Stanford Anthology for Youth: Volume 21

stop for anything. 151
I listen for the smallest details of this three-minute-long

piece, and I try to express them into the cold pale keys. When
I play well, there is endless potential waiting in me. The world
becomes hopeful and bright, rainbow colored. I begin to
see myself as valid, belonging to the small elite group that
performs in Carnegie Hall. The melodic and dissonant sounds
combine together, and I feel warm as if I were sunbathing
under the hot sun near a pool. I can almost hear the sounds
of lapping water and joyful children. The strong smell of
chlorine and the feel of water beads on my skin is crystal
clear. These rare moments of self-pride contradict my usually
pessimistic view of myself. The cold voice of my piano
teacher cuts through my ruminations: “Keep moving! Stop
your daydreaming.” All the warmness quickly washes out of
me, and my fingers turn to ice. Carelessly, I slip my F to a G,
my Bb into A. My happiness and my warmth move into the
deep pit of self-pity.

In my throat, I start to feel choked, maybe because of the
warmth stuck inside. But I still carelessly play until the grand
finale of “Invention 15,” which sounds inadvertently bleak. At
times like these, when the music sounds dreadful, I worry that
I’ll stop paying attention. I’ll just give in to the monotony and
forget how to play the music. I’ll never have the chance to
express, to do more than what the music tells me to do.

I tell myself, “Relax. This is just one song, not your whole
life. Just go on.”

And I start the next piece. My fingers feel cold until they
catch a rhythm again.

grace raymond

Name Calling

152 Just one peek.
No. You know better than that. Just one peek.
The devil wins.
The teacher is at the front of the room, grading
homework from the night prior, absorbed in the job at hand.
Glancing up at him, I make sure he isn’t looking before I let
my eyes wander.
Leaning back, I peer around the barriers. The barrier
that intends to enclose me to my own paper, but does a
poor job. My eyes trace the numbers, equations, analyzing.
I might actually be equal to the two goody two shoes Molly
and Jake. A smirking grin on my face is soon wiped away
with one word. One single word that shocks me, leaving me
sitting there sick to my stomach and wishing I was back in
Kindergarten, where no one cares if you get an A.
“Elisa?”
My name. It means “God’s promise” in Hebrew and an
“enzyme linked immunosorbent assay”— whatever that
means, it sounds sciencey and intelligent, two things they are,
but I’m not.
Confident, bright, organized. That’s what they see in
Molly. Smart, caring, a leader. That’s what they see in Jake.
Both of them have reputations that surpass mine. If
people gave them a number they would be in the millions.
Quadrillions. And I would have a few. Maybe ten to twenty, I’m
not all that bad—good at music and art, athletic. But parents
and teachers don’t really care about that. Why can’t I live up
to what people expect from me? Everyone always seems
to be judging and comparing me. Or do I compare myself?
One thing I do know is I will never be better than my utopian
siblings. One of them should’ve been Elisa, not me. They get

Grace is an 8th grader who enjoys spending time with her family skiing in Tahoe,
along with hanging out with friends, playing soccer, lacrosse, & violin. Despite her
busy schedule, she enjoys reading and writing in her little free time.

straight A’s. They don’t cheat—they are honest. 153
Back in the moment, hesitant, I shuffle up to the teachers

desk. Shoulders turned in, and head down eyes peer at me as
I walk down the red carpet of shame.

“Wandering eyes, huh?”
“Yes.” I murmur, head still down, afraid to face the eyes
full of disgust. Hands on hips and head cocked slightly, his
they burn into my forehead, leaving me with nothing to do
but come clean.
“This means a zero and detention today, and I will be
calling your mother, and...” He rambles on, but I’ve turned my
attention to the rest of the class, continuing to work through
the mumbles at the front. I know they can tell what happened,
but now what do they think of me? Will they kick me out of
the popular group I just joined, that I worked so hard to get
into?
I should’ve just taken the F. There wouldn’t have been the
dishonesty and loss of integrity and disgrace, just “you’re
stupid.” My eyes wandered because of them, my siblings,
my parents, friends. I wanted to be just as intelligent, just as
confident and courageous. For once make them proud. For
once get an A for them to be proud of. Live up to “God’s
promise.” It’s not their fault though, it’s mine.
As my head drops to the floor and eyes fill with tears
that I hold in hard. So hard the clouds cry for me. The
pouring rain beats on the classroom window, trying to reach
inside and drench me with the shame of God. He is so very
disappointed I didn’t live up to be his promise.
Wavering, I choke up the words. “I understand.”
“If this happens again there will be an immediate referral,
and he can decide what to do about this and -”
“I understand.”
I sit down and pray. I never do this, but today I need
forgiving.

Dear God,
No longer am I your Elisa. No longer am I your promise. I
was never your promise, even if I tried. I hope you find a better
person to hold your promise. Someone with a brain big enough
to be an “enzyme linked immuno linked absorbent assay” and a
heart honest enough to keep their promises. I’m sorry I let you
down.

Love From, Emma

“Emma” is not bound to perfection. The name means
“whole” in German. A name I can live up to, which won’t show
my weaknesses. My parents tried when they named me, but
there is something that just wasn’t me about it—it held me to
too high a standard. And I will never live up to be everything
everyone that expects from me, but I will live up to my name.

“Emma” I whisper to myself. Maybe I can keep this to
myself? Elisa outside, but Emma in heart.
154

Cassidy Hatch (above, “Lunar Goddess”) loves to write short stories in her free
time (though she hopes to try and complete a novel in the future). Her favorite
genres are fantasy and historical fiction, and two of her favorite authors are Ruta
Sepetys and Tui. T. Sutherland. She is an active swimmer (and has been swimming
since three years old) and a taiko player. Cassidy hopes to pursue writing and art
in the future as a profession, and share her works with the world.

wilson crum

Not the Only One

“I’m done for the night, Jeb,” I call over from over my 155
shoulder as I button up my thick, yellow raincoat. It was dark
and stormy by the time my shift at the 7-eleven was up, and
Jeb was the midnight cashier, filling in for the night.

“Safe travels, Al,” Jeb calls back to me as I walk out the
door and into the darkness. It’s raining aggressively, as though
the sky is throwing a tear-filled tantrum, and the weekly
forecast states that it won’t let up any time soon.

The old, flickering street lights guide my walking path
home, which is only about a mile away. My thinning, black
hair does little to warm up my head, and my frail frame is not
built for cold climates. I always take the backstreets home
because they are usually safer and less crowded this late
at night. Most of the people who roam the alleyways are
homeless anyways, and they usually disappear when it rains.

As I turn the corner onto my block, I notice a little man
huddled up against the side of an old brick building. He is
soaking wet and shivering like a lone penguin in the arctic. He
isn’t wearing much: just a pair of ripped, tattered jeans and a
single sandal on his right foot. Other than these few articles
of clothing, he is completely naked. I stop in my tracks and
stand directly in front of him. Unlike most of the homeless
men I had encountered, this one did not have a shopping cart,
or even a bag of belongings. The only items on him are his
gnarled jeans and one loose sandal. His beard is long and thin,
and his face wrinkled, with a scar above the right side of his
lip. His eyes are blue and innocent, and seem halow, like he is
lonely. A strange feeling floods over my body, like the feeling
you get when you see someone fall over on the street and
you help them up so you can prove to yourself that you’re
not such a bad person.

I took a deep breath. “Dinner at my place?” I ask as I

Wilson loves listening to music and playing the piano. His favorite subject in school
is geometry, but English is a close second.

156 extend my hand out to him. He looks at my hand, and then at
my face, and back at my hand again in a series of bewildered
gazes. He finally grabs my hand, and I pull him up off of the
ground. As he stands in front of me, I can tell that he is not in
great shape: he is hunched over, and I can see his ribs trying
to poke out of his thin abdomen. He looks at me again, and
nods his head with a grateful smile. I can see how vibrant his
blue eyes are now that we stand face-to-face.

“My place is only a few blocks down the street,” I inform
him as I start walking again. “Just follow me.”

He began walking alongside of me, and together, we
brave the storm until we reach my apartment building. We
burst through the building’s old wooden door, thankful to be
away from the rain.

“I’m just a few flights up, and there’s no elevator, so
we’re gonna have to take the stairs,” I inform him once we
are inside the heated building. His hands are crossed and his
entire body shivers as he gives me a quick nod. I can’t help
feeling pity for him, and at this point I don’t know if he can
speak either.

“I’ll give you a fresh pair of clothes when we reach my
room, and we can wash and dry your jeans if you’d like,” I
add. At this his face lit up, and before I know it, he’s already
lumbering up the stairs, his lone sandal sloshing everytime it
makes contact with a step.

We reach the third floor in no time, and the thought of
a meal and new clothes keeps a wide grin on his face. I step
down the hallway and quickly unlock the door to my room.
“Now, before we go in,” I begin as I hold the unlocked door
closed, ”You absolutely cannot sit on any furniture until you
put on some dry clothes. Got it?” I ask sternly. He nods his
head rapidly in excitement, like a little kid waiting for his
parents’ blessing to open his Christmas presents. I open the
door, and we both file into my small room. I head towards the
bedroom and remove my raincoat, placing it on the end of
my bed to dry. As I search my closet for a fresh pair of jeans,
the man walks around my miniature living room, observing
every photo on the mantle that sat below the tiny, flat screen
television. I enter the living room with dry jeans and a clean
t-shirt in my arms, and hand them to the man. “The bathroom
is just across from my bedroom, and you can change in
there,” I inform him as he takes the clothes from my hand. “I’ll

Emily is aiming to become a photographer or interior designer when she grows
up. She loves dogs and Taylor Swift.

get the soup ready while you change, and when you come 157
out, it’ll be waiting for you at the table,” I add with a smile. He
smiles back, and swiftly heads to the bathroom to change.

