Stanford Anthology for Youth: Volume 21

The first option was tempting, but was also far more risky, 201
and as I sat there considering the options, I finally realized
that this was the moment I had been waiting for my whole
life. This was my time to live my past.

I had a chance. I could be the superhero I had always
dreamed of being.

In that instant, everything clicked. I remembered the man
whose last act had been to push his daughter out of a fire
to safety, the woman who spent her life protecting others
from burglars in the neighborhood, the father who had taken
a bullet to his chest in order to save his wife. And in that
moment, I knew what I must do.

As quietly as possible, I got up and crept along the sides
of the wall. The voices of the men had now gone completely,
and all was silent. Heart pounding wildly, I made my way
forward, not daring to look back. My fingers were clenched in
tight fists, nails digging into my fists. Beads of sweat trickled
from my forehead to chin. It was only after a few minutes of
constant jogging that I finally breathed a sigh of relief. I had
made it out.

Perhaps I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings,
because soon enough, I tripped on a stray brick lying on the
ground and sprawled face first. Moaning, I lay there for a few
seconds, before turning on my back and lifting myself up. I
stood there, hands on my knees, panting for a few moments.
It was then that I felt a cold hand curl itself onto my shoulder.
Swiveling around, I let out a huge scream.

The two men towered in front of me, and I could see
their faces clearly for the first time. The man on the right had
a shaved head, with bulky cheeks and lips with deep brown
eyes and a large nose. To the left of him was a tall, slim man
with a thin brown mustache, choppy brown hair, and stormy
grey eyes which looked oddly familiar…

“Dad?”
“Son,” he spoke grimly. “We meet again.”
I stared at him in shock, my jaw hanging open. “What—
How—Why—?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer any of your questions,” he said,
though he did not sound
genuinely sorry. “As of now, it’s time for you to choose.”
I stood there numbly, my head spinning with the thoughts
of a thousand unsaid words, my heart having plummeted
into my stomach. No, this couldn’t be. My idol, the man I had
thought was dead for years, the father I had cried countless
nights for, the same one who’d shown me nothing but

202 love and care in my childhood years—he wasn’t one of the
supervillains I’d created in my stories. He couldn’t be.

“You’re not my dad,” I said, shaking my head rapidly,
taking a step back. “You’re not him. You’re someone else. Who
are you?”

The man stepped forwards, placing a large hand on
my shoulder. Dad had always had large hands. It was what
allowed him to run the small mechanic shop at the corner
of the town where floods of people poured in to demand
their items to be fixed. And as I looked down, I could see the
resemblance; the same visible blue veins running across in
X’s, the same long scar across his wrist which marked the
time he’d ripped apart an entire field of thorns in order to
find me.

I could feel his sneer radiating from feet away, could
see his icy blue eyes darken as he looked at me. “Micah,” he
started, “I know this will take a while to understand, but I am
your father. I am the man who raised you. But I’ve changed.
I’m not the person I used to be.”

“No,” I insisted. Swallowing down the lump which had

Emma Grant-BIer (above, “Looking Up”) hates writing bios, and talking about her-
self in general. She blames society. However that does not detract from her love
of art and music.

formed inside my throat, I took a shaky breath. “You—you’re 203
not my dad.”

Edward stood at the side awkwardly, rubbing his bald
head before stepping in. “Um, General, if you don’t mind, I
think we should leave the boy. We have more important things
to focus on and—”

“Edward, shut up.”
Reluctantly, Edward shut up.
“Micah, come on,” said the General, squeezing my
shoulder. “Think of all the times we’ve been through in the
past. Remember that day at the waterpark, when you broke
your hand and I said I’d never leave your side? And you
looked at me, smiled, and said that I make your pain go away?
I’m the same man you’ve loved for years. Come with me.
Think of what we can achieve together.”
“You lied to me.” My voice shook, and a tear spilled from
the corner of my eye. Quickly, I wiped it away. I hated when
people cried; crying was a weakness, and I wasn’t weak.
“You left. You left me. I cried for weeks, years. I thought you
were—gone.”
“I was gone.” He shook his head sadly. “I saw darkness,
son. I learned what it was like to lose everything. It was a
bloodbath. Everyone around me—every last one of them—
gone. Murdered in cold blood. I was lost. I’d lost myself, my
sanity.
“Edward found me covered in blood by the sidewalk; I’d
been shot. The opposing side was gaining on us, only a few
feet away from where I was. But he still risked his life to save
me, despite having known me for a mere few minutes. I owe
him everything.
“Micah, what you heard back there, our plan—it’s
necessary. Over the years, the government’s been getting
worse. It’s corrupt. They’re hiding secrets, dangerous
secrets. Secrets that could kill us all. Do you know, the
man who shot me, he’s one of the leading military forces?
He communicates directly with the President himself. He
shot me, and many others, all his own men; he lied to their
families, told them they were dead. He’s a spy, son. The
government is full of spies.
“Come with me. We can end all this madness together. We
can get revenge on those who did this—” he waved his arm
up and down “—to me. We can rid the world of evil.”
I could hear every word he was saying, though not a
single one registered in my mind. This man was not the same
one who’d treated me with love and care throughout the

204 years. He was not the same father who’d sung me lullabies
countless childhood nights. He’d changed. Driven by revenge
and insanity, he’d become someone else. He was a monster.

Slowly, I took a step back. “No.”
His eyes darkened, shadows growing around his pupils,
gaze turning icy cold. “What did you say to me?”
I took a deep breath. “No,” I said firmly. “I won’t come
with you.”
I could feel the grip on my shoulder tighten, nails digging
into my skin. “Son, I don’t think you quite understand what the
consequences of disobeying me would be.”
I pulled away, stretching my hand out as if to stop Dad
from getting any closer.
“Actually, I do,” I stated stubbornly. “I also understand
the consequences of dropping a bomb on the country, and I
won’t stand for it. And just so you know, I’m not your son.”
Furiously, he let out a yell and lunged forwards, fingers
clenched in a tight fist, yet I avoided the punch. Grabbing
the heavy textbook laden backpack and lifting it off my
shoulders, I swung and let go.
Bullseye.
With a howl of pain, the man who called himself my
father staggered backwards, clutching at his face. Edward
threw himself at me, managing to grab the back of my shirt
before I stomped him on his foot, sending him hopping
backwards, roaring in anger.
Without hesitating, I ran as fast as I could, feet pounding
against the pavement in rhythmic thumps, heart skipping
a few beats. I could feel the wind propelling me forward,
ripping through my clothes and hair in a flying mess. Sharp
pebbles broke through the ripped soles of my grey sneakers,
but I kept running, ignoring the searing pain shooting up my
foot, ignoring the blood oozing out of the wound and staining
the mud red. I ran and kept running, without looking back to
see if I was being followed.
It was a while before I reached the main road once
more. People from all over the road shot skeptic glances at
me, yet I ignored them, shutting myself into a nearby phone
booth, picking up the phone, and dialing the three digits with
trembling fingers.
Years later, I still struggle to remember what happened
next, my memory being nothing more than a hazy blur. I
remember shouting frantically into the the phone, the wailing
sirens and flashing blue and red lights zooming past the

streets, my father’s cold, piercing eyes as he was dragged
away, handcuffed, to his prison cell in which he would sit for
the rest of his life. I remember the disappointment on my
mother’s face as she learned what someone who had once
claimed her entire heart was capable of doing.

Not long after, I was rummaging through old drawers and
found a pile of crumpled papers, each depicting a superhero
I’d dreamed of, drawn in crayon, and spent time designing
so intricately. And it was with fondness that I framed every
drawing and hung them on my wall, where they would remain
for years to come.

But just as I realized as I grew from a child to an
adolescent, a superhero is not someone who dresses in
capes and masks, someone who leads top secret missions,
who people look up to and idolize, who has powers unheard
of. No, a superhero is someone who is willing to help people
at any cost, who puts the needs of the many above their own,
who stands up for others and what they believe in.

After all, being one is much easier than most think.
Anyone can be a superhero. You just have to try.

205

catrina yang

The Ascent

206 The trails crisscross
Zigzag and tangle
As they twist their way
Up the mountain
To the very apex
I look up
The mountains seem
Immovable
Grand monoliths
Clawing at the sky
And yet I also see
Tiny figures
Crawling like ants
Miniscule spots climbing up
Higher and higher
Until they reach their zenith
Triumphant
At the peak of the mountain
I suck in a deep breath
Take the fresh air as a reassurance
And take my first step
And soon
The clouds are below me
Billowing and shifting with each
Tiny movement of the biting wind
And I know that
Soon I will be
Just another tiny speck
Inching up the ascent
To the pinnacle

Catrina Yang is an eighth-grader who has a passion for piano and learning new
vocabulary words.

