Stanford Anthology for Youth: Volume 21

as you come into my room
and say goodnight.
I hear you go to your room,
the door squeaking shut,
trying not to wake Dad.
I hear you switch on your light,
reading far past my bedtime.
I hear you, finally, roll over
and fall asleep.
Then I do, too.
I may not often see you,
but I hear you.
I always hear you.

101

Nathalie Auslander (above, “Lightbulb”) 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.

ellie power

I Survived, I Don’t Care

102 Every minute there were shrieks and gunshots. My
muscles tensed every time they were heard. I wondered
where Riley was. She was supposed to be in History. “She
always goes to the bathroom during History,” I thought to
myself “Wait, I was supposed to meet her at 2:30, what time
is it now?” I looked down at my phone. 2:32. My thoughts
raced. “She’s in the bathroom all alone, I have to go get her,”
I said to myself. I crawled out from my hiding spot. I ran over
to the door. Locked. “Emma, what in God’s name do you think
you’re doing?” my teacher scolded me.

“I have to go get Riley,” I said “She’s in the bathroom all
alone!”

Ms. Davids eyes widened and then a fearful frown ap-
peared on her face.

“I’m sorry, Emma. But, I legally can’t open that door until
we get the ‘all clear.’ You have to wait. I’m so sorry.”

My head started to spin. I crawled back under the desk.
My knees pulled up to my chest. I started to cry. I’m not even
religious, but I prayed to God. Riley had to be ok. She could
be all alone, scared, in huge danger. I looked down at my
phone, we’d been on lockdown for 20 minutes, but it felt so
much longer then that. I had 14 unread messages. All of them
were from Riley. My heart sunk. Tears careened down my
face.

Emma
I’m stuck in the bathroom
I’m so scared right now, you have no idea.
There’s no one else in here.
Emma, I don’t know when your going to read all this. But I

Ellie is a 6th grade student at Central Middle School. She typically writes stories
but decided to dabble in poetry for this contest. She enjoys sports in general, but
especially soccer.

hope it makes you laugh. Hey, maybe someday we’ll laugh about 103
this.

Yeah, I doubt that.
Remember that one time when we broke a window in my
house with a remote?
Remember that one time when we had a boba fight in the
middle of a 7-11 parking lot?
Remember when we played Monopoly for 5 hours straight
over the summer?
Remember when we had a six night sleepover? We never got
sick of eachother.
Em, I don’t know if either of us are going to make it out alive
from this but you have to know, you’re the reason I got out of
bed every morning. You know how my life was before I met you. I
had no direction, no friends. You have to tell Ms. Davids that she
was my favorite teacher. You have to tell Caleb that I liked him
this whole time even though I said I didn’t. You have to tell my
mom that even though her best wasn’t very good, it was good
enough for me.
Em, you have to tell yourself that none of this is your fault
because I know you. You’ll feel bad for not coming to meet me in
the bathroom.
Someone’s coming
Forever and always, Em. I love you so much.
I turned off my phone. My tears didn’t stop. Caleb looked
at me from under a desk. He saw my distress
“What’s wrong, Emma?”
“It’s Riley, she’s stuck in the bathroom... all alone.”
“How do you know?”
“She told me.” I said abruptly.
His face went pale.
“Emma! Caleb! Shut up! You’re going to get us all killed,”
this girl, Catherine, hissed at me.
“Sorry, Cat.” I said quietly. I brought my head into my
hands. Time inched by so slowly. Every second that passed, I
got more anxious. I heard sirens from far off.
“Finally,” I heard someone say “what’s taking them so
long?” “I guess this is what we get for going to high school in
the middle of nowhere,” someone else said.
“A high school in the middle of nowhere, why would any-
one want to target us?” the conversation continued.
My mind went black. I started to hum Riley’s favorite
songs. I rocked back and forth along to the beat. I’m sure I

104 looked like a psychopath. The tears continued and so did I. I
began to hum through Riley’s “car playlist”. The playlist that
didn’t have any explicits because her mother always drove us
everywhere.

“All clear, the threat has been removed and the ambu-
lances are here,” rang throughout the school. “Teachers may
unlock their doors, please keep all students inside of your
classrooms until further notice. Also, please take attendance
and report missing students, immediately” This rings through-
out the school. I pull my head up from my knees. I look
around the classroom. “Guys we just survived a shooting,”
I hear someone say. I survived the shooting, but it wouldn’t
matter unless Riley did too.

Caleb and I locked eyes. He crawled out from a desk and
grabbed my hand. He pulled me up sharply. It made me dizzy.
I stumbled across the classroom, weaving through tables and
chairs. I shoved the door open. Caleb was right behind me

“Emma! Caleb! You can’t go!” I heard from inside the
classroom. Too bad, I’m going.

I was going to get to Riley. No one was going to stop
me. I sprinted to the door of the bathroom. I stopped in the
threshold. Caleb ran into my back. I prepared for myself for
what I may see. I turned my head and looked Caleb straight
in the eye.

“You ready?” he asked me.
“No, but lets go.”
I took a deep breath as we took a step into the bath-
room. With a sharp inhale, I melted to the floor and started to
scream.

105

Emily Cooney (above, “All as One”) is an 8th grader at Central Middle school who
loves cats, musicals and hanging out with her friends. She also loved doing art in
her free time and doing tech crew for her local theater productions.

106

107

108

109

charlotte berry

Identical

110 Plop.
The first rain begins to fall.
Two girls step outside, identical in ev`ery way.
Well, almost every way.
One wears pink, the other black.
Two identical grins, plastered onto two identical faces.
They look to the sky, waiting.
Waiting and waiting for something to happen.
But what?
Then, drifting softly from the clouds, fish.
As big as basketballs, they float along the rooftops.
Two blue umbrellas unfold, calling to the sky.
Dozens of fish float towards the girls,
Whispering softly only to them.
The girls listen intently to the murmurs of the koi.
Four eyes widen in surprise, four legs hurry back inside.
Koi fish disperse, back into the gloom.
But what did the fish say to the girls, why did they leave so
soon?
Next time it rains, ask them, maybe they’ll give you a clue.

Phoebe Berghout (previous page, The Na Pali Coast Views”) loves hik-
ing, camping, theater, volleyball, and especially outdoor photography.
Megan Kelly (previous page, “Sisters at Sunset”) is an eighth grader at
Central Middle School. She loves soccer, art, gardening, and reading. In
her free time, she plays piano and hangs out with her friends.
Charlotte Berry is in 8th grade at Central Middle School. She loves act-
ing, reading, and going on hikes. Though she loves the outdoors, she
also enjoys binge watching “The Office” on Netflix.

111

sumon bomya

It Smells Like Pollen

112 The butterfly effect is very complex. It states that every
decision you make, no matter the importance, can make a
gigantic ripple of events to come. For example, if you pick
your red shoes instead or your white ones, sometime far in
the future, that might be the reason you work at a gas station.
A thing that can change your whole future is something that
you might not even think about, and to me, that might be the
scariest thing in the world.

Spring is my favorite season, mostly because of my
teacher. In spring, she becomes normal again. It goes like
this: during the summer she falls madly in love with some-
one she met at the local library. By autumn she’s head over
heels in love, she claims. Weekly romance novel read-aloud
is like a tradition, and every year I pray that I am too sick to
go to school. When winter rolls around she usually misses
the first four days of it. When she comes back to school you
can smell the rum sweating from her pores. She tells us how
love is cruel and unforgiving, how right when you become
vulnerable, it’ll bite you in the - swearing rates go up by about
47.79%. But spring is the golden month, as I like to call it. She
tells us how we don’t need a shoulder to cry on and how we
just need to suck it up, buttercup. This is the season where
she seems to have her life all together. In these two months
we learn about long division and limericks. Anything you can
think of from A to Z - she teaches us it all. She gives us one-
minute multiplication tests and reads to us all of the Nancy
Drew books we can absorb. But most specially, I get to come
in at lunch to learn about the human anatomy, (namely the 11
major organ systems) trigonometry (tangent function), and
SAT essay writing prep. She says that I have a mind like no

Suhrith Bellamkonda (previous page, “Queen of the Sea”) is an 8th grader
at Blach Junior High. He loves art, poetry and strategy games. He wishes
he has unlimited time for creativity.
Sumon is an eighth grader who is very passionate about writing, especially
poetry. She loves writing just for fun and also enjoys reading. Sumon
swims competitively and dances just for fun. She plays the clarinet and
loves broadway.

other, that I am a prodigy. When I walk into the classroom she 113
says,

“Ahh. Well if it isn’t Ms. Alana Goldry. First citizen of Day-
ton, Ohio to make it to Stanford University. This young lady
lives in the hood with nothing but a pencil, and is still makin’
every private-schooled white boy shake.” Then school is out
and I come back, having to listen to stories about the first
kiss.