The soup is steaming, as it rests on my small, round,
kitchen table as he exits the bathroom, wearing the clean
clothes. He doesn’t appear to be as scraggly as he was
before, and isn’t a terrible looking person with his new jeans
and t-shirt. “You can keep the clothes,” I tell him, surprising
myself. “They suit you well.” He beams again as he plops
down into the seat across from me.

He cleans out his soup bowl in no time, which made it
all the more obvious how hungry he was. Before I have the
opportunity to open my mouth and ask him some questions,
he stands up from the table, and saunters into the living room.
He lifts his hand and points at one of the photos perched
on the mantle, and gives me a puzzled expression. I stand
up from the table in confusion, and walk over to where he
is standing. I follow his pointed finger with my eyes, and my
heart sinks when I see the photo he is looking at.

“Who is she?” he calmly whispers, still pointing at the
photo.

“She used to be the love of my life,” I solemnly respond
as I glance at the photo of the woman. I can feel the tears
already forming in my eyes as I direct my gaze towards the
ground. I usually don’t talk about her with anybody, least of all
complete strangers. The man places his hand on my shoulder,
and I look up into his patient, compassionate eyes. He gives
me a sympathetic smile, which fills me with a little more
confidence.

“Her name was Hazel, and we were inseparable,” I
continue. “It’s the craziest thing, the way we met,” I chuckle
with a sniffle. “We were in the eighth grade, and I sat next to
her in fourth period History. I actually already knew of her
beforehand, but we had never spoken to one another before,
and I never really paid much attention to her.” I realize that
I’m looking at the photo of her now, gazing into her static
eyes as tears drip down my face.

“Next thing you know, we just started talking. Our
conversations were light to begin with, but as we became
more comfortable with one another, we started to talk
about more personal things. We even comforted each other
whenever one of our lives got rough. From then on, our
relationship just grew. We got married as soon as we could,
and life was perfect, until...”

I trail off as the words I am searching for get caught

158 in my throat. We stand in silence for a moment, looking at
Hazel’s smiling face in the photo. My mind is overwhelmed
with all of the memories we had made together. I want to ball
up into a corner and cry, just like I did when she first died. I
want to hide myself from the world all over again, and just
be another expressionless face in the crowd: a crowd that
doesn’t ask so many questions.

“Why did you want to know about her?” I suddenly ask
the man through tears. His hand is still on my shoulder,
attempting to comfort me.

“Because she reminds me of my wife,” he replies quietly. I
stop sniffling and stand up straight, facing him.

“What is she like?” I ask, now curious.
“I actually used to have a family, too,” he adds, gazing
off into nothingness and completely ignoring my question.
“It was just Jane, my two beautiful children and I for ten
wonderful years,” he somberly begins, choking on each word.
“Then one day, we were all in the car, going on a family
camping trip. I ran a red light, and t-boned the side of a
16-wheeler...”
He trails off, and I wrap my own arm around his shoulder.
“I was the only survivor, and everyday I wish I was the
only one that died,” he continues, now crying as much as I
was.
“My life went straight to Hell from there, and I eventually
lost my home to the bank. I’ve been roaming the streets for
five years now. Any hope I once had died a long time ago,
until tonight.” He looks up at me with pride as a kind smile
now forms on his lips.
“No one has ever given me a hot meal and new clothes,
let alone take the time to talk to me. I couldn’t be more
grateful than I am tonight.”
He gives me a pat on the shoulder, like the kind of pat a
father gives his son after he’s hit the game-winning homerun.
He then takes a step back from me, and extends his hand out
for me to shake.
“Being homeless almost made me forget my manners,”
he chuckles. “I’m Jonathan, but all of my friends used to call
me John, and seeing that you’re probably the greatest friend
I’ve ever had, you can call me whatever you want.”
“Well, John,” I respond with a grin, shaking his hand, “my
name is Al, and I have very much enjoyed our time together.”
“Al,” John begins, “You have no idea how monumental
this night has been for me. It’s honest and generous people
like you that keep the world turning, and I couldn’t have been

more lucky to meet you. You saved my life from eternal 159
loneliness, and that alone makes you worthy of a spot in
heaven alongside of Hazel,” he finished with sincerity in his
glowing eyes.

“That’s about the best thing I’ve heard all day,” I laugh,
and John laughs, too. “I really wish you the best in life, John,” I
warmly add.

“Keep being a good man, Al, and maybe my life won’t be
the only one you save,” John responds as he heads towards
the door. I can feel disappointment rise in my chest as he
opens up the door. John feels like an old friend who is leaving
forever, never to be seen again.

“Take it easy, pal,” I call to John, tears forming in my eyes.
“See ya’ around, Al,” he says with a wink and a smile. With
that, he was gone.
I stand in the living room for a while, staring at the closed
door with a sense of longing. I then turn my head towards the
mantle, and study Hazel’s face in the photo. Her perfect smile
and vibrant eyes almost seem to speak to me. I can’t help
but smile myself: for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel
completely lonely. Maybe life isn’t as bad as I paint it to be.
After all, she never really left me: as long as I can keep her in
my heart, she will never leave.

Mia Padilla

160 Papers

Does your stomach ever feel like it dropped into a dark
hole with nothing but anxiety twisting and turning inside
you? You may feel this when you are on a rollercoaster,
confronting someone, or someone accusing you of
something that you had no control over....

“Si, mamá, I will be there in a few minutes” I sighed into
the phone, “Si, mamá, I picked up dinner. Mamá, my phone is
on speaker, don’t freak out.”

We-yo, We-yo! A police car screamed to me to pull
over.

“Mamá, tengo que ir. Adios!” I slowly pull over to the side
of the highway. What’s going on! I stared at my rear view
mirror watching the policeman strut to my car. The police
officer tapped on the glass with one hand while the other
hand was wrapped tightly around his handcuffs, “License and
registration.” He grunted impatiently.

I rummaged through the glove compartment. Ignoring
the stream off dust flying out, I asked “Officer, was I
speeding?”

“No.” He said glaring down at me.
“Was I drifting?” I asked, with my hand shaking through
the glove compartment.
“Your license and registration!” I hand over my ID and
papers.
“What seems to be the problem then?” I say. My heart
beating through my skull like a bass drum.
He glared at my light brown skin then replied “You don’t
have a front license plate, get one.”
“Yes, officer.” My stomach did a flip, That’s not the reason
he pulled you over, it cried. Fear was overwhelming me.
As he strutted to his car, I watched him climb in and drive
away. As soon as he was out of view, I slowly got out of the

Mia is the the oldest of 4, a little sister and two adorable little brothers. Her dream
is to become the first lawyer in her family and to go to Stanford University. She is
a 8th grader at Central Middle School. MiaBella Catherine Padilla comes from a
gigantic Mexican/Italian family.

car. My heart dropped to my stomach. I had a licence plate.
161

(Catherine Liang, above, “Charcoal Horse”) I am passionate about different types
of art such as music (I play the violin and viola), drawing/painting, and mixed martial
arts. I also like playing sports like soccer and swimming.

abigail milne

162 Performance Tonight on Fermata
Street

Music
consumed by
the noise of the surrounding city.
He holds in his hands
the violin
Supported by
nimble fingers, a gentle grip.
He has
nothing.
What troubles him?
Eternally
penniless,
he will not live to be
wealthy.

Wealthy!
He will not live to be
penniless
eternally!
What troubles him?
Nothing!
He has
nimble fingers, a gentle grip.
Supported by
the violin
he holds in his hands,
the noise of the surrounding city
consumed by
music.

When not writing captivating autobiographies, Abigail Milne enjoys acting (talking
loudly on a stage), blasting her trombone loudly, playing volleyball and tennis for
a crowd of adoring fans (calling “Mine!” loudly), singing loudly, hanging out with
little kids (and playing loud games), overusing adverbs, and virtually anything else
that involves her getting attention.

163

Nicole Maneatis (top, “The Monarch Migration Arrival”) is currently an 8th grader
attending Blach Middle School as of 2018. She enjoys science, mathematics, and
art. Nicole’s art teacher describes her as exceptionally creative and talented; she
says her designs show maturity beyond her age.
Sumon Bomya (bottom, “Look Forward. Look Back. Look Up.”) 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.

stella lin

Rearview Mirror

164 At 3:12 a.m., James abruptly sat up in bed; his blankets
wrinkled as he gripped them in fright. He saw the ceiling
and lay there staring at it, willing himself to stay awake. The
rippled texture in the plaster reminded him of the faces of
ghosts: eyes, noses, mouths looking back at him. The dream
was fresh in his mind. James shuddered as he recalled the
blur of screeching tires, broken glass, and sirens. He had
already been burdened by these haunting memories during
the day. The last thing he needed was to revisit them once
more in slumber.

Sighing, he wiped the hair away from his eyes. He hadn’t
brushed it in days. Had he washed it? He couldn’t remember.
It was matted and knotted. When his fingers felt something
cold, they stopped. James recoiled in shock at the massive
lump on his head. Tentatively, he reached up once more, and
his face paled to a ghostly white. James leapt out of bed and
hurried towards the bathroom, his bare feet shuffling on the
cold tiled floor. He nearly tripped over the toolbox which
he’d used a couple months ago to tighten the handles on his
dresser. He flicked on the light in his tiny bathroom, only big
enough for a shower stall, a narrow sink, and a toilet.

Once his eyes met his reflection in the mirror, James
stepped back in disbelief. Certainly, he looked bad enough.
Dark bags shaded the skin beneath his eyes, and his
complexion was pale and blotchy. Now, there was a strange
something growing out the side of his head, almost like an
antler. Twisting his head from side to side, James contorted
to get a better look.

