Stanford Anthology For Youth: Volume 19

I closed my eyes just to see an ambulance rushing to a silver 51
car, just like mine. The car looked shriveled up. The doctors all
rushed out of the ambulance. They opened up the passenger’s
door. Inside there was a girl. But it wasn’t just any girl, it was me.
My dad was on the other side of me. He got out of the car, just
in time to see me get taken out of the car on a stretcher. My arm
was all twisted in every imaginable way.

I couldn’t take it any longer. I was turning and flipping in
my bed pushing against the bright white sheets. I was shaking,
my arm was tensing, the torture of seeing my arm all twisted was
horrifying. And also, the torture of seeing my dad’s eyes tear-
ing up was horrifying too. I woke up seeing my mom and nurses
hovered all around me. They were shocked but in a different way
than I was.

“How you doing sweetie?” Of course my mom would say that.
“Good.” That’s all I had to say. The nurses left once again but
instead of falling asleep I just looked out the window, praying.
I only do swimming so I might be able to manage that much I
guess.
That’s when things hit me. I can’t play the cello anymore.
That was my life. I went to school where you only play music. My
life was ruined. It was crushed. I wouldn’t be able to move my
bow any more. Tears were falling down my face so fast I couldn’t
stop them, and I didn’t want them stopped. Something inside of
me had vanished. Like the walls of a house crumbling down and
destroying everything.

Why did this have to happen to me out of all people? Why
not just a person who doesn’t play an instrument or do any
sport? I know five people off the top of my head who don’t play a
sport or an instrument.

My mom, sitting on the end of the bed, was confused. She
probably didn’t know why I was crying. My tears were getting my
teddy bears wet, and all the other things around me. My teddy
bears gave me hope when I didn’t have any, but this time they
didn’t. But they couldn’t have helped.

I told my mom outfront, “I can’t play cello anymore.”
She looked at me with tears in her eyes
“I know.” She said it so slowly, like a tiny feather falling from
the sky.

I got out of the hospital after three months of torture. I
was at my house now, all settled in. I got back into the swing of
things, when I looked over and saw my cello sitting on its stand.
It was a dark chestnut colored cello, full size. I always swore that
I would play the rest of my life, no matter what happens to me.

52 So, I sat down on my chair, and picked it up slowly. Feeling the
rough strings on my fingers, I tried to play.

**

*DaPhNE CrUM 53

Cutting the Strings

“What are you waitin’ for?!” Dimitri Div barked.
The humid air sticks on the back of my neck. I can feel beads
of sweat rolling down into my boots. My head is spinning from
heat and exhaustion. I turn to face my boss. The last thing I want
is to make eye contact, so I stare at the Brazilian Lumber logo
sewn on to the right pocket of his worker’s vest instead.
“Look at me when I talk to you, Emmett!” Div hollers angrily.
You’re a grown man. Look him in the eye.
I look up. Half a cigarette pokes out of from behind Div’s
tobacco-stained teeth. His thick eyebrows are pinched to-
gether, and his bushy black mustache is twitching. He stands
to the right of a massive bulldozer, hands curled into fists.
I can’t look him in the eye. His gaze is too overpowering.
“WELL?! Why ain’t you sawin’ away at them trees?” he hollered.
The large chain saw trembles in my sweaty palms. All I need to
do is turn on the power of the saw and start cutting. But I can’t
even bring myself to flip the switch. All I can do is stare dumbly
at the machinery that sits limply in my hands. My body stiffens
as Div stomps in my direction. There is nothing I can do. I am the
puppet and he is the puppet master. Pushing me out of the way,
Div grasps the metal handle of my chain saw.
“Obviously, Emmett needs a big boy to show him how it’s
done.” Div growls at my colleagues. He turns back to me, hiss-
ing. “Time is money, and money’s a wastin’.”
Div flips the switch, and the mechanism responds by churn-
ing its jagged metal blade around and around in an endless
circle. The metallic grinding of the chainsaw causes my head to
pound. He throws the saw back at me and grimaces as he heads

* Daphne finds joy through reading, writing, and drawing. She is a competitive
swimmer and water polo player, and her favorite school subjects are English and
science. Daphne also loves learning about birds, and she even owns a pet para-
keet.

** Tommy Hartman (opposite page) is a kid who likes art of almost any kind. He is
weird, some hesitate to call him human.

54 back to his bulldozer. Rafael, a close colleague of mine, looks
over at me from his tree and mouths the words “Sorry.” I shrug
my shoulders in response.

I stare upwards, hoping to see rain clouds. If rain falls, then
I can go home. Div hates logging in bad weather. However, the
only thing I see is the thick, emerald foliage of the gigantic Kapok
trees. The thought of rain reminds me of a special dish that my
wife, Mariana, prepares for dinner on those rare days I come
home early. It is called Feijão Tropeiro, and it’s a traditional Bra-
zilian meal with pinto beans sautéed with cassava flour, scallions,
egg, and bacon. I can almost smell the wonderful aroma of the
bacon wafting up my nose…

A rough hand slaps me across my face. Div stands beside me,
yelling into my ear.

“Stop day dreaming, you fool. Get to work!”
I turn away, holding back tears as I cradle my cheek to al-
leviate the pain of the sting. Wiping my eyes with my dirty glove,
I approach the large tree standing in front of me. Fresh orange
paint is oozing down the tree’s trunk. The paint has been sprayed
from a can onto the trunk in the shape of an X. This mark tells
loggers that the tree is ready for chopping.
Just finish the job. You’ll get fired if you don’t. Taking a deep
breath, I lift the chainsaw to the enormous tree’s trunk. The mo-
ment the blade makes contact with the tree, saw dust sprays into
the air. The groove in the trunk is slowly growing larger as the
jagged teeth of my machine eat away. Wood chips bounce off my
protective goggles. Tears stream down my face.
You can’t have feelings for a tree; only children care about
such silly things. Suddenly, my heart stops. An old memory from
childhood weaves its way into my head.
The memory is so clear. Warm sunlight is streaming on to
my face through the small cracks of the thick cluster of leaves.
My tan legs dangle lazily over a branch of the archaic oak tree.
Leaves gently sway and flutter as a cool breeze blows through the
boughs. I lean my head against the oak’s trunk and close my eyes,
blissfully listening to the cheerful twittering of chickadees. Noth-
ing can break the serenity of this moment. This was my favorite
oak tree to climb when I was a child living in California. That oak
had been so close to me. I would climb its branches to get away
from the stress and anger of the world. Sitting on those branches
gave me the strength to fight through hard times. The tree was a
great listener; it never interrupted me or made fun of what I said.
That oak was my best friend...
This tree in front of me is no different. Turning off the power
of my chainsaw, I look upwards at the tree’s lush foliage. This

isn’t fair. 55
“EMMETT!!! How many times must I tell you to KEEP

WORKING?! I’m countin’ to three, an’ if you haven’t started cut-
ting before that time…”

I can hear Div cursing under his breath.
You’re going to lose your job if you don’t start working.
But I don’t want to work if it will make me unhappy.
Make up your mind you big baby.
“One… Two… “ Div is growing louder with every syllable
Help me, God.
“THREEEEEEEE!!!” Div screams.
I turn to face him. Div’s eyes are blood-shot and firey. I hear
nothing but silence. The entire Amazon rainforest is holding its
breath in anticipation. I notice I am still holding on to the chain-
saw. Slowly, with chainsaw in hand, I lift my right arm so that it
is parallel with the ground. Releasing my grip, I watch the chain-
saw fall. The crash from the chainsaw hitting the ground echoes
through the forest. I look back at Div. His eyes are wide.
“Pick up your machinery, you fool!” Div growls. His cheeks
have grown purple.
I walk up to Div, leaving just an inch of space in between the
two of us.
“No.”
I am no longer his puppet. My strings have been cut. He is
my master no more.

56 *EMMa NathaNsON

A Day in the Sky of Life

A place awaits.
A gap among the stars.

But here,
your chair sits,

empty.
No one fills the empty seat.
Your life, a tumble of glorious proportion.

Not snuffed,
but merely changed.

A bird’s wing,
lifting to the sky.

A kite,
lifting to the heavens.

Your heart soars.

Birth.
The sunrise.

Life.
The midday.

Death.
The sunset.

* Emma Nathanson lives with dogs, parents, chickens, and a cat. She loves the outdoors,
especially the alpine environment and the climbing it offers. Stalling on her homework
is also one of her passions!

*EMMa ChaMBErLaiN 57

Delayed

The whole world covered in white
Thick, fresh snow delaying my flight
My body longing to be in my bed
And to dream beautiful thoughts
That are stuck in my head
The glass cold and foggy as I watch all the planes
Push through the snow in the clogged up runways
The ones in the plane get to finally leave
But not me, I still sit here
The last to remain

* Emma is an active, fun, and outgoing person. Her favorite sport is competitive cheer-
leading. She loves to hang out with her friends, do art, bake, hike, run, and stretch
outside of cheer.