Of these symbols 207
Of nature’s power
And then what will I be?
Will I reach a sudden epiphany
Having subjugated
These monuments of stone?
Having vanquished these ancient summits
These beholders of centuries?
But these mountains
Witnesses to thousands of people
Coming and going
Must have some wisdom to share
Some advice accrued over the many years
To give to an insignificant speck
In the swirling maelstrom of tourists
An awakening insight Snatched from the sky Or perhaps
stolen from the sun Somewhere hidden among their
crevasses In the shadows where no snow falls In their
treasury of Sparkling gems of wisdom For a select few To
glean from their journey
And perhaps With a bit of luck A glimpse of fortitude A drop
of determination I’ll find a treasure too As I climb Higher and
higher Into the sky

laura ma

The Fallen Angel

208 The fallen angel
Plummeting from the sky
Tears blurring her sight
As her wings burn to ashes
While the ground grows nearer
Not understanding why
That no one told her
There was a price
For dancing with the devil
Who seemed so sweet and charming
Until she looked him in the eye
He gave her scars she can’t heal
Memories she can’t forget
Even when she closes her eyes
She looks around one last time
Finally accepting
Her fate
He watched her fall
Through the sky and the clouds
Away from the land she called home
He watched her wings catch fire
And become ashes in the wind
Feeling no regret
For what he’d done
He suppressed a smile
Why did he do that?
Because he couldn’t bear
The thought of not being with her
So he gave her the scars
To mark her as his
Along with the memories she can’t forget

Laura is an eighth grader, whose hobbies include trying to do calligraphy, memo-
rizing poetry, reading fanfiction (books, as well), listening to music, and, of course,
writing.

So when she falls
He will be there
To catch her

209

Roxane dobrer

The First Drop

210 I feel a cold prick on my hot, sweaty forearm as I rip
a small beet, brown with dirt, from the dry ground of the
field. I slowly bring my finger, shaking slightly, to the small
spot on my skin, hoping that I’m not dreaming. I carelessly
flip my long, dark hair behind me as I look up toward the
heavens. I can’t quite believe my eyes. Usually a brilliant blue,
the sky gives way to dark, billowing clouds. To anyone else
this might seem ominous, but as the other women notice the
now steady drops of water, they shout and rejoice with one
another, and I can tell this is the answer to our prayers.

We dance and sing with the rest of the village, under
pouring rain. The first rain in uncountable months. It waters
our plants, slowing dying of thirst. Our bodies, which haven’t
been washed since the drought began.

For hours we simply celebrate this blessing. When the
sun, hidden by clouds, has dipped beneath the gray horizon, I
help the adults herd the younger children toward their homes.
When I return to mine, I assist Mama in the kitchen, preparing
dinner for the family. Our small celebration is in high spirits.
Young Tala is tearing apart his slice of meat, much like his
namesake, the Wolf. Mama and Papa laugh at a joke I didn’t
catch. I smile to myself. This blessing has brought our village
happiness along with food.

The rain is pounding and continues growing just outside
our thin wooden door. The wind howling just feet from me is
so loud I can barely hear Tala complaining about being cold.
Mama comforts him while Papa sits quietly near the window,
his eyebrows furrowed.

“Tehya,” Mama calls to me using my childhood nickname.
I’m about to protest that I’m 17, about to be an adult, when I
take note of the slight urgency in her voice. “Step away from
the door. It’s a harsh storm outside. We are going to stay

Roxane loves performing in musical theater, dance, choir, and playing clarinet,
saxophone, and piano.

inside for the night.” Her voice is calm but when I turn, I see 211
the concern in her eyes.

When I lie down to sleep, my eyes close, listening to the
howling wind and pounding rain. I finally fall asleep just hours
before sunrise, in the small room I share with Tala.

When morning comes keep my eyes closed. The rain has
stopped. I try to tell myself that the damage will not be bad.
Imagining the fields, brand new with beautiful green forestry.
How happy everyone will be because we finally got the water
we needed. Sighing with anticipation I stand up and creep
around Tala, who was sleeping soundly. I pass the main room,
startled to see Mama sitting near the door, rubbing the tips of
her thumbs together. She only does that when she’s nervous.

“Where’s Papa?” I ask her. It is the first and only thing
in my mind at the moment. I still haven’t yet seen what is
outside the door to my left, but from her face I can tell the
news is not good. She rubs her thumbs more vigorously and
looks as if she is attempting to speak. I try to glance toward
the window, but it is blocked from my view.

“He’s gone out to help,” Mama responds, staring
catatonic at the floor. Help with what? How horribly did that
storm mess up my home? A million thoughts pass through
my head and without speaking, I rush towards the door. When
I fling it open, I’m met with disaster.

The tree I used to climb when I was young. That tree
that I would spend hours in, dreaming about going to school,
learning to read. Tehya’s Tree, the whole village called it. It
was gone. Torn to pieces right outside my door. I look over to
the fields, my eyes filling quickly with tears.

I spot Papa helping the other men move branches and
other scraps out of the fields. The crops, looking almost like
healthy plants, are covered in dirt lying beneath the surface
of the wreckage.

I stoop down and retrieve a branch from the ground. We
clear fields, replant what we can scavenge. Tala and Mama
come out to help and the whole village makes an effort
to get our home back in shape. The harsh winds from last
night have died down mostly, so I take many of the younger
children, including Tala, to go help wash out clothes and other
possessions ruined by the storm.

When the sun is setting, I guide the kids back to eat what
is left of the harvest. When I walk into the center clearing of
the village, there is a feast awaiting. Papa and the other men
found a lot more food under the ground than we thought!
I rush over to the candle lit table to see the most food I’ve

seen in a long time.
Mama is there, holding Papa as though her life depends

on it, and they are smiling. I can’t remember the last time they
looked this genuinely happy. For a second, I can’t figure out
why. Our whole village is in scraps, and we lost almost all of
our food in one night, right before the winter! But as I look
around, my friends, the people I’ve known my whole life, are
celebrating. They are dancing around and rejoicing the fact
that rain came at all, no matter the damage it left behind.

I find Tala playing with his friends in the dirt. They are
throwing handful after handful of Earth at the wall. A sudden
feeling of exhilaration comes over me, and I reach out and
hug Tala so hard, I think he might’ve stopped breathing. I
relax my arms a little bit, but stay there, holding my brother,
knowing another storm might come, but our village is a
family and we will make it through.

The rain can come, I tell myself, but our bond is stronger
than the full force of nature against us.
212

abbie williamson

The Harp (Inspired by The Harp- 213
the Mysteries of Harris Burdick)

The music... the beautiful music... it filled her head, her
thoughts, her body every day. The music she heard late at
night from the forest was all she could think about. Why she
found it to be so addictive, she had no idea, but she, like all
the other children in the village, had heard the tale of the
harp- a magical instrument nestled deep in the woods that
played itself, bringing joy to whoever was lucky enough to
find it and see it play.

And Macey was determined to find it.
Her parent’s one rule that she had never broken was
“never go into the woods.” Her older brothers had terrified
her with legends of the horrible beasts that lurked there.
“If you go into the forest, the beasts will find you!” her
youngest brother had whispered.
“If you go into the forest, the beasts will catch you!” her
middle brother had said.
“If you go into the forest, the beasts will eat you for
supper!” her eldest brother had cackled.
Macey had always believed these tales when she was
young, but not now. Not when the harp was just begging to
be found.
Her parent’s constant warnings about the woods hardly
mattered to her now- all she wanted was to find whatever
played her to sleep at night with gorgeous tunes.
She waited all day, all night, to hear the music, until it was
nearly midnight. Macey began to feel sleepy, and she knew
she was drifting off…
No. Macey snapped awake and silently scolded herself
for almost falling asleep. She knew she would have to find
the harp that night. It had taken her months to build up the
courage to go into the forest, and she would not let her
efforts be in vain.

Abbie Williamson is a thirteen-year-old girl who loves art, reading, and her dog. Her
hobbies include cheerleading and writing short stories. She is currently working on
a novel that has been in progress for over a year now.

214 Suddenly, she heard it. A quiet, slow yet sweeping melody
flowing through her window.

“That’s it!” Macey gasped. She slipped out her window
and dropped to the ground, then ran as fast as her little legs
could take her. She followed the sound right to the edge of
the pitch-black forest, where she ran in without hesitation.

Twigs and rocks scraped her bare feet and legs as she
ran, her white nightgown snagging on bushes and branches,
but still she ran. Her one goal in that moment was to find the
harp.

