Stanford Anthology for Youth: Volume 21

“You’re speaking Daelan. Of course I can understand 51
you.”

“No, I am speaking Draconian, the language of dragons.
I can speak most every tongue - save Gobland, the goblin’s
rough form of speech - but very few can understand, much
less speak, Draconian.”

Anya shook her head in confusion. “But how can I have
these great magical gifts and not know it?”

“Tarrowin himself did not know until he was fifteen.”
Anya felt as if Nordath expected her to speak, but re-
mained silent. The steady drip of wax from candles and
flicker of firelight filled the pause.
“You must learn to wield your gifts. Use them to defeat
King Eloden and restore magic to its former glory.” Nordath’s
eyes glimmered in the torchlight.
“I can’t.” Anya’s voice caught. “I’m a shepherd, not the
hero of some fable. A flock of sheep I can manage, but not a
merciless King and his army.”
“But you are brave.”
Anya snorted. “Since when have I ever been brave?”
“You threw yourself in front of the goose girl when I
swooped at her, without once even thinking of yourself. It
was my form of a test; I smelled dragon blood in you, but it
could also have been violet mushroom residue, which smells
remarkably similar. Besides remarkable magical ability, those
with dragon blood also tend to have a healthy dose of cour-
age. Your saving the goose girl proved to me that it was
indeed you I sought.”
Anya didn’t speak.
“I may be far from the eyes of humans, but I still hear talk
carried on the wind by sprites. I know how unjust your King
is, and believe I am right in saying that it is not just myself
who wishes to see him dethroned. King Eloden cares less for
his people than he does for a roast duck - perhaps more for
the duck, in fact, because it may be of some use to him. All
he cares for is power, and he will do anything he can to keep
his people in fear of him, skittering like mice before a wolf in
his path of terrible power.”
“It’s not - it’s not that I don’t want to see Daelan in the
hands of a just ruler,” Anya began, working to keep the fearful
quaver out of her voice. “It’s just, I’m not the heroic figure
you seek. The only thing I’ve ever wielded is a shepherd’s
staff, much less magical abilities ”
“That is of no matter,” Nordath snorted. “You and you
alone can lead the magical world to victory against your King,

can unite magic and non magic beings once more.”
“I can’t,” Anya ‘s voice quavered as she stood. The uneat-
en pomegranate halves fell from her lap to the floor, scatter-
ing a thousand tiny, ruby-red seeds. She ran from the cham-
ber, down the winding stone corridors, and out of the cave.
“Wait! Please!” Nordath’s voice echoed through the cor-
ridors, but Anya did not heed him. She ran out of the cave
and into the night, into the forest, her breath tearing in her
lungs, brambles snatching at her cloak. She ran until she could
run no more, and collapsed to her knees, breathing hard and
trembling.
Perhaps there’s a village somewhere near, Anya thought,
and a village means inns with hot lamb stew and soft beds,
and no dragons who seem to have it stuck in their heads that
I’m anything more than a shepherdess. Hoping to point her-
self in the correct direction, she carefully scaled the tower-
ing elm nearest, her muscles groaning and aching in protest,
slowly pulling herself from one thick grey-barked branch to
another, attempting as best she could to maneuver around
clumps of leaves. When her head finally pushed through the
thick growth of tangled foliage, she found herself facing a
sea of forest in every direction as far as she could see, with
not a village or even a hint of firelight in sight. Anya groaned
52 and slumped back before she realized that she was rather

precariously balanced on a branch, swiftly catching herself
before she plummeted who knows how many feet down. Ex-
hausted, at her wits end, and not a little bit hungry, she found
a relatively sturdy branch and fell asleep before she could
even hope not to fall.
***
Anya awoke disoriented to something poking her hard
in the back, and an odd, muffled sound. She sat bolt upright
and turned around to see a grey-bark-skinned wood elf with a
beard of lichen glaring at her from inside his knothole.
“What do ye think yer doin’ blocking my knothole ye
moss brain!” he grumbled, and stomped off before Anya had
time to react.
What am I doing in a tree? she thought dully, before the
previous day’s events returned to her, poignant and undeni-
ably real. If I can just find a village...
Though the likelihood of her finding another human
within the next few days was doubtful, Anya dropped from
the elm and took in her surroundings.
Trees of every sort grew close together, covered in moss
and draped with waxy green-leafed vines of ivy, strands of

lichen like old men’s beards hanging from their branches, 53
swaying gently in the wind. Birds - no, faeries and sprites -
chattered from the long, twisting boughs of trees arching
overhead - small faeries with delicate moth wings, larger
ones with feathered raven’s and owl’s wings, all with pointed
ears and voices like bells. Elfs conferred with one another
in gruff voices from outside their knotholes, and dragonfly-
winged pixies hoarded acorns and shiny trinkets in their
homes that could so easily be mistaken for birds’ nests at
first glance. The whisper of harp music caught Anya’s atten-
tion, and around the slender trunk of a birch she spied two
willow dryads by a lake, one strumming a silver-stringed lyre
and the other dipping her long, leafy hair into the pond’s
glassy surface. In a clearing a river burbled, its voice high and
pure as morning mist. Anya looked into its surface and saw
not her own reflection, but gauzy river sprites trailing blue
and gold sea silk.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “Just like the legends - ex-
cept real.”

“It is. It used to be even more so.” Nordath’s rumbling
voice startled Anya. He stood beside her, majestic wings
folded, the luminescent river sprites reflecting in his deep
amber eyes. It occurred to Anya that dragons lived for thou-
sands of years, and for how many Nordath had lived alone in
his cave, thinking of the glory of that the magical world had
once been.

“You miss it, don’t you?” Anya said softly.
The dragon bowed his head in agreement. “Come. I must
show you something.” He lowered a wing and looked at her
expectantly. Hesitantly, she climbed on, grasping a spine that
ridged Nordath’s neck for balance.
“You know,” Anya said as the dragon spread his wings, her
words fast and edged with anxiousness. “I’m not very fond of
heights-”
Nordath launched into the sky, and her words were lost in
the wind.
Anya closed her eyes as tight as she could against the
wind and the sky, gripping Nordath’s spine so tightly she was
sure her knuckles were white. Wind beat her face and her
heart pounded in her ears. Slowly, very slowly, Anya opened
her eyes.
Endless forest sprawled below her, entwined with shreds
of mist. Silver ribbons of river wound themselves through,
glittering in the cold sunlight. Every now and then a stag dart-
ed from between trees, a falcon dove screeching for prey, or

a fox skittered from the shadows of the trees. She reached
up and touched a cloud with the very tips of her fingers, cold,
white, and fluffy as swan down. Deep and sonorous as the
mountain, as magic itself, the wind’s wild song filled her ears,
embraced her heart, delved deep down into her and awak-
ened her soul. Anya smiled into the wind, her dark hair whip-
ping about her face, free, free at last.
Lost in the sky in a legend in the making, Anya found a
part of herself that had lay dormant all of her life, her dragon
blood awakening and stirring the daring in her.
Nordath tucked his wings inward and swooped swiftly
downwards towards a rugged black sea cliff, the wind roaring
ever louder in Anya’s ears.
“Nordath? Nordath!” Anya shouted. The unforgiving black
sea cliffs drew nearer as the dragon plummeted, gaining
speed, the wind roaring in Anya’s ears -
“Nordath, you’re going to cra-”
Just as it seemed he would plunge straight into the Cyg-
nus Sea itself, Nordath spread his wings and alighted upon a
craggy sea cliff, near the crumbling ruins of a castle clinging
to the edge of the rock. Anya slid from Nordath’s tail, her legs
feeling strangely heavy as she found her footing on the jag-
ged basalt rock.
54 “It’s one of the only Selkie Shores remaining,” Nordath

rumbled. “A little piece of what the world used to be.” He
flapped off towards the castle ruins.
The cool salt spray of the sea kissed Anya’s face, while
the waves crashed and foamed against the cliff below with
the ferocity of a lion, whipping chill wind around her. Only
then it occurred to her that she had only ever seen the ocean
from the mountain, a misty blue smudge on the horizon,
as distant as the silvery moon. A spined scarlet sea serpent
snaked in and out of the water, its wet scales gleaming in the
sun, delicate webbing connecting the spines along its back.
Elusive selkies poked their dark, wet heads from the water ev-
ery now and then, shy and fleeting as the sun behind clouds.
Sea maids with long, dark hair like seaweed shimmered just
beneath the water with powerful tails scaled in colors rang-
ing from the blue-grey of a stormy sea to sea green to
deep crimson. Diving in and out of the crashing waves were
strange creatures that resembled horses, only with iridescent
skin like the inside of an abalone and maines of thick sea-
weed.
“Anya,” Nordath called, clutching something shiny in his
talons and lowering one wing for her to climb upon. Reluc-

tantly, she tore her gaze away from the sea and climbed up 55
once more onto his back. This time, she bore none of her
previous fear, sitting tall and unafraid. Several minutes later,
they descended from the sky into the forest, this one clearly
as magical as the first.

“I’m sure it was somewhere around here,” mused Nor-
dath.

“What was where?” asked Anya.
Nordath did not answer, instead gesturing to a intricate,
rune-like marking carved into the trunk of a tree. “We follow
these,” he said simply, and plainly thinking this required no
further explanation, continued on.
Anya shrugged and followed.
Nymphs, sprites, faeries, pixies, and elves stared at their
passing, eyes as wide and curious as owls’, whilst dryads
peered cautiously from around trees. Nordath ambled on si-
lently, as did Anya, trailing slightly behind him. A whisper from
behind her caused Anya to turn; to her surprise, she found a
crowd of sprites, elves, faeries, pixies, and dryads following
quietly, a wild and beautiful procession.
Finally, Nordath stopped at the base of an enormous oak.
He turned to face Anya. “When the great wizard Tarrowin
died, his magic turned him into a tree, strong, permanent, and
impervious to axes or time. At the roots of his tree is buried
his sword, Silverelm, to which he bound the magic of your
kind, so that it could never truly die out. Once you reclaim
this, it shall awaken yours.”
The crowd of magical beings had grown, and now sur-
rounded the clearing, watching silently.
“How will I know where to look?” Anya asked.
“You already do,” assured Nordath, though this she knew,
deep in her soul.
She circled the tree once, twice, and knelt at a spot at
the front. Her hands shifted the ivy from between two thick,
gnarled roots, untangled the vines of a hundred years. Sud-
denly, a gleam of silver shone through, bright as a fallen star.
Anya ripped the ivy from it and grasped the hilt of the sword,
encrusted with rough cut amethysts dark and beautiful as
a river seven leagues deep. The few remaining vines of ivy
sloughed off of the blade as Anya stood, feeling something
awaken in her. No longer a meek shepherdess, but a proud
and powerful sorceress, she stood before the assembled
magical creatures and Nordath, who watched with shining
eyes.
He drew out the shiny object he’d taken from the castle

ruins - a woven silver diadem, adorned with crystalline flow-
ers made of diamonds, and placed it on Anya’s head.