Oh my god. What is that?
After gawking at himself for a good couple minutes,
James reached up to touch the object. It lay beneath the soft
skin of his scalp. The object was rigid like stone and as big

An eighth grader at Windemere Ranch Middle School, Stella enjoys reading and
writing short stories and poetry. Her work is soon to be published in Stone Soup,
and her poetry has been recognized by PTA Reflections.

as a book. He gave it a small tug. However, it was trapped
in the space between his skull and his skin and seemed to
have grown right out of his skull bone. The skin, covered
with brown hair, was thin from stretching to accommodate
the object. As James turned his head to the left, the object
pointed at the right wall of his bathroom. As he turned
towards the right, it pointed at the left wall. Quickly, James
mentally searched his medical history, but he couldn’t come
up with anything parallel to this moment. Allergic reaction?
Spider bite? Feeling nausea at the strangeness, James gently
probed at the object until his index finger poked a hole right
through his thin skin. With effort and squishy sounds, James
yanked the object from his skull.
He couldn’t believe it. A car’s rear view mirror, covered
in blood. He set the mirror in the sink and stepped back,
recoiling at the sight. He told himself, “You’re hallucinating. It’s
just a bad dream. Rear view mirrors don’t grow on people’s
heads.”
Leaning forward into his bathroom mirror to examine
the damage to his skull, James noticed that the hole in his
skin was already closing, as if by magic. As dizziness forced
James to bend over, he spotted a strange lump underneath
the “Don’t tell me what to do” t-shirt on his back. The rising
tide of relief that came suddenly receded, and James was 165

met with the same feeling of nausea once more.
Holy crap! Now what is this?! Warily, he lifted up his shirt
to examine the massive lump
underneath it.
This time another oddly-shaped item stuck out at a
grotesque angle. It covered the whole length of his back
and stuck out of his spine like a tail. Once more, he yanked
it out with great care and effort and several tears of his skin,
only to find that it was a car’s bumper. How could something
so large be under his skin? It was inconceivable. This can’t
possibly be a dream. There were now two bloody hunks
of metal lying across James’s sink. They looked somewhat
familiar to him. James felt ashamed as he looked at them in
the sink. Although he lived alone by choice, James scooped
the items out of the sink and hid them in the hallway closet.
For a moment, he thought about his friend Ethan, who
stopped by sometimes unannounced, but Ethan was dead,
so there was no chance he would drop by. Still, James didn’t
want to take any chances. Crisis averted, James trudged back
to his bedroom and flopped onto the bed. He stared up at the
ceiling with his hands behind his head, his eyebrows wrinkled

166 with worry, and tried not to throw up.
Over the course of many days, the pile of items in

James’s closet continued to expand. They grew off his body
all day. With anxiety like a tsunami, he added an axle, fender,
and some other unidentifiable objects to his collection.

The next day, James stood in line at the grocery store,
fingeringing the coupon in his jacket pocket, his arm hooked
beneath the handle of his grocery basket filled with eggs,
bread, salad, and bacon. He was trying to break his fasting-
and-then-eating-Cheetos-and-beer diet. The lady in front of
him seemed as though she were purchasing one of each item
in the small supermarket, and James could tell the people
behind him in line were getting irritated as well. James stared
at his hands until he felt a slight, hesitant, tap on his right
shoulder. “Uh, excuse me, sir, there is a uh... umm... something
on your head,” the man standing behind him stammered. A
look of finely-masked horror was plastered on the man’s face
as he stared at something above James’s hair.

James immediately dropped his basket on the ground
and hurried to the market’s bathroom. In the bathroom at the
back of the grocery, James stood in front of the bathroom
mirror. On the top of his head, there was a cone-shaped
object. He wrenched it out from beneath his skin, held it out
in front of him, and found that it was an air filter. Does cancer
cause people to grow objects off their body?

Turning on the tap, James rinsed the blood off the filter.
He grabbed a couple paper towels and wiped the filter dry,
studying the vertical shafts that ran up along the side of it.
Holding the object in his hand, he smoothed out his hair and
stepped out of the bathroom. With false confidence, James
sauntered back into the checkout line, picked up his grocery
basket, and said nothing to the man who still openly gawked
at him. To the clerk, James held out the filter and said, “I
brought this in with me.”

After the incident at the grocery store, James found that
he could no longer leave the house without risking someone
seeing a ‘part’ growing off him. He walked back home and
unplugged his phone from its charger. What am I going to tell
my boss? I can’t tell him the truth, he would think I’m insane.

He crossed the room over to his dirty green couch, sat
down, and dialed his boss’s phone number. James sat with his
right leg pulled onto the couch, and his left leg idly hanging
off the edge.

“I, um, have a slight problem. I, uh, have been growing
bumps on my body. I’m going to see the doctor tomorrow.”

It was almost true. James was thinking about making an 167
appointment with his doctor.

His boss told James that he was sorry to hear about his
illness and hoped he got better soon. He also told him that
they would lose accounts if he didn’t hurry back. James hung
up and slouched down the couch a little.

Staying home from work all week, James found himself
bored yet anxious. After all, he normally spent eight hours
a weekday at work. Now, he just slept in, slumped on his
couch watching television, and continued to frantically
pluck different items from his body. Some of the items that
grew were so immense that he had trouble removing them
from beneath his skin. At times, he had to wrestle with the
pieces like a man struggling with an invisible person. When
his muscles ached from the fight, he would yell, “Why are
you punishing me?!” However, the only answer he got was
the walls mimicking his voice. Eventually, James collected
so many items that he had to move them from the hallway
closet into his dusty garage, where they made a pile as big as
a parking spot.

One afternoon, James spread all the items around his
garage like puzzle pieces. One by one, he tried to fit them
together, and somehow, he knew which part went where.
Using screwdrivers and other tools lying idly around his
garage, James fit the pieces together in a frenzy. It was as if
he couldn’t stop until he finished.

After he screwed in the very last screw, James stood
in front of his finished car, eyeing it with concern. It was a
replica of his old one, the one that he wrecked months ago.
It wasn’t very fancy - just a small sedan large enough to fit
five people and some items in the trunk; nonetheless, he was
shocked to see it recreated in his garage down to the exact
pre-accident scratches on his bumper. He walked down to the
corner gas station to buy a gas can and fill it. Only after filling
the tank could James bring himself to open the car door and
climb in the driver’s seat.

Inside, the car even smelled like his old one. It had the
same scent of coffee from the time he spilled his morning
cup. Although his eyes didn’t want to stay open, James
pushed his old car keys into the ignition and turned. He
was surprised to hear the familiar hum of the engine and
backed out of the driveway that led to his modest home
in the suburbs. Knowing exactly where he was headed, he
tried to keep his mind away from those inevitable thoughts.
Eventually, James drove to a small park-like area. A rusty, iron

168 gate bordered the edge of a lush green lawn. On the lawn,
small trees grew and bouquets of flowers lay resting.

Pulling his keys from the ignition, James sat and
contemplated his options. Next, he got out of the car and
ambled towards the lawn, unsure. Images from horror
movies and television shows filled his mind, ones that showed
blood, gore, and gruesome details. Dead people. Taking his
time, James picked his way through the various different
headstones. Although he had driven past the place before,
the cemetery was one of the few places in town that James
hadn’t set foot in. Suddenly, he realized just how many people
were buried here. Walking through the cemetery, he noticed
the bright, unwilted bouquets of flowers and wondered
whether people would spend the time to put flowers on his
grave.

James continued down the grassy lawn where the more
recent headstones stood.

Sighing, James brought himself to sit down cross-legged
in front of one headstone. He could feel the damp grass
nearly soaking his pants.

His eyes were moist as he scratched the back of his neck
and then furiously wiped his face with the back of his hand.

James pulled out a glass beer bottle. It was the last item
that had grown off him, and he recognized it. Before, James
wasn’t sure; but now, the purpose of it was clear as day. He
placed it on the ground in front of the headstone.

“I’m sorry,” James offered.
Pushing himself off the ground, he brushed the dirt off
his pants, turned around, and drove home.

isabella walker

She Was Everything 169

Her eyes were filled with sunshine,
Her heart made of gold,
A smile that turned on the lights,
When the whole world was dark,
Her beauty was within,
But no one could see,
She gave the world to everyone,
Only expecting a piece in return
In the end,
They turned her sunshine to rain clouds and thunder,
And her golden heart to ashes that littered the floor,
Her smile no longer shone,
On her beautiful flesh,
So the world became dark,
Once again,
Her face now became plastic,
Like that on a barbie doll,
All these masks,
All these faces,
That no longer showed her own,
She gave the world to everyone,
But now,
Expected nothing,
Because everyone knew,
How much she longed,
For someone to love her,
A girl, whose beauty was within,
And her heart made of pure love
She will find someone who will never let her go,
Someone that will give her a world,
Not a piece

Isabella is 13 and loves to write poems that mean something and say something
about the world and its people. She reads poetry books because she can relate to
the poets’ perspective and truth of their words. She also runs track and field and
plays soccer on a club team.

She was the light that shone at the end of the tunnel,
She was the gravity holding up the planets,
She was the beauty that others found in themselves,
She was everything,
170

Mihika Sane (above, “Sunset in Paradise”) has been exploring a wide variety of art
forms over the past eight years. She is especially interested in exploring impres-
sionism and contemporary art. Aside from art her other interests include playing
club soccer, baking, and going camping with her family.

171

Anna Iliaieva (top, “On the Abandoned Brick Road”) 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.
Linna Xia (bottom, “Galaxy”) is a student at JLS middle school in eighth grade. She
enjoys drawing digital art as a hobby.

mary jane hartman

Some days

172 Why do the days have to be overcast? Why can’t a bit,
just a bit of sunlight peak through? It was supposed to be a
beautiful view but no, just a gloomy chunk of water vapor,
clouded the outlook. We hiked all day to see gray sky, how
uplifting. Just to add to the dreary day, my skin was sweaty,
and my hands attracted dirt like a sticky fly trap. Additionally, I
felt as if millions of knives were stuck in my lungs.

Everybody was talking about their exhaustion, and how
this is what we get for 4 miles of uphill trek. I couldn’t help
but agree. But it was a bit different for me, I have been
training for 2 years to walk again, and this is what I get. A
foggy view of the city below.