58 *aLExaNDEr

Kaattari-LiM

Disappearance

A moment only becomes special when it has transformed
into a memory. We never think about what happens next or if
something detrimental will happen, we just focus on the joy that
is happily dancing in an invisible veil all around us. Maybe, if we
spent a little more time taking in the moment and thinking about
what will happen when it’s over then we wouldn’t be as sad about
it ending. We reminisce instead.

I hold my gold-stained necklace shaped like a heart, admir-
ing the botanical designs it held. I flip it over and over and over
in my hand. The back of the necklace has the letters H.A. en-
graved into the soft gold. My name, Hazira Apellida. I release the
clasp and the heart opens revealing a picture. A picture of us in a
fantasy world brought into reality.

Disneyland is the happiest place on earth. But the memories
only make me sad. Not the type of sad you get when you don’t
get something you want or when you have to go to the dentist.
But more so the sad where something is missing from you. We
all had our hands around each other’s waist in the white picketed
gazebo smiling stupidly at the inanimate object with a wide lense.
In a few seconds the smallest moment with the largest meaning
was over. The picture would only let me remember that moment
but seeing it in person through digitalized pixels.

My mind flashes back to reality. Do we ever get over the
loss of a person, Or do we just get used to their nonexistence?

* My history with writing was never that bright. I was never too good at intertwin-
ing words together to make a meaningful story. Recently I have taken more inter-
est in the art of writing poems and short stories. I have only been on this planet for
a short 13 years, but look forward to many adventures in my near future. I enjoy
playing violin and taking thoughtful walks in my spare time.

** Jocelyn Wang (opposite page) plays the violin and the piano. Her hobbies in-
clude gardening, writing, reading, and drawing. She relates most of her drawing
to nature or really abstract patterns fit together in a repetitive pattern.

I connect the clasp of my golden necklace, closing it before the 59
pure raindrops of sorrow destroy the delicate picture. I watch the
modern sarcophagus get lowered into the seven foot deep hole.
My mental strength finally diminished causing me to release a
volley of salty raindrops of their own. Why me? Why am I the
one being punished? I hear the monotone voice of the priest
reading lines from the holy bible. “My Spirit will not contend
with humans forever, for they are...”-Genesis 5:32-10:1. I stopped
listening at that point. The world had left me it seemed in those
small moments.

What I’m feeling is indescribable. It can only be interpreted
as a group of emotions conspiring together to create something
uniquely depressing. I have always despised things that were
out of my control. An outcome that would eventually lead to the
inevitable loss of a life in my case. The only thing we can really do
is prolong our lives and decide how we want to be remembered
once everything is over. My brother was gone, nothing could
change that.

The service was over. I stumbled over to the partially bur-
ied coffin and lay down a bouquet of white roses. I never really
understood why we put flowers at someone’s grave. Was it
because the flowers would eventually die too? Or is it just one of
those things where there is no reason and we just do it because
it feels right?

I started to walk away. The time for mourning had started
and it might never end. The soil still crumbles under my feet as
I am also crumbling. I had always thought of my brother as my
completed half. Death is one of the few ideas that never leave us.
It follows us around stalking us. We will always remember who
was in our lives but we won’t always remember the people still
here. Twenty years from now I will still remember this day. I will
still feel the emotions that surrounded me.

60 *NiChOLas LOzBEN

The Fall

“Thud!” My body hits the ground. My arms flail around to get
out from under me so they would not get crushed by my body.
I felt pain all around me throbbing and stinging. The sounds of
children screaming and yelling with their friends fills my ears.
The outdoorsy smell of dirt and grass fills my nose as I inhaled.
The grass around my head is like a forest when it’s at eye level.
Trees with golden yellow and orange leaves hanging off of the
branches surround me. The trees are large and have roots pro-
jecting out of the trunk and into the soil, but the roots are not
completely submerged into the ground leaving a space where an
unlucky person’s foot could get caught. Just further than eyesight
is a road that, although I can not see, I know is there because I
roam the dwelling of this park so often. It’s like I am king of the
park and one of my knights has betrayed me by tripping me with
his root. I lay in the bright afternoon sun letting the warm light
onto my skin.

Walking forward is such an easy motion yet so much can
go wrong. You could fall, break your leg, scrape your knees and
elbows, and so much more. But walking has been something that
humans have used ever since the beginning of our existence. It’s
so easy to do, yet it’s dangerous. We walk everyday and once in
a while we fall. Falling has pain and it is a consequence for not
paying attention. I was walking. Just a stroll in the park.

There were lots of trees with large roots going into the
ground and branches towering above me with orange and yellow
leaves falling to the ground where I walked. I walked on bright
green grass with orange and yellow leaves enjoying the nature
around me. With each step my muscles contracted and moved,
allowing a step forward. With each footfall is a second of rest just
for another step to happen. For a split second, I am in the air
between steps and I am vulnerable.

I am alone just walking toward my destination of home.

* Nicholas Lozben goes to Central Middle School and plays soccer with friends and for
his team.

I feel in my pockets and my hand touches a small round phone, 61
some loose change adding up to 96 cents, and a receipt to a $1.04
Arnold Palmer that I had drank just an hour before. It is as if I
can still taste the cool sweet taste of the ice tea and lemonade in
my mouth but I can’t, unfortunately the smooth silky drink is
gone now. “Ding,” my phone buzzed; my mother told me to come
home for dinner. My destination lies a few blocks away and my
first obstacle is to get through the park.

My foot hits the ground after the moment where I am in the
air to feel a sharp heavy pain in the toe. Soon my foot hits the
tree root, and there is a hurtful throbbing feeling in my large toe
and no second step forward. My body’s forward momentum that
was supposed to be for the next step gets caught on the branch,
sending me falling toward the ground. In the fall forward, I feel
nothing but the air that my body penetrates. The air around me
feels like wind blowing against my body like I am near the coast,
yet I am not near the coast but really I am near the ground.

I see a blur of colors all around me as I soar to the ground.
Everything is moving so fast that I can’t focus on a certain object
and I just see colors. I feel nothing but the air around me for a
moment but it is just a moment, and a moment does not last
forever. It escalated like stairs that move and soon enough I hit
the ground with a thud and a growing pain around me. The pain
is like the sting of getting hit by the pitch in baseball but it is all
around my body and not just where I would have gotten hit. The
pain is not that bad but it is pain and pain is never good. I have
experienced this pain before and it is a consequence for not pay-
ing attention where I am stepping. Nobody is there to help me
because I am alone and I know that I have to do this on my own.

Pain all over my body as I lay in the cool soft grass. Dirt
fills my nose without stopping and it smells good like a hot sum-
mer night and the outdoors. I hear the playful yelling voices of
small children playing on the playground in the background. I
feel nothing but a throbbing pain. I keep lying there in the bright,
hot afternoon sun as I had been a moment ago but a moment
does not last forever and I soon get up off of the ground using the
same muscles I use to walk but in a different way. As soon as I
get up off of the ground I dust myself off and I keep on walking. I
walk as I had before as if nothing happened and as if there is no
danger in walking.

62 *MaDisON fOstEr

Feeling Freedom

Touch your toe to the grass
Soft and gentle

Covered with tears of stars

Run into fields
Through tall, graceful wheat
Golden-clad dancers whirling about

Sit in endless rushes
Hear the wind whisper
A sweet, subdued melody

Dance through meadows
Flowers welcoming your feet
Shielding them from the hard ground underneath

Glide through the water
As it swiftly runs
Racing itself

Step through sand
Slipping between your toes
Burning your feet with sizzling breath

Climb up towering trees
Green leaves and pointed branches

Bowing before you

Smile through life
Because you get to choose

How free you feel

* Madison Foster, an eighth grader at Central Middle School, loves to read. The avid
bibliophile reads in the morning, during the day, and at night. When she isn’t reading,
she likes to cook and do logic puzzles.

*BEN PUCEL 63

A Final Goodbye

I was awoken to the sound of my door as it creaked open. My
mom poked her head into my room. “Ben. Are you up?” Too tired
to speak, I replied with a grunt. “Come out and say goodbye,” she
told me. At first I was mad at mom for waking me up. It took me
a few minutes but I realized what was happening. It was time to
say goodbye to my older brother, who was off to college.

I shoved the blanket that rested on top of me to the side and
sat on the edge of my bed, letting out a huge yawn. The hairs on
my arm rose and goose bumps formed as I adjusted to the cold
temperature. My room was completely dark. The only light was
shown from my clock that rested on my bedside table. It read
4:33 am.