“All hail the Queen!” he declared. “Our savior!”
“The Queen!” the faeries, elves, sprites, and dryads cho-
rused in turn.
Anya stood tall and proud, a daughter of magic, descen-
dant of dragons.
“For magic, and for glory!”
56

Linna Xia (above, “Dragon Eye”) is a student at JLS middle school in eighth grade.
She enjoys drawing digital art as a hobby.

Oren Schube

David has Brown Hair

David has brown hair, so I don’t like him.
I don’t like brown hair, so I don’t like David.
David has brown hair, so I don’t like him.
Brown is the color of chocolate.
I’m allergic to chocolate, so I don’t like chocolate.
David has brown hair, so I don’t like him.
I’m sure David is a very nice guy.
He’s quite social.
He’s always talking to someone.
But David has brown hair, so I don’t like him.

57

Oren Schube is a middle schooler in Palo Alto, California. He lives by the saying,
“Laughter is the Very Best Medicine”.

58

59

gabriel madan

Dehli: A Sensory Experience

I expect a peaceful, calm ambiance; I expect a warm sun-
ny day; I expect neither hustle nor bustle. And then I open my
eyes. All around me there is chaos, nothing but commotion
and confusion. To my right, a crumbling brick building stands
withering in the heat and humidity. People have set up tables
in the rubble, beautiful clothing for sale spread out over them.
Motorcycles zoom around, making loud roaring noises and
spewing smoke. The persistent honking of cars fills the air.
Even the bicycles, holding up to a half-dozen people each,
clamor noisily around, heaving their passengers in all direc-
tions. Monkeys are perched on the tops of the deteriorating
buildings. The other wildlife, mosquitoes, swarm in the hot
thick air. To my left on a curb sits a homeless family wearing
60 nothing but rags, smiling and waving as if nothing is wrong. A

drop of sweat trickles down my shirt. I’m on sensory over-
load.
The stench is bad, but surprisingly bearable; it smells like
a sickly sweet plant with garbage on top. It smells of sawdust
too, the scent of decrepit domiciles. The acidity in the air
makes my skin burn, but the sensation is more annoying than
painful. I suddenly realize I’m standing around doing noth-
ing as everything moves around me, so I begin to walk along
what is left of the broken sidewalk. Immediately, an exuber-
ant old man comes up to me with a pack of bright yellow
bananas and says something that sounds like “ ?”
I try to decline, even though I really don’t understand what
he is saying. He forces a banana into my hand, gestures for
me to take it, and says “ ,” before walking away. Out of

Nicole Maneatis (previous page, “A Water Lilly Impression”) 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.
Gabriel is a 13 year old explorer who loves the witty turn of a phrase.
He also loves sports, and will pickup a friendly game of football or shooting
hoops anytime.

politeness, I start to eat the banana because he is watching 61
me. Suddenly, a dark shape swoops out of the air, grabs the
banana, and just as suddenly, jumps away. The monkey sits on
the nearby ledge and eats the banana while staring at me with
his big eyes. As I watch the monkey devour my snack, I sud-
denly realize I’m hungry.

I see a restaurant across the street, and reach into my
pocket to feel for my 2000 rupees as I go inside. A dinner
waitress gives me a menu. I order chicken tikka masala and
phaal curry. I’m not sure what phaal is, but I want to em-
brace the culture and try something new. I notice that the
waitress looks at me with raised eyebrows when I make my
order. When the food comes, I take a bite of the chicken
tikka masala. It looks like a baked yellow brownie with a hole
through the middle. Taste explodes on my tongue as I savor
the tangy flavor; the dish is delicious. I finish the whole thing
before I try some of the phaal curry. Immediately, I start to
retch, cry, and sweat profusely. I feel as if I have swallowed a
fireball. The dish is so spicy that I think the chef either made
a mistake or is playing a prank on me by putting 100 ghost
peppers in it. As I cough and choke, the waitress comes over
to see how I’m doing. Thankfully, she speaks English. She tells
me that phaal curry is the spiciest dish in the world. Even the
chefs have to wear masks when preparing the food. I ask her
if there is anything to cool down the intense burning sensa-
tion in my mouth, throat, and belly (because trust me, water
isn’t working!) She says one thing will help and brings me a
lightly browned cottage-cheese ball drowning in syrup. I try
some, the taste of extreme sweet taking over the spice. As
soon as I finish it, I instantly want more, though I think per-
haps it isn’t good for me to load up on sweets after such a
gastronomic shock!

The fiery feeling of phaal curry igniting me from the
inside out has stuck with me, reminding me of the people and
places of India. In the chaos of India, there is the most vi-
brant culture and amazing food. It surprises me that so many
people get along with so little, yet seem so happy. I realize
that I should have the same attitude, no matter what disap-
pointments face me. Experiencing India and its many sensa-
tions makes me proud of my heritage and proud to be Indian.

sofia antebi

Fallen Petals

One rose, to express all his love.
Heart delicate as glass, waiting at the doorstep,
Stuttering, to confess his feelings of
affection and longing he’s kept.

Arriving at the gates, waiting for something that won’t come.
The Boundaries are broken, yet he’s hesitant to enter.
Finally knocking. She answers, but asks: Excuse me
Sir, do I know you? Shattered, he ran off without giving an
answer to her.

Dropping the rose on the way home, leaving it to wither
Leaving the blooming flower, the petals and the heart
62 In the chilly winter air.

Moving away, through the piercing thorns refusing to part.

The warmth in his coat had faded
The fallen petals still waited.

Sofia is a 16 foot tall purple, polka dotted platypus... Just kidding, she
just doesn’t really know what to add to her bio.

63

gael fonseca

Fat Nugget

“Move over, you short stack of fat burgers.” I move over
quickly as an older student forces his way past me in the
cafeteria line. Jeez, what’s his problem? Either way I don’t
really care. Name calling is the least of my worries. My goal
is to survive lunch without having to suffer the torment of
Johnny. He always goes out of his way to make me feel
more miserable than I already am. Why? I don’t know. I think
it makes him feel good in some way. I wait in line for what
seemed like forever. All these students in line for what? Awful
burgers that has the texture of a wet sponge? Then again, I
can’t judge them, after all I’m buying that same burger too. I
despise cafeteria food, but I have no other option. Neither of
my parents care nearly enough to pack me a lunch. Dad’s a
64 raging alcoholic who stays home all day and watches football

all day while mom kills herself working 3 jobs and taking care
of my baby sister. My typical day at home consisted of my
mom fighting with my dad for ten minutes or so then my dad
passed out on the couch. I eventually learned to take care of
myself and not rely on my parents. When I used to rely on
them I’d always be late and always be hungry or forgotten. I
had to get a part time job at a fast food place just so I could
feed myself.
After paying for the burger, I look for a place to sit. This
is one of the most stressful parts of my day. I’m telling you,
it’s impossible being an outcast in high school and hope to sit
with anyone. Even the other outcasts and weird kids make fun
of me.
“Fat boy.”
“Short nugget.”
or the most common of all, “Dwarf Kim Jong Un.”

Alyssa Sawyer (previous page, “Always Watching”) is a human being(I
think?), who has endured 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.

Gael likes to breath air and play baseball. Gael hopes to one day travel
to North Korea

This pretty much just goes over my head. I’ve grown a 65
pretty tough skin over the years. One of the moments that
really made me not care about what people say was this
one time a teacher was trying to prove a point on some-
thing. I can’t quite remember what, but I do remember the
teacher calling upon the lightest kid and the heaviest kid. She
of course chose me since I was the heaviest. I was humili-
ated and went home crying that day, my parents didn’t even
notice. If my own parents don’t care about me, why should
I care about what other people say? Sometimes I think of
doing or saying something to stop the teasing, but that won’t
change anything. I’ve learned to bottle up my feelings and
anger and store them deep inside. It’s not like I can talk to
anyone about it either, I have no friends or anything. I’ve tried
to talk to people and make friends but the outcome is always
the same, they always end up roasting me and laughing at me
until eventually, I walk away. I never really understood why
people didn’t like me, I mean I know I’m a pretty disgusting
sight to look at but other than that I have no idea why I’m so
hated.

I plop down at an empty table all by myself and start
chomping down on my food. It isn’t great but hey, a burger’s
a burger. I look around as I chew. People are giving quick
glances and whispering in each other’s ear. I’m guessing
they’re making a couple jokes and roasting me. The usual.
But it doesn’t bother me, when I’m eating I don’t pay much
attention to the world around me. Then, out of the corner of
my eye I see Johnny. He’s looking at me right in the eye. He
starts walking over to me and as he gets closer with each
step my heart beats a little faster. “What’s up, Fat Nugget?” I
don’t know how to respond, I’m scared out of my mind, so I
just stay quiet, hoping that what happened last time doesn’t
happen again. In case you’re wondering he’d poured choco-
late milk all over me.

“Aren’t you gonna say anything, you retard?”
Why can’t he just leave me alone.
Johnny looks down at my tray of food. “Say, that’s a good
looking twinkie you got there.”
A knot in my throat won’t let me speak.
“I bet you wouldn’t mind me taking this little twinkie here
would you?”
I want to say, “No” but I can’t work up the courage.
Johnny starts walking away with my twinkie. On a normal day
I wouldn’t care, but if I don’t say anything this will always con-
tinue. I suck it up and forced myself to say something.