3 years ago I got in the car with my mom to go to the
grocery store. We were crossing a green light, and a drunk
driver ran a red light and hit our car straight on. My mom was
the lucky one, who only broke a leg and 2 ribs. I, on the other
hand, lost a leg and got a concussion. I can vividly remember
the slow motion car smash into our car, and the numbness
that fell over my body soon after. I can’t believe I was only 14
then, it seems like it was yesterday.

We were supposed to camp out on the mountain we
just hiked to see the stars, but it doesn’t seem like that could
happen anymore. Being that we couldn’t even see a blue sky.

Most kids hate hiking, but I’ve always loved it. I adore the
crisp chill air on my face, and the constant aroma of fresh
plants in my nose. I enjoy the tweet of the morning birds
echoing throughout the sky. But most of all, I treasure the
reward of seeing how high you’ve hiked, and the prized view
of the valley below. It always blows my mind away.

Today I hiked with my French class. I have been in the
French club for 2 years to go on this trip to France. When I
heard you could go to France for a week and a half if you

Mary Jane Hartman lives in San Carlos and has 2 older brothers. She loves to play
basketball and enjoys art.

were part of the French club and the French class, it was a no
brainer. My teacher slyly tried to convince me not to go, since
he knew it would be hard to care for a handicapped person.
That’s why I’ve been training with my prosthetic leg, to prove
everyone, I’m not just handicapped, I’m also a person.

A fraction of the the sun peeked through now, nearing
the sunset. I looked down, and smiled, at least I got to slightly
see the city, with its elegant culture pouring out from its core.
But it looked as if a villian took over the city and forced the
light out forever.

The sun started to set and the sky came alive. It was a
watercolor dream, with swirls of pink, shapes of yellow, and
hint of peach. It was the most amazing piece of nature’s art
I had ever seen. The city below was glowing with the rare
warm colors of the sky. Everyone else was as amazed as I
was, staring at the blazing whirl of colors. I looked out, into
the sunset, where nothing mattered, not what you look like,
not how you walk, not what you’ve been through. Just you,
now. In this moment, a moment like no other. All the chatting
behind me stopped, as I listened to my warm breath against
the cool spring air. Always to remember, even the most
cloudy days can develop into the best sunsets.

173

anika Seshadri

Song of the Isthmus

174 The ship docked on the sandy shores.
Waves lapping at its barnacled belly
the anchor digging deep into the earth.
Hundreds swarmed the grounds,
scouring for fresh water.
They readily gulped it down.
With quenched sighs,
the cheerful banter crescendoed from a buzz to a roar.
For gold awaited them in California,
if they could survive the bouts of scurvy that ravaged the
crew,
if they could make it ‘round the horn.
A miner drifted astray.
He stumbled upon an old man,
a cloaked figure,
a shadow,
a deserted soul.
His bony finger pointed deep into the lush abyss.
Raspily whispered “do not undertake the long trip,
cross the isthmus and catch the following ship.”
Gripping his sluice box ever so tightly,
his knuckles whitened at the sight of the darkening jungle,
until he reminded himself of the wealth that awaited him.
He pushed forward.
Feet sinking into the murky bottom as he held in his gasps,
for willowy whispers transfigured from hums to
restless voices warning him to turn back.
Starting from beneath, they rose up until they enveloped his
entire body.
He killed the warnings with one swift motion to his ears.
Thoughts of California’s luxuries raced through his panicked
mind.

Anika is a 8th grader who when not doing her school work will be found dabbling
in poetry, playing her piano, at soccer practice or checking her phone obsessively.

He pushed forward. 175
Vines silently coiled around his leg.
Reaching to brush them off, they snaked up his arm as
hundreds more slithered down the trees.
Thorny bodies pierced his flesh,
with agonizing screams, the miner was dragged to the
ground.
Layer after layer they entwined him.
And it was now that they started to squeeze.
The pain in his chest grew with the lengthening gap between
each ragged breath.
A fire was lit.
Starting in his lungs,
it ravaged his chest cavity and the flames attacked his throat.
His face was painted with terror for standing above him was
a motionless figure.
Crouching down, the familiar raspy voice hissed
“Was the gold worth it? ”
The old man’s mouth curled into a sneer as he lifted his
tattered hood.
The vines had taken over, hijacked his mind, he was one of
them.
Now the miner saw through his watery lenses:
corpses, those around him who had let avarice steal their last
breath.
Consumed by his guilt,
straining for a single gasp,
the flames slithered up into his skull...
And turned to ice.

wilson crum

Standing Up

176 “We need something big,” boomed Mr. Sox, standing up
in the cramped conference room. Being the head sports
journalist of the Boxville Tribune, Mr. Sox always wanted
something big. Every weekly memo mentioned how the
Boxville Tribune’s sports section was losing readership and
pages by the month. People were losing interest in the
somewhat repetitive world of sports, and less interest meant
less jobs reporting for our sports section. We needed what
Mr. Sox just demanded: something big, something new,
something strange, something controversial.

“What do people want?” he asked every dreary journalist
sitting at the round meeting table, including me.

“Excitement!” blurted Joan. I glanced over in Joan’s
direction. How could a recently hired reporter such as herself
be bold enough to shout out in the middle of such a critical
board meeting? Being a new journalist myself, I couldn’t
imagine the consequences of shouting out like that in in the
middle of a meeting, especially because my new job was
already in jeopardy.

“Alright, alright,” replied Mr. Sox. “Someone build on that.
Elaborate more.”

“What about controversy?” I squeaked nervously. I
couldn’t believe I was able to squeeze those words out of my
mouth, I was so anxious.

“What did you say?” he asked a bit too loudly.
“Controversy,” I said louder, feeling more intimidated.
“Yes!” shouted Mr. Sox. He turned around to the wall-sized
whiteboard and wrote in large bold letters “CONTROVERSY.”
He circled it three times and turned back to face everyone
at the table. “Controversy,” he began again, quieter this time,
pointing at the word on the whiteboard with his expo marker,
”is what the readers want. People. Love. Controversy.”

Wilson loves listening to music and playing the piano. His favorite subject in school
is geometry, but English is a close second.

“But nothing controversial is happening right now,” 177
rebutted James, who had been pulled from the editorial
branch of the newspaper to help out the failing sports
section. I glared in his direction. I don’t think he knew a thing
about sports. He probably couldn’t name a professional
athlete to save his life. James “helping out” the sports section
was about as bright of an idea as turning to an English major
to save a Spanish spelling bee team. What value could James
bring to the sports section anyway?

“Ah, but think again, James,” replied Mr. Sox.
“How about the anthem protest?” I asked a bit more
confidently this time, glancing over in James’ direction.
“Somebody, promote this man,” replied Mr. Sox. Wow, I
was on a roll.
“What’s your name, son?” Mr. Sox asked me.
“Philip,” I replied.
“Philip, I want you to write an article on the anthem
protest, but give it some spice. Don’t just state the facts.
Maybe add in some of your thoughts on the issue. This
situation deserves the outspoken opinion of a young man like
you.”
“Kind of like an editorial?” I asked. I was paraphrasing
everything he was telling me at light speed because I was so
excited.
“Sort of like an editorial,” he replied, “but with some good
ol’ NFL controversy thrown in as well. Get crackin’, folks!”
I was almost bouncing out of my seat with the adrenaline
and excitement of writing an important article. I could even
end up on the front page of the sports section! I almost felt
like I belonged in that conference room with all of those
other seasoned sports journalists, sharing the same passion
to write as they did. Even though the excitement within me
was strong, I could still feel small pangs of doubt. No matter
what I wrote in the opinion segment of my article, I knew
someone would disagree with me. I had been afraid to write
about my opinion on anything since high school.
I find myself back at Joseph High School when I was
writing for the school paper, The Saint. I remembered the
stress of writing multiple articles a day, ranging from full
coverage of games to locker room drama in every sport the
school had to offer. I usually kept my own opinion out of my
articles, mostly for my own safety. Some people at Joseph
High were not too keen on people who disagreed with them.
One day during my Sophomore year, I was eating lunch
with the other journalists of The Saint when three members

178 of the Joseph High football team walked over to our table.
They were all over 6’3” and incredibly muscular. I remember
trembling in my seat as they swaggered over, the frowns on
their faces making it obvious that they weren’t visiting my
group to start a friendly conversation. They stopped when
they reached our table, scanning our silent, frightened faces
as we all anticipated their next move.

“Which one of you lil’ dorks is called Henry Smith?” the
largest one eventually boomed. We all sat silent for a moment
before Henry spoke up.

“Me” Henry finally whispered nervously.
“What’d you say?” the largest one boomed back.
“I’m Henry,” Henry said a little louder.
“Did you write that thing in your dumb newspaper about
me beatin’ up that lil’ kid in the hallway?” he yelled in Henry’s
face.
“Maybe?” Henry squeaked back, trembling in his seat.
“Maybe?” the football player mocked back. “You said I
shoulda’ been kicked off’a the football team, you lil’ turd!”
He grabbed Henry by the collar with his meaty hands
and picked him up right out of his seat. I watched on in terror
as Henry was thrown to the ground, his forehead slamming
against the the pavement.
“Don’t ever write ‘bout me like that again, or I’ma kill you
next time,” the large football player yelled at Henry’s helpless
body. I rushed over to Henry’s side as the football players
strolled away, laughing. Henry’s clothes were scuffed and
dirty, his face covered in blood that was dripping down from
the gash in his forehead. I felt a deep pit in my stomach as
Henry cried large tears of pain.
The next day, Henry told me that he was quitting The
Saint and journalism for good. By the end of the week, he had
already moved away to a new school. I hadn’t realized how
traumatizing it was for him to be so quickly shut down after
simply stating his opinion in an article. From then on, I had
always treaded the waters of journalism carefully, doing my
best to stay neutral at all times and not allow my emotions to
make their way into my reporting.
As my mind refocused back into the real world, I realized
that this anthem protest article could make or break my
career depending on what I said. This controversy had
gained a lot of attention in the past couple of days, and
people online couldn’t stop expressing their own personal
thoughts on it. I was certainly not thrilled to put my opinion
on the internet and newspaper for all to see, but either way, I

couldn’t wait another second to get started. 179
Mr. Sox dismissed the meeting and I bolted out of

my foldable chair to my cubicle. I plopped down into my
cushioned wheely chair and opened up my laptop. My fingers
were twitching with excitement, ready to be let loose to type
away like a chained up-dog about to be released by his owner
to chase a rabbit.