I made my way over to the door. I was nervous. I did not
know what to say when I saw my brother. “Maybe we will not say
anything,” I told myself. “Maybe we will just hug it out.” After
reaching the door, I rested my trembling hand against the cold,
white, wood of my doorway and used it as a balancing aid.

I poked my head out of the door and into the hall. The street-
lights that sparkled through the rain-covered window blinded
me for a quick moment as I adjusted to the lighting of the hall.
Directly in front of me, I saw my brother and sister embracing
each other in a tight hug. I noticed that my brother was the only
person in the hall not wearing pajamas. He was ready to go. The
hallway was silent except for the sound of the flickering hallway
light, the sound of rain hitting the gutter outside, and the sniffing
of upset noses.

Quickly, my brother and sister exchanged words that I could
not make out. I stood in wonderment, thinking of what they
could have possibly said. They untangled their arms, and turned
towards me and looked at me with their puffy, red eyes. It was
my turn to say goodbye.

I made my way out of the doorway, and into the dim-lit

* Ben is an all around great guy. He is kind, witty, and a very academic student. He also
enjoys playing sports.

64 hallway. I caught a quick glimpse of my mother sitting on the
brown futon that rested beneath the window. She had tears in
her eyes and tissues in her hands. Seeing my mom crying, which
she rarely does, made this moment even more upsetting to me. It
made me realize how dearly missed my brother will be. I walked
over to my brother and pulled him into my arms, not wanting
to let go. “This is the last time you’ll see him until Thanksgiving
break” I told myself, “Make the most of it.” Attempting to act
strong, I held back my tears that felt like they were trying to claw
their way out of my eyes and onto my cheeks.

I felt his warm tears touch my ear. He turned his head so that
his mouth was what felt like only a paper’s width away from my
ear. Then he spoke. “Be nice to your sister,” he said. It sounded
almost as if he had rehearsed it. The words were so powerful and
full of heart and meaning. He knew me taking his advice would
be the key to my happiness. How will my sister and I get along
when my brother is at college? This question had always been on
the back of my mind, and it always remained unanswered. It had
been unanswered until this moment. Those were his words of
wisdom that only he and I knew.

Slowly, we let go of each other. We said our final, heartfelt
goodbyes as he and my mom walked to the car. I wanted to drive
with them, but knew I couldn’t. It almost felt unreal to me, hav-
ing to say goodbye to my brother, my best friend, after growing
up with him my whole life. Although neither my sister nor I
expressed our feelings for him to each other, I knew she felt the
same way.

Standing side by side in the front doorway, my sister and I
watched as the car pulled out of the damp, gravel driveway, head-
ing for the airport. Together, we waved goodbye knowing, life
would be different without him here. We both knew getting along
would be tough at first, but we would soon figure it out. While
waving, I realized I wasn’t only saying goodbye to my big brother,
but I was saying goodbye to my role model, and mentor, who I
could no longer rely on for guidance. It was almost as though he
was relieved of his duty and now it was my turn to fulfill it. To
guide my way through my own life and establish my own future.

*DaPhNE CrUM 65

The Freezing Plummet

“Alright ladies,” Coach Kim hollered, ”Let’s get a move on.
We got a long night ahead of us. We don’t have time for foolin’
around.”

Coach Kim is boiling with frustration. My water polo team-
mates and I have spent too much time talking this practice, and
she hates it when we don’t pay attention. All my muscles cry out
in misery, demanding a break, but deep down inside I know that
I have no choice but to get out. Taking a deep breath, I hoist my-
self out of the pool with the little energy I have left to spare.

I deeply regret hopping out as soon as I stand. Why is it
freezing outside? Why can’t we swim in an indoor pool? To say I
feel chilled is an understatement. My wet and chlorine-drenched
body responds to the 45 degree weather by shaking violently.
My teeth show no signs of ceasing their endless chattering, and I
feel the skin on the undersides of my toes peeling from the frigid
concrete underfoot. Breath escapes my mouth as a swirl of vis-
ible, icy air.

All I want to do is collapse into a soft, cozy arm chair by the
fire with fuzzy slippers on my feet. Instead, find myself sitting
atop the metal bleachers of the Sacred Heart High School pool
deck, quickly throwing on a pair of old crocs. I throw on my red,
fluffy parka (a warm, oversized swimmer’s coat) and dash over to
the awaiting cover reels. No swimmer can leave until every tarp
has been placed over the 14-foot deep pool.

Each tarp weighs more than 200 pounds and is 25 yards
long. Due to their immense size, it takes at least six girls to pull
the tarp across the pool by using a long orange rope. The rope
is pulled on one side of the pool while connected to the tarp on
the other side of the pool. Placing tarps over a 14 foot pool takes
much longer than one might think it does, and the fact that it’s
freezing outside doesn’t help.

* Daphne finds joy through reading, writing, and drawing. She is a competitive swimmer
and water polo player, and her favorite school subjects are English and science. Daphne
also loves learning about birds, and she even owns a pet parakeet.

66 I stand by one of the three cover reels which the tarps have
been rolled onto, waiting for my teammate to hand off the rope
that is being held on the opposite side of the pool. When the
rope reaches me, I hook the end of it to a notch at the tarp’s edge.
As I fumble with the coarse rope, I look across the pool, where
a team of girls have readied themselves to pull the tarp across.
I can barely make out any of them through thick cloud of steam
the pool is letting off. I hope they can see me, because they might
pull me in if they think I have finished.

The rope is now securely fastened into the notch of the tarp.
As I start to walk away, I feel something hard pressing on my
legs. It only takes me half a second to realize that the girls on the
other side of the pool with the rope have started pulling. I am still
in the way. No one can see me because the steam is too thick.
The tarp keeps rolling out. There was absolutely no way I can
dodge this large, heavy cover sprawling out in my direction. I lose
my footing, and seconds later come crashing through the water’s
surface. The last sounds I remember hearing before completely
submerging myself were my teammates screaming, “Oh no! Hey
guys! Daphne fell in!...” I am slowly sinking. Sinking. Sinking.

My eyes burn from chlorine and salt, but I am unaware of
the pain. My only thought is that I am drowning. Air bubbles
are flowing out of my nose and mouth. I know that if I don’t try
to swim to the surface, then I will be in deep trouble. Although
I had believed there was no energy left in me, I somehow mus-
ter up enough energy to start pumping my arms and legs. I am
paddling as hard as I can, but I quickly realize that I am only
sinking further downwards. After a moment of contemplating, I
finally understand why I am making so little progress: my parma.
This oversized article of clothing is weighing me down. Without
thinking, I use my arm to tug the parka down, wriggling myself
free without even taking the time to unzip it. With my left hand,
I hold on tightly to my heaping mass of drenched fabric. With my
right hand, I paddled back up to the surface. I couldn’t wait to
escape this seemingly endless attempt to escape the depths of the
pool.

My teammate’s hand is waiting for me. I gasp for breath as
I grab hold of her outstretched fingers. As soon as my feet meet
the ground of the pool deck, I collapse. My muscles are at the
strength of a ragdoll. Rolling onto my back, I stare up at the
cloudless night sky. I take one deep breath of relief.

A swarm of girls close in, firing questions at me. “Daphne,
are you ok? You just fell in a pool!… I can’t imagine falling in! …
Are you cold? I’ll go get a towel. I would be freezing my butt off
if I were you …” Suddenly, I feel something warm fall onto my

shoulders. Someone has wrapped a new parka around me. I look
up and find my coach standing above me. All of her anger and
frustration is melted from earlier. Her mouth is drawn up into
a warm smile. I smile back, surprised by the way she is treating
me. When I think of Coach Kim, I imagine a stern person who is
always telling teammates to listen up and be quiet. I don’t wit-
ness this side of her too often during practice. I am about to ask
if she needs her parka back, but Coach Kim answers my question
before I have the chance to ask.

“You can keep it.”

67

68 *ryaN iKi

Heart Felt

Thousands of eyes stare towards me. Friends lean over,
whispering cruel observations to each other. Their pudgy fingers
point. But it’s not me they are talking about. It’s her.

She thumps along beside me, walking with a heavy, side-
ways limp. Each step is slow, as she exerts all of her energy after
taking one step. Her feet stay permanently turned inward at an
awkward angle. Behind her, she pulls a roller backpack, so she
doesn’t have to support as much weight. Like a seesaw, or a child
just learning to walk, her entire body slumps from one side to the
other. She holds her face high, but you can tell it hurts. She…is
my sister.

“She should be in, like, a special-ed class or something,” one
of the nearby girls murmurs to her nodding friend.