“Stop.”
Johnny stops and turns around. “You say something, Fat
Boy?”
I instantly regret it and say nothing. He grabs me by my
neck collar and whispers in my ear, “You should be grateful
I’m eating this, you need to lose weight anyway.” He lets go
and walks away, leaving me alone and embarrassed. Lucky
for him there weren’t any staff around and he gets off scotch
free. Plus it’s not like I would even tell anyone about it, that
would just make the whole situation worse. So I remain silent
and try to pretend that none of that ever happened.
I just sit there just staring at my food without appetite. I
just want the ground to swallow me up so I can get out of
this place. Then I see something unusual. It’s a kid around my
age standing in the middle of the cafeteria looking around
for a place to sit. I know how that feels all too well. There’s
something strange about this kid though, I’ve never seen him
before, he was new to the school. I’d heard about a new kid
through some eavesdropping. Then the weirdest thing hap-
pens, the kid starts walking towards me.
He walks over to the table. “Is this seat taken?”
Baffled, I utter, “No....it’s...ah...not taken.” Dang it, I hope
this kid doesn’t think I’m too weird. The new kid sits down
66 with his food and starts eating. I couldn’t help but being

confused, why would he choose to sit with me out of all the
other kids? Nonetheless this was a chance to make a friend. I
just need to make a good first impression.
“Hey...uhhh...you new to the school?”
The kid stops eating and looks over to me. “Yeah, my
family recently moved.”
“Oh...cool where from?”
“Uh...my family just moved from Jamaica.”
Great, this kid isn’t from here. He’ll probably think that I’m
just a normal kid.
I keep trying to keep making more small talk, hoping, just
hoping that maybe I can make some sort of friendship with
this kid.
“So have you made any friends since you got here?”
“No....not many people want to be friends with the for-
eign new kid.”
Another base knock, maybe this kid’s also looking for a
friend.
I decide to take a shot, what’s the worse that can happen?
“Oh...we should hangout sometime after school.”
The kid stops and thinks for a second.

“Yeah... I don’t see why not.”
After hearing those words I’m enthusiastic, it may not
seem like a big deal for anyone else but for me this is a big
achievement. Just as soon the bell rings indicating the end of
lunch. For the first time ever I am actually excited for school
to hang out with someone, I don’t care what we do, the point
is I won’t be lonely for at least that one day.

67

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

madeleine chen

Fight

For years I have trained to fight, to be strong enough
for both me and my mom. Before I was born, my father left
my mom, not caring that she was pregnant with their child.
Maybe that was the reason he left. She never talks about him,
claiming that he was her past and that I am her future.

Now, my mom is a single mother, constantly trying to
make enough money to feed the two of us. She taught me to
be independent so I will never have to rely on someone else,
a lesson she learned the hard way.

As I said, I’ve been training to fight. I started when I was
little, just to pass the time. It was for fun and it helped get my
mind off things. It has changed since then, turning into some-
6 8 thing that is now my main priority, something that consumes
my life. I don’t even have school to get in the way of training
anymore. I used to go to middle school, but there were these
girls there who really bothered me, and one day I couldn’t
take it anymore.

When I was at school, there were these girls. They had
their hair dyed blonde and in fake curls, and teased me for
not having a dad and for having a mom that made almost no
money for us. They teased me for my hair, my clothes, and
pretty much everything that I ever had or was proud of. They
talked about their model moms and dads. Their jokes and
mindless teasing seemed endless, pounding in my head, even
at home.

One day after school I couldn’t help it. I punched them
and tore their clothes. The girl who was the leader of this
little gang of devils, I will never forget. She was teasing me
even while I was hurting her friends. I spun from them and
smashed her eye with my fist. I made sure that the next day,

I am in eighth grade and live in Palo Alto with my younger brother and parents.
I enjoy sketching, writing narrative stories, and playing team sports, specifically
volleyball.

my hand would leave a mark. She fumbled to get out of my 69
grip, but only broke free after I ripped out some of her hair.
Then, finally hearing a some teachers’ voice on the way to
their classroom, I stumbled away in shock at what I had done.

Upon reaching my house, I noticed my mother standing
in the doorway, a furious look on her pale face. She began
to give me a lecture, telling me that I had been expelled and
couldn’t go to school in the district anymore. Julia, the girl
with chunks of hair missing from the back of her head, had
told the principal, who had immediately contacted my mom.
As my mother continued to explain, I noticed a tear trickle
down her face. And soon I was comforting her, telling her
how sorry I was. She asked me if she wasn’t doing a good job
of being a mother, and if I needed anything then I should tell
her. I told her I loved her, before going outside to my home-
made punching bag. I took out my anger by demolishing the
poor bag, deciding that I would never become or associate
with people like Julia.

Now it’s 5 years later, and I’m in our small house on the
wooded side of a road that seems to go on forever. I punch a
cloth dummy on a wooden pole hard in the face, before kick-
ing it in the ribs. It wobbles slightly before returning itself into
an upright position. When I am just about to deliver another
blow to the face, the soft voice of my mother cuts into my
head.

“I’m home,” she says, hiding a rare smile with one hand.
“What is it?” I ask, curious about what could bring a smile
to my mother’s face. She doesn’t answer but holds up a
bright yellowish gold form up to her face. I walk up to her,
taking the sheet from her hand. It is a form for fighting in the
small ring of our town. I scan the document quickly. “A fight-
ing match?” I question.
“Yes,” my mom nods her head, “The person who wins
gets to go to the Fights.”
“The Fights?” I must have skipped that part. The Fights
are the biggest fighting TV show in the world. Everyone who
enjoys fighting wants to become part of it. “Wow,” I breathed,
my voice low with amazement, “Your going to let me do
this?”
She nods, “This is what you enjoy, and although I some-
times wish that you enjoyed something safer, this is what
you love. I am sure you will win.” I smile at her short speech,
touched by how much faith she has in me.
“Thank you,” I say, giving her a warm hug.
The day of the competition came before I could realize

it, and I was shaking with nerves. Usually I would stop to take
a few deep breaths to calm my nerves, but today I was in the
city and the place was dirty had a strange smell. I stepped
into the room labeled with a sticky note that said my name
and sat on a plush couch, something that my mother could
never afford for our own house. The door creaked open, and
a woman with a side braid walked in.

“Do you need any help, miss?” She asked. I quickly shook
my head no, wanting a little space before I had to fight my
opponent. She nodded and stepped out, leaving me alone. A
couple minutes later, the same woman walked in to say “You
will be on in about 10 minutes. Are you sure you don’t need
anything?” I shook my head again, reaching for my water
bottle on the small coffee table in center of the room. She
beckoned for me to follow her as she left, leaving the door
wide open. I followed her, my free hand twisting the strands
of hair from my ponytail into knots.

“AND NOW, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. THE NEXT
MATCH WILL BE BETWEEN ROLAND AND ELAINE!!!” The
announcer screamed into the microphone, “ROLAND IS SIX
FEET AND ONE INCH, 325 POUNDS OF PUUUURRREEEE
MUUUUSSCCCCLLLLE!!!” My opponent walked into the ring,
7 0 a tall, buff man with no hair. A tattoo of a shark adorned his
arm, curling up until it came to meet his shoulder; the mouth
connecting with the shoulder blade. The crowd went wild.
Cheers seemed to bury us from the stands, as hundreds of
onlookers screamed their hearts out. “AND NOW COMES
EEEELLLLAAAAIINEEEE!!! SHE IS 5 FEET 8 INCHES AND A
VEEEERRRRYYY BEAUTIFUL LADY!!! IF YOU COULD SEE ME,
MY EYEBROWS ARE WIGGLING,” the announcer bellowed,
elongating many words. I hated it when all they could say
about me was my looks. Women didn’t deserve this, but be-
fore I could continue my thoughts, a hand pushed me into the
ring, and I refocused my thoughts on Roland. It wouldn’t be
hard to fight him, I knew people like Roland and their weak-
nesses. They had too big of an ego. Everything was more for
show than for actual fighting.

As I predicted, the man known as Roland swung first,
not even bothering to size me up. It was slow and an easy
punch to dodge. I stepped to the side, carefully avoiding his
legs in case he kicked. When he didn’t, it was exactly what I
did. Swinging my leg into a round-house sort of kick, I easily
made contact with his rib. A grunt left his mouth before he
could realize what I had done. He turned to me and swung a
meaty fist at my nose, I ducked backward, twisting into a flip

that led my heel into my opponent’s jaw. He growled, his now 71
red chin clenching beneath bared teeth. He wasn’t going to
continue to do this for show. He now knew that I wasn’t one
of those princesses that backed down from anything. After
a few more contacts and a couple bruises, Roland began to
slow down. I hopped to the side, avoiding a punch, and threw
a carefully aimed punch at his nose. As he reached up in sur-
prise, I kicked his legs out from under him. The loud thump
on the mat signified my victory as the crowd erupted.

Calming hands brushed through the tangles of my pony-
tail, getting me ready for the next fight. I had to be the last
one standing by the end of the night to win. The next person
I’m fighting next is supposedly 5’9”, still tall, but not as tall as
Roland. Like Roland however, Erik is male. It surprises me how
little women fighters there are. It kind of bothers me, but I
shrug it off again as my now silky hair is tied up in my usual
ponytail. The cheers of the crowd begin again as I step into
the bright stadium.

The rest of the day went by in a blur, but I guess it’s
better a blur than being knocked out. When I defeated the
last fighter, people began pouring out of the stands. From
a distance, it looked like a waterfall, and I could swear that I
saw someone fall over and topple over rushing fans. Hands
fumbled at me, everyone wanted to touch the next person to
go to the Fights; I was famous. I smiled nervously, as a hand
pulled the hair tie from my hair and began holding it up like
a trophy yelling, “It’s mine! It’s mine!” Finally, when the crowd
began to die down, my mother, who had been quietly waiting
on the side walked over and pulled me into a big hug. A smile
adorned her face as she took my face in her hands. “I am so
proud of you, darling!”

“I couldn’t do it without you, Mom,” I replied, a Cheshire
cat sized grin threatening to rip my face in two. “Ms. Elaine!”
A young woman wearing a ruffled blouse and pleated skirt
trotted over to us, wobbling slightly on bright red and gold
stilettos that matched her collared blazer. “The Fights would
love to offer you a chance to become a big star! Sign this
form and send it to me tomorrow, at the return address, and
I will have a private jet waiting for you at the airport by next
week! How does that sound?!” Trying to ignore her peppy
voice, I replied, “That sounds wonderful. Thank you so much,
Ms...”