I entered Google Docs and opened a blank document. I
looked back at my notes before typing, just to confirm my
objectives.

They read, ”Research protest, be factual, but also include
own opinion at end.”

I decided to perform more in-depth research on the
anthem protest to confirm that what I knew was accurate
before typing anything down. After all, if people were going
to criticize anything about my work, it shouldn’t have to be
my facts.

I opened a new window and searched “NFL anthem
protest.” I was thrilled to see hundreds of results, and I
clicked on the first article that appeared. I felt very well
informed throughout the entire article, until I reached a
sentence that read: “Now that the facts are out, allow me to
share my opinion.”

Yes.
This was what I had been waiting for. I was hoping to
maybe pick up on some tips for how to write a decent
opinion segment for my own article. I’ve never been more
excited to read about someone else’s opinion on anything in
my life.
I read through his thoughts, and completely understood
where he was coming from. He felt angered and slightly
disturbed by the protest because of his family’s rich
military background, and that kneeling for the anthem was
disrespectful to the veterans who had served to protect the
rights of American citizens, including those kneeling for the
anthem. This opinion felt valid to me, and I decided to check
the public comments section at the bottom of the page to
see how other people felt.
I scrolled down to the bottom of the page and viewed the
first comment, which read: “No one cares about your dumb
military background. Stop being such a racist and support the
minorities of this country.”
Yikes.
The article didn’t feel racist at all, and the writer never
claimed to be against minorities. Despite how false this claim

180 was, it still left a pit in my stomach. My mind went back to the
time when Henry was beaten up by that large football player
in high school for expressing his thoughts. I wondered with
fear if this radical commenter had the same violent intentions
as the football player, or if he just felt safe to say whatever
he wanted to behind his shield of anonymity. Despite the
possibility that this person could have just been an internet
troll, I still felt queasy thinking about what he wrote.

I viewed other people’s comments on the same article,
and some people agreed with the journalist’s view, but it felt
like the majority felt the same as the first commenter. I was
shocked to see so many people agree with such a ridiculous
claim.

I read more opinion-based articles related to the anthem
protest, all with unique views. Some of the journalists had
sensible opinions, while others thought of completely
arbitrary things to say. However, no matter the opinion of the
journalist, every article received at least one inane comment
that sparked a frenzy of preposterous claims stemming
from the seed of the first ridiculous comment. Most of what
people had to say made absolutely no logical sense. I was
utterly appalled by what some of these commenters said that
I thought most of it was fake. I hoped it was fake.

I felt my stomach flip upside-down with nerves as I
began to think about my own article again. I didn’t want to
receive the same backlash as these other journalists. I had
never written an opinion piece that would be published in a
newspaper for other people to see, let alone be placed on
the internet for the masses to criticize. In my mind, I could
already see the public condemnation that I was certain to
face, even though I hadn’t written anything yet. I was so
overwhelmed by my own imagination that I almost wanted to
puke.

I felt myself panicking now. My forehead and the palms
of my hands were breaking out into a sweaty mess. I didn’t
know what to do, or where to begin. How could I hold on to
my beliefs if people online wouldn’t allow me to have them?

I needed help, but I didn’t know who to ask. Mr. Sox was
always busy, and I doubted that any of the other sports
journalists would care to assist me, as they had their own
stories to write and publish. I felt like I was stuck in a hole of
anxiety and dismay that I couldn’t climb out of.

My face was resting in my hands in defeat when James
walked by my desk. I peeked through an opening in between
two of my fingers to see him. He stopped at the entrance

181

Anna Iliaieva (above, “Reaching the Universe”) 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.

182 of my cubicle, and I could see that he was observing my
depressive posture curiously.

“What’s wrong with you?” he started a bit awkwardly. I
couldn’t find the power to stay cool, so I just blurted to him
what was on my mind.

“I don’t know,” I said helplessly, lifting my face from my
hands. “I, like, really need a bunch of help with this article.
I don’t know how to write my opinion without having the
world turn against me.” I almost felt like crying, which
seemed pitiful.

“Would you care for my any assistance?” James asked,
like he was some sort of personal servant.

“How could you help me?” I shot back at him. “You
don’t even know anything about sports. Why are you here
anyway?”

“To help people like you,” he replied. “I certainly don’t
know anything about your silly world of sports, but I do know
much more about how to write an opinion than anyone else
in this building. Writing an opinion seems to be your problem
anyway, if I am not mistaken.”

I guess he probably could help me after all. James had
won multiple awards for his masterful editorials in the past,
and was a highly respected figure in the media world. Maybe
I should start listening to him.

“I know you probably have had no trouble researching
the information attached to this story,” he continued, ”but
your inability to find the necessary confidence required to
freely express yourself is what is causing you to be in this
dreadful emotional state.”

Now he was beginning to sound like a medical robot
diagnosing a disease, but I went with it anyway, because
turning down his journalism advice would be like turning
down the winning lottery ticket.

“So, what do I need to do?” I asked curiously.
“It’s not what you need to do, it’s what you need to
know,” he replied.
“What in the world are you talking about?” I asked in
frustration.
“What you need to know is that you can’t please
everybody,” he replied. “No matter how correct you think
you may be, someone in the world is bound to disagree with
you. That’s just a part of life. You’re spending too much time
trying to please everybody, and there is no point in trying to
achieve the impossible. If you can accept this part of human
nature, than the words will flow from your brain to your

fingers and onto your computer screen.” 183
As I tried to process what he had just told me, he walked

away from my cubicle. He didn’t wait for me to say “I get it.”
He just left, knowing somehow that his job was complete.

I slowly turned back around to face my computer
screen, with James’ words still at the forefront of my mind.
The fear of being criticized mercilessly was certainly still
there, but James’ advice definitely suppressed the worry a
little bit. It felt like a miniature weight had been lifted off of
my shoulders, knowing in advance that I would receive the
criticism anyway. I could write more freely now as the burden
of worrying about other people’s opinions was lifted by the
smallest amount.

I began typing my article with a little more confidence
as the words flowed from my mind onto the computer
screen. I paused for a short moment when I reached the
opinion segment of my article. I could feel the doubt seeping
back into my mind, and for a split second, I began to panic
again. However, before those old emotions consumed my
mind again, I remembered James’ words: ”You can’t please
everybody.” I just needed to keep typing. My fingers began to
move again as I pushed past the fear and the doubt and the
foreseeable criticism.

It was late at night when I finally published the article. I
felt anxious for the rest of the night, not knowing how people
would react to what I wrote. The only thing I knew was that
I couldn’t please everybody. I realized now the importance
of expressing my opinion freely. It’s important for all people
to hear another take on a certain event to compare to theirs,
and hopefully help them understand the event in a whole new
way. I now understood what those kneeling football players
were going through. Sometimes, you have to get knocked
down by others to be able to stand up (or kneel) and get
your point across.

abigail milne

184 Starting from Sketch

On a cloud-free Wednesday afternoon, the last place
I wanted to be was inside a prison disguised as an art
museum. Ranging from starry-eyed future Picassos to
reluctant students fulfilling their art credits, my classmates
and I followed our flamboyant art teacher. I trudged up
the enormous marble steps, stopping at intervals to cast a
mournful look over my shoulder at the glistening fountain
in the pavilion below. Wearing a dazzling sequin beret and
flowing floral-print robes for the occasion, Mrs. Louvre
gestured in great swooping motions to the marvels of
modern art gracing the lobby behind the elaborately carved
wooden doorway.

“Class, class, look around you!” she exclaimed as I
shuffled in with a few other stragglers. “Behold, some of the
finest works of art through the ages! The masterpieces of
antiquity! The hottest pieces of today! This one!” We watched
her fly towards a hastily painted still life, a work of art that
a second grader could have rivaled. “Casper!” Mrs. Louvre
cried. Students hastily stepped aside as she strode through
the crowd to grab my shoulder. Unwillingly, I allowed myself
to be dragged towards the painting. “What do you see?”

I stared at the flaking layers of red acrylic, trying to
decipher some hidden meaning. My efforts proved fruitless.
“Well… it’s a b-bowl of apples.” Snickers from the class. I
reddened. “Right?”

Cloudy green eyes glazing over like a finished
pottery piece, Mrs. Louvre nodded. “Yes, isn’t it marvelous?”
I awkwardly shuffled my feet at the following silence.
Suddenly, the teacher snapped out of her trance and floated
over to a contemporary pastel painting of a bakery window.
“And this one?”

When not writing captivating autobiographies, Abigail Milne enjoys acting (talking
loudly on a stage), blasting her trombone loudly, playing volleyball and tennis for
a crowd of adoring fans (calling “Mine!” loudly), singing loudly, hanging out with
little kids (and playing loud games), overusing adverbs, and virtually anything else
that involves her getting attention.

“Ooooh! Ooooh! I know!” My eager classmate 185
Christy, donning a fuschia beret of her own atop a crown
of frizzy hair, waved her hand wildly. “It’s a—a commentary
on the essence of childhood. The glossy icing on that cake
represents the temptation of—”

“I suppose you could interpret it that way,” Mrs. Louvre
interrupted, cocking her head to the side thoughtfully. “What
do you say, Casper? You’re ever so insightful with your
artistic opinions.”

“Um,” I faltered. Why did she have to put me on the spot?
“It looks like a bakery window.”

“A bakery window!” Mrs. Louvre clapped her hands in
ecstacy. “Class,” she sang, “we just might have a future da
Vinci on our hands!”