“What’s wrong with her?” a boy says as he walks past us.
A scream crawls up my throat as I continue to hear every-
body’s nasty remarks. Just because Anna is physically disabled
doesn’t mean her brain can’t function just as well, or better,
than any of yours! In fact, she is at the top of her class and is
probably smarter now than any of you will ever be! My face
swells up and starts to turn red, but before I explode, I am inter-
rupted by my sister’s rhetorical question.
“Y’know we’re supposed to be heading towards the bus,
right?”
I look up from my feet. “Uh…yeah. Of course I did,” I lie as I
notice that my thoughts had caused me to stray off path. I sheep-
ishly walk back towards her and shove my fists into my pockets.
How does she not hear these people making fun of her? I look
up at my big sister, longing to be like her. Minus her disability,
Anna is perfect. She could do anything. But she is especially
good at one thing I’ll never be able to do…ignoring people if they
say something mean.

* Creatively challenged, yet undeterred, Ryan Iki is an aspiring writer in the eighth grade
at Central Middle School. She finds inspiration in athletic endeavors and motivation
from a supportive family and group of friends.

As we approach the bus, Anna begins to slow down. Her 69
arms tense up. Every day we take the bus home from school and
every day she is anxious about it. She stands in front of the three
steps that trouble her every time.

“Hand me your roller bag. Don’t worry. It’s only three steps.
You can do it. You’ve done it a million times before,” I whisper as
she lifts her leg onto the first step. Her stiff legs barely allow her
to get a toe on the step. She inches her foot forward with a pained
expression on her face. Her hands reach forward to grip the rails.
When she finds the cold metal, her knuckles turn white as she
fiercely clenches the bars and heaves herself up.

“Hurry up!” shouts one of the boys behind me.
“I’m sorry that it took me so long,” she says, in an out-of-
breath voice. “You can come up now, though.”
I jump up the stairs toward her, taking her hand as I slide
into the second row. Once she is comfortable in the aisle seat I
lean close to her and squeeze her hand. She is my best friend. I
don’t know what I would do without her.
The boy who had yelled earlier enters the bus. He’s leaning
over, talking with some friends behind him. I glare at the back
of his head as he continues to jabber. Can he not see that she is
disabled from the waist down? It’s physically impossible for her
to “hurry up.”
The chatter is replaced by a loud thud. “Oh my gosh, I’m so
sorry! I didn’t mean to do that! I had my legs out in the aisle be-
cause it’s hard to have them squished in the row. I’m rea—” The
boy cuts her off.
He looks up at Anna. “I don’t care if it’s hard,” he grumbles
at her. I leap from my feet, ready to punch him, but Anna blocks
me.
“I really didn’t mean to,” she mutters to herself. The boy
hops to his feet, something Anna could only dream of doing, and
walks away like nothing happened. I sink back into my seat and
cross my arms against my chest. How could that boy say such a
mean thing like that? Anna is such a nice person, why would she
want to trip you? And anyways, you are fine.
Anna slides her feet into the row and bites at her lower lip as
her eyebrows scrunch together. “You don’t really need to sit like
that,” I remarked, as I wake from my anger to see that Anna is in
pain. “There aren’t anymore jerks coming onto the bus.”
“I know, but I really shouldn’t have had my leg out there. He
could’ve gotten seriously hurt,” she says, showing concern for the
boy. What that boy just said doesn’t seem to have affected her at
all. Why is she sorry? She didn’t do it on purpose. She should feel
mad, not sorry.

70 I huddle my knees up close to my chest and lay my head onto
her shoulder. “Don’t you get upset when people talk to you like
that?” I whisper into her ear.

“Like what? The boy? Well, sort of. Of course it’s a mean
thing to say, but it’s never different than what I’ve heard before. I
just try to tune it out, ” she calmly replies.

“I can’t tune anything out,” I groan. “What he said makes me
mad and I’m not even the one that’s being talked about.”

We sit quietly for a moment, then Anna unzips her jacket and
begins to fiddle around. She pulls a tiny stuffed heart out of her
inside pocket. “I used to have that problem to. Sometimes I still
do,” Anna says tossing the heart from one hand to the other.

I stare at the little misshapen heart. “Really? How did you fix
it?”

“One day, after I came home from school, I was really upset
because a group of girls had been making fun of me because I
tripped and fell and couldn’t really get up. Teachers had to come
and help off the ground. When I told Mom about this, she went
into her closet and grabbed a box and then sat down next to me,”
she explained, occasionally smiling over at me, but mostly just
looking at the stuffed heart in her hand. “She told me that she
used to get teased when she was little. She pulled this red heart
out of the box. She said that she made this little heart when she
was young and always wore it in the inside pocket of her jacket,
right over her heart,” she continued. “She told me to do the same,
and said that it would be like a shield. If somebody hurt my feel-
ings, it would hurt the stuffed heart before it could hurt my real
heart.”

“Does it actually work?” I ask, questioning whether or not a
little piece of stuffed material could actually do anything at all to
protect something as fragile as your heart.

“Well, at first I thought it was kinda stupid, but then I started
to tell myself that whatever it was that someone said wouldn’t
and couldn’t hurt me because of the heart. I’d forgotten it’s there
and I don’t really need it anymore. I think you should have it,”
she insists, pushing the tiny heart into my hands.

“Thank you,” I say, astonished by the fact that Anna was
willing to give me something that meant so much to her. I rub
my thumb over the heart gingerly. Its rough, faded felt was well-
worn, but it didn’t seem old. It had been loved. I unzip my soft,
pink fleece and carefully place it into my inside pocket. I lay my
hand on the outside of the jacket, feeling the outline of the heart.
You’ll protect me.

*hELENa siLEN 71

Hot Fire

I breathed in
Pushing away the hot fire of anger.
People say you shouldn’t get angry

You shouldn’t be mad
And I’m not, no, not at all, right?

But that hit a nerve
Sending my mind plummeting

And bumping down
A slippery slope

Of unpleasant thoughts.
I hit the bottom and exploded.

* Helena Silen is a clumsy 7th-grader who loves making and experiencing art, reading at
the library, and learning new things. She has been interested in poetry for as long as
she can remember.

72 *EMMa arONsON

If He Comes

The cellar room rattles. Bottles lie shattered on the floor.
Broken glass is scattered everywhere. Our year’ supply of canned
food is ruined from the huge rumble. Pillows and throws from
the old leather sofa lie on the concrete floor. Dust falls from the
ceiling, making me cough. The dim light flickers as the rusty
overhead light creaks back and forth. Cracks on the pale brown
walls grow bigger with every slight shake. The smell of rotten
meat fills the air with an appalling odor.

“Ahhh!” Gracie and Greta scream as they hug the fluffy couch
pillows tightly.

“It’s ok girls, I’m right here,” Momma says reassuringly, try-
ing to calm everyone down after the first explosion, “Just try to
fall asleep. You’ll be ok. I promise.”

The family photos on the wall depicting happy times remind
me of how much I miss the bright daylight. Baby Gabriela cries
while Momma cradles her to sleep. A soft humming comes from
Momma as she tries to sing us to sleep with our favorite lullaby,
“Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”. My little cousins sleep soundly on
the cold hard ground, not disturbed by the huge ruckus outside.
The bombings were the first signs that a full-blown war was
beginning. They began in Kiev, the Ukrainian capital, and spread
to the smaller suburban areas. Hopefully Papa is safe. He is an
Air Force pilot in the Ukrainian Army who is now protecting our
country from Russia. Why can’t this war end soon? We’ve been
living in the cellar for almost two months now. And I’m getting
tired of being stuck in a small space with all girls. Gross.

Since October, living in the cellar has been cold, frightening
and overall just horrible. Especially since I’m living with my ten-
year-old twin sisters, Gracie and Greta, and Momma and Baby
Gabriela. Aunt Gia and my cousins, six-year-old Georgia and
four-year-old Geneva, moved in with us after their house burnt
down when the first bomb hit Kiev. Since I’m the only boy living

* Emma Aronson is an 8th grader at Central Middle School who enjoys food and watch-
ing Netflix. She also likes hanging out with friends, sleeping and eating Oreos.

down here, I consider myself the “big man of the house”. 73
Momma is the only one who has been upstairs since the

fighting began and has been retrieving food. All she seems to be
able to recover are canned foods and vegetables. Seriously! Noth-
ing better than vegetables?! Are you kidding… I always hope she
finds candy or at least fruit, but she never does. Just after the war
began, the common people’s rations have plummeted, while the
wealthy people’s rations skyrocketed. We’ve been stuck to steal-
ing ration tickets to feed all eight of us. When the war started,
Papa was called to fight straight away with no time to say good-
bye. Momma told us he isn’t allowed to send us letters because it
could give our position away to the Russians.