I am told to keep my head down and back straight. I
do this when I walk past either a cop or a gang member.
Momma tells me that I have nothing to worry about, since
no one would pay attention to a small girl with bad sight and
big eyes. She says that I don’t mean anything and if she could
trade me for some more cigarettes, she would. I believe her.
She tells me that I have nothing other than her. That my father
was someone who took something from her and left.

She said that I won’t understand until I am older, but she
doesn’t pay enough attention to me to know that I am pretty
smart.

I walk to school with a notebook in one hand and a pencil
in the other. Ms. Tolaw gave it to me and said that she saw
something in me and that she wouldn’t have wasted money
on it if it weren’t for a good cause. It is dog-eared and torn
now, but is still worth a million bucks. It holds all of my super-
secret, deeply-emotional, free-verse poems. I see that some-
one is walking towards me. Someone with a black hoodie and
a tattoo of a tear under his left eye. It only takes me a few
moments to know that he is part of a gang, but as Momma
said, don’t show fear, keep walking forward with your head
down and your back straight. So that’s what I do. Until he
starts to get closer, that’s when I start to panic, so I do some-
thing that no one should ever do, ever. When he just about
walks past me, I look up.

Just a glance, just a half of a second of eye contact is all
it took.

Something is wrong. Something is wrong and I can’t fig-
ure out what it is. There is something missing in what is going
around me right now. It’s a feeling as if something were here,
but then vanished, like a magician’s bunny. It just went into
thin air without leaving a path behind it.

My heart stops.
The footsteps. Where are the footsteps? When he walked
past me I heard footsteps. Since the road is asphalt, his shoes
squeaked a little when he took a step, but I don’t hear that
anymore, and considering that it was pretty noticeable and

that I just walked past him, I should still be able to hear them.

Squeak.

Squeak.
Squeak.
Squeak.

My body floods with relief. The same thumping pattern
continues on.

Squeak.

Squeak.

Squeak.

114 Squeak.

Except they seem to be getting louder. And I start to
panic again.

Squeak.
Squeak.

Squeak.
Squeak.
And closer together.
Squeak.
Squeak.
Squeak.
Squeak.

And before I realize it, he is right behind me breathing on
my neck. And instead of running, I stay frozen. There is noth-
ing left to do.

He walks in front of me and turns around. With one swift
arm motion he picks me up by the top of my shirt and holds
my nose two inches away from his mouth.

“Hey there.” His breath smells of tequila and his words
are slurred and unclear. He can’t be more that seventeen, and
he’s already thrown his whole life away.

“I saw the way you looked at me and I just wanted to say
‘Hi.’ I think that you pity me, huh?” I try to shake my head but
instead a tear rolls down my cheek as I hang there, paralyzed.
“Yeah, I think you do, because once I was just like you. I tried
hard at school and I even had my own notebook too. But let

me ask you something, princess, why bother playing a game
that’s already rigged?”

He drops me on the hard pavement and my knee starts
to bleed, but school is half a mile away and we don’t have
bandages at home. So I walk the other direction, towards the
local drug shop. I am sobbing, but I don’t seem to notice, and
that one statement seems to be the only thing that I can hear.

When I get to the drug store, I waste no time. I walk in,
take a package of Band-Aids and then I walk out. I seem to
forget to pay.

115

alannah blumstein

Lady Knight

116 Clang !
The ring of clashing swords echoed from the knight’s
training grounds and through the arched window of the
tower chamber where Alianor sat. She didn’t have to look to
know that it was the squires practicing—they always did, at
this time of day—but she did anyways. Two young squires
in roughspun tunics bearing the triple-headed lion crest of
the Noble House of Berrola, one blonde and the other dark-
haired, swung at each other with blunted training swords.
Their strikes were clumsy, their aim poor; the blonde stuck
out a foot to trip the dark-haired squire, who in turn whacked
him with the blunt pommel of his training sword. Alianor
sighed and turned back to the etiquette book she was sup-
posed to be reading. Given the chance, she would practice
with much more diligence than any of the squires. She
yearned to feel the weight of a sword in her hand, to strike at
her opponent, comfortable in her armor as a second skin. Not
that her mother, the venerable Lady Morgaine of the Noble
House of Berrola, would ever allow Alianor to so much go
near even the bluntest of training swords.
“Swordplay is not the practice of a proper lady,” Lady
Morgaine’s words echoed in Alianor’s mind. “You are a daugh-
ter of nobility, and so must act as such.”
Alianor shifted restlessly in her chair and looked to her
kestrel skin, lying on the table next to her. She, as were all in
the land of Aldenanthria, was a skin-changer, able to throw
on the animal skin she was born with and shift into it at will,

Marta Olsen (previous page, “Tranquility”) is an 8th grader at Central Mid-
dle School. She enjoys playing tenor saxophone, as well as drawing and
writing stories and poems.
Alannah is a student who is passionate about reading, writing, drawing,
and climbing trees. She is a devoted Potterhead and loves many of Shake-
speare’s works (some of her favorites being Romeo and Juliet and A Mid-
summer Night’s Dream), as well as Jane Austen’s novels (namely Pride
and Prejudice).

sloughing it off like a cloak when she wished to return to her 117
human form. Every skin-changer, however, had to guard their
animal skin closely; if it was torn or burnt, the skin-changer
themselves was as well.

Absentmindedly, Alianor fingered the feathers of her kes-
trel skin, red as rust, blue as the most distant mountain, and
gold as a lion’s pelt. Only when she shifted to a kestrel did
Alianor feel truly freed from the restraints of a daughter of
nobility, able to soar among the clouds, one with the wind and
sky. She glanced from the etiquette book to the kestrel skin
and back again, weighing duty and freedom in her mind. With
a slightly guilty smile, she set the book on her chair, pushed
her dark hair from her face and slung her kestrel skin over
her shoulders.

A warm tingling spread over Alianor’s body as her eyes
widened, arms turned to wings, and feathers sprouted from
her skin. The sensation lasted only a moment longer, until the
transformation was complete and she stood perched on the
windowsill as a kestrel. She ruffled her feathers and stretched
her wings eagerly, before soaring out the window and into
the sky.

It was a wonderful feeling, flying—Alianor doubted that
any could equal it. Nothing but the wind around her and world
before her, the sky above wonderfully arching and endless.
Alianor let the tip of her wing skim a cloud, let the wind fill
her. She closed her eyes and let out a screech of pure joy,
high and piercing, like a ray of distilled sunlight. A few squires
training down below looked up in confusion, but Alianor paid
them no heed.

Free, she thought, free at last .
The slight brush of a mouse skittering in the forest below
pricked Alianor’s ears. Mice , her thoughts drifted, warm mice,
plump mice, juicy mice—she shook her head and pulled out
of the dive she had unknowingly began. She knew that she
had to shift back when her thoughts became too kestrel-
like; whenever skin-changers remained in their animal forms
for extended periods of time, they began thinking more and
more like the animal itself, until, if they stayed as an animal
for too long, they became one, unable to shift back. It was
one of the dangers of skin-changing.
Alianor swooped back towards an open window and
threw off her kestrel skin, blinking for a second once she
regained her human form. It always took a moment adjusting
from the keen vision of kestrel eyes to the somewhat lesser
of humans.

