
Carefully, I step up onto the old stone wall by the road,
pulling my foot out of the deep snow and instead placing it
on a dusting of fresh powder. I teeter on the loose stones,
getting higher up as I go. I stumble around Teddy, nearly trip-
ping and falling down off the wall into the layer of white that
sits upon the dry, crunchy grass. Instead, I steady myself and
keep pacing up and down the old stone wall. Little puffs of
fog waft into the air every time I breathe, and I follow them
with my eyes as they float upward, disappearing as quickly as
they came. I shiver and pull my hood over my head, snuggling
into its warmth.
I watch Teddy balance expertly as he wobbles to the high-
est part of the wall. In one continuous motion, he turns, looks
at me, grins a mischievous grin, and promptly jumps off the
wall, his feet sinking down so deep that I can no longer see
his grey sneakers.
I look down. Suddenly, it seems like a long way to the
ground. Cautiously, I brush some of the snow off the wall
with my gloved hand and sit down, slipping down that way
instead.
A bitter chill stains the fresh air, and the wind begins to pick
12 up, hissing through the leafless trees. I peek hopefully around

the corner of the road, searching for my dad in the old red
truck or my mom in our silver MDX. I am secretly hoping my
dad will pick us up so that I can sit on his lap and steer on the
short way up to our house. But the air stands still. Silent. There
are no cars driving down now.
I just want to go home.
“Let’s start walking up,” I sigh to Teddy, already beginning
to plod up the endless, frosty hill. Teddy follows, still cheer-
ful and content, kicking the snow up at me and laughing
when I run away. I am cold. I am cold and tired and have had
enough of this day. White blurs my vision as the snow starts
falling down harder. The snowflakes are icier than they were
before. They are no longer dancing. Instead they fling them-
selves onto me, not friends but enemies. I look at our house.
It seems to be a million miles away. Frustrated at my parents
for not picking us up on time, frustrated at Teddy for being
cheery, frustrated at the snowflakes for being icy, I stomp up
the hill.
Clomp, clomp. Uphill. Clomp, clomp, downhill. Into the
Curr’s snowy grass and around their evergreen tree. My
stomping feet dig deep into the plush snow. Clomp, clomp.

Wandering across the road to the dropoff down to the 13
creek. As I stomp, I look down through the dry, barren trees.
I freeze. There are three deer in the ravine. A baby with white
spots scattered across its back frolicks through the snow,
agile and joyful amidst the dancing snowflakes. It does not
mind the icy edge the snowflake have. It welcomes them all
the same. Balancing on the deep, fluffy snow, its sibling is
more cautious, flinching at the snowflakes touch. The mother
watches her babies, protective, loving, regal, proud.

I step closer, consumed by the whimsical, wintery scene.
In unison their heads swivel around to face me. With identical
wide eyes, the siblings follow their mother, scampering away
into the ravine. I remember that I am angry.

Clomp, clomp. We are getting closer to our house. I can
see the baby pine trees, cozily wrapped up in the warm
Christmas lights. Pine hangs on the wraparound porch of our
white farmhouse with bright scarlet berries dripping down
from the green needles. A light dusting of snow covers ev-
erything, in the way powdered sugar descends down onto a
freshly baked cake.

I feel something hit my back.
“HEY!” I shout at Teddy angrily as the snowball falls to the
ground. He is laughing and laughing and laughing. I am not. I
am angry. CLOMP, CLOMP. I am a hurricane whirling up the
tall hill, lost in my own spinning, murderous winds.
I am so absorbed in my hurricane that I do not notice the
car until it comes to a halt right next to me. My winds be-
come stagnant, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” my mom says, looking at us, con-
cerned. “I lost track of the time, but I came as soon as I
remembered. It’s been a busy day.”
I just look at her. Teddy is already in the car.
I want to yell at her. How could she forget us?
How could she?
Right before I shout, right before I spin back into an all
consuming hurricane of fury, I pause to think. I try to remem-
ber that I am angry; I ​have​to be angry, but all my vengeful
thoughts have disappeared with that snowball, collapsed back
into the snow.
I don’t want to yell at my mom. Not really.
It could have been a merry trek up the hill. I could have
enjoyed the snow, enjoyed winter, enjoyed the company of
Teddy, enjoyed the adventure. I could have been like that joy-
ous deer, I could have been like my older brother, but I chose
to be grumpy and to see the world in a negative light. I look

around now in a new light, with a new lense. I shift my view,
and the world turns from black and white to a rainbow of
colors.
I have a choice. I g​ et​a choice. I can choose to be angry.
I can choose to be ungrateful. I can choose to make every-
body around me angry too. Or I can choose to be happy. I
can b​ e​happy and make the world a brighter place.
I step into the deliciously warm car, kick the snow off my
tall, buckled Ugg boots, and smile at Teddy. The fairies return,
and I see them dance in the wind outside my car window. The
sun is peeking through the grey clouds, the snow is glistening
with a faint sheen of moisture, and the bare trees wave at me
in greeting, their branches swaying in the breeze. We pull into
our driveway, and I can see our Christmas tree through the
window, covered in mismatched ornaments and glinting col-
ored lights. I see Tessa and Nate inside pulling brownies out
of the oven, and I feel a warm glow of anticipation for the
afternoon to come. I hop out of the car, facing the cold again,
but this time I can barely feel it. I spin around once, pretend-
ing to be a snowflake and beam at the world. The snowflakes
may be icy, but I decide to accept them. I decide to welcome
them as friends in hopes that they will treat me the same.
Radiant, I stride swiftly up the icy steps and walk inside the
14 mudroom, slipping off my wet boots, shrugging my winter

coat off my shoulders, and placing my backpack in my locker.
It smells wonderful inside: like Christmas trees, like melt-
ing snow, like fluffy blankets, like the freshly baked brownies I
know are cooling on the countertop.
Overwhelmingly, it smells like home.

samara smith

A Familiar Touch 15

“Make sure to grab your coat,” Mom says standing out-
side the car door. “The frozen aisle is always​so​cold!” She
clenches her teeth and makes a shivering noise. I put my coat
on one sleeve at a time and zip up the zipper.

Zzzzziiiippp. That sound stands out to me. An everyday
sound to most people; but an annoyance to me.

I step out of the car to find mom talking to a strange lady.
She looks about mom’s age, and is wearing a jean jacket
embroidered with tiny pink and yellow flowers. I am tempted
to ask where she got it, but I am too shy to even say hi. I walk
over to the tree they are standing under and over hear mom
and the woman talking about how they should get together
to have tea and chat. I stand next to mom trying to hide be-
hind her. Their conversation soon ends with a hug and a wave
goodbye.