When news of the war had spread, I immediately knew why.
We had not only learned about many previous wars our country
had with Russia in school, but also future wars that might begin
from disputes over land. My teacher, Ms. Galen, had told me that
Ukraine was having a conflict over land ownership with Rus-
sia. At that time, it had seemed irrelevant, but now it seems as
important as ever. Can’t Russia and Ukraine settle this quarrel
soon? This is taking away from my time to play outside! I never
get to outside anymore since I’m becoming “too old.” C’mon! I’m
only eight! Apparently that’s the age where most kids start help-
ing their parents with keeping the household neat and tidy.

Since Papa has been gone, I feel like I’m all alone and no one
understands me. Papa was the only one who acknowledged my
feelings and listened to everything I said, even if he had some-
thing more critical to pay attention to. To Papa, I was always his
number one, the most important. He always made sure to have a
close relationship with me since I was his only boy. Until the car
crash, that is. Ever since then, he seemed so distant and didn’t
enjoy my company. I treasured the relationship we used to have,
it now its seems we will never have that again. I know he didn’t
mean to leave without notice but I feel like that the bond we had,
now isn’t as important to him as it is to me. I thought we were
close but I guess he didn’t. I should tell him how I feel when he
comes back.

When the accident occurred, Papa thought it was his fault.
He told himself that it was his responsibility to take care of me
and when I fractured my arm in the car crash, he held himself
accountable, even though I knew I was to blame. If I hadn’t asked
him to help me reach for my water bottle, he would have seen the
truck coming and moved out of the way. I know I’m the reason
I got hurt and Papa had nothing to do with it. I wish I could tell
him that he shouldn’t accuse himself since no one else was.

My stomach twinged suddenly in pain as my immense hun-

74 ger began to set in. It had only been a few hours since we had
last eaten, but the meal was so tiny that it felt like I hadn’t eaten
anything. Even with the extra ration tickets, our portions seemed
to be growing smaller with every passing day.

“Momma! I’m hungry!” I shouted across the echoing, cellar
walls.

“Ok George, I’m going to get food and I’ll be back soon. Your
aunt’s in charge while I’m gone.” Momma replied back, clearly
stressed about the situation.

Lately, Momma has been more worried about our living
conditions. She usually can cope with hard times, but now she
seems as if the stress of having seven other people living in one
room was coming down on her. Without Papa’s help, things
have been incredibly difficult. Keeping the cellar neat, feeding
everyone a sufficient amount of food and making sure everybody
stayed healthy had taken its toll on her. She became skinnier
with each day that passed. Her bony arms were hidden by count-
less layers of clothing she put on to keep warm while living in the
basement. I guess when Papa left it wasn’t just tough for me.
Everyone seems to feel the gap that he usually filled. Now that
he’s gone, our family doesn’t feel complete.

I’ve made up my mind. I’ve decided that I will tell him that
he is not to blame. He has to know that it was my own fault that
the car crash happened. He isn’t the reason I got hurt. I under-
stand where he is coming from, but he must know where I’m
coming from also. I’ll tell him as soon as he comes home from
the war.

If he comes home.

*LExi BattagLiNi 75

Innocent

Swaddled in sweet comforting arms
Hospital light reflecting off baby’s skin
Teeny tiny fingers caressing a mother’s hand
A new life in the arms of a new mother
Big beautiful blue eyes staring up
Eyes that will see pain, suffering, sadness
Eyes that will see temptation and hardship
Eyes that will not always be innocent
Rested lips sitting on the baby’s face
Lips that will smile and laugh
Lips that will lift up another’s day
Lips that will not always lay emotionless
Never been abandoned, lonely
Never been excited or scared
Never had to make a decision
A new life, a new beginning

* Lexi Battaglini is an 8th grader at Central Middle School. She is 14 and likes to play
soccer, sing, and spend time with friends. She loves to write and enjoys being in plays.

76 *BriaNa aMaya-aDLE

Keep Running...

Keep running, keep running! The pellets of raindrops, shoot
at me from above. The sky is still overtaken by floating thunder-
ous clouds. All I could hear, was the heaviness of my breathing.
Keep running, keep running! The wind traveled fast against my
body, making the raindrops feel like stones. The mud that pud-
dled underneath me, splattered with every step I took, leaving
my shoes covered in brown, wet dirt. Keep running, keep run-
ning! Suddenly, after sprinting through an acre of grassy field, I
stopped. Right in front of the house.

Wrecked and run down, the house stood tall. Its chipped
white paint revealed the rotten moldy wood that lay underneath.
The darkness that the windows held taunted me. I looked back
to see if they had caught up. “Hurry up you guys!” I shouted,
quickly turning back around to gaze at the mysterious building
that faced me.

“Look guys, doesn’t it look cool?” Walus and Monroe both
nodded with awe.

“Looks cooler than I imagined!” Monroe said, tightening her
ponytail.

“I ain’t seen nothing like this, Winnie!” Walus remarked,
grinning widely. I turned to look back at the town we left behind,
wondering if I would miss it. The tiny shops that lined perfectly
next to each other. And the way that the lights shined along the
fountain in the main square. But I was almost 10, that’s double
digits! I was sick of being babied by my parents, and now I could
be treated as a mature young woman with my two best friends,
forever. When I first told my mother that I was running away,
she laughed and told me to, “Have fun!”. It almost seemed as
though she thought I was joking.

“I’m serious, I am leaving tomorrow morning!” I said, angry
that she wasn’t taking me seriously.

* I love writing! I think its so much much fun, and I hope that in the future I will pursue
some sort of job that involves writing! I think this opportunity is so amazing and I can’t
wait to share my writing with you.

“Okay, don’t forget your jacket.” She said sarcastically. Just 77
because I am not as grown up as her, doesn’t mean I am not as
capable at doing what I want. It didn’t matter now, I was gone.
Trying to push those thoughts away, I turned back to Walus and
Monroe. “Well then, lets go in!”

We entered the old abandoned home, that held many
secrets. Throwing our bags onto the floor, we instantly raced to
explore the rest of the house. Mostly empty rooms and hallways,
dust bunnies and cobwebs. We decided that each of us could
claim a room to sleep in. I chose the best, if I do say so myself.
It was a small room, with white walls and a gold line trimming
around the top, right where it met the ceiling. The one window
in the room, showed the old and dead garden behind the house.
Although it looked decayed and grey, I could only imagine what
beauty it must have held when someone lived here and actually
took care of it. How alive the colors of the plants would make this
house. Right under the window, a small twin size mattress sat,
ripped and worn down. Through the huge oak door, that led out
of my room, there was a long and narrow hallway. Floral wallpa-
per lined the room. Holes in the walls where the wood had gotten
to weak to stay up, let the moonlight in. It lit up the room with its
blue glow, making the room look ominous and mysterious.

Later that night we decided to hang out in the living room.
Monroe practiced her dancing, doing some turns here and a
small periquet there. She moved across the floor like a butterfly,
keeping her posture just perfect and her toes nice and pointed. In
the mean time, Walus and I were playing cards on the table next
to the fireplace.

“Do you have an ace of diamonds?” I asked crossing my fin-
gers. It was his last card, and if I took it, I would win!

“Aww darn! You win again.” Walus winned, “Did you see my
cards?” I started to laugh,

“No, I am just better at Go Fish than you!” I exclaimed gath-
ering all the cards.

“One more round, Winnie? Please I just gotta beat you!” I
thought a little.

“Fine.” I said thinking to myself, I hope I win again!
After I beat Walus in yet another game, we all decided to eat
our dinner. We had lemonade, and tuna sandwiches.
“I say we propose a toast!” Monroe exclaimed, holding up
her bottle.
“To Winnie’s 10th birthday!” Walus and Monroe both
cheered.
“You’re no longer baby Winnie, now you’re grown up Win-
nie!” Walus clapped. As I hugged both of them I responded,

78 “Yeah, I guess so!”. Well at 11:00pm I would be, I thought. We all
played some more games, and even sang a song! When the clock
struck 10:00pm, we then decided to go to bed.

The wind, that night, blew steadily against the wooden
frame of the house. The sound soothed me into a dream. I woke
up in the middle of the night, to the sound of a loud popping
sound. As I looked around at darkness, I got up to go check on
Monroe and Walus. Looking in each of their new bedrooms,
neither of them were there. Scratching my head, I tried to think.
They are probably just in the living room, they must have gotten
scared by the noise! But as I reached the room, I could see that
no one was in it. Where could they be? Out of concern I yelled
out, “Monroe! Walus! Where are you guys?!” The echo of my
voice traveled through the walls and filled the rooms. No reply.

My hands started to shake. Scratching my head, my arms, my
legs. I was alone in this house. My heart was pulsing faster and
faster. I was lost. What do I do? So I ran. I grabbed my shoes,
and I ran. I didn’t know what else to do. Dashing out the door,
and over the hill. For a second I thought that this was like a scene
in an action movie. Dramatic music should be playing in the
background, syncing to my steps. It seemed that the wind blew
right through me. Nothing could slow me down. Keep running,
don’t stop now!