Macey burst out of the bushes and into a clearing. The
light of the full moon illuminated the scene. A brook babbled
quietly as it flowed between rocks, and towering trees looked
majestic and mysterious.

Suddenly, Macey spotted it- a flash of gold on a rock. She
dashed towards it, and there it was. The harp. It was barely
as long as her arm, but the music flowing from the small
instrument was undoubtedly the most beautiful thing Macey
had ever heard. She sat on the rock beside the harp and
swayed to the melody. So it’s true, she thought. It’s really true.

Crackle-snap. Macey whipped her head around, searching
for the source of the sudden noise. “Who’s th-there?” she
asked into the darkness. Nobody answered. The harp stopped
playing. Macey trembled.

Crackle-SNAP! The sound was closer that time, so close
it seemed to be coming from right behind Macey. But when
she looked, there was nobody there.

SNAP! Macey screamed. The noises stopped. The harp
resumed playing. And all was peaceful again in the forest.

evelyn hsu

The Malingerer

Sitting in the back of the van, I gazed through the window 215
at the greenish-yellow fields and lush tall mountains. Trees
with fat green leaves lined the road and dotted the fields.
In the van, another family sat in front of us as the driver
transported us all to our hotel, CF Ranch and Resort, which
I’d heard had a small zoo of animals including raccoons
and cows. I couldn’t wait to get there. In the backseat, the
air-conditioner didn’t reach us, so I felt the muggy heat
of Taiwan like sticky sweat all over. Feeling as if I might
faint from exhaustion and heat, I leaned on my sister, who
complained, “Get your head off of me. This road is bumpy
enough!” Reluctantly I sighed and lifted my head.

Our flight had taken nearly thirteen hours, and I felt
the terrible airplane food punching my stomach. The flight
attendants gave us two options: rice with vegetables or
potato omelets. I chose the latter; the potatoes tasted as if
they were made of plastic, so hard I could barely bite through
them. I couldn’t wait to get to our hotel, which was only five
minutes away. Once I got there, I would eat a decent meal,
shower, and take a twelve-hour nap.

Chinese opera songs played on the van’s radio so loudly
that they hurt my ears. To me, they sounded like annoying
women screaming so hard out of their noses. To my right,
my father napped, and next to him, my mom looked out the
window and quizzed my sister on geometry. “How do you
find the circumference of a circular disk whose area is a
hundred pi square centimeters?” My sister stared at the top
of the van and used knuckles to knock on her head.

In the back seat of this van between my father and sister,
I felt as though I weren’t actually there, as if I were a ghost
that was watching other people’s lives. I have often felt that

Evelyn Hsu is a sixth grader who enjoys creative writing. Her work has been recog-
nized by PTA Reflections and Poetic Power. In her future, she hopes that her job as
a microsurgeon will not be taken over by robots.

216 way when everyone else in my family is doing something. I
can be sitting at my desk in my room at home, and I’ll hear
my mom making dinner downstairs, my dad in his study
trying to finish an online class, and my sister playing the violin
in her room, and I’ll think, “Does anyone know I exist?” And
not in the way that I feel sorry for myself, but more like I
wonder if I was born to be someone who only watched other
people, who lived like a spectator to life, observing other
people’s exploits. Maybe I wasn’t meant to do anything but
watch?

As we rounded the corner on the dusty, bumpy road, the
glass of the side window suddenly looked splintered, as if it
were fractured ice. For a second I thought it was raining. I
thought to ask my mother what it was, but by then, a chunk
of glass was already hurling at us. Then I heard distinct
crunching, and I immediately ducked to save myself.

A few seconds later, a gruff voice commanded us all to
get out. The driver, a tall old manwith tanned leathery skin,
looked angry and shaken as he pointed out the window.
Through the door, I followed my father, with my sister and
mother behind me. We stepped out onto the dusty road, and
I saw that the front half of the van was completely smashed,
like a punched gray whale, and the other truck looked nearly
broken in half. Our driver hobbled out and started yelling at
the other driver, accusing him of drinking.

I glanced at my mother who was complaining, holding
her leg.

My father’s knee was bleeding, and my sister looked at
her hand which was turning purple.

I stopped listening as the lady who sat in front us handed
me a bottle of milk, which had cracked and was almost
empty. She handed it to me as if milk might cure me of injury.
It had rolled under the seat during the accident. All I could
think of was, so much for wanting a nice meal and a quiet,
peaceful nap in my hotel room.

As I stood outside of the crash in the humid heat, the sun
shining directly on my face, my entire body became sticky. I
wondered what we would do. I could imagine our hotel just
around the corner, maybe a few miles down the road. I could
imagine the air conditioning and the soft plump pillows. My
injured family and I stood on the unpaved sidewalk, where
we dripped with sweat and waited for nearly an hour. They
complained of their injuries, and I suddenly felt left out. Being
the youngest means that I always got the smallest amount
of things, like the smallest portion of mint chocolate chip ice

cream, or the smallest portion of the couch to sit on, or the 217
smallest computer in the house that has the slowest internet.
I was used to being the recipient of hand-me-downs.

When the ambulance came screeching to a stop next to
the van, two young men dressed in red-and-white uniforms
jumped out.

They put my mother and my sister in stretchers and
rolled them toward the ambulance. For a second I wondered
if they would just leave me there. But I followed the EMTs
while my father promised to look after our bags.

As the EMTs attended to my mother and sister, I
groaned the entire time, not because of pain but because I
felt as though, once again, I didn’t matter. I wanted my first
emergency room experience in a private luxurious room
where I could test out the medical equipment. It seemed like
it would be fun. Why do I always have to be the one without
injuries?

“Ow, I hurt my stomach,” I complained in Chinese to the
EMT. I am pretty fluent in Chinese.

The man pressed my stomach incredibly hard and said,
“It’s impossible that you’ve injured your stomach.”

I had no response. I was only eight years old. But how
is it impossible to injure my stomach? People injured their
stomachs all the time. When I was in first grade, my sister’s
classmate threw a ball at my stomach so hard that it knocked
the wind right out of me, and I fell over. For several seconds,
I thought I was dying. Plus I’d heard of people with cracked
ribs or burst intestines. Maybe I had a cracked rib or a burst
intestine? How did the EMT know that I didn’t? So I continued
to moan, and the EMT reluctantly pointed at the seat in the
ambulance, and I jumped in next to my mother and sister.
Briefly, I worried I would get caught, but what would they do?
Arrest me?

The ambulance drove us to the hospital, which was very
large, dirty, and brown, like those hospitals you see in the
movies filmed in third-world countries. Instead of having our
own rooms, we sat in a large room with other injured people
lying on rolling beds. Around us, people moaned and groaned.
It was depressing and really kind of smelly and I started to
second-guess my plan.

My mother and sister got actual beds to lie in, while the
EMTs stuck in me in a corner in a chair, which, by the way,
was very uncomfortable. I looked for one with cushions but
couldn’t find one, so I sat in one that had a broken leg but a
soft, cushiony back. It wobbled.

218 Soon, the tall, black-haired nurse stood before me. Finally!
I was getting some much-needed attention. He put the
stethoscope up to my chest and listened to my heartbeat.
Then he asked me, “Where does it hurt?” It hurt everywhere, I
wanted to say, but I pointed at my stomach. He looked at me
as if he didn’t believe me. Then he thumped my stomach with
his thumb and middle finger. He squeezed the flesh around
my stomach. I didn’t flinch or cry or moan at all. I wasn’t very
good at acting.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he said.
I didn’t reply. So he rose and walked away to talk with
my mom and sister. Once again, I was left by myself. I heard
things beeping, which I realized were some oxygen thingies.
Then I heard the phone ringing, and then someone coughed. I
was sure I smelled vomit and some other unpleasant scents.
After a few minutes, I got tired of the act and stood up
and strode over to my mother.
My sister needed to be x-rayed for her hand, which was
now looking as if it had a hundred splinters that were bruising
into a reddish-bluish color. I winced just looking at it. My mom
said, “They say I have a problem with my thigh, and they want
to do surgery. I’m not going to do it.”
They gave my mom an ointment to help her thigh
and sent my sister into the x-ray room. I sat and watched
longingly as the nurse rolled my sister into the dark room
down the hall. I wanted to get an x-ray or have some
ointment, too, but instead they gave me chocolate chip
cookies and some other small snacks. Begrudgingly I ate
them. I felt like no one ever cared about me. The cookies
tasted pretty good but after a few seconds, they were gone,
and I was left with flavorless animal crackers and goldfish.
My mom looked pale the entire time. She looked at me
with worried eyes and said, “Your sister may never be able
to play the violin again, or at least, for a long time. She might
have wasted all her hard work.”
“I’m thirsty. Do you think they have a vending machine
here?” I asked.
An hour later, I was ready to scream. The crackers were
gone. The air-conditioning in the hospital was mostly useless
because the building was too big, so I felt hot and sticky, as
if I were a melted popsicle. Luckily, the nurse finally rolled
my sister out. She was sweating even more than I was. I
remembered the time I got a shot, which brought me to tears
when I saw the needle, but no one was around to comfort
me except for the nurse who looked as if she would kill me if

I cried. My nurse wasn’t very nice, but the nurse who tended 219
my sister seemed kind, saying, “She’s fine, but she will have to
go easy on her swollen hand.”