I grab mom’s hand. “Who was that?”
She laughs at my question. “That was Helen, from down
the street.” My cheeks turn pink with embarrassment from
the fact that I don’t even know my own neighbor.
Walking through the automatic doors, I am welcomed by a
gust of air conditioning, filled with the smells of fresh pro-
duce.
The shopping cart mom picks has a loose wheel that is
making a screeching noise. Before we begin shopping, I steal
the cart away from mom, and exchange it for a new one. This
time I make sure to grab a cart with all four wheels in perfect
condition. The cart glides through the aisles on the checker
patterned tile.
Mom grabs a bag full of apples, carrots, and tomatoes.
Walking through the frozen aisle, there is a woman pushing
a stroller. A man who looks to be the father follows closely
behind, and reaches into the stroller to hold the infant. Peace-

Samara is a student at Central Middle School who enjoys to write, almost
as much as she likes to play soccer, and draw!

ful. The baby rests its plump cheeks against his father’s broad
shoulder.
I turn away for just a second to help mom pick out what
kind of ice cream I want, then out of the blue the security
alarm by the door goes off. This is simply because an older
woman forgot to pay for a bag of plums. I am startled by the
sound and drop a tub of chocolate ice cream. I am not the
only one who is startled by the noise. The baby starts to cry.
It starts out slow and faint, but gets louder. And louder. And
louder. I can feel my hands begin to sweat. My throat begins
to close.
I look to mom for help, she holds my shaking hands and
tells me to breath. But I can’t! The crying becomes a scream,
and now I feel like screaming!
Falling to my knees I try to block the rest of the world out
by putting my hands over my ears. But it doesn’t help. I am
crying now, and I feel the familiar touch from mom on my
shoulder. Her long fingernails scratch my back. I try and focus
on her nails moving up and down. Up and down.
She speaks calmly, and patiently. “Let’s go, Anne, let’s go.”
Still crying, I try my best to collect myself, and stand up.
I feel a million eyes staring at my shaking body. Leaving our
groceries behind, we walk out and head to the car.
16 Finally we get home, and I am greeted by my dog Mia. Her

welcoming is sweet but instead of greeting her back I head
straight for my room. I put on an oversized t-shirt; that once
belonged to dad, and old christmas pajamas I have had since
I was seven.
I hurry to the bathroom before my brother can see my
puffy face stained with tears, for I know he will make fun of
me for crying. I splash the ice cold water on my face and
look up to find my eyes filled with tears. The idea of not ever
leaving my house, the comforting pajamas, and the familiar
scent of home crosses my mind. But as if my thoughts were
advertisements, another ad plays in my head.
Don’t give up. Move past this hurdle in your life. Keep fo-
cusing on things that calm you, and keep putting yourself out
there.
I go on with my day by painting. I paint an arrangement of
flowers dad has set on the table for mom. I notice pink and
yellow flowers, and I am reminded of the lady with the em-
broidered jean jacket. I try to recreate some of those flowers
into my piece. I paint some flowers a bright red and yellow,
others pink and purple.
I move my brush in large strokes to fill in the blue back-

ground, and small dabs to paint the delicate pollen that rests 17
among the petals.

Big strokes. Small dabs.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see dad still in his uni-
form from work, shuffling through the mail. I can tell that he
is talking to me, but I am so caught up in the moment I don’t
reply. This time he talks louder to catch my attention, “So you
were invited to Addison’s birthday party this weekend, I’m
guessing it’s a no, but just thought I’d ask.”
“No! I want to go,” I said, surprising dad.
“Oh, ok,” Dad replies. This is a perfect way to try and put
myself out there. And who knows, maybe this time I won’t
break down into tears.
The week ends, and it’s now Saturday. It is time for Addi-
son’s birthday party, and I am having a hard time picking out
what I am going to wear. I haven’t been to a birthday party
since 4th grade, so I am not sure what to wear. I am flipping
through my clothes like there is no tomorrow. Shirts, pants,
socks, shoes, are flying through the air!
Panicking I yell to my mom in the other room. “Mom! I
don’t know what to wear!” “Whatever you pick out I’m sure
will be fine! You look cute in everything.” I roll my eyes
at mom’s comment.
It is 2:55pm and the party starts at 3:00pm, so I hop in the
car, wearing something mom
picked out. 2:57 rolls around, then 2:58, and then before I
knew it, it was 3:00, and we were definitely not at Addison’s
house.
“Mom! Where are we?!” I say in a panic.
“Don’t worry, we will be a little late, but it is okay,” she says
calmly. But it’s too late, I am already worried. What if Addison
is mad at me for being late!? What if some of her friends
don’t like me!? Are my clothes okay!? With all these thoughts
spiraling in my head I don’t realize that we have pulled into
Addison’s driveway, at precisely 3:02.
I snap out of it when my mom once again places her hand
on my back. She has been doing this ever since my therapist
told her that a comforting touch can allow me to calm down.
I take a deep breath in. And exhale. Rolling down my window
I close my eyes, and picture painting little tiny flowers. Big
strokes. Small dabs.
After a minute of reassurance, I find myself kissing my
mom goodbye and closing the car door.

18

savannah voth 19

A Word

In the midst of the chaos,
A pen and paper
When hope is lost,
A stream of ink
In all of the pain,
A string of symbols on a screen
When the darkness is complete,
A word is written
A word is spoken
A word penetrates.

Nathalie Auslander (previous page, “Portrait of a Syrian Boy”) is currently
in seventh grade. She lives with her parents, sister, and dog. Her hobbies
include drawing, visiting museums, and baking. She enjoys science, math,
art, and volunteering at the library. is a seventh grader at Hopkins Junior
High. He loves to read, draw, play with friends, and paint.
Savannah has been writing and drawing for as long as she can remem-
ber. She also enjoys spending time with friends, programming computer
games, playing the clarinet, and having fun with her dog, Coconut.
Lauren Burt (opposite page, “Standing Out”) is an eight grader at at Cen-
tral Middle School. She enjoys reading, dancing and running and finds her
inspiration for writing and drawing at the most random times and places.

20

dilara sumbul

Adra’s Dance 21

The silence had made a nest in his ears. The music that
once poured out of him had slowed to a drip that wrung
him dry. Pieces of a melody flit in his ears, but never stayed,
passing as soon as he thought to reach for his quill. Pinned up
to the wall were more rejects of what should be something
indescribably beautiful, yet only the indescribable part had
transferred to paper.

The music taunted him, getting him to dance to its
rhythm in his dreams only to leave him awake in silence, no
such inspiration to be found. He could feel the disappoint-
ment creeping through his shut door, the gentry and all of
Vienna looking at him through the window.

The only thing to be found upon the pile of empty music
staffs was the rambling of desperation, only scribbles upon
which the melody he could not observe. It would not do, it
could not ​do, and it would only bring the sound of laughter to
his ears, the only thing he could seem to hear now.

No, he must prove them wrong. Let the laughter fall, to
be replaced by the shatterable awe, as it had before. Let their
feet dance with passion and their applause be joyus. For the
last time was only a passing fancy of misfortune, he was sure.
The last symphony he wrote was doomed for failure, not
he. It would not be he that fell from grace, but that forsaken
piece.

It was merely a small blip in the genius that had all en-
compassed him from an early age. The talent that had gotten
him all that fame, all that praise. The kings and queens and
noblemen bowing at his feet, begging him for more. The piles

Brian Ye (opposite page, “Bust of Marseilles) is an eighth grader at Blach Mid-
dle School. He is passionate about art as well as soccer and music.
Dilara Sumbul is a 8th grader at Central Middle School. She enjoys reading
and writing, and lives with her Baba, Anne, Abla, and dog Bowie.

upon piles of coins placed in his pocket. The power that came
with music in Vienna was rightfully his, it must be.