Eyes shooting daggers at me over her rhinestone
glasses, Christy sniffed and adjusted the paintbrush behind
her ear. After confirming our field trip date with a baffled
young woman at the front desk, Mrs. Louvre led our class to
the Hall of Landscapes, pausing to analyze a pencil sketch
of snow-capped pine trees that proved “fascinating!” and
“captivating!”

Tiring of her fascination and captivation, the class
began to break away and drift to nearby exhibits. Soon, the
teacher was the only one in the Hall, lost in reverie as she
gazed at a collage of a waterfall.

Wandering aimlessly to the other end of the museum,
I found myself in the middle of A Classical Approach, an
exhibit devoted to pieces depicting music. At the other end
of the room, Christy furiously sketched a copy of an adjacent
painting in her handheld sketchbook. Sketch. Erase. Sketch.
Erase. Sketch. Erase. I marveled at the fact that, erasing
notwithstanding, she was making any progress at all. No
doubt she wanted to properly convey the deep commentary
the artist meant to capture when painting a toy trumpet.

Cooly ignoring my presence, Christy scrawled until
her pencil tip snapped. Focusing my gaze on the nearest
piece, I found myself face-to-face with a hazy rendering of
an orchestra. Violins, horns, bass drums, and every instrument
in between seemed to murmur with life before my eyes. A
graceful brunette drew her bow against her viola strings,
adjusting the tuning accordingly. Discreetly, an anxious
trumpeter fingered through his part. At last, the maestro
mounted the podium, brushing a mop of hair away from
his eyes. A few sharp swishes of his baton—one, two, three,
four—and the musicians began to—

186 “What are you looking at?” I jumped at Christy’s
spiteful voice. She scanned the picture of the orchestra. “I
suppose you think this is a painting of a symphony. R-right?”
She laughed at her imitation of my stammer.

“Well, I m-mean, I thought it was an orchestra.”
Suddenly, I wondered if I was wrong.

“Very deep analysis. I’ll have you know that this is an
ode to the way of life that is music, the hushed feeling of
anticipation just before the concert begins. The musicians
lie in wait, prepared to move the audience to tears with an
emotional suite, make them laugh with a light interlude, and
conclude their performance with a majestic arrangement.”
She paused for dramatic emphasis. “So there.”

“Sounds good to me,” I agreed.
“Are you being sarcastic?” Her dark eyes pulsed with
ill-subdued rage. “You know what? I’m tired of you always
stealing my spotlight.” She jabbed a thin brown finger at my
chest. “I’m tired of the way you think you’re so much better
than everyone else, that you’re such an artistic genius. And
I HATE the way Mrs. Louvre just worships the ground you
tread on!”
I wasn’t exactly sure what “the ground you tread on”
meant, but it sounded hostile. “D-don’t poke me.”
“Poke!” Christy poked.
“Stop that!”
“‘Stop that!’” She shoved me lightly.
“Cut it out!” I implored.

“Why should I?” Christy sneered. “You deserve some
reality. You’re not a genius, you’re nothing special, and you
don’t have an ounce of creativity in you!”

Somewhere in my mind, something snapped. My eyes
flamed just as much as hers, and I hissed back without a
single stutter. “Maybe I don’t. But neither do you.”

A light extinguished in Christy’s eyes. Immediately, I
regretted what I’d just said. “I’m s-sorry,” I apologized hastily.
“I didn’t really mean—”

Apparently, Christy had no desire to hear what I really
meant. With a quiet howl of fury (we were in a museum, after
all), she rammed me with full force. Stumbling backwards
towards the orchestra painting on the wall, I became aware
of a queer sensation. An invisible force tugged at my back,
sucking me into the frame. Christy’s cinnamon eyes grew
as wide as pottery wheels. Watching the exhibit blur into
indistinguishable colors, I fell deeper into the vacuum. As I
slipped into the frame, I felt a thin brown hand clamp onto

my wrist. Christy and I plummeted into the abyss. 187
In a split second, or maybe an hour, I felt the

uncomfortable presence of a rigid chair underneath me. It
took a while for my silvery eyes to adjust to the dim lighting
of the concert hall. Once I had full use of my vision, my eyes
swept over my surroundings. I gathered that I was seated in
the back row of chairs on a grand stage, staring out into an
auditorium packed from balcony to balcony with expensively
dressed audience members. A massive chandelier hung
ominously from the mosaic ceiling. To my left and right sat
musicians in no-nonsense black suits and dresses. I glanced
down at my own lap and beheld crisp black slacks and
painfully polished dress shoes. Was that a violin I was holding?

“Casper!” My head whipped in the direction of the
hoarse whisper.

“Christy?” I snickered. She certainly was an odd sight,
standing in the back of the orchestra next to a bass drum in
a skintight, wispy dress trimmed with a ridiculous quantity of
lace.

“Shut it. Where are we?”
“H-how should I know?”
“Nevermind. We’re on a stage. Why are we on a stage?”
“Calm down,” I said, more for my own benefit than hers.
“What matters is h-how we get back.”
“We have to think of something fast,” she hissed,
anxiously watching the crowd cheer as the conductor strode
onto the stage.
“Don’t look at me. I don’t have an ounce of creativity in
me.”
Christy opened her mouth to counter with a witty
comeback, but an elderly cello player cut her off. “Pipe down,
Rizzi and Richelieu. We’re about to begin.”
“Rizzi? Rich-something?” Christy repeated, perplexed.
But by then, the conductor had mounted the podium and
slowly raised his baton. The surrounding violinists lifted
their instruments to their chins and held graceful bows an
inch from their strings. I attempted to follow suit, clumsily
clutching my instrument’s neck. The sheet on my music stand
was written in a foreign, musical language. I turned to see
if Christy was as confused as I was and missed the cue to
begin.

A sharp fortessimo melody strung up from the other
violinists, nearly causing me to drop my instrument. I froze
in my seat, but the conductor spotted my bewildered

188 expression and gave me a reassuring nod. Feebly, I squeaked
out a few awkward notes. Then the tempo increased. I tried
to stop playing, but the bow began to tremor with a life of its
own. Before I knew it, I was flying through the piece. Lively
fiddling! A mournful interlude! I felt the music soar around
me, and smiled as I heard the reassuring off-tempo oompa-pa
of the bass drum.

We released a perfect fermata, and I gaped, astounded,
at the miraculous bow. I beamed at the audience, who rose
with us in a standing ovation and pleaded for an encore. The
conductor obliged, enjoying himself heartily. Through our
encore piece, I nearly forgot that I had no idea how to read
music, nor that I was supposed to be on a field trip at an art
museum. The concert concluded with a satisfying bow, and
I began to follow the violin section backstage when I felt a
firm palm clap on my shoulder.

“Christy?”
The conductor laughed, brushing his mop of silver
hair back with a veiny hand. “Don’t be ridiculous, Richelieu!
I have someone to whom I simply must introduce you.” He
took my hand with a surprisingly firm grip and led me down
a staircase. We weaved through the audience, who reached
out to me with dainty gloved hands, crying, “Bravo!” Flashing
a dopey smile, I waved until my arm ached. Somewhere in the
direction of the stage, I heard Christy calling my name over
and over in exasperation. I paid her no mind. I was Richelieu,
the virtuoso violinist. Finally, I had a talent! People loved me,
and people paid undoubtedly handsome fees to see me
perform!
“Richelieu, this is my dear wife, Camilla,” introduced
the maestro. “Camilla, this is our lead violinist. He is, I assure
you, the most distinguished master of the bow since Mozart
himself!”
Camilla, a plump woman who vaguely resembled a
parrot in her frilled dress, clapped her hands in delight. “Oh,
Monsieur Richelieu,” she gushed in a heavily accented voice.
“I have heard such stories of your playing. What a pleasure to
finally meet you!” I nodded, unable to wipe the goofy grin of
my face. The conductor raised an eyebrow expectantly, and
I suddenly wondered if I was committing a serious breach of
etiquette by not kissing her hand or something.
“Hi,” I said. A few awkward moments passed.
Abruptly, shocked gasps and shrieks ripped through the idle
conversation between audience members. I turned to see a
red-faced figure in a tacky skin-tight dress storming towards

our trio. Grabbing me by the collar, Christy yanked me aside. 189
“What is going on in your thick head?”
“The maestro wanted to introduce me to his wife,

Camilla…”
“Have you forgotten what happened fifteen minutes

ago?” Christy’s eyes flashed. “We have to get out of here.
I’ll think of something. Art class has been proven to improve
problem-solving skills in other areas of—”

“Miss Rizzi,” the conductor said flatly. “What a—pleasant—
surprise.”

Camilla sniffed. “And who is this?”
Christy glared. “My name is not Rizzi. I’m Christy Banks,
and Casper and I—”
“Casper?” scoffed the conductor.
“—were just leaving. Weren’t we, Casper?”
All three pairs of eyes, as well as those of the surrounding
audience members, fastened on me. “Um,” I started. “You’ll
have to excuse us. She’s… suffering from a concussion. Not
super on it right now. It was a, um, pleasure to meet you…
Madam.” After a stiff little bow, I stuck out my hand, which
Camilla hesitantly shook. As my pale hand met her silky
gloved one, I felt the bizarre vacuum sensation tugging at
my arm. The auditorium swirled into a mass of color and
fractured conversation as I sank into the pulling of the glove.
“Casper! Wait!” echoed a distant voice. My ankle was the
last part of me to fall, with a frail brown hand clinging on for
dear life.
“Oh, dear, please sample a cream puff. Auntie Susan
made them herself, and you know how she pours her heart
and soul into those pastries of hers. Just ignore the dryness
and look content. She’s right there at the dessert table and
will be dreadfully offended if you don’t take one,” said a full-
figured woman in a pearl-laden dress who towered over me.
Midafternoon sun shone through the waxy branches
of an overhead oak tree. I squinted to make out groups of
Victorian-era ladies congregating at tables adorned with
mouthwatering finger foods. Looking down at myself, I noted
an obnoxious suit with golden buttons and high-rise socks
that cut off my circulation. An endless lawn of greenery
stretched out before the picnic, and a mansion kept watch on
a nearby hill. I spotted Christy picking at her petticoat in the
middle of the lawn, watching a childish game of ring-around-
the-rosie with a look of pure scorn.
“You may join your cousins after you’ve eaten a cream

190 puff,” the hearty woman, presumably my painting-self’s
mother, laughed. “Go on!”