Meanwhile, my sister was whining about something. I
was tired of her squeaky sounds, noises that reminded me of
snapping or cracking. I couldn’t stand it anymore.

Soon, the nurses were busy packing up my sister and
my mom for discharge. I was so parched by then that my
lips were dry and nearly bleeding. While a nurse gave my
mother and sister medicine and bandages, I busied myself at
the water dispenser I’d found on the way out, gulping down
cupfuls and then taking the paper cups and making paper
airplanes and small boats out of them.

After a long time, we stood on the sidewalk outside the
hospital waiting for our cab to take us to the hotel. I was so
upset I was bursting with emotion. The air was stifling and the
streets had become dark. Cars sped past, and people slowly
walked by us into the hospital, some elderly wearing masks
or being pushed in wheelchairs.

“I can’t believe you guys ruined our vacation,” I said,
glaring at my mother and sister.

My mom and sister glared back. “Stop complaining,” my
mother replied. “It’s good enough that you didn’t get hurt.”

I wanted to scream at her and protest, but I realized she
was right.

alex loveland

The Old Apple Tree

220 My feet bound off the ground as hard as my little legs
can jump. I outstretch my noodle

arms out as far as possible, but as soon as I get close,
gravity begins to pull my body back to

earth. I sigh with frustration and stomp my foot on the
ground, disturbing the grass around me. I

have been trying to reach the apple on our old crooked
apple tree for the past 20 minutes. My

brand new white shoes are beginning to turn green with
the grass. My mother instructed me to

grab some apples for dinner, but I think she just meant
that so I would stop bothering her while

she cooked. It is cold and windy and I begin to get tired. I
promised my mother I

would get her apples, and I never liked to fail my mother
so I had to keep going. I try this time

to climb the tree. I wrap my hand around the cold, rough
trunk looking up at it, straining my

neck. My hands sting from the thick sharp bark. It is very
old and twisty. It still has the

strength to shelter a family of birds, though. The birds are
loud and frequently wake me up

early in the morning.
I hesitate to put my feet on the tree in fear that it would
ruin my new shoes. I wonder
how mother would react if I walked into the dining room
with my new shoes all green and ripped.
I shrug off the thought and begin to put my feet on the
edgy bark. I can’t seem to find a
grip on the wet outer of the tree. I wrestle with it for a bit

Alex Is an 8th grader at Central Middle School. He loves to play sports and hang
out with friends after school. He is the youngest of three. He loves anything that
requires creativity.

until I find a small knob on the tree 221
where I can rest my new soles on. I carefully begin to put

weight on the resting foot. It seems
sturdy. I confidently raise other foot off the ground.
“We have lift off” I whisper to myself making myself

chuckle. I have always been a very
funny person inside. I don’t show it to others, though. I’m

very shy around others, seldom do
I talk, let alone crack a joke. I did make jokes with dad

though. We would go out to mini golf and
the arcade, laughing the whole time. Dad was different

than everyone else. He didn’t judge me
by the way I looked or if my clothes were ‘cool’ or not. I

felt comfortable around him. I would
make him laugh as much as possible. Never missing an

opportunity to make a joke.
I’m not even to paying attention to climbing anymore.

Blanking out on thoughts about
how much fun me dad had. I snap out of my thoughts.

Little did I know I was almost to the
top of the tree. I am much higher than the apple I was on

a journey for. I freeze, just sitting there
holding on for dear life, going through all the ways I can

get hurt in my head. I am too scared to scream and upset
mother with my foolishness. I sit there for the next few
minutes. The rough bark began to cut my hands and I can’t
hold on much longer.

Seconds later, I slip. Falling from the top of the tree,
plummeting to the ground. I hit a

few branches on the way down and even disturb the
family of birds living in the body of the

old and ugly giant. THUD! I hit the ground like a rock.
Scrapes all over my body are beginning

to come into realization. I start to scream in pain. As soon
as I scream I can hear my father

running to my aid. “What happened!” he yells in his usual
thunderous but also oddly soothing

Voice.
My dad’s appearance is very deceiving. He looks very
buffed and tall with a loud voice,
but he wouldn’t hurt a fly. He was, as my mother called

222 him, “A gentle giant.” He had biggest
heart out of all of us and would cry more than my little

sister. We often joked that my sister
would be able to beat my dad in a fight.
My dad rests his huge hand on my chest, trying to make

me forget about the pain. He
repeatedly whispers “You’ll be alright.” My tears start to

recede and my screaming stops.
The pain is still there, but I feel invincible with my dad

there. I feel that nothing could hurt me as
long as he is by my side. My dad at this point is lying on

the wet cold grass with me. His
work clothes soaking up some of the water in the

process. He begins to tell stories of all the
times that his dad had helped him when he got hurt as a

kid. Some of the stories make me
laugh.
After a few minutes of lying on the grass, my mother

hollers from the kitchen signaling
that dinner is ready. By this point, the pain is gone. But

now I feel like I failed my
mother’s order to fetch her apples. My dad can sense

what I feel and slowly got up. He
reaches his long arm out and plucks an apple from the

tree. I chuckle at the fact that he just
did something that I could not accomplish in 25 minutes,

in 5 seconds. He shines the perfectly
round apple on his Baby blue shirt. Looking at his

reflection in the apple. With his other hand he
reaches up and plucks two more apples and did the same

with them as he did with the other.

allison teo 223

The Return

every star must die,
and time is not kind.
let sleep cloud your eyes,
let your orbit unwind.
breaths trail away
like wind in the sands of time.
sounds fade into one
melodious chime.
may the softness of the earth
bring you peace of mind.
may the seas set free
notions undefined.
gone is the lullaby,
the faint song of spring.
and all is silent
for the fallen king.

Allison Teo is an eighth grader at Blach Intermediate School who spends much of
her free time sketching and reading if not at the computer writing away. She draws
much of her inspiration from nature and music.

parker allen

The Shot

224 As I walk, slow, through the forest, my stomach feeling a
tinge of hunger, like a small

nudge letting me know that it needs something. Trudging
along, my feet snapping on branches,

crunching leaves with every step, I look around, I see the
bugs crawling on the log I just

stepped over, they are moving frantically, needing to
accomplish as much work as possible.

They retrieve the leafs, then carry them into the hill that
hides the queen. The mound, an

eggshell, the queen, the yoke. She is unable to defend
herself like the young embryo of a bird,

when she needs she will leave this nest to find a new one
and start her life over. In life

sometimes you need to start over, refresh your mind and
your ways.

That’s when I hear a crunch. I hear the footstep of a man,
I don’t know how, I just feel

the presence of a dark soul, with a small hint I don’t yet
know. I hear a rifle being cocked. I

know the end is near, I look over and I see the pupils of a
young boy, red hair, freckles with a

single tear running down the side of his cheek. He is next
to his father, his father a brute, neck

like a tree trunk, arms built like a meat house, he looks
mean, his jawline distinct and jutting

out. The kid is holding a gun aimed at my head. I walk
closer and the tears start falling. His dad

takes the gun and slaps him.

I am a 14 year old boy who is known as the talkative one. I want to let people know
that there are other sides of me that people don’t know.