“Ms. Mallory, but you can just call me Mal!” She dropped
a glittering wink that sprinkled gold across her flushed
cheeks.

“Of course, ‘Mal’. I will have this to you by tomorrow
afternoon.”
“Wonderific!!! See you then!” She said, shoving the new
form into my face. Another shimmering wink covered her
left eye as she sauntered out of the room, her dark haired
ponytail swishing behind her, giving me a glimpse of what ap-
peared to be a real gold hair clip. I shook my head in disgust.
“Ms. Elaine!” Someone from a crowd behind me yelled,
“how do you feel about going to the Fights?”
“What was it like to beat Roland?” Someone else asked.
“Who taught you how to fight?”
“How long have you been fighting?”
“Will you meet me for an interview?”
“What clothes are you wearing?”
“Did your mother make them?” Questions bombarded
me, and I glanced wildly at the clamoring people in front of
me, lights from cameras flashing in my face. I tried to an-
swer as many as I could. “I feel great about the Fights. Roland
wasn’t that hard. I taught myself. I have... I will... I am... I... I...”
I couldn’t take it anymore, “SHUT UP!!!” I growled, my fists
coming up into a ready stance. Before I could do any dam-
age, however, Mom grabbed my ponytail and dragged me
out of the closing circle of reporters, hauling me toward the
72 door. Once out of the group, I began to calm down, walking

quietly next to my mom who sent me a stern look. She pulled
on my arm, urging me to walk faster before the reporters
could catch up with us.
By the next week, I had gotten everything I needed to
take with me. The letter said that I didn’t need to bring clothes
or toiletry, because they would provide for me. The next day
would be the day I left on the journey to becoming a cham-
pion. I laid my last book into the suitcase and went down
the rickety stairs to the kitchen. It is a small room, barely big
enough to fit me and my mom. A roundtable was squished in
the corner between the oven and wall. I had recommended
a square table, but this had been something my mom’s her
mother had given her, so I had quickly abandoned that argu-
ment.
I breathed deeply as the scent of pork and rice filled my
nostrils. Pork was almost never eaten in my house, as we
never had the money. Almost always, the bit of meat that was
eaten was chicken. “Surprise!” My mother said softly, “I made
you your favorite dish to congratulate you!” I smiled warmly
at her and sat down on my usual side of the table, the back of
my chair against the wall. Mom smiled again as she sat across

from me. 73
“You already gave me a congratulation lunch, Mom,” I

said in confusion.
“I know, Sweetheart, I just don’t like calling it a ‘going

away party’”
“Mom, you know I’ll always come visit.”
“I know,” she said again, “I just don’t like my baby leaving

me already.” I nodded and changed the subject, not liking that
this last dinner with my mother was turning into a sad one.
The rest of the night we continued to talk about unimportant
topics like how the food was, and what the weather would be
like tomorrow. When the last of the rice was scooped into my
mouth, I pushed my chair back and stood up. “Thanks for din-
ner,” I whispered, leaning over to hug my mom.

“I love you,” my mom said almost sadly, “come back and
I’ll make it again.”

“You know I will. You have the best cooking in the whole
world!” She rolled her eyes at this, but was obviously pleased
with what I said. “Go upstairs! We have to be at the airport at
seven.”

“I know, I read the letter, Mom.”
“You sent the part where you sign your name right? And
kept the other part?”
“Yes. Goodnight.” After a quick peck on the cheek, I trot-
ted up the stairs to my bedroom. I flopped on the bed, not
bothering to change or brush my teeth. Tomorrow I would be
a star, and I wouldn’t have to do anything myself ever again.
At five in the morning, my mother yelled up the stairs-
something about eating breakfast before I left. I responded
loudly, before grabbing my suitcase and taking the letter
from under my pillow. I looked at the now crinkled paper and
wondered if I should read it again. Then sitting on the bed, I
began to reread the letter.
Dear Elaine,
It is my pleasure to welcome you to the Fights, an elite
fighting circuit. If you accept this offer and decide to join,
you will have a chance at becoming the world’s newest fight-
ing champion. You will, however, have to fight in public 4
times a week, each fight will be broadcasted live on the World
Wide Television Company, and around the world. If you ac-
cept, you will receive a schedule for the fights at the begin-
ning of the week.
The champion of the week will be announced every Sat-
urday after all the matches. The champion will then receive

$10,500, the reason you are most likely joining. The 2nd and
3rd place will also receive some money, although it will be
considerably less than the first place winner.

If you decide to join us, I, or another Fights agent will wait
for you at the airport to escort you to your plane. Your new
hotel room will be in the center of Manhattan, New York.

Remember, if you lose 4 games in a row, we will arrange
for a plane to take you home, you will no longer be in the
fighting circuit

It is a stressful life to live as a star, but it also has the best
benefits.

Welcome to the Fights, and I can’t wait to see you!
Sincerely, Mallory Sanchez

I read the part about becoming a champion over and
over again, the thrill of having a lot of money already racing
through my blood. Another yell from my mother shook me
out of my reveries. I grabbed my suitcase and practically flew
down the stairs. Outside of the front door, my mother waited,
swinging the keys to our rusty pickup truck on the end of her
index finger. “What took you so long?” she asked, her eye-
brow raised.
“I reread the letter,” I responded. She nodded, “You didn’t
74 come down in time for breakfast, but I have an apple for you

in the car.”
“I’m not a baby,” I frowned, watching the eyebrow move
even higher to the middle of her forehead, “But I do love it.
Thank you!” I added quickly, hopping into the passenger side
of the truck. The squeal of my mom’s car door closing behind
her began our journey.
The rumble of the red vehicle rang in my ears as we
bumped along the road toward the airport. The radio was on,
but occasionally would stop, a hissing sound of static filling
the car. “Are we there yet?” I whined playfully. With her free
hand, my mother slapped me gently.
“Stop whining,” she said, “Only 20 min, but take a nap if
you want to. You always have an easy time falling asleep.” I
nodded tiredly, pillowing my head in the crook of my elbow
as I began to slip out of consciousness.
“Wake up!” A small hand shook me awake, “we are here!”
“Huh? Already?” I questioned groggily. It felt like I hadn’t
slept for more than 3 minutes. I didn’t have much time to
wake up fully as my mother grabbed my arm and proceeded
to drag me across the parking lot toward a tall man holding
my name on a sign. She shoved the suitcase that was in her

other hand at me as we neared him. “Are you Ms. Elaine?” He 75
asked, his voice in a monotone. As I tried to respond, a group
of screaming teenagers blocked my view.

“Oh MY god!!!” One screamed, “It’s Elaine!!!”
“Did you see her defeat that Roland guy?” Another asked.
“I thought her beating Erik was cooler.”
“Take a picture of me and her!” A young girl squealed. To
her disappointment, nobody was able to because at that mo-
ment, the tall bodyguard holding my name card shoved them
aside. “Alright. That’s enough. Everybody move.”
The group of teenagers grumbled, but scooted out of
sight with a series of hair flips and huffs. “You ready to go,
Miss?” He asked, emotion still lacking from his voice. “Of
course,” I replied, giving my mom one last hug. He began to
walk through a large gate toward a small but fancy plane.
After almost shoving me up the steps, he slammed the
door closed behind me. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light,
I looked around. Plane seats were lined up along the walls,
each with a tv in front of them. The place smelled like roses
and a plush carpet covered the floor. A small wooden fold out
table was attached to the back of each seat.
Mallory walked out from the bathroom of the plane,
a makeup bag in her hand. When she saw me, she almost
jumped in surprise. “Elaine! You’re early! Would you like any-
thing to drink?”
“No thank you. I would just like to rest right now.”
“Of course! I can grab you a pillow and blanket. One
second!” When she said that she would grab it, she was obvi-
ously lying. With a couple claps of her hands, a younger girl
appeared next to her. “Yes, Ma’am?” She asked
“Grab Ms. Elaine a pillow and some blankets! She is go-
ing to take a nap.” The young girl hurried to the front of the
plane, in search of the items I required. I guess I could get
used to being waited on 24/7. The girl showed up beside me
a minute later, blanket and pillow in hand. She looked so eager
to please that it made me smile. “Thank you,” I kindly said.
“It’s no problem! Really!” I smiled again, as I reached for
the blanket. Wrapping the blanket around me, I felt my eyes
begin to shut as the plane rocked me to sleep.
I was awakened by the jostling of the plane hitting the
runway beneath us. I immediately looked out the small win-
dow, hoping to get a glimpse of the fighting arena before my
first fight. Seeing my excitement, Mallory told me that I would
be staying in a hotel about a half mile from the arena. “You’ll
be in there the day after tomorrow, so you won’t have to wait

too long.”
“The day after tomorrow?” I asked in surprise.
“Yes! Didn’t I already give you your schedule?”
“No.”
“Oh my gosh!” She said, amazed, “It’s Saturday, so your
first game will be on Monday!” Another sheet was pushed
into my face. After looking over at what seemed to be the
millionth paper that had been handed to me, I looked back
into Mallory’s fake eyelashes. She was still rambling about
how I’d have to get read. “I got it, Mallory. Thanks.”
“No problemo!” She said happily, glad that I wasn’t mad at
her. It was finally time to deboard the plane, and a black limo
with the red Fights symbol on the side was waiting at the bot-
tom. “Now get in here,” she said, “It will take you straight to
the hotel. You might see other Fights members there.” I nod-
ded in response, already walking down the steps and into the
car. A woman dressed in the same outfit as the bodyguard
that had helped me before held open the door. “Welcome,
Miss,” she said in a seemingly bored voice. I hopped through
the opened door, sitting on a seat that seemed to be made of
velvet.
As the car began moving, I stuck my face to the window
in hopes of catching a glimpse of something the city had to
76 offer. Bright, shining buildings of many colors rushed passed

my face in a blur. Beautiful women walking on high, shimmer-
ing shoes walked hand in hand with their partners. It was so
different from the small, dingy city that was my home.
The limo stopped abruptly, causing me to bang my head
against the glass window pane. Groaning, I rubbed my head
as the door opened, the lady from before was standing in
front of me with her arms crossed. She jerked her head in the
direction of a large silver building with the same symbol as
on the limo was stamped on a large billboard on the front. I
followed her toward two large black wooden doors before
pulling the handle to let myself through. The woman stopped
me, her hand over mine to open it herself. I quickly let go,
forgetting that I was now the guest. I smiled guiltily. To be
honest, I kind of liked getting treated like royalty.
The day of my first fight came as soon as my last one did,
so fast that it seemed to hit me like a whip across my face.
A guard had come to my door in the early morning, practi-
cally pulling me through the door and toward the lobby. Many
famous fighters lined the hallways, talking casually about who
won the last fight. Some argued about money, something that
I had once thought of as ridiculous, but seeing as how people

treated me now made me think a bit different. 77
The limo that I had arrived in was sitting in the front drive-

in area of the hotel, and knowing what to do, I waited for
the bodyguard to open the door. The colors of the buildings
drifted by me again, and I couldn’t help but feel that I would
never get enough at looking at the sights of the big city. They
were majestic and tall, and something that we didn’t have at
home. I wanted to call my mom and talk to her all about my
trip so far. She was the most important person in my life. I
smiled, a contented sigh escaped my mouth before a small
bump in the road refocused my thoughts onto the fight.