And so he let his quill fall back on the page, enticing the
swirls of passion that had escaped him for so long, and ten-
tatively drew a quarter A on the page. It rang flat on his ears,
and ended on the ink, failing to catch into flight.

He scribbled mercilessly, killing the note as it had been
drawn, scratching and scratching away at the page. He could
only bring himself to stop when his quill ripped through the
page, and even then, he left a few deep lines in the wood of
which they fell.

The paper was one of many which held these tears, and
he did to it as he did to all the others, balling it up and throw-
ing it at the wall. It fell in the mountainous pile that had col-
lected itself there, only adding to his frustration.

He picked up the quill again, it’s feather tickling his nose
as he leaned in. He let the feeling lull his eyes closed, trying
to pick out one note amongst all others. One caught, ringing
in his ears.

The sound was all encompassing, a lead on to something.
A leading tone. Yes, what was it? He furrowed his brow, trying
to tug at the cluttered corners of his mind. B, that’s it. Scared
2 2 of losing the one note that had to come to his ears in a long
while he scrambled with his quill, drawing only the dot on the
paper.

He leaned back in his chair, satisfied. He let the note ring
in his ears as he sighed. Starting was the hardest part, and he
let his mind run over the ideas. A violin concerto? A sympho-
ny? But he shuddered at the latter. A waltz would do.

A lazy, high, trilling waltz. One that would restore his repu-
tation as well as his battered temper. He picked up his quill
once more. It would start off slow, he decided. He scratched
on a slow arpeggio and let his mind do the rest, closing his
eyes as he hummed the nearest notes in reach.

He smiled. The notes reminded him of a melody he used
to play with his mother. Her perfume was fused to the notes,
and he could almost smell it in the air now. He moved his
quill, not needing to see the familiar music staff in front of
him.

The melody had been his first, an easy one, only needing
one hand on the piano, the other firmly clasped in his moth-
er’s hand, her warm embrace melting in to join the tune. She
always had been his muse.

He opened his eyes, the first few lines having already
been filled. The music swelled, warm, in front of him, and he

pulled his quill to the title. It would be dedicated to her, as it
always was. Adra’s Dance.

23

maia politzer

Alone on a Path to Nowhere

Sunlight pierces the heavens,
Eroding away the clouds,
Beaming down at the path ahead,
I can hear the sand whispering,
Speaking of me,
A stranger,
Interrupting their peace,
My feet have a mind of their own,
Sliding along the sand,
Slipping over the rocks,
2 4 That have never felt the touch of water,
For every one step forward,
I seem to be taking two back,
Forever trapped,
In a never ending trail

Erin Smith (opposite page, “Froggy”) has been creating digital art since 2016.
She uses Photoshop CC and a Wacom intuos pro tablet. She finds inspiration
in music, books, and games.
Maia is an eighth grader at Central Middle School. She is always either play-
ing volleyball or coming up with story ideas. She loves expressing herself
through her writing. When she grows up she wants to work at a children’s
hospital as a doctor.

clio halpern 25

Anywhere

Golden hills embrace the road
Guiding it gently home
Standing tall under their crowns
Of falling sunlight
The world is warm and sleeping
A dream of winding paths
Under a quiet cloudy sky
Hours left to travel
On a dusty, bumpy road
Don’t dull the peaceful beauty
That is blooming all around
I’m not yet where I’m going
But I don’t have to be
For anywhere that I could go
There must be some beauty

Clio is an 8th grader at Central Middle School who loves reading, horseback
riding, drawing, musical theater, and puns.

amelia wiggin

Archaeopteryx

Grandma sits down on my bed, ready to start her story,
like she does every time she comes over. She loves to tell
these stories, and it always amazes me that she can change
the world around us with words. I watch as she studies my
desk. I’ve covered every surface of it with pictures of dino-
saur bones that stretch 20 feet into the air, to the smallest of
seashells from 300 million years ago. Her eyes land on my fa-
vorite prehistoric relic: the model archaeopteryx. I love the ar-
chaeopteryx because it was a bird and a dinosaur, a transition
to one era of reigning species on Earth to another. A gateway
into a new class of Animalia. My grandma looks at me, admir-
ing the model, just as she had. She opens her mouth to begin.
“There once was dinosaur that lived long ago,” she says.
26 “But he wasn’t just a dinosaur, he was also a bird. He was Ar-

chaeopteryx, an ambassador of both the dinosaur and avian
world.” I’m enthralled as soon as she begins. This is going to
be one of my favorites.
“Creatures throughout the prehistoric world came to
know this bird. He was a kind, humble, and forgiving leader.
All the birds believed that they all evolved from him, and they
trusted him because of this. Each bird carried a piece of Ar-
chaeopteryx’s virtue in them, and they showed off their bit of
good whenever they could.
“He flew all over the world, talking to the birds. They would
wait for him to arrive: they knew he always brought them
lessons and advice on how to live. Lined up single file, they
would tell him their small successes.” I imagined Archae-
opteryx proudly spreading his honor, teaching the birds his
wisdom. And all the birds came to see him! He must’ve been
so modest.
“One day, he stopped at the island he was born at. As he

Amelia is an eighth grader who loves ballet, playing baritone with her friends,
and reading books about diseases and disorders. Besides writing poetry and
short stories, she likes to compose music and make computer-generated art.

landed on the mossy earth, the birds flocked around him. 27
“Archaeopteryx!” they cried.
“The avians were overcome with adoration for this bird.

Archaeopteryx spoke to each of them in turn, smiling as
they told their tiny triumphs they loved so much.” Her voice
breaks off for a second, and she gets a faraway look in her
eyes as she stares at the model archaeopteryx. Then her face
regains its clarity, and she resumes the story.

“He began to build a large nest in a tall tree in the forest.
The birds, as they flew overhead, saw him doing this and
smiled. He was staying.

“As the years wore on, Archaeopteryx found a routine.
Every morning he would wake, usually before dawn, with a
bird already in his nest, waiting to talk to him. They flew in
from miles away, seeking the advice of the wisest bird on the
island. They would spill their troubles to him, pleading for help
while describing how their child flew away from home or
how a rat had destroyed their nest. Flying around the island
for hours, he tried his hardest to solve the problems they
brought to him.

“But Archaeopteryx loved his work. He couldn’t imagine
such a beautiful island, full of so much pain, with no one
to help them. He took it upon himself to take away all this
pain, and replace it with the happiness and virtuosity that he
seemed to possess in infinite amounts.”

Again, Grandma stops. She thinks, staring at the figure of
the archaeopteryx poised on the desk. Her mouth twists in
concentration.

“No matter how much he loved working, he knew that he
could not go on like this forever. His time would come to
pass his leadership on to someone else, to leave Earth. He
could tell the birds. But it would kill them before he died. In-
stead, he shut his mouth. They needed him too much.