With a huge hand around his arm, “Son, shoot the damn 225
animal already, it doesn’t have

a brain like us, It won’t hurt you, it won’t feel pain!” The
anger coming from his mouth like a

bullet, hurting the kid emotionally.
I want to tell him he is wrong, I can’t tell him blatantly, I
don’t have a voice. I sit there
looking for about another second just waiting. In that
second, that small amount of time,I see
into the kid’s eyes, I see his fear, I see his love for his
father, I see how he feels like a
disappointment, I see how much he loves animals. I feel
the urge to walk away, but then how
would the kid feel, how would his father react. So I take a
step forward, followed by another,
and another, in that time we come face to face. The
father’s eyes filling with rage, then I move
in between the father and son, at this moment I see the
fear in the father’s eyes, he knows what
I am thinking. He knows what I am doing. He knows the
depth of his decision, he knows that
he messed up. I see fear, fear that his son will not spend
time with him anymore, the fear that
he will never be loved. So much emotion that is seeping
through the cracks of his rock hard
skin, through the shell he has been hiding in. He is
breaking free from the egg, a new beginning.
So in that moment, he walks to the kid, takes the gun,
drops it. He hugs the child, embracing
him, all I hear are the sobs, the gentle words being said,
“Father, I love you.”
The father bawling now too, ”Son, I should never have
pushed you into something you
didn’t want to do, I am sorry.”
I see now that my job is done, but did I ever have one. I
feel like I don’t need to stay any
longer, I should get some food I start walking the
opposite way,
“Hey” I stop. Looking back, with a single tear trickling
down my cheek, falling off of my

fur, I never knew I could cry before. There was a long
silence, the silence was then penetrated

by the soft, loving, meaningful words of,
“Thank you.”
He knows I can’t talk though, he just feels that I am not
just a deer. I am a living thing,
more intelligent than a “dumb animal”.
Now I know what I initially saw in him. I saw the love and
compassion between him and
his son.

226

ruth lax

The Unexpected Blaze

In the darkness of my bedroom, everything is blurry. I can 227
barely distinguish the outlines of my furniture and shelves. It’s
been nine nights now without Dad, nine nights since he left
to go fight the fires. The vacancy of his presence makes me
weak. Hoping to quench my thirst, I walk down the midnight
musty hallway towards a crack of light shining through my
parent’s door. Stopping, the moonlight reflection through
a nearby window turns my attention to the family pictures.
Encased by a silver frame, dust layered the top of the picture.
Clad in his dark blue uniform, he holds a hose next to the
fire hydrant. His badge shines against his deep blue uniform,
while his smile expresses his satisfaction. The sparkle in his
eyes remind me of how proud he was of me after I placed
first in a swim meet. My eyes catch a glimpse of the plaque
saying, Chuck Lax, Battalion Chief of Redwood City. All of the
memories flow back into my mind, making me wonder about
his well being. I didn’t really notice Dad’s absence for the first
week. Now, his lack of safety makes my uncertainty rattle.
Shuffling further with tears dripping down my face, I arrive at
the last picture.

I quietly head back to my room. I’m too late. Mom
comes out with bags under her eyes. A confused look struck
her face while she pushes her last arm through her robe.
She stares at me and sees the pain in my face. She senses
my longing for Dad. Mom’s face wilts with sadness, the
corners of her mouth fade. Trying to hide her emotions, she
composes herself to huddle around me. The sound of her
voice soothes my heart. I feel her body comfort me, and I
wonder if she’s realizing that keeping us strong, keeps him
strong.

In the morning, Dad wouldn’t be there again. He wasn’t

Ruthie is a 8th grader at Central Middle School. She is a vast lover of writing and
reading. Her dislikes are donuts, frosting, pudding, and Jell-O. She loves hiking,
biking, swimming and hanging out with her friends. When she grows up she wants
to become a general surgeon. Her passion for writing has ignited, and she enjoys
being able to express herself.

228 going to make me breakfast, nor welcome me home after
school. Instead, he’s out on the front lines. The fire could be
surrounding him. I imagine his face covered with black sweat
from the ashes. He would be edging himself closer to safety.
Overtired and overworked, Dad’s vulnerable to the raging
fires up north. Waking to a fatherless house, Dad should’ve
returned home Monday morning, but the fires called him.

Last week on Monday, the ninth of October, Dad was
deported to the Tubs fire in Santa Clara. I can imagine lined-
up folding tables covered with doubled brown bags. An entire
day’s worth of food is inside these bags. His voice directs five
engines of thirty men and women for their daily tasks. The
firemen and women look to him for certainty. I imagine him
finishing his speech and adding his typical clowning around. I
remember that can only imagine his voice, but I can’t hear it.
Most nights after deployment, Mom would have the news on.
This time, there were shocking images of the neighborhoods
with distressed properties and fires breaking out.Another
lady’s properties covered in debris, seeing her face in the
newspaper made think of Dad.

The alarm clock noise, faint in the background to my
thoughts and fears about Dad. Mom’s voice ringing in my ear
made me discover again that he still wasn’t home. Another
day went by alone, and depression crept in. I mope out of
bed., not understand the purpose of life without Dad. The
crispness of the air chills my feet as I find myself hoping
the near future would bring him through the front door. My
mind’s thoughts were circulating. Will he ever come back? If
he doesn’t, how many nights will repeat worse than the last. I
look over at the clock. Forty five minutes had already passed,
and lateness creeped up behind me. Lost in my longings for
him to come home. Walking into the kitchen, mom is standing
and sipping her coffee telling me to hurry up. Confusion
struck me. It’s like she’d forgotten about last night. I couldn’t
ever forget about last night. It would stay with me forever.

“Come on sweetie …” Her lips kept moving, but all the
words stopped moving into my brain, as if they never entered
my ears. Today was the day he was supposed to come
home and take me to school. My eyes welled up, and all the
thoughts came back. Sitting at the counter, I tried to hold
back my tears. Knowing that Mom struggled too, I heard my
voice respond in a vague tone. My chin started to tremble as
I spotted his work bag sitting on the floor. His clothes filled
it, imagine him scurry out of the fire station heading towards
Napa and Sonoma. I couldn’t hold back anymore, the tears

flowed out of my eyes. 229
“Sweetie, what’s wrong?”
“ I miss him.”
“I miss him too he’s coming home soon, don’t worry he’s

safe.”
She came across and took me in her arms. “Don’t worry,”

she said, gently rocking me back and forth, “Your Dad knows
what he’s doing up there.”

This didn’t reassure anything for me. The tears just
wouldn’t stop, I could feel the life taken out of me. The
phone rings; It’s him. Mom slinked to the back of the house,
probably to get out of earshot. My gut told me they were
talking about me, but my numb body continued to eat my
cereal. The cold countertop mixed with the warm fireplace
made a contrast of temperatures. Looking through the fire,
I can see him on the other side, cold and loaning for help.
Vulnerable in the middle of the forest, fire surrounding him.
I flash back, turn my head, but the vision is gone; he’s gone.
Looking Over at the calendar again. Her footsteps announce
her return.

“I have someone on the phone who wants to talk to you.”
She switched to speakerphone. It’s him, Dad! Just hearing
his voice increases my want for him to come home.
“Hello, Ruthie girl.”
The tears flow back, and this time it’s even worse.
He hears me starting to cry, and I can hear the worrying
in his voice.
I run into Mom’s arms, imagining Dad holding me and
telling me everything’s going to be all right.
“Ruthie, I’m here. Don’t worry, everything is going to be
fine. I’m safe.”
To lessen my pain, she takes him off speaker. I could hear
his voice through the phone worried about me and how I am
coping with all of this.
“Are you sure she’s ok?”
“Well not really, but I think she’s just now expressing those
buried feelings.”
Excuse me! How would she know if I bury feelings.
Hearing her say that, I felt ready to debate my side. I knew it’s
better to just leave it.
“Tell her I love her,” he replied with a worried sound.
Click. He was gone again.
All I know is these feeling just came out of me today.
I didn’t really notice Dad’s absence for the first week, his
schedule as a firefighter is already varied. Sometimes, he

230 works two days and off for four; and other times, he works
for four days and off for two. Chunks of time without Dad
around can be normal. Nine days had gone by, and every day
the feelings increased without my recognition. When I first
noticed a little echo in my heart, telling anyone didn’t cross
my mind. The smallest piece of a puzzle missing, but I didn’t
think I needed to figure it out. Busy doing homework and
living a normal life, I wasn’t concerned. I go to school, come
home, work on my studies and attend swim practice. Almost
nightly, mom walks into my room, frustrated that I am still
watching TV. She takes my technology, plugs them in, comes
back to my bed, turns out the lights, stands there waiting for
me to get in, gives me a kiss and a hug, and shuts the door.
This all happens and starts over again the next day, just like
each of the nine previous days. The repercussion of built up
feelings amazed me. Nine days of not seeing Dad, hearing his
dumb jokes, or smelling his aftershave lotion, and sitting in his
chair at dinner put much affect on my heart. He’d been gone
for two weeks before, and sure, I cried. I didn’t know that if I
lodged all of my feelings that it would create a huge ordeal. I
buried my emotions down for a long time, and they erupted.
Maybe mom was right. When he comes home, I will see him
differently. Every time I look through him, all I see is him in
the ring of fire, vulnerable and lonely. Sitting there crying out
for help, he waits while co-workers come running and are
too afraid to risk their lives. His life’s in danger and seeing
him like that made me want to crawl through the fire and pull
him out into my arms. I will have a stronger connection with
him at home, the strain on my heart strings will make my love
stronger.