The drive to the stadium was short, only 20 minutes long,
although it felt longer because of my nerves. When the guard
opened the door, a cold gust of wind hitting my face. Without
talking, he led me to a pair of doors that read “Fights person-
nel only.”

“Go up, find the door marked dressing room, and change.
A staff member will tell you what to do next.” And with that
piece of information, the man was gone. I followed his direc-
tions carefully, walking through the narrow hallway, looking
for the dressing room. Waiting room? No... I thought as I
continued down the endless hallway. Watching several doors
pass by me, I began to wonder if I had missed it. Finally, a
gold door filled my view. “Dressing Room”. I sighed in relief,
glad that I hadn’t messed up my first day as an elite fighter.
Opening the heavy door, I stepped inside, surprised when I
saw the craziness of the room. Makeup and hair accessories
lined a tall vanity, which had lights around the mirror to light
it up. Drawers were filled with clothes and costumes, many
of which looked familiar. Drawers were labeled with tape said
each of the names of all the female fighters I had seen on TV.
Well not all, some had the sticky remnants of a piece of tape
that had been scratched off.

A small clatter came from behind a mountain of clothes.
“Oww...” a high pitched voice yelped. “Are you ok?” I asked
worriedly. A small blond head peaked around the mess.

“Oh!” She exclaimed in surprise, “you’re here!” She imme-
diately rushed over and dragged me to the vanity. Sitting me
down in a chair, she began to grab makeup brushes and tubes
from the overflowing drawers.

“Oh,” I said, “It’s okay, I don’t really like makeup.”
“Are you sure? I could make your eyes pop out a bit.”
“No really. I’m fine.”
“All right,” she said doubtfully, walking over to a closet
instead. “What would you like to wear?”

“Anything that’s comfortable and I can move around in,”
I replied. The blonde girl began to hunt in the back of the
closet for something I could wear.

“Is this okay?” She asked, one hand holding up a pair of
black shorts, the other holding a gray, tight-fitting tank top.

“That looks good,” I said, a smile on my face. Finally,
clothes that reminded me of home.

“You can change in here,” She suggested, gesturing to
a small door. Taking the clothes from her, I walked into the
changing room. When I walked out, she smiled at me and told
me that I was ready.

“Go to the third door to your right. You will find a stair-
case that will take you to the arena.”

“Thank you,” I said nervously. Kindly pushing me to the
door, she answered, “don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Good luck
out there.” After another thankful smile, I was out the door
and on my way to the fight.

“Ms. Elaine!” A voice yelled. “Thank god you’re here. We
were worried you wouldn’t show up! You’re two minutes
late!” I was quickly rushed to the door, a place where I could
see into the stadium. Thousands of people screamed from
the stands, large banners waving in the air. It was exactly like
7 8 what I had dreamed. “Okay,” the woman with the earpiece
whispered, “The

9
announcer will continue saying things. When he calls your
name, walk on. He will count down from three and the fight
will start, if you try anything before that, you will be penal-
ized.”
“AND LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!!! NEXT UP IS THE NEW-
BIE, ELAAAAIIINNNNEEEE!!!!”
“Go!” she whisper-yelled, shoving me into the view of
the thousands of crazy fans. I waved cautiously, looking
around at all the crazy colors. Before I could take in much,
though, the announcer began to count, apparently, the other
fighter had already been called to the stage. “THREE, TWO,
OOOONNNNNEEEE!!!!” The speakers above the stands
blared. I looked at my opponent, a girl slightly older than me.
She was skinny and had long, black hair tied into a braid that
reached her hip. I assessed her as she did the same to me.
She was not like that Roland guy. She was obviously wait-
ing for me to make the first move. Another second passed,
the crowd waited in a deadly silence. Two seconds, and still
she waited. I would not give in. Three, and there was the first
punch, a quick jab at my face, almost too quick for me to see,

but I did, instinctively grabbing her wrist and flipping her over 79
my back. The crowd oohd. She jumped to her feet, and about
half of the crowd cheered. Charging at me, she dove into a
flip over my head, a leg extended into a kick. This was a move
that I knew well and I practiced it often, as well as how to
counter it. I stuck my hand out, a simple solution to the prob-
lem. She obviously hadn’t expected it, and her outstretched
leg connected with my steady arm, sending her into a flying
tumble. Now behind her, I immediately followed this up with a
kick to the back of her head. She fell down to the ground with
a smack.

The crowd cheered, throwing roses and flowers at me,
something that I thought only happened in movies. I glowed
under the praise for a moment, before being called off the
arena. I smiled to myself, and although there was that hint of
regret for beating a fellow female fighter, it soon dissipated.

On the way back to the hotel, the bodyguard gave me
the first hint of emotion that I had seen on any of their faces,

Kylie De La Cruz (above, “Reflection”) is a creative teen who enjoys swimming,
photography, and writing as well as hobbies such as jewelry making and cooking.
She one day hopes to find a career in science but for the time being, enjoys hang-
ing out with her friends, family, and pets.

a nod with a small smile. He ruined it by saying, “Congratula-
tions,” in the most monotone voice I had ever heard. It was
like listening to a robot. Nevertheless, I responded with a
hearty, “thanks!” and warm smile. He made his almost-smile
again, but it was the last one I saw the rest of the ride home.
I would probably have a different guard next time, so it didn’t
matter anyway.
After a few “good job”s, and “I didn’t think you were
good, but I guess I was wrong”s, I hurried up to my room,
sliding my card through the slot quickly. I was too tired to do
much else than sleep, so I flopped onto the giant king-sized
bed. My back sank into the feather mattress and the comfort-
er fell around my body softly. A soft sigh of relief escaped
my mouth as I closed my eyes. I was starting to enjoy the
luxuries of being rich.
In the morning, I stretched my sore muscles and smiled
into the light. The drapes had been pulled back by someone,
probably a servant, and all my belongings had been orga-
nized. Yawning, I got out of bed and quickly changed into
the outfit the maid had left out. After changing into the pink
starched blouse, I began to head down to the Agave Cafe.
On my way to the cafe, I passed by a few other champions. I
noticed one who had obviously dyed her hair a darker color.
80 Maybe I would do that in the future, all of a sudden it didn’t

seem so bad.
I sat alone at a small table to the side of the fancy cafe,
a drink in my hand. As I sipped my iced tea, I checked my
phone. Several missed calls from my mom. Oh well, it would
be okay if I called her another time. I was busy anyway, I
thought as I sipped my tea and scrolled through the pictures
on my phone.
The next day came quickly, and I was more than ready for
my next fight. I had to win. If I didn’t, then I might not make
it to being the champion. My opponent was another guy, but
this time he seemed more... I don’t know. He wasn’t as strong
as Roland, but he seemed to be much quicker.
The fight rushed by quickly, it was an easy one, even if I
was unable to dodge his quick punch, as it was only a small
jab. He was on the ground in minutes. The crowd cheered,
and I noticed that more people held up signs for me, yelling
my name. I blew kisses and gave smiles, although none of
them were real.
On my way back to my room, more people congratulated
me and smiled. The more “good jobs,” I got, the higher my
back rose, and by the time I reached my wing, my head could

practically touch the ceiling. Walking to my door, room 330, 81
I passed a woman with dyed blonde hair. She smiled grimly
at me, and was about to pass me when I stuck my arm out
in front of her. “I won my fight today,” I said, waiting for a
response.

“I know,” she said with a scowl, “I just don’t care.” She
walked passed my frown with a her chin held high. She must
be new, I thought, although I felt like I had seen her before.
She probably had been here all week waiting for her first
fight.

I sunk into the mattress, flipping through the channels
on the big screen in front of me, as my phone rang. I looked
down, hoping to see the screen have the name Mallory, she
was about to tell me who I was next fighting. Instead I saw
my mother’s smiling face on the screen. She was probably
wondering why I hadn’t picked up her calls for the passed
few days. I picked up my phone and hit the red button. “Call
declined,” my phone said aloud. Rolling my eyes, I continued
to watch the TV.

My next two fights were also a blur, not interesting
enough to think about. I punched a few faces, blew a few
kisses, and all of a sudden I was champion. As I stood on
the first place podium, I waved, holding a gold medal to my
mouth. The Fights owner, Mr. Stocks, congratulated me him-
self, handing me a bulging envelope full of cash. It was the
most money I had ever held in my life. I raised both the medal
and the envelope in the air toward the cheering crowd. I was
the champion.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months,
and I stayed champion the whole time. After more than a cou-
ple of months, I was still champion, still destroying everything
in my path. Mallory called me that night, saying how proud
she was of me that I had been champion 10 times in a row.
She seemed to be the only one who thought so. As I tried to
talk to people in the halls, trying to extract a couple “you did
wonderful”’s, everybody just shot me a glowering glance,
something that I wasn’t used to. I huffed in annoyance, but
continued on my way to bed. I had a fight tomorrow after all.