“So, in the final year of his life, he pushed himself to work
harder than he ever had. He would fly up and down the island,
calling out to his friends in the forest.

“The birds would fly from their nests to greet him, talking
over each other. They would gossip about their friends or
ask Archaeopteryx for a second opinion on a hard decision.
He would always answer, always make an effort to talk with
them.

“Oh, thank you!” one would say before flying away.
“Archaeopteryx, you made my day.”
Grandma glanced at the wall. Her eyebrows clenched to-
gether for a fraction of a second.

“One day, he stopped flying up and down the island. He
stopped chatting. He stopped visiting the center of island.
Instead, he sat in his nest from dawn to dusk, writing. He
scrawled every last scrap of advice he could, until his whole
body ached from this writing.
“But no one knew why. His whole life, he had worked his
hardest to serve them. He would wake up in the early morn-
ing to be somewhere by sunrise. He would sacrifice his own
dinnertime to make sure the other other birds ate. Every cry
would be hushed by his words of comfort, every tear wiped
dry by his powerful wings.
“The birds came to visit him. The sat on the branches sur-
rounding him and asked him why he wouldn’t speak, hoping
he would listen. But he never did. For the first time, the per-
fect creature ignored the birds he loved so much.
“Finally, his feathered body, fragile in its old age, settled on
the same mossy spot he had landed on the first day.
“My birds!” His voice had not yet lost its grand feel. “I have
something to say to you. Please, only one of each species
gather around.” There was a shuffling as a single bird from
each of the hundreds of species on the island clustered
around him.
“I’m the last archaeopteryx on the planet,” he said, “and, I
28 know you want to hear good from me. But because I have

none. Today is the last day for me.”
“The softness of sympathy and worry replaced the sharp-
ness and cunning usually in the bird’s eyes.
“Please, make me proud as I pass on! Continue to help
each other. Don’t fight. Don’t wrong others. Continue doing
your good deed every day...”
“His voice caught in his throat.
“Remember, remember to fly! Become the birds that oth-
ers will look up to. Remember me, and carry on what I have
taught you...”
“He sighed out his final breath, and his body fell limp. The
forest, the forest he had cherished, erupted in moans mourn-
ing his death. The birds who hadn’t surrounded him pushed to
the front of the crowd, wondering what had happened. One
by one, they said their goodbyes, sharing, for the last time,
their triumphs and troubles with him. Each bird silently flew
away, until every one of them had said farewell. They would

never forget this day.” Grandma exhaled.
“That’s all I have for you tonight.”
“Thank you for the story, Grandma.” I smile at her as I think

the story over.
“Anytime.” She shuffles out of the room, turning the light

out as she says, “Goodnight.”
My mind drifts back to the images of Archaeopteryx, serv-

ing the birds until the end of his life, the end of his species.
His dedication was incredible. I think of Grandma, who never
stopped telling stories, not even for a day. Her devotion was
astonishing.

“I will carry on what you have taught me,” I whisper into
the darkness of my room. For a second, I don’t know which
of them I’m talking to.

29

mira morales

Awakening

Gelid puffs of air lead the way, faint and nebulous
Ashen faces peer from the underbrush, proxies to the
mast
The merging clouds smothering the sky, a rush of blood
to the head
Golden fronds crunch underneath, witness the withering
apples, still scarlet like the cloak of a flashing enigma
All of eternity can sense his arrival, frigid waters bending
and slight dew bursting
Ebullient colors pop, bantam-white and
Blotchy-black, all awaiting him
Frost caps the earthy floor,
tendrils wrapping around tall redwoods. As if a
30 wraith,

the bracing air drifts, fog
shrouding the winding road before the caravan of prodi-
gals
Envisioned flashes, plays of life;
Cantering horses, people with wild minds
Palpable death;
not accompanied by the sense of recycled regeneration
but renewal
Curtailed buoyancy abandoning a daybreak of stars
Nature fears, accepting the brutal
circle of life—azure blotches revealing
Many bruises
Receding against the inevitable, wildlife ebbs
into many forms of decay
The flutter of soft wings

Mira Morales loves music and composing pieces on the piano and guitar as
well as playing soccer. Photography and writing are some of her many pas-
sions along with spending time with her three siblings, one of whom is de-
picted in Sea Nymph.

of a final nightingale’s song
reverberating around the solemn forest
Winter wind chimes crackle
The lavender bird cocks
its head and releases another melodious tune, drifting
away on wings laced with leaves throughout the
thicket

31

Tessa Metzger (above, Voodoo Shop!) is a fun, purple-haired music addict, that
loves dogs and drawing!

mia webb

Be the One

Notice a deer running for the road
be the tree who changes its direction.
See a squirrel chewing on trash
be the wind who carries it away.
Notice a snake stuck under a rock
be the hand who frees it.
See a fish squirming in a dried-up pond
be the rain who saves it.
Notice a bird almost lost to the cold
Be the sun who warms it.
32

Mia Webb is thirteen and enjoys writing poetry about nature and her experiences in
it. She is a dedicated dancer and loves being with her family. She takes art classes
and as a hobby, she does calligraphy. She cares deeply for animals and insects and
is curious about many things. She feels strongly about the way humans, animals,
and nature should be treated, respected, and loved.

marta olsen

Bruise 33

Your fingertips brush mine. They shift closer, gently
tracing the curve of my open palm. I close my hand around
yours, caressing it softly. We sit on my bed, the faded blan-
kets soft underneath our intertwined fingers. The dwindling
sunlight slips through the curtains, scattering the walls with
flecks of light. Our backpacks sit forgotten on my off-white
carpet.

I look down at our tangled fingers, watching as your hand
travels up my arm. The corners of your lips turn up, and your
pale blue eyes sparkle with mischief. Your hand sneaks onto
my waist, slipping under the hem of my shirt. I can feel my
cheeks growing hot as you pull me closer.

“Alex?” My door opens, my father sticking his head in.
“What do you...”

We pull apart, our faces bright pink. My father’s easy
smile disappears as he realizes what is happening. His eyes
harden as he steps into the room.

“Out,” My father tells you, his jaw clenched silently in an-
ger. I can see rage bubbling up inside his eyes. You see it too,
and swing your backpack on your shoulders. You scurry out
with flushed cheeks and a wave, leaving me alone with my
father. As soon the front door seals shut he turns back to me.

“What do you think you are doing?” He shouts, slamming
the door behind him. “Kissing another boy?” My father’s voice
is sharp, echoing loudly around my room.

I stand up, my bare toes digging into the carpet. My
father is still yelling, glaring down at me with his hate filled
eyes. I don’t understand. Why is he so angry?