Taryn lawas morales

The Watermelon Dream Slush 231
with Extra Nerds

We’ve been driving to Anaheim for centuries. Slowly
opening my eyes, all I notice is the

road going on and on. I’m far too lazy to turn and look at
the flat farmland stretching for miles on end.

I then hear Dad humming. Soft. Quiet.
The plentiful, repulsive-smelling cows blur my scent while
I slowly awake. I cover my
nose with the sleeve of my oversized sweatshirt to try to
mask the smell. The stench is so strong
that it’s seeping through the doors and windows of the
car.
“Oh my gosh! That smell!” I crunch my eyes together as
if it’ll help the smell go away.
But it doesn’t for a long while.
Dad immediately sprays his ‘manly’ smelling cologne in
the air vents. We could,
thankfully, breathe fresh, normal smelling oxygen again.
My eyes flicker as my mouth widens to let out the
dramatic yawn that’s been waiting to
be set free. I stretch my arms above my head as if
someone were a taffy puller and they were
mistaking my arms for a mouthwatering piece of freshly
made taffy. My back bending as my
hazelnut hair flows beneath it.

kajsdbxiwgued.

232 “Good morning! How are you, my little sleeping beauty?”
Dad says

enthusiastically, just joking around like he usually does.
I look at him with a sarcastic smile, chuckling a little,”Dad,
it’s already 5 PM. Morning is
long gone.”
“That was kinda the point,” a smile grew on his face.
Finally giving up on trying to come up with a clever
comeback, since no one can ever
beat my dad’s subpar jokes, I turn back to look at the
everlasting road.
Dad seems oddly enthusiastic. Heck! He’s been driving
for four hours and still has a little
pep in him! Either he’s excited for Disneyland or he drank
the rest of that Watermelon Dream
Slush with extra nerds on the top we got from Sonic while
I was sleeping. I should’ve known
better. I could definitely see it in his face. I look over to
find Dad’s hands gripping the steering
wheel, his dark sunglasses on, and his hazelnut hair still
perfectly in check. I could hear the
quiet sound of soft 80’s R&B music playing from the
speakers and I think to myself, “I have an
incredible dad. He would be willing to give up listening to
music just to let me have a peaceful
nap.” But as soon as I straighten up my passenger seat to
its regular angle, he immediately
turns up the volume.
The lines, “Can. You. Stand. The. Rain.” blast into my ear,
instantly setting me off into a
range of high notes and runs, my dad singing in harmony
along with me.
The wide grin on his face automatically made my smile
grow, whether it wanted to or not.
I’ve always loved how my dad and I have so many similar
characteristics. The way our dimples
are perfectly aligned like a mirror image when we smiled
at each other. Or how we have little
crow’s feet in the corners of our eyes whenever we
make a silly face. I’m even only a couple
inches shorter than him. Sometimes strangers have
thought that we were brother and sister

because of how alike we looked! 233
Soon after the song is over I realize that I’ve been staring
at him for a good three minutes
now. Knowing this, I quickly turn back my head to look
down at my hands, blushing with embarrassment.
I could tell my dad had noticed,“What you lookin’ at?” he
yells over the music in a joking
manner in his best “gangster” impression, his eyebrows
and lips scrunched to make himself
seem tough. Knowing that he’s my just my dad and not
some scary gang member, this just
amuses me.
Right away I start breaking into laughter. Somehow, only
Dad can make me have a
booming laugh that people could hear from a mile away.
Another thing Dad and I have in common: our laugh. We
would start off with three huge
chuckles. If the joke was that great, we’d continue
laughing so hard that our laugh was nearly
silent, the only way to catch our breath was the little
exaggerated gasps in between. Then when
the laughter was over, we’d give out a gigantic “Whew!”
to slow down our speeding heartbeat. I
love making my dad laugh just to hear how much it
reminded me of mine.
Suddenly, realize how parched I am. Now I wish I could’ve
had one more sip of that drink
before I fell asleep. I miss the tangy taste of watermelon.
“So...” I smirk in his direction. I feel like I’m Elle Woods
interrogating Chutney in the
courtroom in one of our favorite movies, Legally Blonde.
I’m onto him now! “I have a
sneaking suspicion that you drank the rest of that
watermelon Dream Slush with extra nerds on
top! Is that correct?”
My dad, unfortunately, only gives out a chuckle. I’m still
learning how to crack jokes on
the fly like he does. “Think again! Check in the Sonic bag

at your feet.” This time, he’s the one
smirking.
I look down to find a half dranken slushy. Pretty close to

the same amount that I saw
before I fell asleep. He saved some for me? I took a sip

from the cup and find my taste buds
being satisfied yet again. A wide grin grew once I took

that sip, a smile so big that my dimples
were concave to look like a tiny tunnel indented into my

face. Not because the drink tasted
amazing, but simply because I knew that Dad was

genuinely excited to go on a trip with me.
“I love you, daddy.”
He gives me an unforgettable smile, “I love you too, Tay.”

234

nikita jayaprakash

Truth

Walking casually through the place,
Can’t draw attention to you,
No one sees,

As you slip into the bathroom.

Of all the comfort you could have,
Loving words, an open set of arms,

This is your sanctuary,
Where nothing is of harm.

You face the mirror, 235
It knows your lies,
You can’t lie to a mirror,
It knows your fears, your cries.

Stripped of your armor,
Deprived of your smiles,
Undressed of your confidence,

Able to admit the lies.

Your eyes well up,
With tears long due,

And you realize,
Something that is ever true.

Those who claim to love you,
Your best friends in the world,
Only love the confident, strong woman,
Not the sad, small, weak girl.

Nikita is a 13 year old girl in the 8th grade whose passion for poetry began in the
second grade when her teacher saw that she had a talent for writing so, with her
parent’s encouragement, she began writing. Before this, she had tried to express
herself through visual art, but she found that she could better express herself
through words, so she traded her canvas for the blank page and her paintbrush
for a pen.

236 Your sanctuary lies in the bathroom,
With only the towels to dry your tears,
And your own arms to comfort you,

You can barely breathe.
You squeeze your eyes shut,
And exhale, drowning your yell,
Grab the towels and dry your eyes,
And smile the fake smile you’ve practiced so well.

But everyone will believe,
As you walk out with pride in your strides,

But someone comes up to ask,
“Are you all right?”

You don’t matter to them,
They don’t really care,

They are already looking,
To their friends elsewhere.
No one knows your pain,
Because your silence is your cry,

What are you to say but,
“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Nikita Jayaprakash
The Black Rose
A bright red rose,

Basking in the sunlight rays,
Beautiful,

Worthy of much praise.
Someone will come,
They had sworn,

In response to these lies,
She grew thorns.

The disappointment,
Of so much hope built,
That her petals lost their color,
Her leaves began to wilt.
Her expectations unmet,

Her anger burned,
And her petals,

Black they turned.

Can’t touch her, 237
Can’t hurt her,

A worthless black rose,
Don’t come near her,

Don’t disturb her,
A wretched black rose.

She was once lovely,
But beauty is pain,

A twisted black rose,
The agony was unbearable,
The welts from the chains,

A changed black rose.
Once hurt,

Now she always thinks twice,
A cautious black rose,

With thorns to protect her,
Won’t be hurt another time,

An aching black rose.
Can’t take the pain again,
A bandage before the wound,

A damaged black rose,
A game with some winners,
And the losers too battered to resume,

A red rose turned black.
She wasn’t always like this,

We made her this way,
We made her blacken,
We made her decay.

veena sumedh

Turn on the Light

238 The nurses, the doctors, and even her parents felt far
away, on another planet. The only thing in the world that
mattered to Sierra in that moment was her brother Alvin lying
asleep on the hospital bed, his breathing ragged, her hand in
his. Seeing Alvin’s crystal blue eyes clouded over with pain
and half-blinded by tears, Sierra felt a lump in her throat as
her eyes stung.

“Sierra,” he choked out. “I can’t stand the pain... maybe I
should give up... stop fighting...”

“ ‘Someday we will have to make the choice between
what is right, and what is easy.’ -Albus Dumbledore,” croaked
Sierra, her voice cracking from the last few hours of silence
by Alvin’s side. Her brother managed a weak smile. Sierra’s
heart twisted as she realized it might be the last time the
siblings would ever would spring surprise Dumbledore
quotes on each other. “I wanted to give you something,” he
said, holding out his hand.