118 “Alianor!” Her father, Lord Geoffrey, greeted her. A tall,
broad-shouldered man with thinning dark hair beginning to
look a bit grey, a beak-like nose, and a well-manicured beard,
he stood next to her mother, who wore a deep green dress
that matched her large eyes, and strands of gold woven into
her long, fawn-colored hair. They said that skin-changers of-
ten resembled their animal counterparts in human form, and
Alianor’s parents certainly did. Lady Morgaine’s large green
eyes, soft fawn-colored hair, and slight form was reminiscent
of the doe she could shift into, and Lord Geoffrey’s beak-like
nose and piercing gaze called to mind his gryffon form. They
stood with several other lords around a dark-wood table
spread with a map - a war council, Alianor realized.

“How is it coming?” Alianor asked, gesturing to the map.
“Those Northerners aren’t giving up!” Lord Geoffrey
sighed, his tone grave. “We’ve had to send all of our best
knights.”
For several weeks now, the warrish northern clans had
repeatedly attacked the borders of Lord Geoffrey’s and sev-
eral other Aldenanthrine Lords’ lands. Bent over the map, they
strategized, brows furrowed as they debated where to send
their knights.
Alianor traced the silver line of a river on the map with
her finger. “If you approached from the west, through the for-
est, you’d reach them faster, but that would be too expected
a move. The mountain pass to the east, though longer, would
be the smarter move. You could have your archers stationed
higher up the slope, while the footsoldiers approach from
below.”
“She’s right,” Lord Falcast nodded.
“Alianor,” Lord Geoffrey warned with a meaningful look.
“You know you are not to involve yourself in war strategy. It
doesn’t befit a daughter of nobility to do so.” Lady Morgaine
nodded in agreement.
“Yes, Father,” sighed Alianor as she strode from the room.
“Alianor?” her mother called.
“Yes?” Alianor called over her shoulder.
“Don’t forget the tournament tomorrow; we must be
ready early to spectate.” Alainor nodded. She wouldn’t forget.
Always, it was so; long had Alainor ceased to attempt to
sway her parents’ minds about her taking lessons in sword-
play. That much went unspoken.
Tomorrow, thought Alianor. Tomorrow I will change their
minds.

Alianor awoke early the next morning to the sound of a 119
raven croaking from somewhere outside her window. She
dressed in the plainest blue-grey gown in her wardrobe, with
the addition of a second-hand grey-woolen cloak and worn
brown leather boots she’d obtained with a few coins from a
servant. Hastily, she stuffed a satchel with her kestrel skin and
a few apples, slung a bow and quiver of arrows (“borrowed”
from the armory) over her back, and opened her arched
window.

The sky was a misty grey, promising rain, and the sharp
aroma of pine hung on the early morning air. From her win-
dow to the ground was an expanse of grey-stone tower wall,
choked with ivy and moss. It was lucky that Alianor did not
fear heights.

She swung one foot over the ledge, and then the other,
in what her parents would have called, “a very unladylike
manner,” and began to climb. Her arms soon ached with the
effort as she scraped her fingers into chinks in the grey stone
of the tower wall and grasped tangled ivy vines. She’d consid-
ered flying as a kestrel, which would have been much more
efficient, but then she would have been too recognizable.
Each skin-changers animal form was as unique and identifi-
able as they themselves.

Just keep climbing , Alianor thought, focusing on the fact
that with each awkward step, she was a little closer to her
ultimate goal. If she won the archery tournament disguised
as a peasant, she reasoned, and revealed her identity to her
parents after doing so, they would surely let her learn sword-
play—if she could handle a bow, a sword certainly couldn’t be
that much more difficult.

Several exhausting minutes later, Alianor reached the
tournament pavilion. From where she stood, Alianor could
see various event arenas; the jousting arena, full of snorting
steeds and participants strapping on armour, a fenced-off
section of grass devoted to swordsmanship, where hopefuls
practiced their parries and thrusts, and—ah—there it was—the
archery range. She wound her way around stands and event
arenas, around snorting steeds and riddle-spouting bards until
she reached the arena. About a dozen knights with apples tied
to their helmets wandered about inside the arena, with a few
contestants standing nearby with their bows. Three contes-
tants stood in the arena; there was need of one more. Alianor
hurried in.

“We have our fourth archer!” a herald declared, in a voice
not unlike a donkey’s bray. The crowd applauded politely,

120 with a few more riotous cheers from the back. Alianor could
see Lord Geoffrey and Lady Morgaine seated on a raised
platform nearby; an empty seat sat to Lady Morgaine’s left,
undoubtedly for Alianor. She felt a pang of guilt.

“In this tournament,” continued the herald. “These four
archers will shoot as many apples as they can from these
knight’s heads. However, the knights will not remain station-
ary; they will dodge your arrows as best they can. You have
one minute, at the end of which I shall count the number of
each arrow piercing the apples. Whomever has the most,
wins. The tournament begins,” he tipped a little sand-timer.
“Now!”

Deftly, Alianor notched, drew, aimed, and shot with the
skill of one much practiced. Both her talent and drive to
prove to Lord Geoffrey and Lady Morgaine that she was
capable of learning swordplay spurred her on, and before
she knew it, the herald blew into the ceremonial gilded ram’s
horn, signalling the end of the tournament.

The knights crowded around the herald, pulling arrows
from each other’s apples and sorting them into piles.

“Our winner is,” the herald called a minute later. “The lass
in the grey cloak!”

Alianor glanced up, overjoyed. The crowd applauded
(and cheered, in some cases). Turning to Lord Geoffrey and
Lady Morgaine, Alianor threw off her hood.

The effect was rather immediate; the crowd fell silent,
and murmurs of confusion rippled through throughout.

“Lady Alianor, Lord Geoffrey and Lady Morgaine’s daugh-
ter? In an archery tournament?”

“Strange indeed, quite strange.”
Her parents frowned disapprovingly from their platform.
It was rather remarkable just how alike Lord Geoffrey looked
now as a human to as he did in his gryffon form.
The smile faltered on Alianor’s face. She furrowed her
brows; were her parents even the smallest bit proud?
Alianor felt a raindrop fall on her head, wet and cold.
Another followed it, and then another; the thick grey clouds
above her, plumped by rain, let forth a torrent of water, soak-
ing her dark hair. She blinked hard to rid her eyes of wetness,
whether from tears or from rain, she didn’t know.

“Do you realize how disgraceful it looks for a daughter of
nobility to participate in an archery tournament ? And dressed
as a peasant, no less!” scolded Lord Geoffrey.

Alianor sighed and dipped her head in acknowledgement. 121
“I simply cannot conceive what drove you to do it,” Lady
Morgaine shook her head. “A most silly and childish act in-
deed.”
“I just thought—” Alianor’s voice caught. “I just thought
that if I won the archery tournament, it would prove to you
that I am fully capable of learning swordplay.”
Lady Morgaine sighed in irritation. “Did you seriously
think that doing something so improper as that would con-
vince us?”
“But I—” began Alianor, before a messenger bursting into
the room cut her sentence short.
“Sire!” he said, panting as though he had run. “A dragon—a
dragon’s been spotted—to the East—we think it’s—”
“We can discuss this later,” Lord Geoffrey said, glancing
at Alianor, looking paler and more worried than she had ever
seen.
“You think it’s what?” Alianor addressed the messenger.
“None of your worry,” Lady Morgaine cut in cleanly. “Now
please leave.” Alianor complied somewhat incredulously. What
was it about this dragon that worried her father so? There
were plenty of dragons in Berrola, all lazy, riddle-loving and
more or less harmless. Why was this one any different?
Deep in thought, Alianor made her way to the one place
that might answer her question; the library. She rifled through
tall shelves of books, some bound in shiny leather and others
in rough calfskin, some new and others fragile as parchment
butterfly wings. Finally, she came upon one that looked prom-
ising; On Dragonnes and Their Importanse in Aldenanthria’s
Historia, an old volume that smelled of yellowed parchment
and dust.
She thumbed through it, her eyes darting from topic to
topic: The Dragonne’s Dyet , Where Dragonnes Lyve, Drag-
onne Species, Dragonne’s Huntyng Tactics, Faymos Drag-
onnes Yn Historia... Her eyes settled on the last one; that at
least might give her some clue as to why this dragon worried
her parents so. The section contained only one entry, much
blotted over and crossed out in places.
The evyl Kyng Morgoroth the Cruel, who could transf-
form into a fyery beast, had ravaged Aldenanthria until he
was subdued by the Knights of the Sylver Order and ba-
nyshed to the forest .
Alianor’s eyes widened as she read. All of the knights
were away battling the Northerners—all Lord Geoffrey had to
send to subdue the dragon were the untrained squires.