I step forward, almost tripping over a misplaced binder in
my confusion. “Why do you—”

Suddenly it hits me. Of course. I haven’t had time to tell
my father about you yet. About how I like you, even though

Marta is an 8th grader at Central Middle School. She enjoys playing tenor saxo-
phone, as well as drawing and writing stories and poems.

you are a boy. How the other kids hate me for it, but I don’t
care. I thought he would understand. It turns out I was wrong.
“How can you be gay? After all the time and effort I put
into raising you right? You’re a freak!” His face is red, and his
voice is raw from yelling.
His shouting is overtaken by a pounding in my ears. I can
see his mouth moving frantically, but I can’t hear him. Why did
he have to walk in right now, just when you were finally kiss-
ing me? Why does he have to hate me for it?
My vision is rimmed with red, distorting my father’s furi-
ous face. I clench my fists, my dull fingernails cutting into my
palms.
My father takes a few steps towards me, his thick build
towering over my thin frame. He grabs my shoulder, digging
his fingertips into my skin. My skin throbs, and I know several
bruises are forming underneath his grip. I try to pull away,
twisting my arm in an attempt to escape. A sharp pain shoots
down my arm, angry tears running down my face.
“This is what you get for being a useless gay,” he growls,
eyes flashing. He tightens his grip, his thumb cutting into my
flesh like a knife. My arm goes numb with the pain.
I can’t take it any longer. I lash out, my fists connecting
with flesh. I can barely see, blinded by my rage and tears. I
34 claw at his hand on my shoulder, leaving several long scratch-

es on his arm. A fist slams into my face, almost knocking me
off my feet. My mouth fills with the metallic taste of blood,
but I don’t stop tearing at his hand. I pry his fingers off my
shoulder one by one.
My father finally lets go, screaming, but I have nowhere
to run. I throw myself onto my bed, the scarlet fading from
my vision. My tears flow freely, mixing with snot as I lay face
down on my bed. My shoulder throbs, covered in nail marks
and bruises. I lay there, my head down and my eyes sealed
shut.
For a few seconds all I hear is his heavy breathing.
Then, footsteps.
Thud.
Thud.
Slow and heavy, they move closer to where I lay. They
stop right next to my head. The room is silent, and I know he

Sophia Doyle (opposite page, “Flourescent Garden”) enjoys ballet and playing soc-
cer. She plays violin in her school orchestra and loves to read in her free time.

is leaning over my bed. I tense up, waiting for the next punch.
It never comes.
35

jerry xia

Bubble Man

The best school assembly happened in the multi-use
room of Oak Elementary School last year. When the Bubble
Man arrived in a white truck with bubbles painted on it, he
wore a white apron over a purple shirt. He carried several
trays full of soapy water, some different sized bubble wands,
a fog maker, a bubble blowing toy, a device that made a chain
of small bubbles, and a fog machine. When all his equipment
was set up on the stage, he began a short speech about the
science of bubbles. He said, “Bubbles don’t pop on hair, and
they get thinner the longer they stay in the air.” As he said
this, he took his massive bubble wand and created a bubble
the size of a pumpkin. The children in the audience laughed.
“When bubbles are first blown, they are purple and blue
36 because the soapy water they are made of is thick.” We all

watched the Bubble Man as if he were god.
As the Bubble Man switched wands, I remembered the
first time my father taught me how to make a bubble. I was
four years old, and he had just come home from work. An
engineer, he was still wearing his pin-striped suit. He knelt
down with me in the backyard where we could make a mess
without Mom getting angry. On the mostly dead lawn, we
stood under the large oak tree next to the planter boxes,
which were empty. The air smelled like a barbecue. My dad
said, “You hold it like this, very carefully, and you blow very
gently.” At first, all I did was blow out the clear film, but my
dad kept having me try again until finally, I blew a stream of
small bubbles that floated up over our house. The small, clear
spheres reflected the orange-red light of sunset and turned
into small disco balls. “Perfect! Good job!” my dad said. To
me, he was the smartest, nicest person in the world, and I
felt as if I had just won an award. We blew bubbles until Mom

Jerry Xia is a seventh grader at Jordan Middle School. He enjoys reading and
computer programming. In his free time, he likes to write stories about his own
experiences and uses his imagination to write realistic fiction.

called us inside for dinner. 37
At the assembly, the Bubble Man explained to us that

when a bubble gets thinner, the color eventually changes to
red. By this point, the air in the multi-purpose room smelled
like soapy water and the children had grown silent in awe. I
usually hated assemblies, but this one kept my eyes on the
stage, watching the Bubble Man, who looked middle-aged
and a little round, as though he would make a good clown. I
wondered if he was a clown on the weekends at kids’ parties.
“When the reflection is red and orange, the bubble is very thin
so it pops,” he explained. “You have to be very careful. If you
make a bubble, you can use another wand like a trampoline to
bounce the bubble on top of it.” Like a master of bubbles, he
carefully dipped the large bubble wand into the soapy wa-
ter and blew a small bubble directly above it from a smaller
wand. The trampoline film cushioned the impact of the first
bubble and sent it back up again, almost as high as it had
been dropped from. It looked like a clear ball bouncing up
and down, a little lower each time until the ball finally landed
and popped. It reminded me of a tennis ball exploding.

The first time I played tennis with my dad, he brought
me to the local high school, handed me a racket that was too
large for me, and said, “You should try to focus on making
contact with the ball first.” It was late in the afternoon, with
the sun just beginning to set, and we were hot. At first, the
tiny ball and hulking racket were very frustrating. Many times,
I couldn’t even hit the ball, and when I did hit it, it flew exactly
where I did not want it to go, as if it were trying to annoy me.
“You’ll eventually get better.” my dad told me. I didn’t believe
him. I was terrible at tennis. I was like a swimmer trying to
swim in air. Still, hanging out with Dad was fun because he
was better than a best friend. He told me, “When I was your
age, I was really bad at running, but I kept running, and then
I won an award.” I tried to picture my dad running, but all I
could imagine was this little boy running in his pinstriped suit.

The Bubble Man also showed us some bubble tricks. He
made a cube bubble by putting a bubble in the middle of a
clump of bubbles, so they would compress the bubble into a
cube. He also showed us the tornado bubble. He created one
large bubble and filled it with fog from the fog machine. He
swirled the fog around and poked a hole in the top. The fog
created a funnel and the fog emptied out of the hole. My fa-
vorite trick was the bubble rocket. He created a large bubble
filled with fog, put a bubble on top of that, and poked a hole
in the bottom of the larger bubble. The bubbles rose up while

the fog came out of the bottom.
It was foggy the day I found out about my dad’s lung can-

cer. He chose to tell me on my way to school. I had so many
questions: Why? How? When? Where? He said, “Don’t worry.
There’s lots of different medicines to try these days. It’s not a
big deal.’” And when he dropped me off, the fog was so thick
that I couldn’t see much farther than twenty feet in front of
me. After I got out of the car, all the kids were running around
on the blacktop, disappearing into the fog and asking their
friends if they were invisible. I tried to run around in the fog
too. I wanted to beat the fog, be faster than it, but no matter
how fast I ran, clear air always appeared in front of me. I ran
past everybody shouting, “Ahhhhhh!” as I tried to disappear.

The Bubble Man packed up and left our school. I watched
as his van left the parking lot. I wondered where he was go-
ing, what school he was going to next, and whether the kids
at the next school would appreciate what he did as much as
our school did.
38

Savannah Voth (above, “Light”) has been writing and drawing for as long as she can
remember. She also enjoys spending time with friends, programming computer
games, playing the clarinet, and having fun with her dog, Coconut.