It was the next morning, and I was more than ready to
beat someone up. Although fighting had lost most of the fun
in it, I was more than ready to receive that check at the end
of the week. A quick stop at the cafe was all I needed before
I was hauled to the stadium. Again, I walked up the steps to
the messy dressing room. It seemed as if I had been do-
ing this forever. The kind blond woman was waiting for me

already, and reading her name tag for the first time, I realized
that her name was Emily. “Haven’t been sent home yet, hmm,
Ms. Elaine?”
“Of course not, Emily,” I said, as she smiled at her name,
“I’m the champion if you hadn’t heard.”
“I have, dear, that’s why I made you something special.”
Instead of my normal black tank top and shorts, Emily held
up a deep maroon colored halter top and my regular black
shorts. “It’s beautiful, Emily. I’ll put it on now.” As I changed,
I thought about what I was going to do in the fight. I was
going to win, of course, but what was my strategy? I guess I
wouldn’t know until I saw the person. I enjoyed the challenge
of not looking at my opponent until I was about to punch
their lights out.
“Are you done, Ms. Elaine?” Emily said through the crack
of the door.
“Yes, Emily. I’ll be right out.” Gathering up the rest of my
clothes, I stepped out into her critical gaze. “The top fits you
like a dream,” she said, a pleased smile on her face. “I must
say that this is one of my best pieces of work.”
“It is. Now if you’ll do my hair, I’ll be out of yours.” She
nodded, guiding me toward the vanity. She took a straight-
ener and pulled it through my already silky hair. She pulled it
82 back into a high ponytail with a gold clasp, and sent me on

my way. “You still don’t need makeup,” she said, looking at me
approvingly. I nodded, but applied some mascara to myself
anyways. Makeup did make a girl look her best.
I waited on the side of the ring, a smirk on my face.
This person was going to have no idea what hit them.
“Aaaannnnddd you’re on, Ms. Elaine!” The earpiece lady whis-
pered into my ear. Shaking her off, I walked calmly onto the
stage, listening to the cheers. “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!!!” I joked,
causing the crowd to go wild. I waited for the announcer,
more than ready to see my opponent. “AND NOW, POSSIBLY
THE NEW CHAMPION, I PRESENT YOU OUR NEWEST MEM-
BER FROM THE SAME HOMETOWN AS ELAINE, JUUUULLL-
LIAAA!!!” I frowned, reconizing the name, but not knowing
where from. The Julia girl walked onto the stage, golden curls
bouncing from the side of her head. It was the girl from the
hall, but that still wasn’t why I recognized her. “Your mom still
making no money?” She asked, a scowl on her face. My mind
clicked into place. Julia... middle school... Mom. My eyes went
wide. I couldn’t seem to move. I thought about everything
she had said, the teasing remarks, not caring if it hurt me. I
had been dragged into the same path, but my efforts to hurt

were physical instead of mental. Julia charged at me, and I 83
couldn’t take a step, to shocked and disappointed with my-
self. With every punch that connected with my face, she said
something. “You ruined my... life... you killed my.. Reputation...
my parents practically... disowned me when they... saw my
face... YOU RUINED EVERYTHING!!! I’ve worked ever since
then to be able to beat you, and now that I have finally my
chance, I won’t ruin it” She screamed into my ear. One hand
on my shoulder, one on the side of my head, she prepared to
break my neck. I reached up feebly, but my heart wasn’t in it. I
had gone against everything I had ever wanted, ever believed
in. “Mom...” I whispered before a snap ended everything.

Epilogue
“She was a daughter, a fighter, and she had a heart to
love, and we all miss her so much.” Elaine’s mother ended
her eulogy in tears, holding a tissue to her face. It was the
funeral of Elaine, the champion of the Fights. Nobody would
have thought that she would have stood stock still while
someone killed her. Everyone assumed she would duck out
of the way. Even me. Turning my head from the podium, I
faced the large room. It was filled with almost all the fighters
who could make it. Lilies were hung in bouquets along the
wall and black suits and dresses seemed to blend together in
mourning. Some sniffles could be heard among the crowd,
but not many. Most of the people here didn’t really know her,
or who she had been before coming to the Fights. After arriv-
ing to the Fights, she had turned into how I had acted when
I was a little girl. Starved for attention and lacking compas-
sion. I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts, although
one stayed in my head, haunting me as I cried fake tears and
hugged a woman I had made fun of all my life. I am a daugh-
ter, I am a fighter, but I never imagined that I had the heart to
kill.

isabelle simon

Finding Home

Mellifluous.
The word bubbled up in her mouth and rolled off her
tongue like dew slipping across a blade of grass, hanging
at the edge before dripping and plummeting to the ground.
It left an aftertaste of honey and the sound of an orchestra
singing in her ears. She hummed in delight, hands wrapped
around a warm mug, mind swimming like flashing goldfish
and shiny coins, words floating around in her brain. She tried
a couple out in her mouth, savoring the taste of them.
Collector. Wordsmith.
She collected words. It was a hobby, a habit born from
listening to grown-ups and reading novels heavy with compli-
8 4 cated words while said grown-ups were talking. Now, every
time she came across a word that was sonorous or rich, she
would add it to her mental journal, to be pulled out in times
of need. As for the bad words, they were washed down with
a gulp of her favorite tea and forgotten, except the two
words she couldn’t forget, no matter how hard she tried.
Those two words meant, in simple terms, love. They meant
family. They meant presents and sticking with each other,
through thick and thin, helping each other, having fun and
laughing with each other. The words were bittersweet on her
tongue, a chocolate wrapped in sour poison.
Halcyon. Felicity.
She glowed with innocence, forgetting the bad days
and all evil in the world. All she could think of was the way
her pajamas wrapped her in a warm hug, the way sunlight
streamed through the crystalline window. As she poked her
way through breakfast, the wafting smell of coffee, the cof-
fee maker’s rumbling sigh, the crisp crunch of apples, and the
clink and clatter of plates all reminded her that the world was

Isabelle is an 8th grader who enjoys reading, writing, drawing, and just going with
the flow. She plays violin and piano. A good book, a hot mug of tea, an overcast day
and her succulents are the way to go on a lazy Sunday.

beautiful. 85
She dared to dream.
She closed her eyes, viewing a glimpse of what might have

been, if she had been a better daughter, if they were better
parents. They would enter the room and hug her and ask her
what she wanted to do today. They would laugh and make
bad jokes, putting away their work, even for a moment, to
spend time with her... She was that moment, and that moment
seemed to fill forever, stretching, and she wished for it.

She wished even though she knew she could never have it.
She wished for a home.
Then, they entered.
Her moment shattered to pieces as her grown-ups walked
into the room, suddenly taking up space, sucking the light out,
reminding her that the world was not beautiful. And she didn’t
have to turn her head, didn’t have to think before everything
she had forgotten splashed her like a cold shower, waking
her, painting the world into shades of grey again. There was
no such thing as carefree beauty, of innocent joy.
They pulled back quaint wood chairs, plunking their ugly,
out of place computers onto the table, crisp, fresh suits crin-
kling. Their fingers danced on the keys, eyes darting around.
She saw their mouths moving, saw their distracted smiles, but
she did not hear. She heard nothing, but smiled and nodded
and ate. Yes, she would do her work. Yes, she would not touch
anything. Yes, she would be a good girl. She didn’t have to
hear their voices to understand their words.
Command. Obedience.
There was silence now. She was a friend to silence. Silence
slithered, quiet like a shadow, a passing thought to let her
know it was there. She wondered if they even noticed that
she hadn’t said one word, hadn’t even looked in their eyes.
She was no longer sure of what color her grown-ups eyes
were, it had been so long. She wondered why they didn’t care
that she didn’t say anything at all, not anymore. She didn’t
care that they didn’t say much either, and hey were a family
of “don’t cares” and pretending.
Nonchalance. Insouciance.
It had been this way for a while now, and she was used to
it. But that didn’t mean she was okay with it. She told herself
she was okay, but late at night when her mind wandered, she
questioned whether she really was. At night, she mouthed the
two words, testing the waters, ready to pull back if she was
bitten. They were just “grown-ups” to her for a reason, not
something more. No, they didn’t deserve those two, special

words.
Somber. Quixotic. Efflorescence. Zenith.
She repeated her favorite words to herself, a chant to
fill up the blankness in her head, to pass the time while her
grown-ups were getting ready to leave.
The sound of footsteps pattered into her brain, thumping
in time with her chant. She didn’t realize she was moving until
she saw her own hand reach out, snagging the edge of her
grown-up’s sleeve.
Panicpanicpanic
She saw everything in slow motion, the turning owner of
the sleeve, her own breathing. Even the dust particles hanging
in the air, took an eternity to move, meandering in the sun-
light like flotsam.
Flotsam.
She was flotsam, drifting, floating, forgotten. The useless
and worthless parts, all flung out and rejected. Such a beauti-
ful word, light and delicate, seeming to lift out of her mouth
on wings, before diving away into the distance. She wondered
many times if she might just float away and disappear one
day. But no, not today.
She hesitated, now that her grown-up was facing her, but
she forced herself to look up.
86 Sage. Lime. Fern. Basil.

Her grown-up’s eyes were green.
She missed that green.
She opened her mouth.
The words spilled out in a rush, a rush of sounds, flying
and falling. All of the words she had forgotten, hated, were
dredged up, mixed in with the ones she had treasured, col-
lected, and cherished. She rearranged them, spinning her
story, singing her song, projecting her soliloquy.
She sang of how she was homesick.
She spoke of how she wandered, how she drifted, lost.
Trust. Family. Love.
She watched as her grown-up’s face scrunched up,
watched those beautiful olive green eyes well up with tears,
watched as her arms slowly opened, and then her grown-up
was hugging her, enfolding her in a warm embrace, and she
could breathe again.
She had longed to say the two forbidden words again, and
now she could.
Mom. Dad.
The words were sweet on her tongue, still carrying a slight
tint of bitterness, but they felt good. No word could describe

how she felt, forgiving them and loving them and being loved.
For once in her life, she was without words, but that was okay.
She had her parents.

Her parents, who were the anchors to her flotsam.
She drifted no further. She was homesick no more.
She found it, in her parents.
Home.