I finally reached my house. My house in the town that I
thought I would never see again. I knocked on the door furiously.
My mother opened it. Her face screamed relief and joy,

“Oh my heavens!” My mother exclaimed,” We have been
worried sick!” She instantly grabbed me into her arms, squeezing
me tight. “Darling where did you go?”.

“Mom, I’ll explain later,” I replied breaking free from her
grasp,”Mom, Monroe and Walus, they came with me, but now I
can’t find them!” She shut the door.

“Monroe and Walus?” She asked, looking confused.
“Ya, my friends.” Still unsure, she looked to me.
“Oh dear, I thought you had already grown out of you imagi-
nary friends?” My body froze. “My what?”
“Your imaginary friends, you’ve had them since you could
talk. Monroe and Walus, I remember you used to talk about them
all the time!” She continued, “But you grew out of them about
three or four years ago. Haven’t heard you speak of them till
now.”
“What are you talking about! Walus and Monroe are my
friends!” I yelled. “Remember they came over for my birthday
last year? And I literally just talked to them last night! They
aren’t imaginary, they are real!” I was more unsure now then I

had been before. I could feel the warmth begin to build up on 79
my face. My head hurt. Was it true? Were my friends really just
my imagination? The thought made my stomach turn. I then
reached for my mom, hugging her and not ever wanting to let go.

“No mom! They’re real, I swear!” I screamed. Slow tiny trick-
les of tears, swiveled down the side of my nose, dripping of my
chin. She held me tight, knowing how terrible and uneasy I felt.

“I know, I know.” She just whispered softly, “It’s alright dear,
it’s all going to be alright.”

**

80 *MatiLDa MONtrOsE

The Last Show

“When will they start?” asks my eight-year-old cousin, An-
thony. He’s looking at me, I guess I actually have to answer. He
must have thought I know because I’ve been down at the lake for
the longest. He’s sexist and I hate talking to him. Almost every
time I do, he brings up superheroes. Then, of course says that
he feels bad for me because I could never be one, his reasoning
being that I’m a girl. Hoping to avoid any conversation, I shrug
my shoulders and look away from him. He walks off, not car-
ing about me if I don’t have answers. I stare back at the water,
blocking out all of the revving motor boat engines to preserve
the peace. I huff as I sit down, the freezing cold metal of the dock
pressing into the palms of my hands. Just an hour ago, it was 95
degrees out. How can the temperature change so much in such a
short amount of time?

The sunset unfolds across the blue water as time disappears,
the fiery red and orange light of the sun reaches out to every
corner and crevice it can get to. Long shadows are cast out over
the Wisconsin waters, making the once blue water turn black. A
cloud passes in front of the sun momentarily, blocking out my
only source of heat for a couple seconds before it is burned off. A
shiver runs through me, and I feel goosebumps forming up and
down my arms and legs. Great, I think. My jacket is upstairs, so
I’ll have to leave if I want to stay warm.

The sun reappears, and I have to tear my eyes away from
the beautiful colors unfurling out from the bright ball of fire as I
hear the engines of the motorboats interrupt my thoughts once
again. I try placing where each noise is coming from to a spot on
the horizon. The boats starting to come out further into the lake
creating small ripples that will eventually turn to waves. People

I am a 13 year old 8th grader who loves to play soccer and basketball. I love listen-
ing to music and singing when no one is listening.

* Chelsea Moreyra (previous page) loves to draw and likes to add a bit of herself
** into her stories.

start yelling at each other, trying to get everything in order so 81
that the boats don’t get in each other’s way. All I can think about
is the loud cracking noises that will soon erupt from the boats. I
can’t wait to see what people have come up with, maybe they’ll
have blue and purple, my favorite colors, this year. Here at Lake
Gilbert, they aren’t very diverse.

I look all around the lake, it’s almost two square miles.
However, it’s an odd shape, so I can only see half a mile down to
the shore across from me and roughly the same distance to either
side. My eyes move back to the sunset, which is giving out its last
rays. I watch it slowly disappear behind the deep green forested
hills, and I look at the sky above me. Almost immediately after
the sun goes down, the beautiful blue sky gives way to darkness,
letting bright white stars shine out, reaching for the earth.

I feel the water covering my feet getting colder; the dock
I’m sitting on starts to do the same. The wind rustles through
the trees, creating an eerie calm. The colder air starts to bite
at my skin, the wind like sharp claws tearing through my hair.
I pick my hand up off of the metal of the dock, and notice that
deep lines have been etched into my palm, a pattern made by the
docks.

The noises continue to grow as more people come out. My
family will be coming down from our lake house soon. I remove
my feet from the once serene waters, shivering from the lower-
ing temperatures. I pull my knees into my chest, blocking out the
harsh wind.

The smell of pine fills my nose. Normally, water would have
a stench of salt, but this is one of the cleanest lakes in Wiscon-
sin. You could drink from it, but I don’t know why anyone would
want to. My family comes down the steps from our lake house,
destroying the peace I have been celebrating since I came down.
My grandparents, aunts, and uncles haul down colored beach
chairs, made of neon fabrics that act like beacons for the cousins.
We have come here every summer ever since I can remember,
and my mom came here every year growing up as well. Even
though none of my family lives here, we have a summer house so
we kind of figure we should use it.

My youngest cousins (three and five years old, both boys)
sprint down to the waterfront, screaming the whole way, being
the age where they have to be as loud as they possibly can at all
times. They break their screaming to laugh at the sand on their
feet, but shriek when the cold waves crash into them. The motor
boats have moved out onto the lake, getting into position for a
good show.

My brother comes and sits by me, but he either seems to un-

82 derstand that I don’t want to talk to him or doesn’t want to talk
himself. He dips his feet into the lake, but quickly pulls them out
when he notices the cold, shivering to himself. He hasn’t gotten
in the lake much this year, because he’s almost a teenager and is
becoming antisocial. When he does get in with everyone else, he
just sits in an innertube and ignores the rest of us. I never know
whether to be angry or sad, but it’s the way he is so I never try to
push it too far.

He’s twelve, only two years older than me, but he likes to
act as though he’s twenty. I look behind us: my other cousins
are coming down to sit on the dock as well, bringing sand with
them. Great. The silent agreement not to talk between me and
my brother is about to be over. All of my cousins are boys, which
makes summer kind of boring for me, but at least only one of
them is older than me. He’s six months younger than my brother,
and one of my cousins is six months younger than me. The other
two are about the same age as well, and they’re both eight. We
come from a long line of Europeans, so all of us pretty much look
the same, with blond hair, blue eyes and pale skin.

As if on cue, the first person sends off their fiery rocket, cre-
ating a colorful explosion in the sky. Everyone gasps in amaze-
ment, but I don’t move. I absorb the beauty of the firework as the
shrapnel draws brightly colored lines across the night sky. There
are mostly red white and blue (because it’s the Fourth of July),
but there are also pink, orange, gold and green fireworks.

“Live it up guys.” I turn around to face my mom, who I didn’t
even hear walk up the dock from where all of the adults are talk-
ing and observing, to where we’re sitting. I hear more pops and
booms behind me, but they seem different. Why should we live it
up? I quickly glance back at the now bright sky, but look back at
my mom.

“What?” asks my brother, giving her a confused look.
“This is the last time they’re doing fireworks here.” She
smiles apologetically. “So enjoy it.” On that happy note, she
walks back down the dock and sits down in her chair.
I look back up at the sky as more fiery explosions light up the
once dark night, but it seems as though the magic of fireworks
is gone. Learning they could be stopped that easily only reminds
me that it’s all man-made, and there’s nothing special about
it. It’s not magic, like I had always liked to imagine, but rather
people who were bored and decided to create a source of enter-
tainment. I did my best, but I couldn’t enjoy it. Not as much,
anyway.
I learned the meaning of the halt of fireworks a year later,
when my mom deemed me old enough. Apparently someone

had gotten drunk on the other side of the lake. In the haze of his
intoxication, he stumbled off the side of their boat, and no one
was close enough to get him out immediately. He hit his head on
the side of the boat and had to be rushed to the hospital as soon
as his friends got him out of the water. His falling in finally gave
local citizens who disliked the fireworks reason to protest, and it
was proved unsafe to ever perform again.

Once I learned the reason for the prevention of fireworks, I
remember being upset. I wish I had taken in every detail of the
night sky, every pop of sound bursting with color. I have never
seen fireworks since, so my memory probably isn’t perfect. I
don’t mind that much, but I wish I could know exactly what they
look like. If only I had taken my mother’s advice, I might remem-
ber more about it. At least I still revisit that old memory though,
so it won’t disappear anytime soon.