122

Oh dear, no, Alianor thought, closing her eyes in frustra- 123
tion. Sending the squires is useless. I could do a better job
than them…

Then it dawned on her—she could do a better job than
any of the squires—she’d read on every aspect of swordplay
and strategy, and doing couldn’t be too far from reading...

Several minutes later, Alianor burst into the stables, at-
tired in an ill-fitting suit of armor, a scarlet shield embossed
with the golden triple-headed lion, and a sword, all pilfered
from the armory. Only one steed was left in the stables, a
tall, dapple-grey mare who eyed Alianor with apprehension.
Having never saddled her own horse—the grooms had always
done it for her—she struggled with the reins and harness for
a few minutes, but somehow managed to get them on cor-
rectly and lead the horse from the stables.

Outside the stables, a plethora of armored squires and
their horses wreaked havoc, while the one knight left tried
vainly to create some sort of order.

“Hey—you with the grey horse,” he called to Alianor, try-
ing to peer under her visor. “I don’t think I’ve seen you be-
fore.”

“Um, yes, er, I’m Oliver,” replied Alianor, deepening her
voice. “I was a stable boy, but they just knighted me to, er, to
go after the dragon.”

“Alright, then,” the knight nodded, convinced. “Squires,
at attention!” he shouted over the din. The squires quickly
arranged themselves into a disorganized mob, Alianor joining
them.

“We ride now. We’ll go through the forest to the foot of
the mountain, and surprise the beast from there.” The knight
traced their path with a stick on the ground.

It was the most ridiculous and simple minded plan Alianor
had ever heard—a magpie could conceive one better. Mor-
goroth was surely anticipating this move, swift and obvious.
With a group of untrained squires, he’d hear them from
mountains away, and once they reached him - if they reached
him—he’d have the advantage of higher ground.

But, as it was the only way to set out without being seen,
Alianor decided to follow it, at least for now.

They rode a winding path through the forest, steeds
snorting and swords clinking. Alianor watched for an opportu-
nity to slip off unnoticed, and as none presented itself, grew

(Natalie Lo, opposite page, “screaming colors”) I’m 14, and I spend my free time
drawing on my ipad pro or sketching.

124 more and more anxious. So she decided to take matters into
her own hands. She covertly poked the horse nearest with
the handle of her sword, causing it to rear up on its hind legs
and the squires nearest to scatter. Urging her horse into a
gallop, she rode as far from the group as she could, until the
dapple grey mare slowed, and she was forced to amble on at
a lesser pace. Cocking her head, she couldn’t hear the squires
anymore—that was a good sign. Suddenly, a squire with a
long nose and curling dark hair to his shoulders burst into
the clearing on a chestnut steed, his helmet apparently lost
somewhere in the forest. Alianor recognized him as the dark-
haired squire from the other day, the one who the blonde had
tripped.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked suspiciously.
“I, uh, I’m Oliver,” she answered dully, unable to think of
anything else to say. “I was a stable boy, but they just knighted
me so—”
“No, you’re not. I know all of the stable boys, and none
of them are named Oliver,” he folded his arms and raised his
eyebrows.
“You see, I’m new—” began Alianor, before her head hit a
low-hanging branch, knocking her helmet fell off and letting
her dark hair spill about her shoulders.
“Oh,” the squire’s stormcloud-blue eyes widened. “You’re
that noble girl—Lady Alianor Berrola, right? Why’re you here?”
“I’m here because you and your squire friends are go-
ing about this all wrong,” she shook her head and urged her
horse forward.
“Because you know so much better,” he said as he
brought his horse up to hers, his tone incredulous.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. You’re not facing some
ordinary mountain dragon—it’s King Morgoroth the Cruel. His
animal form was a dragon.”
“How d’you know that?”
“I read it, in On Dragonnes and Their Importanse in Al-
denanthria’s Historia.” The squire furrowed his brows. “But I
thought the knights of the Silver Order vanquished him.”
“Not vanquished, only banished. Look, if King Morgoroth
hasn’t changed—which is probably the case—he’ll want to
take Aldenanthria back for himself and cast it back into the
shadow of his rule.”
“That is problematic,” agreed the squire, looking down at
his reins.
“Yes, and that’s exactly why I’m going to vanquish him
myself,” Alianor explained as she urged her horse forward

once more.
“I’ll come with you.”
Alianor sighed and turned to face the squire. “I said

myself . You’re an untrained squire—what interest could you
possibly have in coming with me?”

“Honor,” the squire replied, pride edging his voice. “Once
a squire performs an act of honor, we’re knighted—not
squires anymore. That’s what all the squires here want; to
become knights.”

“Alright,” Alianor relented. “Just don’t be a fool.”
“My name’s Fandrel, by the way,” he offered, shrugging.
“If we’re going to slay a dragon, I figure we should know
each other’s names.
Alianor nodded, and then smiled. “Well, Fandrel, if we
want to reach the dragon before the new moon, we’d best
get riding.”

Hours and hours later, Alianor was forced to admit that 125
they were lost—hopelessly, ridiculously lost.

“I haven’t the slightest idea as to our whereabouts, if
you’re any more knowledgeable.”

Fandrel shook his head. “I can’t say I have any more
of an inkling than you.” Alianor slumped from her horse and
leaned against a tree with a sigh.

“The horses are tired,” Fandrel observed, patting his
chestnut steed’s maine as he unsaddled. “We should send
them back. They’ll find their way.”

As the two horses ambled back through the forest,
Alianor wondered whatever the squires would think when
they saw the pair of riderless steeds—that their missing riders
had fallen prey to the dragon, probably, which wasn’t all that
unlikely. If they ever reached him, that was.

“What now?” Fandrel looked to Alianor.
After a moment’s thought, she spoke. “I could shift into a
kestrel,” she said slowly, an idea forming in her mind. “I gener-
ally have a better sense of direction in that form. I could fly
above the trees and see where we are, and perhaps more
importantly, where Morgoroth is.”
Fandrel nodded. “I’ll shift into a wolf. You can fly above
the trees, and I’ll follow from below.”
Alianor pulled her kestrel skin from her satchel and
shifted as swiftly as she could, flying above the trees as soon
as the transformation was complete.
A sea of forest spread in every direction, hemmed in by

126 a range of misty-blue mountains. A tendril of smoke curled
from between the two mountains nearest, like a grey owl
plume against the sky. Alianor glanced down to see Fandrel
looking up at her as a silver wolf, though his stormy blue eyes
remained the same. She inclined her head in the direction of
the smoke and flew off towards it, turning back every now
and then to make sure that Fandrel followed.

Night fell, casting her dark veil over the night sky. By the
time Alianor and Fandrel reached the mountains from be-
tween which the smoke came, stars were already winking
into the sky. The moon silvered the forest with its pale light.
Alianor flew back to the ground and shifted into a human as
fast as she could.

“Just behind those trees,” she told Fandrel, who was in his
human form once more. “That’s where the dragon is.”

He nodded in understanding. “What...what do we do once
we find it?”

“I use these.” Alianor pulled from her satchel a quiver
of arrows. “I’ve tipped them with essence of wolfsbane—it’s
poisonous. I’ll conceal myself behind a tree or a boulder, and
shoot from there.”

“What do I do?” Fandrel asked.
“Erm—try not to get killed, I suppose.”
Alianor didn’t wait for a response before she set off
through the thicket of close-growing trees. She stopped just
shy of the edge, lest she be seen by the dragon, and looked
up.
Morgoroth sat with his long, spined tale twined around
the silver trunk and twisted branches of an oak. His irides-
cent scales looked to be a deep scarlet from one angle, but
glinted purple and black when they caught the light. Alianor
knew them to be as hard as her armor and sharper than the
most deftly crafted blade. From his mouth protruded curved,
tapering, bone-white teeth, long and thin. His eyes were
wholly black, the precise hue of a starless night, glittering like
dark jewels.
He was the most majestic and terrible creature Alianor
had ever seen. For the slightest moment, she stood awe-
struck, part amazed and mostly terrified, before remember-
ing why she was here and what she was supposed to do. Her
hands trembling, she notched an arrow, careful not to touch
its poisoned tip, and aimed for a chink in Morgoroth’s scales.
Muscles tense as a hound before a race, Alianor released the
bowstring and let her arrow fly.
Its aim dead and true, the arrow whistled through the air.