87

Jules Kuramoto (above, “Perspective”) is an 8th grader that attends Central Middle
School. She is an outgoing girl who enjoys playing soccer, hanging out with friends
in her free time, and most of all relaxing in bed and getting a good night’s sleep.

anna Iliaieva

Fool’s Gold

There hasn’t been a story I’ve ever wrote that I‘ve truly
loved.
I would stare at my computer screen for hours, my fingers
numb on the keyboard, the black letters popping out from
the white background. They would stand proud, fooled to
think they were something important, something better. They
stood like guards at a castle, guarding the faux treasures of
the captured kingdom from everyone else’s eyes.
As I re-read my stories, I wanted to believe that in the eyes
of others they weren’t all terrible. They’d assure me that my
writing was excellent. They’d tell me that all I needed was a
little more editing and it’d be as good as gold. But I never
believed them.
88 I guess I’ve managed to spin my stories into pyrite strands.

I wonder why I even bother. I keep on writing, wondering
who I’m trying to fool with my knockoff golden strands. I’m
not moving forward.
Why don’t I just stop writing? I asked myself. Wouldn’t that
make everything easier? There would be nothing to criticize,
nothing to slave upon for hours at a time. The sinking feeling
in my chest as I read over my tales would be gone. Yet, every
day I’d go back, because the feeling I get when I write is too
strong to disobey.
There’s just a certain euphoria whenever tales flow out of
my mind, as I sit and get ready to spin my fake gold. I feel as
if I’m invincible in those moments, as if the world has disap-
peared. It’s just me spilling my emotions on the page. It’s as
if I’m armoured. The words on my page wouldn’t bend if
someone wanted them to change. I’m the one with all the
power. I’m the king who controls his army with just the tips of
his fingers.

Anna 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.

But as the narrative comes to an end and the battle is over,
my armour has gone weak. The guards fall apart leaving
me helpless, unprotected, vulnerable to attacks. The people
would begin to stab at me with their words, their comments.
Leaving me out to bleed in the battlefield to dye the flowers
red.

Though I tried to please them, I tried to be good enough
but they saw a pathetic peasant playing king. So whatever
pyrite strands I managed to spin I hid away only for myself
to see. I’d kept an archive on a private account, on a website
where no one I knew could get a hold of it. I was sure I’d be
safe from the dangers, in my hidden nook.

I was wrong.
They found my pyrite. They mistook it for gold. They
praised me. They truly believed that it was something valu-
able. I started to believe it as well.
I’ll continue to spin my pyrite and maybe one day, I’ll be
able to spin the delicate golden strands I’ve been longing for.

89

Keira Swei (above, “Doodle”) is an 8th grader at Central Middle School. She enjoys
art, math, coding, baking and soccer. In her spare time, Keira hangs out with her
friends and younger sister.

stella lin

Furball

My name is Furball. It’s a stupid name, really. If I had my
own way, it would Benson or Leopold or something like that.
I’m so much more than a mere ball of fluff. I’m an intelligent,
loving, cat, if you don’t mind my honesty. Anyways, I live in a
suburban area of California in a neighborhood where all the
houses look similarly beige. I’m an indoor-outdoor cat, mean-
ing that I can go in and outside as I please. This way I can
keep the squirrels and mice out of my owner’s garden. I share
a house with two girls, their parents, and a dog. The dog’s
name is Hua Hua. Apparently, that means flower in Chinese,
which is stupid because I’ve never seen a flower that barks
all day at the people who walk by. Maybe I just haven’t seen
enough flowers, who knows.
90 Surprisingly, Hua Hua and I get along quite well. In the

mornings, we go out to the garden, and we nudge each other,
sharing a quick hello. Then, she races off to the fence to bark
at the people who walk by on the trail. Meanwhile, I tend to
my own business. Usually, that involves hopping over the
fence, and exploring the neighborhood. Sometimes, I even
bring a lizard or a bird back home.
One day, I jumped over the fence and disappeared for
two weeks. My owners had no idea where I went.
See, that day was a breezy, warm Tuesday afternoon, just
right for slinking along on the top of the backyard fences and
peering into people’s backyards to find a lizard to chase, a
bird to harass, or a mouse to eat if I was lucky. On one side
of the fence, I saw all the houses with their different-colored
rooftops. On the other side, I saw the trail that cut through
the golden hills. The first few backyards were perfectly mani-
cured and empty. Then, inside a backyard three houses down,
I saw a little boy playing with a wooden train set on his grassy
lawn. I was about to head on to the next yard, maybe the

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.

small park if I followed the fence all the way down. But the 91
boy blinked his eyes up at me slowly, and I changed my mind.
To a cat, you see, slow eye blinking is feline language for “I
trust you.” It’s like saying, “BFFs forever.” So I jumped into the
backyard and slowly walked over to him.

I had never actually paid this backyard a visit, probably
because I never saw anything interesting in it. The backyard
was similar to most others: clipped lawns, a couple small
trees, some bushes, and some flowers. There was also an old
abandoned sandbox placed next to a tool shed. The only thing
I didn’t like about the backyard was that there was nothing to
play with—no leaves to bat around, no long blades of grass to
chew on. I guessed that the boy’s parents must be very neat
and tidy.

I was expecting the boy to squeal and dash over to
squeeze me, but to my surprise, he just kept playing with
his wooden trains as if they were the only things that mat-
tered. Being ignored was a new concept to me, since people
tended to immediately stop what they were doing and fawn
over me, as if I were Taylor Swift. To get his attention, I sidled
up to him and lay down right next to him on the soft grass.
The boy continued to ignore me. Fascinating. His mouth was
a flat line, and his eyes were expressionless. It was almost
as though he were a different species from the people who
tended to be annoyingly energetic. I couldn’t stop staring at
him. He was like a mystery I had to solve. Figuring him out
was like trying to find the mouse in the attic.

The boy and I sat like that for a couple minutes—I was
watching him; he was not watching me—until he left his
wooden train set on the grass and ambled over towards
his house. After stepping inside, he held open the door, and
peeked at me with his big brown eyes. I thought only animals
gave begging, sappy-eyed looks, but I was wrong. He tilted
his head at me, and I couldn’t resist. Because of the look and
the smell of fish in his house, I bolted through the open door.

Suddenly, I realized that I’d just entered a stranger’s
house. I turned around, but the boy had already slid the door
shut.

I’d heard stories about cats going missing. Like the stories
about those people who offer you Temptations Tasty Chick-
en Treats, then throw you in the back of their Honda Odyssey,
and drive away. Those stories always terrified me if I thought
about them too much. But I told myself to remain calm as I
took in my surroundings. The boys house wasn’t shabby; it
was about the same size as my owner’s house. I would’ve

continued my tour of the house if it weren’t for the delicious
scent of tuna wafting from the dining table. Without a second
thought, I jumped onto the table and found a half eaten tuna
sandwich. Ignoring the bread, I gobbled down the tuna as if
my life depended on it. I thought the boy would come and
reclaim the sandwich that was rightfully his, but he just stood
there and watched.
Next, the boy shuffled upstairs, and I continued my ex-
ploration around the house. It had a very similar layout to my
owner’s house, with the large room near the front door and
the kitchen towards the back. There was a couch next to the
front window, just like the one at home, except this was red
and lumpier. I jumped onto the back edge of the couch to
gaze through the window, where I saw my brown house off
to the right, along with the gutters where squirrels escaped
my chase. Looking down the street, I noticed that all the
houses looked similar, but now I could see that houses were
actually different inside. Although it was sunny outside, this
house was dimmer and lacked all the comforting noise that
usually filled the rooms at my home.
Different compared to other humans, the boy didn’t
reach out to stroke me, didn’t stop me from stealing his tuna,
and didn’t screech when I clawed at the carpet. It was as if
92 he was half-asleep. Having explored downstairs thoroughly, I

scampered upstairs and eventually came to what I guessed to
be the boy’s room. Unlike the rest of the house, the room had
a feeling of childish innocence to it. Neatly drawn pictures
were taped onto the blank wall in an obvious attempt to give
some color to his room. Participation certificates were stuck
askew above the boy’s bed post. Some read, Certificate of
Participation in 2016 Science Fair and Chalk Art Certificate
of Completion. I also noticed that the boy didn’t have many
toys. Just the wooden train set he had been playing with, and
an old, worn, teddy bear lying limply on the bed. Of course,
I didn’t have thumbs with which to open his drawers, so I
couldn’t be sure.
With a pencil gripped tightly in front of him and a sheet
of paper lying on his desk, the boy sat at the small table. I
hopped up to a look at his work. It was a drawing of me. He
had paid attention to me after all. Not that I know much about
art, but the drawing was really impressive. It made me feel
acknowledged and cared about. And I’m a cat, so that’s saying
a lot.
We spent the rest of the day like that: I curled up on the
table and kept him company , and he drew random pictures

of us curled up on the couch watching television, of us sleep- 93
ing on his bed, and of us playing with his train set.

After he taped the pictures on the wall, the boy rose and
grabbed an old cardboard box for a litter box, filled it with
some sand from the backyard, and placed it in the far corner
of his closet. He then left the room, and walked back in with
some blankets, a can of tuna, and a bowl of water. It seemed
as if he already knew I was going to stay for a while, so I did.
I felt that my job here suddenly seemed more important than
watching the garden back home.

That evening, I heard the boy downstairs with his mother.
“You need to practice having conversations,” she said.
“I need to practice having conversations,” the boy an-
swered back.
“You can’t just repeat what I say.”
“I can’t always just repeat what you say.”
“Just go upstairs and finish your homework,” his mother
replied, sounding weary.
Something in her voice told me that she was one of those
humans who hated cats.
I heard him climbing back up the stairs, and he plopped
himself onto the chair and started reading his textbook. I
strode over to the desk and sat under it. Normally, I can tell
how people are feeling by studying the way they talk and
what they do. But the boy’s face was expressionless. His
brown eyes were empty puddles staring down at the page,
and his mouth was a thin line. I could tell that he was used
to being alone, and I hopped onto his lap to comfort him. I
started to purr, and he hugged me closer. I felt a different
kind of connection with this boy. We cats are used to being
alone, but when we really want to, we can make friends. I felt
that I was now responsible for keeping this boy company, so I
decided to stay.
For nearly two weeks, I stayed at that house hiding
from the cat-hater until one afternoon, the boy was away at
school, and it was one of the rare days that his parents were
at home. I was taking a nap on the boy’s bed when I awoke
to an ear-splitting screech. Standing in the doorway was his
mom, staring at me as if I were some other-worldly creature.
Before I could scamper away, she reached over, and grabbed
me roughly by the scruff. In a matter of minutes, she had me
downstairs and out the backyard door.
Standing in the backyard, it took me a few moments to
register what had just happened. I was no longer wanted
here, at least not by the boy’s mother. Don’t get me wrong; I

loved the boy. But I hopped back onto the fence, and started
on the way home.