Sierra’s red eyes misted over when she saw the tiny
paper crane she had made for Alvin in 4th grade.

“There’s a message in it if.... I...” he faltered.
A tear trickled down Sierra’s cheek, something she had
struggled not to do for her brother’s happiness.
“Sierra...” sobbed her brother as his eyes fluttered closed.
“Alvin?” whispered Sierra, feeling feverish.
He didn’t respond. With a sickening lurch, her stomach
twisted itself into knots. “Alvin” she heard herself say over
and over again.
His hand turned cold as she slipped her hand out of his.
She stared at him, as her brain turned numb. Her parents
were suddenly around her, screaming and sobbing, but she

Veena is a voracious reader, plays the violin, and loves singing Broadway musicals.
She is an only child and lives in the Bay Area.

couldn’t hear them. She was slipping away, down a cold, black
pit that never ended.

The paper crane, she barely remembered. She couldn’t
control her hands as she nearly ripped the paper she was
unfolding.

In her brother’s scrawled handwriting, Sierra read the
words:

“Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if
one only remembers to turn on the light” - Albus Dumbledore

239

(Natalie Lo, above, “Let’s go somewhere far away together”) I’m 14, and I spend
my free time drawing on my ipad pro or sketching.

ella blarney

240 Varsity

The teams get published today. In the gym. When school
ends: 3:30, 2 minutes and 46 seconds away. I can feel it: the​​
adrenaline pumping through my veins, the inability to sit still.
I spin a pencil on my history textbook, it’s the only thing I
can do to keep myself from bouncing around in my chair. 1
minute. I look anxiously through the windows, eyeing the gym
door, propped open with a beat up construction cone. I can
almost hear the bouncing of basketballs and the squeaking of
sneakers, some of my favorite sounds.

Clutching the strap of my backpack, I quietly, but quickly
unzip the big pocket and jam my binder in, occasionally
glancing at Mr. J who is currently ranting about turning in
homework on time, waving his hands around in exaggerated
circles. Kids packing up before the bell is one of his many pet
peeves. Getting in trouble will only make me late. 30 seconds.
The clock’s ticking is slowing down by the second. Pencils,
usually darting around, look like they’re moving through
syrup.

Ring!
I sprint out the classroom door past students down
the hallway towards the gym, hoping to get a glance at the
teams before a mob forms. My old, ripped backpack jingles
awkwardly on my shoulder. I burst through the door, almost
kicking the cone. My heart is threatening to come out of my
chest with it’s rapid beating.
Students are already present, probably from pe. They
talk with their friends and scribble on homework in the
bleachers. Others shoot around, the rhythmic pounding and
swishing of basketballs accompanied by the occasional cries
of shoes on the court. To my dismay, a mob of students has
also formed around a lopsided sheet of paper that hung just
below a series of banners from different colleges, most likely

Ella Blaney loves basketball and likes to spend her free time playing a variety of
sports and hanging out with friends.

containing this year’s basketball teams. I run to the outskirts 241
of the group and attempt to read the varsity team only to end
up with a maze of heads, shirts, and backpacks blocking my
line of sight. I need to get inside. My backpack hits the floor
with a thud as I begin to slither and push my way through the
crowd. Reaching the front, I scan the paper, trying to block
out the sound of basketballs and the words of other students.

“Hey, Kevin! You’re on here!”
“Really? Cool! What an awesome lineup!”
“Yeah, I know right! This is amazing!”
I reach the bottom of the varsity team fairly quickly,
distracted and confused. Wait. I must have missed my name. I
read the varsity team up and down once again.
“Devin, Steve, Eric, James, Chris, Clay, Kevin, Michael,
Kyle, and Isaiah​.​” I frown.
Where am I?
I turn to the JV team with a frown.
“Josh Jones, starting JV point guard?” I splutter in
disbelief. My eyes find my friend, Darren, over by the door.
We look at each other for a second, then he turns away
quickly, checking the time on his non existent watch. He’s
seen the teams. I turn back to the paper, zeroed in on the
word “JV.” This time it sinks in. I’m not on Varsity. I’m not good
enough. I am never going to get a scholarship. I’m never
going to be able to go to college and become a scientist.
Mom and Dad already said twice that they were sure they
couldn’t afford to send me off to college. It won’t be any
different if I ask them again.
A lump finds its way into my throat. I’m sweating, a lot. I
can feel it in the back of my neck and on my scalp, a prickly
feeling. My shock transitions to fury, I feel like punching the
wall and tearing up the sheet of paper. I decide to take a
couple deep breaths and look around. The crowd has mostly
depleted now. Only a couple other freshmen remain. The
rest have moved on, taking turns shooting at a nearby hoop. I
suddenly feel a hand on my shoulder.
“You’re Josh, right?” A deep voice thunders. I turn around
and come face to face with the varsity coach, Coach Greg. I
remember seeing him at tryouts.
“Yes” I reply timidly.
“Wow.” He raises his eyebrows and gazes at his clipboard.
“Great job on making JV!
You have some amazing talent. It will be fun to watch you
play this year.”
“Thanks.” I’m stunned. A small, lopsided grin escapes. I’ve

heard that he doesn’t give very many compliments. Coach
Greg winks and walks away. I turn back to the JV list realising
how much I’d overlooked how much I had accomplished.
“Starting JV point guard.” My grin expands. That’s some
accomplishment. I might even be able to put that on my
resume along with my grades and test scores. I’ll work hard,
harder than I’ve ever worked before. Next year, I’m definitely
going to be on varsity. I’m getting that college scholarship.
242

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

charlotte apfel

Water Dripping Down My Face

Water​ ​dripping​ d​ own​ ​my​ ​face
Shards​ o​ f​ ​glass​ ​in​ ​my​ h​ ands
Sounds​of​ s​ hells​ ​and​ s​ creams​i​​n​m​ y​​ears
Water ​dripping​down​my​face.​

Water​ ​dripping​ d​ own​ m​ y​ ​face memories​ off of​ ​
Teachers,​ p​ eers,​friends
Getting​ u​ p 243
Brushing ​fragments​ o​ f​ our​
them
Our​everyday​ ​​things
In ​ millions​ of​ pieces​
Water​ d​ ripping​ d​ own​ my​ ​face.

Water​ ​dripping​ d​ own​ ​my​ ​face
I​ h​ ear​ ​screams from​ ​parents
They want​ their​ kids​ ​to​ ​come​ ​home
I​​hear​m​ y mom​ and​ ​dad and​ family​
Calling​ for​ m​ e
Water​ dripping​ down​ ​my​ f​ ace.

Water dripping ​ down​my​face​
I​​get​up​
Slowly
We​ ​all​ ​are
We​ are​ walking​ to our​ p​ arents​ voices
Water​ d​ ripping ​down​ my​ ​face.

Water​ ​dripping​ ​down​ ​my​ f​ ace
We​ l​ ook​ f​ or​ s​ helter

Hello, I am Charlotte Apfel. Hope you like my poems !!

The​​world around​ me​ has​ fallen​
Our walls​ a​ re​ ​gone
We​ ​are​ e​ xposed
Water dripping​ ​down​m​ y​f​ ace.
Water​ d​ ripping​ ​down​ m​ y​ ​face
I​ see​ ​my​ ​parents
I​ r​ un​ t​ o​ ​them
Stumbling​ a​ nd​ f​ alling
Before​ ​I​ r​ each​ ​them
There is​ w​ ater​ ​dripping​ d​ own​ m​ y​ ​face.
Red​ w​ ater​ ​that​ i​ sn’t​ s​ topping.

244

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

joanne park

What It Takes 245

It was like a wildfire. It was like a smoky breeze, spreading
anywhere, everywhere. The words couldn’t be stopped.

“The science team results are out.”
The student crowd tittered in nervousness, wondering if
they made it in.
My best friend Amanda slung her arms on my shoulders,
grinning like a Cheshire Cat.
“Guessing you made it in?” I teased, the answer clear on
her face.
“Yep! You know, you should try out one day. It’s great
being part of a team,” Amanda exclaimed.
I shrugged, wondering briefly what it’d be like. “It’s not my
thing, I guess,” I said.
“What’s your thing then? Art club?” Amanda asked
jokingly.
I glanced over at the faded art club poster beside the
shiny, stiff science bowl poster. “No,” I replied.
But see, I do have a ‘thing’. I want to be a writer. I’ve
envisioned countless killer story plots and ideas that would
proudly boast those “The #1 New York Times Best Seller”
stickers if I fully wrote them out.

I told my English teacher Miss Starr what I wanted to
be.