The dragon’s glittering black eyes narrowed. Arching his long, 127
scaled neck, he blew a stream of bright flame. Even from
where she stood, within the fringes of the forest, Alianor
could feel its heat singe her skin.

The arrow—or what remained it, anyways—fell to the
ground in a pile of ash. Glittering black eyes affixed on
Alianor, Morgoroth spoke in a tone as deep and rumbling
as the heart of a mountain. “Your poison-tipped arrows are
clever, little knight, but all for naught. Come out and face me,
like the ever so valiant and honorable soldier you are,” his
tone mocked with every word. “Or that you are supposed to
be. Hiding like a small child does not seem something a brave
knight should do.”

Alianor strode from the tangled thicket, defiance clear on
her face.

“I’m no ‘little knight’,” she spat.
“Ah, a lady. Your father’s knights were not enough to suf-
fice, I suppose, so he sent his daughter to do his bidding.”
Alianor’s eyes glinted. “I came myself.”
“Interesting...most interesting...” Morgoroth mused.
In her mind, Alianor scrambled to conceive another plan.
She still had her bow and several poison-tipped arrows, but
Morgoroth would surely notice if she tried to use them. At
her side lay sheathed her sword, though it wouldn’t be able
to do much of anything against the dragon’s impenetrable
scales.
“It’s a pity—truly, it is—that I must put an end to you, little
knight; but this I must. I cannot have you running about and
revealing to others my location.” Morgoroth’s jaw worked as
he built up a flame—Alianor looked for something, anything
that she could do.
At that moment, Fandrel ran yelling into the clearing, wav-
ing his sword in the air. Still belting a battle cry, he jabbed at
Morgoroth with his sword. The dragon spewed his flame aim-
lessly into the air. Enraged, he lifted Fandrel by the back of his
armor, black eyes glittering like coals.
“Two little knights—how extremely amusing,” he hissed.
Fandrel kicked and struggled in Morgoroth’s grasp, his
sword waving aimlessly. Next to the dragon, it looked ridicu-
lously small and insignificant.
“I told you not to get yourself killed!” whispered Alianor.
“It’s—for—honor,” Fandrel managed between swings.
Morgoroth laughed. “Oh, an ill-fated plan!”
Seeing an opportunity in his distracted amusement,
Alianor wrenched a poison-tipped arrow from her quiver and

128 ran at Morgoroth.
Swifter than Alianor thought, the dragon whipped his

long, spined tail in front of himself, slamming it into her and
causing her to fly backwards. She landed with a thud against a
tree, her vision swimming with pain.

“A commendable effort, but I am not so easily won,” said
Morgoroth.

Still, Alianor gripped her arrow.
The dragon’s expression grew dark. “Set down the arrow
or I eat the little knight. First him, then all of Aldenanthria.”
Alianor stared back obstinately.
“Now.”
Breathing hard through her nose, Alianor clenched her
jaw. “You idiot,” she hissed to Fandrel as she set down her
arrows.
“Cast them into the forest,” instructed Morgoroth, his
tone languid.
With her eyes fixed on the dragon’s, channeling pure
loathe, Alianor slowly picked up her arrows and hurled them
into the forest. She could hear them clatter in the distance.
“Better,” smiled Morgoroth. “Now, I have an offer to make
you. You know this land and its people much better than I,
and are well acquainted with its ways. Help me to conquer
Aldenanthria and restore my rein. I can give you anything you
wish for in return - riches, power, an army at your command.
Whatever you wish, you shall have.”
Alianor stared into the depths of Morgoroth’s glittering
black eyes, and saw the hate and avarice that brooded there.
In that moment, she vowed that he would never rule Alde-
nanthria, not so long as she lived to prevent it. She drove her
sword up into a weak point in his scales.
“Never!”
The dragon’s face contorted with rage and pain as he
dropped Fandrel, who scrambled to his feet.
“What have you done?” Morgoroth gasped as he lashed
his tail about wildly.
“Essence of wolfsbane—I saw it on the blade of my
sword. It must have spilled on it when I was packing my
satchel.
The dragon retched and clutched in vain at the place
where the arrow stuck, the wound now smouldering. With a
final moan of agony that shook the air, Morgoroth the Cruel
crumpled to the ground.
Alianor looked up, breathing hard, to see that Fandrel was
looking at her in wonder.

“The damsel saves the squire in distress,” he shook his
head in disbelief. “That’s an unusual ending.”

“Well, you’d better get used to it if you’re going to be
hanging around me,” Alianor smiled as she pulled on her kes-
trel skin and soared into the air.

Several hours later, Alianor and Fandrel walked in on a 129
very surprised war council poring over a map.

“Alianor!” Lady Morgaine exclaimed. “Where have you
been off to? You worried your father and I half to death!”

“You don’t have to worry about Morgoroth anymore,”
Alianor said.

Only then Lady Morgaine and Lord Geoffrey seemed to
take in Alianor’s armor and the sword that clanked at her side.

“Oh!” her mother gasped.
“Did you...?” Lord Geoffrey gestured with his hands.
“Yes,” Alianor nodded, setting upon the map a deep red
scale she’d saved in her satchel. “Morgoroth the Cruel shall
trouble you no more.”
Slowly at first, but with growing vigour, Lady Morgaine
and Lord Geoffrey began
to clap. They were joined by the rest of the war council
and Fandrel, who stood by Alianor’s side.
“Wonderful! Truly spectacular!” her father clapped her on
the back.
“Yes, most certainly,” Lady Morgaine nodded. “But there
is a small matter I must address.”
Guiltily, Alianor shifted her gaze to her feet. “I know I
shouldn’t have gone off—”
“Oh, no, not about that,” said Lady Morgaine as she shook
her head and waved the subject away. “You did as any knight
would have. And for knight you act as, knight you shall be-
come, both you and your squire friend.”
Looking to each other, Alianor and Fandrel smiled.
“Our squires are in desperate need of training,” Lord
Geoffrey addressed Alianor. “And you’ll be just the knight to
do it.”
Alianor grinned broadly.

In the knight’s training grounds, Alianor practiced her
thrusts and parries, so deeply focused that she startled when
Fandrel spoke.

“Battling an invisible opponent, I see,” he laughed as he
tossed her an apple.

Alianor caught the apple in midair and took a resounding
bite. “In lack of a partner, one is forced to do so.”

“In that case, Lady Alianor, would you grant me the honor
of a duel?” Fandrel’s tone was all trained politeness, but his
eyes smiled with humor.

“Oh, don’t you ‘Lady’ me, Sir Fandrel,” smiled Alianor as
she turned to face him.

“And if you’re not a noble Lady, then what are you?” Fan-
drel unsheathed his blade.

Alianor spoke as she swung her sword. “I’m a knight.”
130

Sarah Chun (opposite page, “The Fork on the Path”) is an eighth-grade student at
Blach Intermediate School; currently, her path is pretty straight forwards because
she has great support from family and friends. Her hobbies include playing bad-
minton and reading dystopian books; one way she is making this world better is by
enlightening people with her sarcastic remarks.