When I leapt back into my backyard, it seemed as if noth-
ing had happened since I had gone. The same broken pot was
shoved into the corner of the garden, and the same shovel
was lying in its usual place. The only difference was a small
black cat, batting at a long blade of grass. I used to do that
all the time; it was quite amusing. Turns out, my owners gave
him the same stupid name, “Furball,” as if I could be replaced.

Sometimes, I go on walks around the neighborhood and
stop by the boy’s house. If I get lucky, I might see him staring
through the window. He looks older now, but he still has the
same face: eyes empty of animation and a tight-lipped mouth.
I wait for him to notice me. He usually does, and although his
expression never changes, I know that he is still my friend.
94

Isabelle Simon (above, “Insomniac”) is an 8th grader who enjoys reading, writing,
drawing, and just going with the flow. She plays violin and piano. A good book, a hot
mug of tea, an overcast day and her succulents are the way to go on a lazy Sunday.

Katie tsang

Gone 95

“It’ll be fine,” you had told me, and now I am sitting on
a medical stretch in an ambulance. My head throbs and all I
can hear is the sound of sirens echoing in my head as bright
white light shines in my eye. I think back to when I was warm
on my bed, safe and happy. When you came into my room
and shook me awake.

“Ryan?” I asked groggily through eyes of sleep.
“Get up, pack a bag and meet me in the car in 5 minutes.”
“It’s one in the morning, go to bed,” I groaned.
“Sarah trust me, I’ll explain on the way there,” he said
firmly.
I wanted so badly to go back to sleep and act like it never
happened. It could all be a dream Sarah, I told myself. But
something in my gut told me it wasn’t. So I got up and stuffed
my bag with a t-shirt and some sweatpants. I stomped down
the stairs in the pitch black and slid on my shoes and down
jacket. The car light was on. I could see your blurry outline
waving me to come over. I did as you said and plopped down
in the cold leather seat.
“What the heck is so important that you have to make me
get up in the middle of the night, pack a bag, and come out
here in the freezing cold to have a little conversation with
you!”
It was then, when you slid the key into the ignition and
started backing out of the driveway, when I should’ve just
gotten out and ran. But I trusted you, more than anyone else
in the world. After our drunk parents and sister died in a car
crash, you came home from college and became my only
family. I wouldn’t lose you. Everyone else was gone. How
was a barely thirteen year old girl supposed to survive on her
own?

I am thirteen year old girl living in the bay area. I spend a lot of time playing soc-
cer, listening to music, and hanging with friends. I lived in Connecticut for the first
eleven years of my life and enjoying playing in the snow, too.

“Ryan?”
“We have to go, Sarah.”
“Why?” I almost screamed.
You didn’t say a word, only stared out at the road with
misted eyes.
“Ryan,” I grabbed your arm but you didn’t budge.
This isn’t like you, I thought. He was out last night, he
could be drunk. My mind raced with an endless count of
things that could’ve happened, and could happen with a girl
and her drunk older brother at 1 in the morning. He could’ve
committed a federal offense and now we have to run from
it. My mind felt it had been thrown in the wash, boggled and
spun until I couldn’t tell what was up or down.
“Ryan!” I yelled, on the brink of tears.
We were down the road now, I couldn’t recognize the
area in the dark. You turned and stared right at me. I searched
your eyes for the warmth and comfort I loved so much, but
only saw the familiar look of a drunk man on the run.
I felt the first tear of many glide down my trembling face.
“I can’t lose you,” I whispered.
It all happened so fast, I saw a light coming from the
opposite direction of the road when I realized we didn’t have
our headlights on. The last thing I remember was the feeling
96 of my head being flung back into the window. And now I am

here. I can’t feel my arms or legs. I don’t know where you are
or if you’re okay. All I can tell is that there are tears overflow-
ing my eyes and the picture of you in my head is melting
away.

sophia doyle

Grandma’s Quilt 97

“When am I going to see her?” This thought plays in my
mind over and over again as I sit in the hospital, staring at my
gift for Grandma, its bright yellow wrapping paper and blue
ribbon popping out in the colorless hospital. The voices of
nurses and doctors around me sound muted, like i’m in a bub-
ble, a background music to my thoughts. I start to tap my feet
against the floor, like I do when I’m waiting for my teacher to
hand back tests, but this is different. This time I’m waiting to
see Grandma. I can tell that the tapping is starting to annoy
the people around me, their blank or worried faces turning in
my direction, but I can’t help it. My older sister, Kayla, is next
to me, and is trying to shush me. She always tries to stop me
from doing things. Like I might embarrass her, or damage her
reputation. But I can’t think about Kayla right now. I can only
think about Grandma.

I saw Grandma only a week ago, but it feels like that was
another lifetime. One where she was healthy. One where I
was happy.

When I heard that Grandma had gotten sick, I couldn’t be-
lieve it at first. I pretended that it was a dream, that it wasn’t
really happening. I would imagine the hot summer days when
we would go on picnics under our favorite tree. The cool
autumn walks where we would talk about everything, and I
would spill all my worries. I would get lost in the past, lost in
my imagination. Then I would come back to reality and cry,
rivers streaming down my face. Enough tears to fill a lake.

I remember when Grandma taught me how to sew. Her
soft, gentle hands threading the needle in and out of the fab-
ric with years of experience. At first, I kept pricking myself,
and each time, she would kiss my wound and tell me that this
was all worth it. That when I finished my quilt, all the times
that I had been hurt wouldn’t matter. That I wouldn’t feel the

Sophia Doyle enjoys ballet and playing soccer. She plays violin in her school or-
chestra and loves to read in her free time.

pain anymore.
I was amazed at the different ways you could use sew-
ing, but what caught my eye the most was the quilts. Me and
Grandma started our quilt six months ago, and I just finished
it yesterday. Even though I had to finish it by myself, and I
stayed up half the night to do it, I worked on the quilt just as
fast as we would have together, using twice my energy to
make up for her. I hope Grandma won’t mind, but I changed
the pattern from what we originally had. It’s mostly the same,
two simple flowers with deep red petals and juniper green
vines. But I also connected the vines, unlike their sprawled
out positions before. They now sprout from the flowers like
little arms, and intertwine to create what looks like a jungle
of green. I only managed to make the quilt two feet by four
feet with the time I had, but I enjoyed every minute of it.
Especially when I got to work with Grandma. But that doesn’t
matter because now, looking over at my older sister Kayla’s
gift, I can’t help but start to doubt my own. How can I com-
pete with her when she always wins? I’m starting to remem-
ber all the times my sister has been better than me; the time
that she won the art contest at our school (I got 3rd place),
the time that she got 1st place in our city’s annual 5k... Even
her pet is perfect; her dog won best trained for three years in
98 a row!

This is why I love Grandma so much. She treats me the
same as Kayla, even with all of Kayla’s achievements. When
I’m with Grandma, I don’t feel insecure about myself. I don’t
feel like I have to be as good as Kayla for people to like me.
I snap out of my train of thought when Kayla starts calling
my name. “The doctor says we can visit Grammy now” she
says. My spirits lift as I jump out of my chair and rush down
the hallway, eager to see the person that I love so much. I
don’t even stop when my sister calls out to me to wait for
her, or the nurses tell me to slow down. I keep on sprinting to
her room, like someone is chasing me. When I finally arrive, I
see the door cracked open, a soft, gentle glow coming from
inside. I peek in and watch as Grandma’s face lights up. “I
knew you would come to visit” she says, her happiness wash-
ing over me like a wave, automatically making my day better.
I hold her hand and for a few seconds we sit in a comfortable
silence. I forget all my worries. By this time, my sister has
caught up to me and now stands by my side. I secretly wish
that Grandma and I had more time alone. But I savor that mo-
ment without Kayla, where I knew that someone was happy
to see me, not just her.

Kayla smiles, “We’ve been looking forward to seeing 99
you all day. We even brought you gifts!” I watch as Kayla
hands her present to Grandma, resentful of the gift that
always seems to be better than mine. I gaze at Grandma as
she opens Kayla’s gift, a beautiful, sterling silver necklace,
that she bought with her own money of course. Grandma
leans forward as Kayla places the necklace around her neck.
“Thank you so much, it’s perfect” Grandma exclaims. Now,
it’s my turn to give my gift to Grandma. I hesitantly place the
package into her hands, and watch as her once strong, but
now fragile fingers undo the ribbon, then open the wrapping
paper. I close my eyes, not ready to see the disappointment
in Grandma’s face when she sees what I gave her. After all,
she helped make it, so it’s not really even a gift. Thoughts
start to flood my mind as I wait anxiously for her to react.
“Why couldn’t I have gotten a gift like Kayla’s? Will Grandma
still treat me the same as Kayla after she sees what I gave
her? WIll I ever be as good as my sister?” All I hear is the
beep of her monitor and sirens in the distance. I reluctantly
open my eyes, but instead of seeing her upset, I see her
beaming.

Tomorrow I’ll start a new quilt, and I’ll keep making quilts
my whole life, but I’ll always remember this quilt, Grandma’s
quilt.

Suhrith Bellamkonda (above, “The Lone Soldier”) is an 8th grader at Blach Junior
High. He loves art, poetry and strategy games. He wishes he has unlimited time
for creativity.

amelia wiggin

I Hear You Singing in the Shower

100 I hear you singing in the shower,
at 6:30 in the morning,
your voice echoing off the bathroom walls.
I hear you walk downstairs,
socks sliding against the hardwood.
I hear you making breakfast,
hear the toaster pop as your reach into the fridge for a yo-
gurt.
I hear you button your coat,
and unlock the door
as you prepare to leave us.
I hear you start the car,
hear it push you away,
leaving me to make lunch for my sister,
walk her to school,
and get her home safe.
I hear you call my sister
and I,
telling us you’ll be home soon.
I hear you come home,
the door creaking open at 8:30 on the dot,
with grocery bags in your hands.
I hear you help Dad upstairs,
take off his shoes.
He shuffles to bed

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