“All good things must come to an end, right?” My friend
laughs a bit, and I nod in agreement. “Well, that was a very
interesting story Matilda, but it’s my turn now.” I laugh and try
to focus on what she’s saying, but her story is even more boring
than mine. After listening to my story, she deserves to drone on
while my eyes glaze over, but her words ring through my head.
All good things must come to an end.

83

84 *BEN PUCEL

A Life Never to Be Seen Again

The bright sun that glimmered through the window awoke
me as it brightened up the beige apartment room. Short, cool,
breezes were sent from the oak tree outside gave me the chills. I
sat on my perch in my cage and waited for my owner, Oliver, to
feed me. “He’s going to feed me soon” I thought to myself “He
never forgets to feed me.” Time and time again Oliver kept walk-
ing by my cage but never seemed to look my way. It was almost
as though I didn’t exist to him. He was pacing back and forth, bit-
ing his nails every few steps. “What’s wrong with him?” I thought
to myself. “Why is he acting this way?”

A loud pounding on the door startled me. My eyes widened
and the feathers on my neck rose. Oliver stopped his pacing and
made his way to the door. He opened the apartment door re-
vealing a tall, lanky, and frail woman. Her long, black cardigan
blended with her jeans. She was much older than Oliver. Streaks
of gray ran down her brown hair. The loads of makeup on her
face attempted to cover her wrinkles. Oliver and the woman
exchanged words and shook hands as she walked into the apart-
ment. A few moments later Oliver pointed towards me. Why is he
pointing towards me? What are they talking about? They began
to approach.

I sat on my perch, watching them step by step. I was wonder-
ing why Oliver is bringing a stranger towards me. I was scared.
I didn’t like new people. When Oliver and the woman reached
my cage, the woman crouched and stared at me. She seems to be
studying me; looking me up and down. What is she looking for?
After the woman was done observing me, Oliver carefully began
to take down my cage.

My cage rattled and shook as Oliver unhooked it. The shak-
ing of the cage felt like I was in the middle of an earthquake.
I struggled to keep my balance. He handed my cage to the old
woman. What is he doing? I think to myself. Why is he handing

* Ben is an all around great guy. He is kind, witty, and a very academic student. He also
enjoys playing sports.

me to this creepy old stranger? The woman steadied the cage 85
as she slowly made her way over to the door. “I have to get this
woman to let go of my cage,” I thought to myself. I flew around
the cage, trying to make this woman let go of it. I was banging
into the sides with all my strength trying to disconnect my cage
from her hands. We reached the door and set me on the ground.
“My plan was a success.” I told myself. While Oliver was opening
the door, the woman grabbed a few thin, green, pieces of paper
from her purse. She handed them to Oliver. “Thank you very
much” he says to her. They talked for a little while longer, while I
sat on my perch, thankful that she is not holding me.

Their conversation stopped. The apartment was silent.
Slowly, Oliver bent down so that his face was aligned with mine.
His mouth quivered while he spoke. “Goodbye little guy. I’m
sorry I had to do this.” I did not know what this meant. I noticed
his eyes were becoming watery. I was confused. Why is he upset?
He should be happy. The woman is not holding me. Immediately
after thinking that, the woman picked me up and stepped into
the hallway. Oliver waved to me as he shut the door. “Why did
he close the door?” I thought to myself. “Why is he letting the
woman take me?”

I stared at the shut door and realized I would no longer
see Oliver. This woman was my new owner, and I could not do
anything about it. The woman began to walk down the hall. I
watched the door, saying goodbye to Oliver, and to the life I
would no longer live.

86 *BraDLEy sChULz

Lonely Love

Blowing in the wind
For whoever wants it next
Anyone can have it
Yet that doesn’t seem to matter
I cannot predict what happens next
For my heart is young yet really tense
Years of pain have brought me down
Now my love can be for anyone
But why am I so desperate
I seem so fine just with me
But I drive myself crazy
Some sanity is what I need

**

* Bradley Schulz is an eighth grader who enjoys a challenge, especially in math or
engineering. He is the youngest of three siblings, his brother being a freshman
in college. And he plays the alto saxophone in the school jazz and regular band.

** Andrew Richards is a 7th grader who enjoys soccer, art, and playing with friends
and his dog Jazz. He likes to plan activities and does a great Al Pacino imitation.

*giaNNa COLOMBO 87

Lyrics of Defiance

In a flash I fall to the cold soil again, my back flaming with
pain. I know better than to cry out, for that would only bring me
another lashing. I struggle to my feet as Master raises the whip
again, my knees shaking with pure exhaustion. Fighting through
the agony, I bend down and extend one bony arm toward a lone
cotton pod on the nearest plant. I grasp the spiny pod and twist,
the sharp needles digging into my scarred hands. I crack open
the seed with my dirt-encrusted fingernails and forcefully scrape
out the small white fluff inside. Reaching behind me, I toss it into
the big burlap sack I have slung over my shoulder. I’ve done this
more than a thousand times today, and yet Master will not let us
stop. If I pause for even a small break to stretch out my aching
muscles, he will beat me until I get to work again. He has no mer-
cy. Though I am only thirteen he gives me the same punishments
as my thirty-year-old father. Any man with a heart as black as his
does not deserve to live in this world. But my body cannot take
any more suffering, so I work on.

I take a few weak steps forward, trembling with fatigue at
each small movement. Waves of green roll across the rural hill-
sides in every direction, rippling with each light breeze. The hot
Virginia sun beats down on me, its fiery rays draining away every
last bit of strength I have. I gaze dejectedly out at the sweeping
field, but my eyes do not comprehend its beauty. All I see is the
months of work I must endure before harvest season is over.
Other slaves are scattered throughout the many rows of cotton,
each one isolated from the others per Master’s orders.

“No talking,” he’d declare every morning, striding slowly past
our ramshackle shed as we stood at attention. “No communica-
tion, and especially no singing. Any sound from you will be taken
as an act of rebellion.”

I watch as Master trots up and down the rows atop his shin-

* Gianna Colombo is a talkative eighth grader at Central Middle School. She enjoys art,
sports, and music and plays the saxophone and oboe. She also enjoys lounging on the
couch with her friends watching Netflix and eating lots of Oreo cookies.

88 ing chestnut horse, swooping down upon those who dare defy
him in even the slightest way. I turn away, blinking back salty
tears. I can’t bear to see an act of such cruelty imparted on an in-
nocent soul. We do all that he asks us to and more, yet he repays
us with beatings and scrappy meals. How are we expected to
keep him satisfied, when his thirst for riches wins out over all
the hard work we do for him? I think, wiping a teardrop away
from my dirt-streaked cheek. What must we do to be treated like
real human beings?

From the second I was bought by Master, I’ve had an unex-
plainable bond with the other servants at the plantation. When
they are strong, I am strong. When they are weak, I am weak.
When they feel pain, I hurt too. For from the moment the money
changed hands at that horrid auction, I was no longer just an
individual. I was part of something greater than I was, part of a
nation of people bound together by the cruelest of circumstances.
And it is this tie between us that I hope will one day shatter the
iron chains of slavery, once and for all.

I move slowly down the line of green and white, the harvest
sack growing heavier with each plant I pick. I spot my younger
brother, Abel, two rows away, his arms shaking and shadowed
eyes sunk into his skull. His ribs protrude through his chest, giv-
ing the illusion that his skin is a few sizes too small for his body.
He catches my eye, and though he appears to meet my line of
sight, I feel as though he gazes right through me. The look on his
face is that of such pain and suffering that when he faces me, I
feel my heart clenching in agony for the little boy who was once
the happy, carefree brother I knew well. Whoever could put an
eight-year-old boy through such torture has completely suc-
cumbed to the demons in their soul, devils whose only task is to
fill you with greed and malice.

People at home used to tell me that only some are able to
ignore the demons, and it is these people who are destined to
change society for the better. But the way of the world is cruel;
it always seems to be angels forced into horrible situations to do
the bidding of demons.

I wrench my gaze away from Abel and bend over the nearest
cotton plant, trying to erase his image from my mind and focus
on the harvest. Come on, Nia, just get through this day. You can
grieve tonight. But the longer I stand there, the more my loath-
ing of Master boils up inside of me. The feelings of helplessness
and pain trapped within me for over a year finally begin to turn
to rage. I want to hurt Master, to torch his precious crops and
turn his future to dust. Who cares if I am killed in the process?
But something stops me. I hear Ma’s gentle voice, her words

smooth as velvet in my memory. 89
Only angels have the power to change the outcome of our

world, she would tell me softly, stroking my hair. Am I an angel?
I asked one time, and instead of laughing at me she just smiled.
You are if you need to be.