Parker gates

Coffee Mugs 39

Mugs had been disappearing from the cupboards of
families all over the town. Detective Will sits in his office read-
ing a newspaper. Suddenly, his fellow detective, Gary, runs in
stating, “Sir, there have been more reports of the mysterious
spooky characters breaking into homes!” There is silence
for a few seconds, and then Will replies, “Have more coffee
mugs been stolen?” Gary says, “Yes sir.”

It has been several weeks since the first attack of “The
Mysterious Character,” which became the name because it
was so mysterious, and no one had any ideas for an actu-
ally creative name. Outside the small town “Generic Town,”
it would be ridiculous that we would be in chaos over the
lost mugs, but to everyone inhabiting this town, these cof-
fee mugs were basically family members. The first person
to report this was John Generic, who had reported seeing a
suspicious figure running into the woods with several mugs.

Two cars head towards the forest. Inside one car, is
detectives Gary and Will, inside of the other car, is Officer
Susan. Soon, all three of them are walking into the forest.
Detective Will suddenly burst into a frantic sprint, looking for
anything that could be a clue.

However, Officer Susan was the first one to find some-
thing. She called out to the others, “I think I’ve found some-
thing!” So, the detectives came running over. She had found a
mug at the entrance to a small dead end cave that used to be
a mine.

Gary used his trusty flashlight to lead the way. As they
they walked through the cave they would find mugs scat-
tered across the ground every few feet. So Officer Susan ran
back to grab a large bag to put all the mugs in. When they got
back, they had almost half of all the missing mugs.

Parker is an eighth grader at Central Middle School. They don’t know what to
put in this bio.

They reached the end of the cave. It was empty, except
for about five mugs in the corner. They had found lots of
the mugs, but not all of them. This was the right spot and the
right evidence to convict the mysterious stranger so now all
they had to do was catch them. The next day, Officer Susan
had brought the mugs back to be returned to their owners.
Towards the end of the day, the three of them came back to
the cave in the forest. As expected, more of the missing cof-
fee mugs were there, but something was different. Suddenly,
a figure jumped out from nowhere and yelled gibberish at
them.
None of the three had much of a reaction. They just
stared at the figure for a few seconds, they had found that
it was a figure, about 3 feet tall covered in what looked like
a bed sheet. So, they obviously expected it to be some child
messing with their neighbors, but after taking off the sheet
there was another sheet, and so on. This went on for about an
hour, until they gave up and just decided it was a sheet thing.
Once that was over, Detective Will asked the thing,
“Where are the other coffee mugs?” and the thing replied,
“npwfioahduoe!!!” which made no sense but the three fol-
lowed it to where the coffee mugs were supposedly. And,
the mugs were there, so they proceeded to take them back.
40 Officer Susan attempted to arrest the sheet thing, but it was a

sheet thing, and you can’t really handcuff it. The thing es-
caped and ran far into the forest.
So, the detectives, and the officer returned to the town,
and all the beloved coffee mugs were returned. Long af-
ter this happened, people still would remember this day. A
creature that would do something so horrible still lives in the
forest, though there have not been any reports for years.

41

Brian Ye (above, “Marcus Agrippa”) is an eighth grader at Blach Middle School.
He is passionate about art as well as soccer and music.

ben hughes

Coincidence

While Larry was studying a rock on his favorite chair he
came to conclusion that the crack in the rock must have
come from three people trying to eat fifteen hamburgers
at the same time. The type of hamburger, the rock did not
specify. A regular human might not come to the conclusion
that the crack in the rock came from three people trying to
trying to eat fifteen hamburgers at the same time, but Larry
is not a regular human. In fact, Larry isn’t a human at all. Larry
is a particularly fluffy cat.
You see, Larry once walked through a bush. No one
knows why Larry happened to walk through a bush because,
well, Larry is a cat. And... so far no one knows how to com-
municate with cats. If it were it was a dog, well they would
42 explain everything to the exact detail, except when they drank

from the toilet to possibly escape trouble.
But back to the hamburgers.
Imagine the scenario. One day on his way to make some
wild creature in Australia, God slipped on a puddle of goo and
a $100 bill slipped out of his pocket. Meanwhile three young
men were sitting on a street wishing they had something
to do when a $100 dollar bill fell on Larry. Right then Larry
decided to walk through a bush. The dollar bill fell off Larry
and landed on the ground. Dave was walking to his job at Mc-
Donald’s and saw a peculiar rock on the sidewalk. He picked
it up and saw a $100 dollar bill hid underneath. He tucked the
rock in his shirt pocket in hope it would give him more luck
and put the bill in his back pocket, and did what looked like a
frenzied tap dance to the rest of the way to work. The violent
dancing dislodged the $100 dollar bill and it fell back on the
ground.
Four hours later the three young men who’d been sitting
on the street decided to take a walk, anything was better than

I am an 8th grader at CMS. I like playing trombone, reading, hanging out with
friends, playing video games, biking and listening to music. my favorite bands
are ACDC and Green Day.

sitting on a curb and feeling like trash. Then they saw a $100 43
dollar bill laying on the ground. They decided to buy fifteen
hamburgers from McDonald’s. Dave at McDonald’s soon got
an order for 15 hamburgers. In his hurry to make the burgers
quickly the rock slipped out shirt pocket and into one of the
hamburgers.

As Dave served the hamburgers to three young men he
saw that they played with a $100 dollar bill. “Guess what?”
said one of the three young men, “This hundred, we found it
on the ground. Just lying there. Isn’t that somthin?” “It must
be a lucky day! I found a $100 under a rock. Is it a holiday?”
replied Dave. “I dunno,” answered the young man as he
grabbed the food. “Have a good day!” said Dave as they left.

As the three walked downtown they decided they were
going to eat the hamburgers all at the same time. They failed
miserably. Let’s just leave it at the fact it was very messy and
no one wanted to do laundry anytime soon. The mysterious
rock that had slipped into the hamburger earlier found its
chance to ruin someone’s day by going into one of the three
men’s mouths. He spit it out, then filed a complaint at Mc-
Donald’s. Dave was fired and as he was leaving he noticed he
$100 dollar bill and his lucky rock, were gone.

Now the average reader would think this is a sad and a
incredibly ridiculous story and I would completely agree with
you. Apart from the sad part. You see, the three young men
got a free cookie from McDonald’s because they filled out a
complaint and then went home and their mothers made them
soup. After Dave was walking slowly along he found, a very
shiny penny. That penny symbolized hope and Dave decided
to enlist in the army to spread hope to other people. He
swam up the ranks and soon became a general. Larry went
home and had a nap on the porch. God ended up making the
Australian thorny devil lizard, went home, and had a cup of
tea.

You might be asking what does this have to do with the
first part of the story? And the answer would be nothing.
But, the reason that the rock had a crack in it was because
the rock that ended up in that man’s mouth hit into the street
where it got run over by a car and cracked. It later got hit by
a bike and got kicked onto the sidewalk by Jerry’s house.