It hit me as I dragged my feet to the dessert table that
I’d glimpsed this scene somewhere before, but I couldn’t
recall where. Struggling to move in her outfit, Christy huffed
and puffed her way to my side.

“This is one of the paintings in the museum, ‘A Picnic
on the Lawn.’ Not a terribly original title to be sure, but it
serves its purpose.”

“What?” I asked. “You lost me at ‘this.’”
“Hilarious.” She watched a confused expression wash
over my features. “You actually don’t get it?”
“Get what?”
“We’re inside the painting, Einstein! Somehow—there
must be a logical explanation— you got us trapped in a piece
of art from the nineteenth century!”
“Oh. That’s not good is it?”
“Not good at all.”
We glumly piled a hodgepodge of desserts on mock-
china plates, pausing to munch on some as we went.
Apparently, Christy missed the memo about Auntie Susan’s
delicate feelings; after taking a sizable bite of a flaky cream
puff, she spat out a blob of sticky flour mush.
“Blech! That was the nastiest pastry I’ve ever tasted!”
The conversation among the ladies cut off, and a
collective gasp rose from the group. An elderly woman in a
high-collared lavender dress sniffled softly before dissolving
into wet sobs that shook her frail figure. Picking at my own
itchy collar, I sent Christy a frantic look. She choked out a
plea for forgiveness— “My apologies!”—but by then the ladies
had drawn out their handkerchiefs and were mopping up
poor Auntie Susan’s inconsolable tears.
“Ritchie? What’s going on?” painting-mother called,
huffing and puffing as she hauled her girth over to the scene.
A quick glance at Auntie Susan was all it took to wipe the
polite smile off her round face. “Richard Samuel Nathaniel
Winshire!” she scolded me. “Of all the wretched things! You’d
better hope your father shows you mercy when he hears
what you’ve done!” She turned to Auntie Susan, who cut off
her waterworks long enough to glare daggers at Christy over
her horn-rimmed glasses. “Oh, Susan, dear, I’m ever so sorry
for Ritchie’s dreadful manners.”
“Ritchie?” Auntie Susan scoffed. “Of course that well-
mannered little boy kept his mouth shut, like his mother
taught him. But that—” she pointed an accusing bony finger

at Christy “—that she-devil there deserves a good sound 191
spanking! This is how I’m repaid for hours slaving over
confections in the kitchen?”

“Her mother, a cousin of mine, left her in our care while
she left to visit her ailing father,” painting-mother admitted.
“I’ll see to it that she gets what she’s asking for.”

Before she could lay a meaty hand on Christy’s shoulder,
I snatched the guilty “she-devil” by her hand and ordered,
“Run!”

As Christy and I bolted across the massive lawn pursued
by an angry swarm of aunties, we kicked off our kid boots.
Laughing as I let the heavy wool vest slip from my sweating
shoulders, I felt infinitely lighter. By the time our stamina
wore thin, the ladies were safely far behind us, the mansion
simply a large dot blotting out the sun. We stopped to drink
up lungfuls of sweet air.

“Thanks,” Christy gasped. “For a woman her size, she can
run fast.” I grinned, unable to speak in my exhaustion. “It’s
scorching,” she added, fanning herself with her voluminous
skirt.

“It might be cooler in that ditch,” I said, gesturing to a dip
in the landscape a few yards away. Without nodding, Christy
stood and trudged over to it. I hustled to the trench too,
eager to find relief from the sun in the damp earth.

As we slid into the trench, I felt a strong force dragging
me into the earth. The vacuum was back. Where will it take us
next? I wondered in desperation. How will we ever get back
to the art museum? Deeper and deeper I sank, feeling myself
melt into the soil. Christy dove after me, and the vacuum
sucked us into cool darkness.

The trench reeked with the bitter scent of human sweat.
Clutching my musket until my knuckles whitened, I tentatively
peeked over the edge.

“DOWN!” A command echoed throughout the trench
as gunfire exploded from the enemy line. “PRIVATE RIDGE!
Of all the goddamn ideas to get into your thick head!” I
cringed at the sour breath of a sergeant with yellowing
teeth, who stuck his crooked nose in my face. “Alright, boys!”
he boomed, addressing the stiff-uniformed soldiers who
scrambled for cover as the shots rained over our heads. “Get
off your sorry bums! Let’s show them Yankees what we’re
made of!”

While a few courageous soldiers did as they were
ordered, most continued to cower on the packed dirt. Finding

192 the musket impossible to figure out, let alone fire, I joined
the latter half. Where was Christy when I needed her? Then
it hit me: Christy wouldn’t be fighting for the Confederate
army. I recalled her thin, brown fingers clamping onto my
wrist. If she wasn’t on this side of the battle, then maybe she
was…

“What’s that boy doing?” the sergeant interrogated,
pointing at an awkward figure stumbling across the
battleground toward our ditch. Cautiously, I peered out to
see Christy slipping on the sleet-crusted ground.

“Sergeant Chowder, sir. I do believe he is heading for us.
Sir,” reported an upright soldier who had been faithfully firing
all along.

“Why?”
“I’ve no idea. Sir.”
In their confusion, both sides ceased fire. With her
cantankerous hair tucked into a forage cap, Christy could
have easily been mistaken for a boy. A final slide sent
her careening into our ditch, and suddenly chaos broke
out among the Confederates. Soldiers scrambled in all
directions! Some tremblingly aimed their weapons at Christy,
others cowered, and still others sat in stunned silence.
Sergeant Chowder was among the silent.
“Casper! I’m not going into any other paintings. We’ve
got to figure something out now.”
“WHAT’S THIS NONSENSE?” demanded Chowder at last.
“Private Ridge, I order you to explain… all of this!”
When I stammered something incomprehensible, the
upright soldier obliged to tell him for me. “Sir. If you’ll allow
me to share my opinion.” Without waiting for an answer,
he continued. “It looks to me as if Private Ridge has been a
Union spy since he joined our ranks. I was suspicious of him
from the start. This Yankee has come to gain his information.
Sir.”
“And what’s with this ‘painting’ nonsense?” Chowder
snarled.
“Some sort of code, I presume. Sir.”
“You can stop with the ‘Sir,’ but well said, Private Marley.
As for YOU, Ridge,” he turned on me as some of the soldiers
abandoned the scene to fire at the Union line, “We’ll deal with
you at sundown. You know how I treat spies. YOU TWO!” he
barked at two whimpering soldiers. “Watch these Yankees to
make sure they don’t escape, or you’ll be sorry.”
With a hasty salute, the soldiers lunged for us. It was
Christy’s turn to save us this time. Snatching my hand, she

scrambled up the side of the trench with me in tow. We 193
sprinted for dear life. Armed Confederate soldiers proved a
much more serious threat than offended aunties.

“AFTER THEM!” called Chowder from far behind us.
As we darted over the snowy ground in our heavy soldier’s
boots, I turned to Christy.

“Thanks *pant* for *pant* saving *pant* my *pant*—”
“It was nothing! *pant*”
We didn’t utter another word as we bolted for a grove of
snow-capped pine trees not far in the distance, ignoring the
sharp gunshots that rang out behind us. I knew Christy had
made a connection that I hadn’t, but I couldn’t recall where
had I seen snow-capped pine trees before. Why were they so
important?
As we neared the grove, Christy slipped her ice-cold hand
into mine. I reddened. Considering how she had rammed
me into a painting not too long ago, this was an unexpected
change of feelings. She stretched out her other hand and
dragged me faster—I was weighing her down more than
helping—and we heard a booming voice mere yards at our
backs.
“FINISH THEM OFF, MARLEY!”
As a silver bullet exploded from Private Marley’s musket,
Christy laid her palm on the coarse pine bark. Sergeant
Chowder’s howls faded into a murmur as the vacuum sucked
us in.

A whistling breeze gently licked my face. “Casper?
Casper? Oh good, you’re awake. We’re safe now.” Shivering,
I sat up and wrapped my bare arms around myself. I was
wearing the same short-sleeved Star Wars t-shirt I’d worn in
the museum. Christy smiled at me, and I never thought I’d be
happier to see the reassuring fuschia of her beret. But aside
from the accessory, everything about her had a dampened
quality somehow. She was...

“Gray? Christy, you’re gray!”
“Well, there’s no need to be racist.”
“No, no, you’re... colorless.”
“That’s even wor— oh.” She glanced at her own arms,
then smirked. “Maybe I don’t have any color. But neither do
you.”
I laughed. “Pencil sketch.”
Christy nodded thoughtfully. “Pencil sketch.”
Something, some sort of idea, was knocking on my skull.
Remember me! it implored. “Pencil sketch!” I exclaimed, and

194 reached for Christy’s pocket.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Kindly respect my personal space!”

She slapped my hand away.
I sat back, the dopey grin stretching across my face

again. “Can I see your sketchbook?”
“I… guess.” Christy reluctantly handed me the dog-eared

pad, which resembled something that could be found at a
dollar store.

As I flipped through the sketchbook, my brow furrowed.
“There aren’t any pictures in this,” I said slowly. “Just…
scribbles.”

“There were pictures,” Christy muttered. I raised a
quizzical eyebrow. “Don’t you raise that eyebrow at me,
Casper. I scribbled them out. You’re not the only one without
an ounce of creativity in you.” She sighed. “So there.”

Not knowing what to say, I stared intensely at a frosty
pinecone for a while. Those ice crystals certainly were a
miracle. It would be interesting to read a book about ice
crystal formations. Yes, sir. “Um,” I managed finally. “I’m sure
you’re not all that bad. Can I have a pencil?”