131

julia jeffries

Layers

132 “I’m sorry about your grandfather.”
Everyone says that.
“Are you okay?”
I fake a smile and reassure them I’m fine.
I put on a brave face, even though I’m pained. Grief felt like
a hammer shattering my heart. I still hear his laugh, though
I try not to think about it because it would break down my
barriers that keep me from getting hurt. I would never say
anything out loud. Especially not here, there are too many
people. Focus on something else…
Bapa’s old friend is saying a speech he prepared for the
service, I’m standing next to Mom and my aunt. Though, I’m
barely listening because I’m trying not to cry. I barely ever
cry. It’s getting harder and harder to keep streams from fall-
ing down my face. I rarely cry in front of anyone. Not even
my best friends. I tried to tighten my face or shut my eyes
closed, but nothing worked. I didn’t let out a sob. No whim-
pers. Just streams. My mind spaced out and went back to a
recent memory.
September 3, 2017. Two weeks ago. That dreadful day. It
didn’t seem real. So many emotions were running through
me. I was angry with the world being so cruel, protesting in
my mind that it wasn’t fair, wasn’t his time. I regretted that
I didn’t take advantage of the time I had with him. That I
should’ve learned more about football, about architecture.
The things he loved. He didn’t have much time, and I wouldn’t
see him anymore. I didn’t know if he was proud of me. Dad
and I drove down to the hospital. They had told us that they
would make him comfortable. I wanted to scream at the top
of my lungs. Nothing came out. I rushed into the hospital
room and stopped dead in my tracks. Wires, too many of
them, were attached. His skin was pasty, like the color of the

Julia Jeffries is an 8th grader at Central. When she’s not at school, she is baking,
cooking, reading, singing, acting, hanging out with friends, or playing video games.

checkered hospital floor. His eyes were closed and his hair 133
was sticking up in different places. “Bapa, you have a visitor.
It’s Julia.” Nana’s voice was shaky.

I could tell she was trying to keep it together as well. His
eyes fluttered wide open and lit up when he saw me. My
voice cracked. “Hi Bapa.” That was all I could muster.

I went over and kissed him on the cheek. He managed to
motion a kiss where his head was positioned. My grandmoth-
er escorted me out. “That doesn’t look like our Bapa, does
it?” Nana’s voice cracked again. “But that’s the most animated
I’ve seen him in days.”

My mind comes back to the present just as Bapa’s friend is
finishing his speech. “To Schuyler’s grandchildren, remember
all of the great times you had with him, playing, laughing.” I
couldn’t stop the tears. I’ve been keeping in so much over
the years without anyone’s help that I just cracked. I’ve never
been so vulnerable. I couldn’t keep it together. When the time
came, it snuck up on me, startling me so much every bone
in my body rattle. The grief is like a panther pouncing on its
prey. Yet, I knew it was coming for a long time. He had his
first heart attack when my father was ten. I knew it would
only get worse. He was so light-hearted, full of life. His eyes
lit up when he saw me...

audrey shen

Lesson Learned

134 She’s sitting in a rocking chair in the corner of her small
cabin, humming softly to herself. You’re standing outside her
cabin window, under orders to stalk this old lady from your
boss, although personally, you don’t see how she is a threat
to the people. But your boss says she is, so here you are.

She looks up from her knitting, so suddenly that it sur-
prises you. You duck out of her view just in time, under the
window. Then, after a few seconds of listening to your heart
beat twice faster than before, you risk a glance. She’s back to
her knitting, so you continue watching her. You’re still wonder-
ing how stalking an old lady who’s knitting would help your
country.

Then, she looks up again, even more sudden than before.
You don’t even have time to duck out of view before she
locks eyes with you. Her eyes are pure black, pits of tar, soul-
less.

She smiles, revealing dark yellow teeth, so dark they’re
almost crossing over to brown. You involuntarily shudder.

You click your mic on, and say into your mouthpiece,
“She knows I’m here.”

There’s static from your earpiece. Then, “Run.”
But you realize that you can’t lift your feet off the
ground, that they’re as if glued to the ground. When you try
to speak into your mic again to call for help, you realize that
you’re paralyzed. You can’t move or use any part of your
body.
You regret that you didn’t accept your boss’s offer to
bring backup. “An old lady?” you’d scoffed. “I don’t see how I
wouldn’t be able to deal with that by myself.”
He had shaken his head. “Just be careful, Mitch.”
Now, you watch as she reaches for a large tree branch,
around the size of a ruler, and stands up, heavily leaning on

Audrey is a seventh grader at Blach who loves to write stories. Her other
passions include reading, playing tennis, and playing and listening to music.

the table. Then, suddenly, her image flickers and goes out, like 135
a candle in a strong breeze.

You breathe out in relief. Your boss probably found out
that you’re in trouble and alerted the rest of the crew. You’re
saved.

You turn around to run out of the place, but the she is
standing right in front of you. Your feet are still stuck. She’s
standing so close that you can feel her breath, warm on your
neck. It smells of rot.

Up close, you can see that her long, black skirt is stained
with brown. You swallow the wave of nausea threatening to
flood all the food you ate this morning back out the way it
came.

She bares her teeth at you. “Hello, Mitch.”
How do you know my name? you try to say, but it doesn’t
come out.
She stares into your eyes, her gaze reading your soul,
your very identity, like an interesting news article. “Ah, yes.
You’re under orders to keep an eye on me. But, oh, here’s the
funny part, you don’t think I’m a threat. Mitch, dear boy, I am a
threat. A big threat. And it was your mistake to underestimate
me.”
You try to take a step back, but you still can’t.
Then, she smiles. She starts muttering to herself - in what,
Latin? Italian? - and you can hear only one word out of her
muttering distinctly; “Anana.”
It means pineapple in Italian.
“Don’t make the same mistake again,” she says in her
rasping voice. Then she turns around and walks back into her
cabin.
You sigh in relief, and realize that you can move again.
You turn and run away as fast as you can. When you feel that
you are far enough from the old lady, you whip out your
phone to report to your boss that you’re safe.
Then, you see your reflection on your phone’s black,
blank screen.
Your face is yellow, and your eyes, nose, mouth, and ears
are all gone. Instead of hair, you have green leaves sticking
out of the top of your head. You start screaming uncontrol-
lably.
Because, your face, it’s not your face anymore. It’s a pine-
apple.
You run back to the old lady’s cabin. Her door, not surpris-
ingly, is unlocked, and you burst into her house. She’s back to
her rocking chair, humming and knitting. When she sees you,

she grins and cocks her head in an almost puzzled way.
“Please, ma’am, please change my head back,” you say

breathlessly, fighting the panic from your voice, and failing.
If anything, she looks amused. “When it feels you have

learned your lesson, the curse will undo itself.”
“No, you don’t understand. I have already learned my les-

son. Please, ma’am, I beg you,” you plead.
“It’s nice to have someone beg at your feet,” she muses

to herself. “No, I’m not changing you back. The curse will do
its job without me. Now, shoo.” She waves her stick (is it a
wand?) at you like you’re a pest, a mosquito, and turns back
to her knitting.

You run out her doorway, back the way you came, with-
out bothering to close the heavy wooden door.

You know what the old lady meant: you will never see
your true face again.

On the bright side, you think, at least I’m a few inches
taller.
136

Samantha Chuang (opposite page, “Just Beyond My Reach”) is an eighth
grader at Central Middle school. She enjoys, dancing, drawing, and playing
musical instruments. She is also a huge animal lover, and hopes to have a Corgi
sometime in the future. She has one older brother, one younger sister, and a
Havanese dog named Mei Mei.

137

lauren wu

Little Miss Geologist

138 The door and wall collided as I rushed inside my brother’s
room.

“Hey, Davis, check out what I fou—”
I tripped and fell. Over my own two feet of course. What
else would be in my way in this museum exhibit of a room?
My brother’s backpack on the ground was the only evidence
that anybody lived here. As usual, his bed was perfectly made.
Beside it, a picture of him shooting a game winning three-
pointer.
I don’t know how he does it, I thought, thinking of my
desk, piled high with books, loose
papers, and scented markers.
I turned back to the hallway, the heart-shaped rock still
in my hand. I can’t believe it was just lying on the sidewalk,
practically screaming at me to pick it up. Davis might not
play archaeologists with me anymore (he’s off to Duke on a
basketball scholarship soon) - but he’ll still appreciate a good
rock when he sees one. Even if he doesn’t want it, it would
make a great addition to my collection, bumping it up to an
even 368.
My parents aren’t keen on my rock collection; they pre-
fer my four-foot tall, Little Miss Photogenic trophy just like
Mom’s from when she was my age. They love dressing me up
in pink frilly dresses and having me strut on stage like a pup-
pet. I’d choose the feeling of dirt under my fingernails over
the feeling of layers of foundation and blush plastered to my
face any day of the week.
Davis gets me. He’s the platinum of our family, precious.
He always encourages me to do what I love, even if it isn’t
what our parents want.
“Hey, I’m just saying, twelve years-old is too young to be

Lauren loves playing softball and she plays for the Cal Nuggets. Her other main
passion is theater and she is currently in a production of Mulan Jr. Lauren also loves
art and writing.

told exactly how your life will turn out,” he’d say. 139
I’d roll my eyes. “Says the guy who fits our parents’ “per-

fect child” expectations to the bone.”
I wish he would tell our parents that instead of me.
I stepped into the hallway and noticed the deep bass of a

song seeping out the cracks of the closet door. I rushed over,
almost tripping again, and threw open the door.