You might also be thinking that the $100 dollar bill trav-
eled everywhere that day. And you are utterly and completely
wrong. As wrong as ketchup on a brownie. There was, in fact,
a total of 4 $100 bills. The $100 that fell out of God’s pocket
ended up in the ocean off the coast of Hawaii. The dollar bill

that fell on Larry was a result of a man who just won the lot-
tery running around his house waving $100 bills. It ended up
sliding into a sewer and was never seen again. The $100 that
was hidden under a rock was a tip for a stranger to find from
an anonymous duckwatcher who recently discovered a new
species of geese and was feeling generous. That $100 dollar
bill ended up getting stuck in a baby’s stroller. The $100 dollar
bill that fell on the ground was balanced on the Burj Khalifa,
fell onto a car, sped down the highway, and ended near a
nice beach. The wind picked up and the $100 bill floated into
the ocean. 840 days later it beached at san francisco. It hung
around and dried off at Pier 39, and then clung onto the
door of a minivan and ended in San Carlos on the sidewalk. It
ended up in a McDonald’s cash register. The very shiny penny
was, well, change. Not much to say about.

Everything happens to be a coincidence
44

Stephanie Hsu (above, “Eclipse”) is an eighth grader at Blach who plays tennis
competitively. Her favorite subject is math, and she enjoys doodling, knitting,
reading nonfiction, and doing Membean in her free time.

alannah blumstein

Daughter of Magic 45

Mountain peaks covered in trees and wildflowers pro-
truded from the carpet of mist like the emerald humps of
a sea serpent, rising and falling in a frothy white sea. They
yawned on and on until they reached the Cygnus Sea, a glit-
tering, misty-blue shadow in the distance. The mere sight
chilled Anya’s bones; she knew that if she fell she would go
on falling and falling, through the sea of mist, to the very
foot of the towering mountain she now stood upon. Her
toes curled around the ledge of rock she stood atop, a sheer
drop, draped with vines of honeysuckle, ivy, and blackberries,
plunging deep down into the mist. She drew her deep blue
woolen cloak around her to protect against the biting wind
and penetrating cold, as though it would somehow keep her
footing steady.

The tip of her worn brown leather boots, softened and
creased with wear, dislodged pebbles from among the tufts
of grass and wildflowers at her feet, sending them skitter-
ing over the ledge. She could hear them tumble down, down,
all the way into the ravine, their echoes growing fainter and
fainter until she could hear them no more. Behind Anya, her
flock of sheep bleated and chewed vegetation, blissfully
oblivious to anything besides tender shoots of grass with
which they filled their bellies.

“Anya, come here! Do you mean to tumble off the moun-
tain?” Felice, the goat herd, called from somewhere behind
her, dark tresses bobbing as she laughed. Next to her, Isolde,
the goose girl, yelped as a particularly aggressive gander
snapped at her heels. Anya nodded and smiled in response as
Felice pulled her oak-leaf green cloak away from a goat nib-

Alannah is a student who is passionate about reading, writing, drawing, and
climbing trees. She is a devoted Potterhead and loves many of Shakespeare’s
works (some of her favorites being Romeo and Juliet and A Midsummer
Night’s Dream), as well as Jane Austen’s novels (namely Pride and Prejudice).

bling its hem.
Anya turned so that she faced the crest of the mountain.

Horse chestnut trees laden with spiked nuts colored pale
green and bronze, ancient yews with twisted silver bark, and
towering oaks whose branches bore glossy brown acorns so
dark they were quite nearly black spread their branches over
her head. Pale sunlight filtering through them cast dappled
splashes of light upon the ground, illuminating the long green
grass in which the mountain was carpeted, brambles bear-
ing burgundy berries, and a plethora of wildflowers. Felice’s
goats uprooted clumps of grass, wildflowers, and anything
else within their reach alike, while Anya’s sheep nibbled
the petals from wildflowers, bleating in quiet contentment.
Isolde’s gaggle of geese mingled with the rest, grazing or
nestling in groups beneath trees.

Anya sat at the roots of an ancient yew with moss like
emerald velvet curling up its trunk and several blackberry
bushes winding their vines around it. She set her shepherd’s
staff by her side and drew from the folds of her cloak a little
book bound in forest green leather, telling lore of times past
when selkies sunned themselves on rocks by the Cygnus Sea
and faeries lived among the forest and mountains. Long had it
4 6 been since anyone had seen any of these magical beings, of
course, so most had resolved that if they ever did roam the
Kingdom of Daelan, they did no more. Still, they filled their
pockets with salt from the Cygnus Sea whenever attempt-
ing any sort of water voyage to protect against sea serpents
and selkies and merpeople, threw four and a half handfuls of
heather dried under the full moon into the air before them
when entering a forest to prevent their being ensnared by
faerie enchantments, set saucers of honeyed milk out at the
summer and winter solstices as an offering to the elusive,
clever-handed wood elves who made their homes in the knot-
holes of ancient trees. Their blood was still thick with folklore,
of half-forgotten legends of half-faerie half-human knights
who conquered dragons and elves that strummed silver lyres
and golden harps deep in the heart of the forest. Though
these tales crumbled like the oldest, craggiest castle in all of
the land, choked with ivy and moss, they held just as strong.
Even though none saw, all felt that there was still some magic
in Daelan, hiding in the deepest wood, atop the highest peak.

With her fingers stained burgundy from the juice of black-
berries, Anya read, glancing up every now and then to ensure
that her flock was safe. A sheep sat beside her, nibbling the
grass nearest. She rested a hand in its deep ivory wool and

smiled at the way the contented bleating of her flock and 47
twitter of birdsong interlaced to form a pleasing symphony.

Suddenly, all fell quiet, and the only sound to be heard
was the rustling of wind in the trees. Anya frowned at the
new silence that filled the grove, the sort in which not a heart
beats and no breath is drawn.

She heard it before she saw it - the flapping of big wings,
larger than those of the owls and falcons she so often saw
hunting mice. She leapt to her feet and hurried to the edge
of the mountain to see what it was, grasping a low-hanging
branch for balance.

All Anya saw was the mountains rising from the sea of
mist just as she had earlier, like the emerald humps of a sea
serpent, still and perfect. She just began to wonder if the flap
of large wings had been a product of her imagination, when
a dragon burst through the mist, covered in scales hued deep
plum edged in gold. It beat its enormous, leathery wings,
causing a wind that made every tree bow and the grass to
ripple in waves. Anya watched in awe. Her dark curls whipped
about her face, her cloak streaming behind her like a mid-
night banner.

It’s beautiful, she thought as the corners of her mouth
curled into a smile. “D-dragon!” Isolde shrieked, which Anya
would have thought to be obvious. The dragon whipped its
head towards the sound and affixed its amber eyes upon the
goose girl, who stood petrified in a clearing only a few feet
down from Anya.

She immediately snapped to her senses and ran towards
Isolde, stones skittering underneath her boots. Isolde’s hazel
eyes plainly betrayed shock, round and wide as robin’s eggs.
Her mouth shaped a scream, but her voice seemed petrified.
She almost resembled a spirit, an apparition, with her walnut-
bark black hair streaming around her face in the wind of the
dragon’s wing beats, its movement a stark contrast to her
own stillness.