“Sure.” Christy handed me the slender wood with a
gnawed-off eraser. I set to work. Sketch. Erase. Sketch. Sketch.
Sketch. The pencil trembled with a life of its own, guiding my
hand up, down, and around the paper. I drew in excruciating
detail all I could recall of the art museum’s interior; there
was Mrs. Louvre in her sequin beret, the exit to the Hall of
Landscapes, and the baffled lady behind the information desk.
Faster and faster, I breathed life into the two-dimensional
world with every scrap of artistic knowledge I could muster.
We had a lesson once on shading, another on form, and
another on proportions. Christy watched in amazement as
I created what was likely the most accurate portrait anyone
had drawn of the museum lobby.

Finally finished, I let the sketchbook slip onto the snowy
ground. Our breath lingering in the frigid air, Christy and I
glanced at the open page, then at each other. “You think it’ll
work?” I asked, fearing the answer.

A hint of gratefulness tugged at the corners of Christy’s
cheeks. “There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?”

Grace Turner (opposite page, “Caged”) is originally from Chicago, but she moved
to California at age 13. She started writing in 3rd grade.

195

Alyssa Sawyer (above, “Always Watching”) is a human being(I think?), who has en-
dured 13 years of living. She likes to melt her brain away by sitting in her room
alone, getting sucked into the internet. Please friend her on Club Penguin, she’s
lonely.

196 “Christy, darling! I’m ever so pleasantly surprised! This
is the finest student pencil sketch I’ve seen in all my years of
teaching! And with such a humble subject, too!”

“Actually, Mrs. Louvre… Casper drew this.”
“Oh. I’m not surprised! Casper, darling, what
magnificent work! You should be proud!” Mrs. Louvre
beamed, clutching the slightly damp sketch of the art room
lobby. “Where did you two disappear to? The entire class has
been looking for you for half an hour! I myself was growing
worried! But of course, Casper would be working on such a
piece!”
“It was Christy’s idea,” I fibbed quickly. Christy, who
stood by Mrs. Louvre on the top marble step leading to the
museum, shook her head modestly. “She’s really an artistic
genius, but she doesn’t get half the credit she deserves. She
suggested the shading here.” I pointed out the details as I
noted them. “And the expression on her face—oh, and adding
the still life in the background!”
“I suppose,” said Mrs. Louvre thoughtfully. She flashed
a warm smile and clasped her hands together with pride.
“I may have underestimated your artistic potential, Christy!
Well done, both of you! I’m so glad this trip was inspirational
to the budding artists of tomorrow!” Down the steps she
skipped, taking them two at a time. Pushing through the great
glass doors behind us, the class followed her out into the
mid-afternoon sun.
“Here, Casper.” Someone tossed me an apple. “They
handed these out in the museum cafeteria.”
I dropped the fruit like a scalding hot potato. “Thanks,” I
said as it bounced down the enormous marble stairs. “I’m...
um... allergic. Deathly allergic.”
Christy laughed. Sheepishly, I glanced back through
into the lobby. A still life of a bright red apple stared back,
beckoning me to come inside.

Michael is an 8th grader attending Central Middle School who enjoys reading,
writing, math, basketball, and running. He’s extremely ambitious and wants to have
a lasting legacy.

kailee kee

Stronger

There 197
is a light that I keep moving towards, somehow never
getting closer. She once told me that dreams
can come true which ignited all the embers in
me. Everyday I use all my
will
to work harder, more powerful, and to fuel my fire.
They claim that my dreams will only stay in
my mind- that there’s no hope for a person like me.
But that’s not true- and I won’t let it
be.
The stars in the sky shine and come back every night.
They come back for thousands of years- maybe
millions. But
a
girl like me might only dream of making a change
that could last that long. But still, I promise the
day
will come when all the ink on paper, tears on
threadbare sweaters, and blood on tattered
hands, will be of use.
When
that day comes, my parents will look fondly of me,
see that I am not just the weak girl they thought I was.
But until then,
I’m
working until the sky turns charcoal black- stars
twinkling as if sending me messages of faith. And I
will continue until they realize that I am finally
stronger.

Kailee Kee is a eighth grader who attends JLS Middle School. She has a little
brother and enjoys fashion, sewing, and most importantly, poetry.

ananya narasimhan

Superhero: A Short Story

198 If you had a chance to save the world, would you take it?
It’s a question which most don’t know the answer to until
they’re faced with that very decision. And trust me, to ninety-
nine percent of you, the answer will always remain a mystery.
But to that one percent, that one, you’d better start thinking.
To be fair, I wasn’t sure of the answer myself until it was
almost too late. I remember the younger days, when I would
spend hours dreaming that I was a superhero, doodling and
designing intricate sketches of various outfits late into the
night. I would glance out of the window from time to time,
hoping to catch a glimpse of Spiderman swinging throughout
the city, suspended by his cobwebs, or Batman’s glowing
eyes staring through my window (actually, no, that would just
be creepy). You see, no one had actually told me that these
characters were fictional, and I guess you could say I wasn’t
exactly the brightest kid in the first grade. I suppose the truth
got to me eventually, but by then I had spent too much time
believing the stories were true that it was too late to turn
back.
As I entered the fourth grade, I began to open my eyes as
I discovered the true horrors of the world. Through countless
news articles, I learned about death, famine, disease, war.
I read about people who had performed courageous acts:
jumping into rivers to save drowning children, throwing
themselves in front of bullets to protect the innocent. It was
the death of my father, however, shot in a war for freedom,
which finally drilled some sense into my brain. It was then that
I realized that a superhero wasn’t what I thought it to be at all.
Just like that, I abandoned my past. If being a superhero
meant one had to suffer the grief, there was no way I would

Ananya Narasimhan is a thirteen year old and an eighth grader at Hopkins Junior
High School in Fremont, CA. From a young age, she has aspired to be a writer.
Creating short works of fiction allows her to express her ideas and thoughts into
words which others can read. By forming various characters of different person-
alities, she attempts to give people someone of whom they can relate to.

ever be prepared for the job. Those drawings I had spent so 199
much time and effort on were crumpled and stuffed at the
bottom of my desk drawer, those spare clothes planned to be
part of a costume scrapped.

For four years, I hadn’t given them a thought. That was,
however, until a few weeks ago.

At first, the day was as normal as any other. After
suffering a long seven hours at school, I had bid my friends
farewell, stuffed all my textbooks into a backpack, and
mounted my bike, beginning to pedal down my usual route
home.

Construction had blocked one of the roads in my
pathway, so I decided to navigate around. I’d never been
in the other direction, of my usual route, so the maze of
streets were all new to me. I pedaled through fields of cars,
weaving my way in and around the crowd. Several honked at
me, but I ignored them, and came to a smooth sail on one of
the sidewalks. Veering my bike to the side, I pressed on the
brakes.

I had arrived back to where I started. Confused, I glanced
to my right, only to see the long road which I’d come from.
Sighing, I was about to turn around when I happened to
notice something at the far end of the road, where a narrow
opening just large enough for a car to squeeze into led to a
new path. Deciding to test my luck, I steered the bike towards
the side of the road and began to pedal slowly through the
unfamiliar pathway.

The street was not in good condition; the ground was
rugged and made solely of mud, and ahead of me lay a
huge pile of fallen bricks, poles, and dust. My surroundings
were completely deserted, with no one in sight. Scrubbing a
shaky hand across my brow, I gazed ahead, trying to make
out a destination among the mud-ridden street, yet I found
nothing. The road twisted and turned, winding its way around
old, worn out buildings for as far as I could make out. Taking
a deep breath, I continued forward, driven by the possibility
that if I made it to the end of the road, maybe I’d know where
I was.

As I ventured deeper, the condition worsened. Now, I
could no longer hear the honking of cars or the sounds of
nature. I was far off course, and the road twisted and turned
out of sight, the fallen debris thickening by the minute. The
fresh smell of sawdust drifted to the air, creating a toxic
environment. I sighed, deciding to turn my bike around; I
needed to get back to the main road. It was shady parts of

200 the town such as these which had caused multiple accidents
in the past.

Suddenly, I heard a noise from behind me, followed by a
thudding sound. Heart beating wildly, I glanced around, and
noticed something for the first time. At the side of the road,
where they were unseen behind a pile of fallen dust, stood
two suspicious men donned in black, each of which shot
nervous glances around from time to time. As far as I could
tell, they hadn’t noticed me. Quickly, I ducked to the side,
crouching behind a half fallen archway, making as little noise
as possible. I could hear their voices faintly in the distance.

“And the files, what about them?” A hoarse voice cut
through the silence.

A high pitched, shrieking noise made the hairs on the
back of my neck stand up; the man had let out a shrill laugh.
“Remember, General, if our plan succeeds, there won’t be
anyone to investigate them at all.”

“Of course.” The first man spoke again, a hint of laughter
in his voice. “That is, if our plan succeeds.”

“Oh, don’t be so negative, my dear General, the bomb’s
been tested countless times. One dropped, the entire
America is gone. Our sponsors have hired pilots at all
appropriate sections.”

He let out another shriek, his voice vibrating with
excitement.

“Keep your voice down, Edward.” The man gazed around,
fire burning in his eyes, and I shrunk further, trying my best to
blend in with the shadows. At this point, my heart was beating
so loudly, I wouldn’t have been surprised if people could hear
it from a mile away.

“Of course, General. I apologize.”
“Oh, It’s natural to feel excited. At this time of day
tomorrow, we’ll get our revenge. Both of us, once and for all.”
It was then that the seriousness of the situation struck
me. These two men—whoever they were—were, as far as I
could tell, planning to bomb multiple countries, wiping out
thousands, all by tomorrow. This was a situation for the police
to handle.
The next challenge was what I could do about it. If I
attempted to escape, there was an large chance that I would
be caught; however, if I did make it, I could call the police and
inform them on what was going on. There was also the other
option of staying put and waiting for them to leave before
calling the police, which was probably much safer; however,
by the time the police got there, it would have been too late.