I felt my jaw drop. There was Davis, and his best friend/
co-captain, Jason Anderson. Only, they weren’t sitting at a
table and discussing game plan as usual. They were kissing!

Davis? Gay? No.
Dad had once told me with his gentle smile that “Be-
ing gay is being wrong.” I thought he meant that “gay” and
“wrong” meant the same thing. It wasn’t until a few day later
when I called James Stewart gay for saying that 4 x 3 = 7 that
my teacher pulled me aside and explained its true definition.
Everything started moving in slow motion. I realized that I
had never been in his closet before. The all too familiar scent
of Neutrogena make-up wipes overwhelmed my nostrils.
In the unexpected piles of paraphernalia, I noticed a pile of
Vogue Magazines, plastic shopping bags, and torn up enve-
lope. His Duke acceptance letter. I’d seen that a million times
before. But as I took a closer look I noticed the bold, pink,
capital letters spelling out Fashion Institute of Technology. A
big envelope.
He got into the Fashion Institute of Technology? The rock
slipped out of my fingertips.
Clunk.
Davis jumped up, his face identical to mine when Mom
put way too much blush on before a pageant.
“LAYLA, GET OUT!”
Slam!
I stood outside, staring at the closet. The music clicked
off. The door creaked open Davis stepped out. He bent down
to my height. I could see tiny droplets of sweat forming in
between his perfectly shaped eyebrows.
“Don’t tell Mom or Dad. Please.” Unable to respond, I
nodded my head as he disappeared back into the closet.
****
Whoosh...
Thirteen flames flickered, then disappeared into spiraling
wisps of smoke.
I wish my brother could come back home.
Mom cut into the cake, grinning. “Happy Birthday, Prin-
cess. Wow. Looks like we’re going to have a lot leftover this

year without, um...” Her voice trailed off.
It’s my fault that Davis couldn’t celebrate with us, and that

he’s probably cold in some shoebox New York City apart-
ment, paying for his own college tuition. At least he gets to
study fashion, and at least he doesn’t have to stay with par-
ents who don’t accept him.

The doorbell chimed. Dad sprung up to get the door.
He walked back in with a big FedEx package with no
return address. His jaw clenched as he struggled to carry it
inside.
“It’s for you, kiddo. Hey, when you’re writing your thank
you notes, tell your friend to give you a stuffed animal or
something next time.”
I tore open the packaging. Inside was a bucket of rocks.
140

sepiuta Tuionetoa

Meeting Sasha Velour

Sasha Velour is everything to me. When I watch Sasha all 141
negativity and pain melts

away. Anything that has before deter me from feeling any
sense of happiness, goes away.

When watching her she commands your attention, there’s
this sort of mystifying power that she

withholds. Drag is all about creating this illusion of uncon-
ventional beauty, that hypnotizes those

who are interested and are able to find solace in it. Sasha
Velour is the epitome of that illusion.

She is a bald queen, who is equal parts artistic and weird.
She transforms whatever space she

is in, to create a safe place for all that love and watch her.
I constantly think of being able to

meet her, I wish and fantasize daily, and today I finally will.
Being given the opportunity to meet not only Sasha but
many other incredible drag
queens whom I love and adore, has my mind in a whole
whirlwind of emotions. My anxiety has
not eased a bit as I watch Johnny, Sasha’s boyfriend
cruise through the line.
I stare around the room, and find myself amazed at how
there’s so many people who
just like me love drag queens.
At a young age I became attached to drag queens. They
offered me a look at a
different part of the world that I had not experienced
before. They showed a world where all was

Dylan Iki (opposite page, “Pick My Brain”) is an eighth grader attending
Central Middle school. She enjoys playing lacrosse, as well as expressing
her creative side through her art and writing.
Sepiuta is a eighth grader at Central Middle School.

142 accepted, it didn’t matter if you were ‘weird’ or ‘different,’
as long as you did not express any

negative or ignorant beliefs they would embrace you with
open arms. Which was something I

was not used to. From a young age I grew insecure and
felt disgusted with myself because of

the ridicule that I was being faced with in my world. I was
told negative things about myself that I

still continue to deal with. But when watching drag
queens, they have served as my coping

mechanism to deal with the world. When I think of drag
queens, when I think of Sasha velour I

think of these beautiful creatures who have shown me
comfort in strength in my times of

sadness. There is not enough words in any language to
describe how incredibly lucky I am to

have Sasha Velour and other queens in my life, but hope-
fully tonight we’ll be step further to at

least show it.
I stand behind a crowd of seats and stairs blocking the
stage, all of a sudden I hear a
uproar of applause and screams, a rush of people behind
me running up the stairs in order to
see the queen’s walk onto the stage. I stand still feeling an
immense amount of anxiety within
me, almost wanting to pass out. My head started spinning
faster, I begin to panic. What should
I do when I get up there? What if I fail to talk to Sasha?
I’m a complete mess.
As I further move up in line, I see Sasha and the other
queens. I become emotional, I
think of how someone who I have for months been want-
ing to meet, someone who has had
the greatest impact on my life, someone who has
brought me to tears many times, knowing
that all those wishes and fantasies of meeting Sasha were
happening cause me to tear up and
start crying. Watching her greet other fans coming up to
take pictures, watching her talk with
others around her, I’m in complete awe. I see all the
queens together, being so close to them,
it was just like what I would see in photos and videos.
They all look impeccable. Sasha is wearing a dress I rec-
ognize from older photos of her.
In all of her bald beauty she wears a multi-printed black

and white skin tight dress, with sequins 143
and white heels. I feel equally nervous and excited. In my

mind I tell myself ̈Sasha is right
there!” I want to just run up to her and give her the big-

gest hug ever.She looks flawless and her
beautiful smile that would make anyone around her weak

to their knees, makes me beam with
an endless amount of delight and joy. I can’t help but

stare.
All of a sudden it was my turn, I walked up with my arms

awkwardly out to hug them
with a shocked look on my face. Alexis Michelle and Shea

Coulee (drag queens) both welcome
me and direct me to stand in between them. Both saying

hello, Shea tells me I’m gorgeous. I
take a group photo with all the queens. All of sudden I

then turn to my right to see Sasha
walking up to me. As she walks to me, just as I had re-

hearsed and fantasized for months, I
look at her and tell her that I love her so much and that

she means the whole entire world to me.
As she grabs my hands she tells me ̈I love you so much,

you’re so gorgeous, ̈ then
compliments me on my nails. I begin tearing up again, as

she puts her arm around me and I
put my hand around her waist, repeating to myself, ̈my

arm is around Sasha Velour, my arm is
around Sasha Velour…” We finish taking our photos and

say our final goodbye, watching her
like a complete maniac, looking at her which such admira-

tion and respect. As I walk away tears
roll down my face, reminiscing back on the past few mo-

ments, a smile grows upon my face.
I have trouble comprehending the moment. It just seems

absolutely crazy. I never
thought that I would be able to have this opportunity and

even when I knew what was
happening, the thought seemed so out there. I continue

to reach out and hold on to the
memories that have just been made. Hearing Sasha tell

me that she loves me, words cannot
explain how that felt. All those days I had cried and wished

to do nothing more other than to
look at her face and have her tell me that she loves me.