She had brushed her black curls aside, then asked, “How
about you send some of your rough drafts to me to look
over?”

I felt momentary confusion. What was she talking about?
My stories were perfect they way they were.

“That’s okay,” I replied. “But thanks.” With that, I left.
The next day, flyers for a writing competition were being
passed out. I thought, this is something I have to do! Because,
well, going on competitions and winning was what writers do.

Joanne Park is a 7th grader at Hopkins Junior High who has the tendency to often
get lost in her own thoughts. Her passions are to write, travel, and watch Broadway
musicals. Her inspiration comes from rainy days, wet socks, and snippets of con-
versations she was never meant to hear.

246 So I spent the next couple days trying to think of the
most awesome ideas as well as the most bizarre plot twists
I could think of for the story, because who doesn’t like plot
twists?

Happy with my writing, I turned it in.
The results were going to be posted, and I felt a tingly all
over. My first breakthrough in writing!
The poster was going to be up in the hallways. I couldn’t
wait!
As soon as the bell rang, I flew out of class to the poster,
my heart pounding yes, yes, YES!
I looked at the first place winner’s name.
It wasn’t mine.
I felt my excitement diminish slightly, but I didn’t give it
much thought. Not everybody could be first place after all.
I looked the second and third place winner places.
My name wasn’t there.
I scanned the entire poster, down to tenth place to the
honorable mentions.
I felt my heart drop.
My name wasn’t on the poster anywhere.
What did I do wrong?
I took my story to Miss Starr. She finishing reading it and
looked up at me.
“Well?” I demanded.
Miss Starr gazed down at the paper again. “The ideas are
fresh,” she remarked, “but they could be conveyed better.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know the reason why you didn’t win the
competition?” Miss Starr asked.
I didn’t.
She drummed her fingers against the table. “I think it’s
because you didn’t commit enough to your piece.”
“What do you mean?”

“Have you revised your piece once since you wrote
it?” she asked.

“It’s fine the way it is,” I replied.
“Nothing is ever fine the way it is,” Miss Starr answered.
“Sorry to break it to you, but you think all those writers out
there got their books published after a single draft?”
She handed back my papers to me. I scanned what I
wrote.
Then I could see it. How the sentences would flow

smoother if I switched it around. How I could cut out entire
paragraphs and still make my point. Heck, did I even I have a
point? My head spun.

“You know what?” Miss Starr said, noticing my distraught
expression. She opened her desk drawer, pulling out a sheet
of paper. “Here’s a flyer for another literary contest. Try
again.”

I could feel the blood rushing in my ears, and my heart
said no, no, NO! I shook my head then left the classroom.

I received the contest flyer while Miss Starr was passing
back assignments and tests the next day. I contemplated what
to do with it.

I kept it.
Days passed in a blur, me wallowing in pools of my self-
doubt and pity. I knew writing was my dream, and it felt right,
but I guess I never realized how hard I had to work for it.

I groaned, crossing out yet another paragraph. I looked at 247
it again, but all I could see was horrible horrible horrible and
for a moment, the page blurred in front of me.

I took a deep breath, then continued writing.
I spent hours working on it every day at home. When I
had free time, I thought of ideas and how I could improve it.
Amanda could tell I was off in my own world.
“—and that’s how we won our third competition! The final
tournament is coming up soon, and we’re studying, like, crazy.
I mean—hey, are you listening?”
“What?” I jerked my head up. “Yeah, yeah.”
She looked at me worriedly. “I don’t know, you’re been a
little distant.”
I sighed. “I really want my writing to be good this time.”
She patted my hand over the lunch table. “I know it’s
important to you,” she said, sincerity shining in her eyes. “I
believe in you.”
I felt my spirits rising. “I believe in you too, and your
victory at the final tournament,” I said, winking.
She beamed. “So you were listening!”

I lost myself in writing for the contest for the next weeks.
I took my drafts to Miss Starr, who looked over them, while
I awkwardly stood by the side. I poured my soul into writing
each word, reading it hundreds of times to make sure
everything was right.

I revised and edited until the day to turn in it.
I handed my piece in, then turned and walked away. Only

248 time would tell.
Days bled into weeks of waiting. I wanted to know if all

my work had been worth all of my time and effort.
So you can imagine my nervousness as I walked down

the corridor to the place where the result poster was. I could
feel my heart thudding dully in my head, beating in a unsteady
rhythm I couldn’t decipher.

I wasn’t in first place.
Or second.
Or third.
My name was next to honorable mentions. Honorable
mentions.
I didn’t know how to react. Part of me was happy to be
recognized. Another part of me asked, what?
Honorable mentions wasn’t winning. It was the almost cut.
The people who wrote ‘eh’ stories. Honorable mentions was
false hope.
“False hope?” Miss Starr asked, a looked of amusement
on her face as I explained. “Honorable mentions isn’t—as you
put it—‘eh’ stories.”
I crossed my arms. “But it’s not winning. I don’t get an
award.”
Miss Starr straightened and gave me one of those looks
that made me uneasy. “Writing isn’t about winning,” she said.
“Nothing’s ever just about winning. Writing isn’t about getting
some metal plaque. It’s about delivering a message; it’s about
moving people.”
I stayed silent, looking down. “I understand,” I whispered,
even though I didn’t really.
Miss Starr sighed. “You may go.”
I met Amanda outside of the school. I expected a frisky
wave like every day, but today, there was just a flat, ‘hello’.
That couldn’t be right. Amanda always greeted people
with a vivacious ‘Hi!’ and an attack of hugs.
“Amanda?” I asked, “is there something wrong?”
I mentally slapped myself, of course something was
wrong! There was no way Amanda was just standing there,
looking like a kicked puppy with no reason.
Amanda sniffled. Wait, was she crying?
“We lost!” she cried, head in her hands. “We lost the
tournament, and it’s all my fault!”
I didn’t know to say. I couldn’t look at Amanda like this,
downcast and crestfallen.
She angrily swiped at her eyes. “If I didn’t answer that last

question incorrectly, we would’ve won the championship, but
I just had to mess it up—”

“I’m sure it not your fault,” I said softly.
She didn’t say anything.
I sighed. “Um, well, I wrote this thing... if you’re interested,
you know...”
I pulled out my contest piece from my bag and handed it
to her. Drying her face with her sleeves, Amanda took it.
A couple words into the story, her cloudy expression
evaporated.
Halfway into the story, the corners of her mouth twitched
up.
At the near end of the story, she let a small giggle.
“I love it,” she breathed, her eyes glowing, tears long
gone.
There was a little flutter in my heart and the pounding in
my heart saying yes, yes, YES, and it was then I realized what
Miss Starr meant—seeing Amanda happy after reading my
story was far more rewarding than any award would ever
make me.
Maybe except for “The #1 New York Times Best Seller”
stickers… those seem pretty cool.

249

chloe johnson

250 Wooden Splinters

The gravely rooftop pokes my skin, making small dents. A
sharp contrast against the rays of sun that swallow me in soft
warmth. I hear the birds call to each other. The trees rustling
in the wind. The occasional squirrel scurrying on the wooden
fence. A landscape no window can provide. All is well in little
San Carlos.

My eyes are closed. The sun, despite its soft caress, is
blinding to look at. It’s even bright through my eyelids. But it
also warms my face, making me smile. This is a refuge for
me.

My peaceful paradise lasted for only a few brief minutes
before my name floated through our house.

I sat straight up, my heart rate increasing. “Mom. Oh
shoot. If she finds me up here, I’m

toast. Toasty toast.” I laughed, but abruptly stopped. “Be
serious, Clo.” I scolded myself. “You need to hurry. She’ll
come looking for you if you don’t get in fast enough. If she
catches you up here...” I tried to think of what would happen
and came up empty. But whatever it was, I knew for a fact
that I wouldn’t like it.

I stand up and walk to the edge of the roof. I carefully
step onto the fence that stands as tall as the little house. I
lean over and grasp my neighbors’ shed to stay balanced and
lower my feet onto the old wooden panels. Hoping I wouldn’t
slip, I swung my body down so my knees were touching my
feet. I put one bare foot onto the pebbles. They poked my
feet and I shifted uncomfortably.

Snap.
The panel holding my foot gave way, leaving a gaping
hole staring back at me. I look at my foot, horrified. It’s
through the fence. My vision got wavy. I wipe my eyes.
No, it’s not because I’m crying. Nope. My eyes are as dry
as the Mojave desert in the middle of summer. I heard my

Chloe is a 13 year old swimmer who loves chocolate and the beach. She loves
to read and write everything from fantasy to historical fiction. Chloe’s favourite
candy is a KitKat and she must have chapstick on her at all times.