The dragon folded its wings inward and swooped to-
wards the mountain like an enormous, scaled bird of prey,
extending long, curved talons, gleaming in the sunlight. “No!”
Anya threw herself in front of Isolde, both hands gripping her
staff horizontally in front of her as though it were something
more formidable than a shepherd’s stick.

The dragon, it seemed, was in no mood to be picky. It
closed its talons over Anya’s staff and lifted her up into the air
before she could scream.

The mountains and sheep were shrinking swiftly below

Anya before she could think to do anything more than gape
in shock. She clutched her staff desperately, hoping that it
wouldn’t snap.
“Let go!” Anya yelled up to the dragon, flailing her legs
uselessly. A futile comment, she realized; if the dragon indeed
was compelled to drop her, she would go falling through the
sky to her death below. “Put me down this instant!”
Either the dragon couldn’t hear Anya through all of the
wind or didn’t care to acknowledge his having heard. Anya
flailed harder, but for all of the good it was doing she might
as well have been dandelion fluff.
They flew as the sky turned coral and lavender with the
sunset, deepening to a rich, velvety blue as stars winked into
being. The dragon’s flight was not smooth, for it rose and fell
with each wingbeat, and Anya’s arms ached with the strain of
grasping her staff.
As the moon rose in the sky, the dragon flew towards the
peak of a mountain. Anya could make out a cave as they drew
nearer, emanating gold light and the promise of warmth. The
dragon swooped into the mouth of the cave and set Anya
down. She stood shakily, like a new foal, grasping her thin
birch shepherd’s staff for the little support it afforded, and
looked about her.
48 She stood in the mouth of a cave lit by torches in iron

brackets on the walls. Corridors illuminated by the same
branched off in different directions, leading, Anya imagined,
to more chambers within the mountain.
The dragon was stretching his wings outside the cave’s
mouth, clearly tired from his flight.
This is my chance, Anya thought. Even if she couldn’t find
her way back to her own village on foot, she could surely find
some other one near here. And, she added to herself, just
about anything was better than being eaten by a dragon.
Anya ran forward a few steps, out of the mouth of the
cave and into the chill night air - she was nearly at the trees
- if she could just make it to the forest -
Her toe caught a protruding root and she fell into a pile
of pine needles. Before she could stand, something lifted her
off the ground by her cloak.
The dragon held Anya up to his face, the better to see
her. She kicked and flailed furiously.
“You are quite ferocious, for a little thing,” the dragon’s
sonorous voice was deep and rumbling as an ancient oak.
“But you needn’t struggle so. I do not plan to eat you.”
Anya fell limp. She looked up into the dragon’s face and

saw that his amber eyes were kind. “Y-you won’t?” 49
“Certainly not. It is as my dragon mother taught me, and

hers before her, that humans are not good eating. They are
much too bitter and stringy, and put up a terribly hard fight.
Goats are much better - plump and juicy and quite placid.
They’re never very difficult.”

Anya didn’t know what to make of the dragon’s explana-
tion, and so said nothing.

“Now, please do come dine with me. You must be hungry,
and tired half to death.” The dragon headed towards the cave.

“Wait.” Stopping, the dragon turned his head to look at
Anya. “If you’re not going to - eat - me, then why...” She trailed
off and motioned helplessly with her hands.

“I shall explain. Please, follow me.” Somewhat reluctantly,
Anya followed the dragon through winding stone corridors lit
by flickering torches, until at last they reached a wide cavern
whose walls were veined with thick rivers of gold. An iron
chandelier hung from the high, arched ceiling, bearing fat
ivory candles dripping wax upon the floor. On an enormous
slab of oak sat a whole roast stag garnished with vines of
blackberries, scarlet pomegranates, plump honeyed figs,
mounds of violet grapes, and piles of dewy blue plums.

“Eat,” the dragon said, settling himself down at the other
end of the table. “Make yourself at home.”

Anya sat down at one end of the wood and tentatively
reached for a pomegranate. “Who are you?”

“Nordath,” he rumbled, helping himself to the roast stag.
“Nordath the Valiant. I know you are Anya.”

“How...?” Anya left the end of her question unspoken.
Nordath smiled. “We dragons have our ways.”
“You said you’d explain.” Anya whacked the pomegranate
off the corner of the wooden slab to break it in half.
“Yes, yes...” Nordath rumbled as he set down the stag.
“You have heard the tales and legends of old, I think I am not
mistaken in assuming.”
Anya nodded.
“So you know that this land was once rife with magic.
Magical and non-magical folk intermingled freely with one an-
other and coexisted in peace - flourished even. But the great-
great grandfather of your current King Eloden, King Clar-
ence, grew fearful of those with such powerful abilities. He,
a power-hungry mortal, could not imagine being gifted with
such great power for good or ill and not using it for personal
gain. In a fury partially driven by fear, though for the most
part by greed, he persecuted all magical folk, driving nearly

all from Daelan, and claiming their lands as his own. The Silver
Elfin Woods, the Forest of the Faeries, the Selkie Shores and
Serpent Seas - all these and more he conquered, all these he
claimed. But he could not eradicate all - even he knew that. It
has been his sole wish, passed down son to son, and so it still
lives on in King Eloden.”
Anya’s lip curled. King Eloden was only ever mentioned
in hushed, angry whispers, admonishing the unjust taxes he
imposed and brutal reign he lead.
“Many magical folk,” Nordath continued, “myself included
- took ourselves far from the eyes of man, deep in forests or
high on mountains, and have not been seen by your kind for
over a hundred years. Magic has not vanished no - only gone
into hiding, waiting, always waiting, for a chance to be free
once more.”
“I don’t understand. What’s this got to do with me?”
“Everything.” The word echoed in the chamber, as though
the stone walls repeated Nordath’s speech in a fading whis-
per. “You...do you know who your parents are?”
“No,” Anya replied quietly. “I never knew them.”
“Perhaps,” Nordath sighed, a sound like a gust of wind.
“But you are of magical descent.”
Anya was silent for a moment, before she burst out
50 laughing. “You’re joking,” she snorted. “Me? Of magical de-

scent? That’s preposterous! I’m the village sheep girl!”
“I am being most entirely serious.”
At Nordath’s solemn tone, Anya ceased to laugh.
“You’ve got dragon blood in you. It shows in your eyes.
Ordinary human eyes don’t look like that, deep blue as the
night sky flecked with silver like stars.”
Anya looked down at the pomegranate halves in her
palms, filled with glistening crimson seeds like little rubies.
“Can you recall any other figure of legend of dragon
descent?”
“The great wizard Tarrowin, who defeated the terrible fa-
erie sorceress Maflae by turning her into a flowering shrub,”
Anya replied, meeting Nordath’s gaze once more.
“Yes, and a nasty shrub it is too - gives anything that eats
it a terrible stomachache, and has vines covered in thorns as
long as a raven’s beak,” Nordath grimaced. “Vindictive as the
sorceress herself.”
“But...if I’m of dragon descent, what does that make me?”
“Capable of great, great things. You, like Tarrowin, are
gifted with great magical ability, even if you do not know it
yet. How do you think you can understand me?”