Having that validation from her was all

that I could ever need. For her to show me that I am de-
serving of happiness is something that I

had never been showed before. I cherish the short mo-
ment we had forever, because it helped me realize that those
who have before made me feel like trash for being who I
was or who had tore me down endlessly were wrong. Noth-
ing can ever explain how incredibly thankful I am to live in
a world where there are thousands of drag queens running
around the world, but I’m even more thankful that with those
many drag queens there’s a Sasha Velour running along with
them.
144

Akshaan Ahuja (above, “Luck”) is an avid all-sports fan. He plays, he watches, he
dreams, he draws and writes all things sports. You could say that Akshaans true
love and passion are just that, sports.

emma grant-bier

Memories of Tradition

Thanksgiving. The warmest of all of my family’s traditions. 145
Even Christmas feels cold and empty in comparison.
Thanksgiving is a time to rejoice with friends and family,
to celebrate the fact that we’ve all made it this far. The old
box of decorations is hauled from its perch in the too-tall
cabinets. Corn husks, plastic leaves, little pilgrims, turkeys,
and a candle with a smell no one can quite place anymore,
it’s label long gone, are scattered throughout the house.
The bright autumn colors fill every nook and cranny, making
every doorway seem to open wider, inviting you into the
endless possibilities. Tables upon tables need to be added
to fit the guests yet to arrive. Then, a sea of orange and red
print tablecloths flood through the doorway and crash onto
the tables, almost enough to cover them all, but not quite. An
expedition for chairs begins. And after it is clear that there
are not enough chairs, we set out for benches, foot rests, and
anything else that can be sat on until we are sure no one will
be sitting on the floor. The smooth china is carefully washed
of its year of dust and set down upon the sea of fabric: small
boats in a vast ocean. Grandmother’s gravy boat is filled for
the first time, and will undoubtedly need to be refilled many
times throughout the evening. The smell of cinnamon floats
on a breeze of cranberry sauce and mixes with soft music
already playing, putting everyone in a dreamlike state.

Then a bell sings through the dream, bringing us back
to reality. It is the first bell that will ring in a rainstorm of
bells. They have arrived; family and friends dance around
exchanging greetings and hugs. Food follows them through
the door, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie, turkey, stuffing,
salad, cranberry sauce, ice cream, jello salad, and drinks. The
box appears; it seems ordinary, plain even, but the children
still eye it hungrily. They know what it entails. The oldest

Emma hates writing bios, and talking about herself in general. She blames society.
However that does not detract from her love of art and music.

146 approaches, but is ushered away by parents saying, “Not
yet, not yet”. Drinks need to be served, food needs to be
reheated, silverware needs to be set out, and someone needs
to explain to the cousins why the paper turkeys are green
with mustaches.

But finally, the dinner bell rings. Mountains of mash
potatoes are piled onto the plates; turkey is passed around.
The children skilfully avoid getting any vegetables, instead
they carve caves in their mountains of potatoes which
collapse into lakes of gravy, splashing onto cliffs of turkey
that are dripping with cranberry sauce. Then the food
disappears, seemingly all at once, flavors blending in perfect
harmony. Laughter rings to the beat of silverware on china in
a seemingly endless song. But it must end.

The peaceful moment is finished.
It is time for war.
The box is thrown open: ammunition collected and
fortresses built. No one remembers throwing the first balled-
up sock, but it is thrown and is answered with return fire from
all angles of the room. Everyone joins in; even the people
who vowed to never play get hit in the head with enough
“misthrown” socks to eventually take action and revenge.
Uncle Jim opts for the “throw without a shield” method and
is bombarded constantly. Aunt Kelly tries to hide behind a
pillow, which many people see as a challenge, and so she
is hit on the head even more than Jim. The children try the
“throw five socks at once” approach, which hits no one and
instead, gives everyone free ammo. But no one is safe. War
cries sound so loudly that surely the entire city can hear
them. It doesn’t matter. A truce is finally called when a fragile
picture frame almost falls off its shelf and a sock lands in the
jello salad. Even then, some socks mysteriously learn to fly,
and hit people when no one is looking.
Someone checks the clock, which must be fast, because
there is no way the night is over already. Yet, even after
everyone else leaves, the house is not empty; it remains full
of love, laughter and joy. So the children go to bed with full
stomachs and the comfort that they can do it all again next
year.

147

Anna Iliaieva (above, “Opposites Attract”) is an 8th grader at Central Middle school
who enjoys reading and writing. She also enjoys binge watching science videos
and wants to unlock the secrets to the Universe.

sophia smith

Mist of the Torrents

148 Sweeping slopes onto her
roll down brown hair
through the coiled into silky curls.
salted heart; The wooden docks
dull pounding splintered cracks
resounding underneath that lay eroded by
the lurching, lamenting the fierce waves,
of the tides, open and exposed.
approaching Paring
the girl. a thin strip of wood
Mist laced from the dock,
with damp tears the child
of the mourning sea lowers her feet
flew on her cheek, into the frigid sea,
and a thin residue an osprey clamping
of sticky haze onto its prey.
adhered to the pale face The waves trap secure,
Her blouse, and her gaunt calves
washed with are thrust
emerald waters, upon a bed
of the ocean’s grasp, of coral reef,
reflects the A shriek is heard
dusky shadows and she plummets
of dawn, into the grasp
as small remains of her watery grave,
of sunlight as the ocean engulfs her,
permeate through pulling her deeper
the leaves into its darkest recesses.
of palm trees; Her hands peers out,
Severed sunlight scraping desperately
shines radiant, at the coarse sand

I have fallen in love with great authors of all kinds, such as Emily Dickinson, William
Shakespeare, and Jane Austen. To me, writing should be about giving justice to
those who have never touched it, to give a voice to the silent people who never
get a say. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to curl up on the couch with a
cup of earl grey tea, reading with my two tuxedo cats.

disintegrating formidable opponent. 149
as her hand clasps The water
on to the shore, draws people in
the only tether with its mysterious
to the living world amorphous ambiguity
for the little girl. that both frightens
Face emerging, and intrigues us.
gasping for a breath, It draws its prey closer
the little girl coughs up with frigid waves
thick salty brine crashing into
and inhales deeply granules of sand,
before the torrents that are swept away
envelope her again. by stalwart tides
She finally turning children
bursts above Into shadowed
the murky waters marble effigies.
breaking the surface
as the sea
sprays her
glistening face,
anxious and stern.
Slicked back hair
trickles down her back,
tracing her spine,
like a Water Moccasin,
as the little girl erupts
from the crest.
Surging upwards
living to see
another day,
the little girl
has prevailed
against a

larry shi

My Piano Teacher’s House

150 I’ve never seen the rest of the house, only the one room,
which is upstairs and down a bright hallway. Somewhere
inside, I can hear my piano teacher’s husband watching a
Russian television show. After stepping through the front
door, I head up the stairs, and into this one room. I picture her
husband sitting somewhere in a spotless den, sipping hot tea
or a cold beer.

I sit down on the bench, feeling both distracted and
horrified; I wonder whether I’ll stumble and completely
destroy my pieces. The sun has fallen and the room is semi-
dark. Along with memorabilia from her husband’s time in the
Navy, blue Yale posters hang from the wall. One is a huge
metal plaque that suggests he was a war hero. From the
kitchen, the aroma of savory herbs rises to distract me from
the piece I’m supposed to have memorized. I hand my thick
book of Bach’s Inventions to my teacher, and she turns to
page 159. Sitting next to me, she looks like any other strict
piano teacher, ready to reprimand me.

I begin to play.
I’m focused; nothing else matters but the piano in front
of me. The world outside liquefies into the dark while I focus
only on the black and white keys. Flawlessly, I begin the
introduction. My hands feel sweaty and cold, but I keep going
on in fear of my teacher stopping me and saying something
like “Why’d you mess up?” Then, suddenly, a wrong note
clanks. My fingers play music out of order. She raises an
eyebrow slightly, just enough for me to notice. Realizing
that focus is the cornerstone, I move on, trying to forget
the shadow my dissonant notes cast over the melodic piece.
The familiar tight keys below my fingertips wordlessly taunt
me, as if trying to get me to fail. Hours of memorization and
muscle memory in my brain translates into music, and I don’t

Larry Shi’s bio is TBD.