And now is certainly a time where we do need an angel.
I must step up and be one now, not just for myself but for all
the other people I have touched in my life. Releasing my feelings
of hate in this way would not only hurt Master, it could harm
other innocent people who have done nothing to deserve this
fate.
I close my eyes, and the first thing I think of is Master’s
booming voice. No communication, and especially no sing-
ing. The last two words echo in my mind. A faded memory flits
into my head, one from the last day at our village in Cabinda. A
bonfire roars up in front of us, the flames glinting off the jeweled
costumes of twirling dancers. Voices rise up harmoniously into
the night sky, belting out an ancient tribal song of strength and
resistance. Pa clutches Abel and I, whispering prayers to Ma up
in heaven.
And then, just like that, the memory is gone.
I wish more than anything that I could go back to that mo-
ment, when we were safe and free to make our own choices. The
melody of the chanting song replays over and over in my mind,
reminding me of the life I once had, the one that has been ripped
away from me. No singing, Master’s voice reminds me. Any
sound from you will be taken as an act of rebellion.
The notes start off soft, the tune just a mumble under my
breath. But then it grows as I gain more determination, until the
haunting words from that bonfire night ring out over the silence
of the hillsides. Abel looks up at me, shocked, but in my heart I
can tell he knows exactly what I’m doing. And when I reach the
swelling chorus, his voice calls out in harmony to mine.
Then two voices become three, and three become four, until
the lyrics of defiance resonate from every corner of the sprawling
fields. I see Master slide off his horse and march down the nar-
row strip of dirt I stand on, uncoiling his whip and glaring at me
with a look of pure fury. I know I should be terrified, but for the
first time in my life I feel no fear at all. I have done something to
make a difference, to be the first person to challenge Master’s au-
thority. It does not matter if others do not see me as an angel, for
I have lifted myself from utter despair, and in my mind that is all
a savior needs to do. The voice in the back of my mind tells me
that this will not end all slavery forever, but it does not matter. I
have further strengthened the bond between the servants here,

given them the hope that together we are more powerful than
any organized army. Every action we take, no matter how big or
small, will impact the future of our country.

And even as the lashes descend upon me, I do not regret
what I have done. For to me, each strike represents something
worth all the pain in the world.

For justice. For equality. For freedom.

90

*MatthEW EisENBErg 91

Man Down

Up and up, one rung at a time. The ladder was attached to a
worn out, beaten up warehouse. His long, neglected black hair
fluttered all around him, blown wild by a fierce wind. It was
momentarily tangled with the red and blue Christmas lights, now
furnishing a long abandoned warehouse, trying to make it look
better for Veterans Day down below, lay a common street, which
today possessed a mammoth stage. The stage was there to arrest
the attention of all of the viewers, ready for a steady stream of
former soldiers to speak, followed by the President himself. After
the speeches, hundreds of floats would rush down the street,
some decorative, others voicing a noble cause or company. Earli-
er that day, Connar Hubbard volunteered to help set up speakers.
His background check described him as grizzled, slightly crazy,
and depressed from recent family tragedies.

While he climbed he tried to think, but his thought were
drowned out by an all powerful image of his son, who had recent-
ly been killed in the war, fighting against someone who had never
harmed him, not even laid a hand upon him before the dreadful
invasion. Why, why did he have to pay for everything, why was it
that his wife died, right after his son did? Why did he have to be
the only one to survive, the only one to live with the burden?

But, he knew that it didn’t matter anymore, as he would be
with his family soon. Just five more rungs, and he would be at
the top of it. Then he will be a hero, or at least he thought he
would be one, for in his mind he was vanquishing evil, destroying
a murderer.

But, that would all end soon. Three more rungs, he told him-
self. He remembered his life.

Once he had been a star student, winning accolades and
metals left and right, winning different contests because of his
academic and athletic ability. He grew up dirt poor, in one of

* Matthew Eisenberg is an 8th grader at Central Middle School. He like baking cookies
with his mother and enjoys watching soccer and polo. He also likes making pillow forts
with friends. His favorite holiday is Hanukkah.

92 the worst neighborhoods in the San Francisco area. He knew he
needed to get out, go somewhere better, where he could have
three meals a day, and afford new clothes. It was only a matter of
time before the government came calling, and he was bound to
accept. And he served well. The first checkpoint of his new career
was the college known as Army. There he did well, excellent actu-
ally, and graduated from the school with flying colors. Seemingly
destined for success, he was moved past the role of the ordinary,
standard, and brutish foot soldier, instead handing him the job
of the stereotypically James Bond-like, a CIA field agent. Life was
perfect; he bashed in bad guys by day, and at night he stayed in
the most elegant and fashionable hotel suites in the world.

And, one day in England he met her. She had long, luscious
brown hair, and bright blue piercing eyes. Others said that she
was not beautiful, but memorable. An army man, and a well
educated woman from one of the wealthiest families in Europe.
It was love at first sight.

One rung left. The war started five years ago, when the Presi-
dent decided that Iraq needed reinforcements in the fight against
terror, but he didn’t get deployed until last year. Yet, in that
year everything changed. He was hit by a stray friendly grenade,
and a leg and an arm were both blown off. On his way home he
received grave news from a military email. HIs son was killed in
the war. He didn’t read anymore, he cried the whole plane ride
back, a never-ending stream of tears. The first night on the plane
was unbearable, nobody could sleep as they were constantly
interrupted by his agonizing screams.

While the plane was embarking, he saw something worse.
CNN reported the suicide of one Ms. Talia Hubbards, his wife.
Right after the news of her son hit her, she bought a long string
of rope, and hung herself in the living room. She was discovered
by mourners, coming to help her persevere through her son’s
death.

When he finally ascended, to the top of the building, and
light smashed onto his almost bleached white skin, from months
without going outside his house. The view scared him, he had
long been afraid of heights, and he considered scampering back
down the ladder. He had always been short, but was also muscu-
lar and at the peak of fitness before. Now he was still well-built--
one last testament to his past--but was wildly unfit.

During his break, he once again paused to think. What if the
war was never started? What if the President never ordered his
son to lay down his life for a false sentiment, not a thing but an
idea- a country?

Connar Hubbard reached into his black backpack, plain and

very simple, with nothing covering it except for a silver Nike sign.
Inside of it it was, his old, trusty sniper gun, from his time in the
military. It would serve its use today.

HIs last words were “Pede poena claudo, Mr. President (pun-
ishment comes limping).”

While Mr. Hubbard was climbing, many news stations were
broadcasting live. One popular anchor was chosen to host the
veterans day show, and here was his commentary. “And the
president takes one step to the stage, I think his suit looks quite
excellent today. I really think all that gray goes great with his
silvery hair. And now he’s on the stage, he takes one look at his
note card. Wait a second, wait a second what’s happening, a FBI
crew just jumped onto the stage, and they have completely sur-
rounded the president, there’s no sight of him. Ah what’s this, my
producer has just handed me a white envelope, the title says it’s
from the FBI. And we have just learned from the FBI: Seth Rob-
erts, better known as the current president of the United States
of America, has just been shot three times in the head. I repeat,
the President of the United States of America has been killed.”

93

94 *MaEvE hELLEr

Man’s Best Friend

I lay on the torn, faded red carpet next to Sam, all the energy
drained out of my old and tired body. I look about the familiar
room. It amuses me that not one piece of furniture in this room
matches another. One chair is beige, the other dark green with
blue stripes. The walls are plain white, but have peeled and
cracked over the years. We buy furniture from garage sales and
the thrift shop, anywhere we can get furniture for a reasonable
price. Family comes first to Sam, and raising a family is expen-
sive, so furniture is not his number one priority. We may not
have money right now, but we definitely have love, and that’s all
I need.

Sam softly strokes my fur. I let out a whimper of pain, legs
are sore. My stomach is thin, I’ve lost my appetite. My legs are
sore and shaky, I can’t even stand up anymore without collapsing
to the floor. But the comfort of Sam’s presence takes some of the
pain away, because I know he will stay with me until the end.

When I was a younger, I used to be nuisance, always causing
trouble. But I was just a puppy, I didn’t know any better. Sam
was the only one who understood that. Even when I ripped up
his brand new shoes or when I accidentally went to the bathroom
on the carpet (several times), he became upset for my behavior
at first, but then always seems to have room in his giant heart
to forgive me. He has been as loyal to me as I have to him. I’ve
known him for many years, because he has been my best friend
since I was a puppy.

When I first met Sam, I was six months old, and he was
eleven. I remember every moment, because it was the most im-
portant day of my life.

The back door swung open, releasing me, my brothers,
and sisters into the humid air of late July. The grass soaked my
golden paws as I trotted across the newly watered landscape. I
enthusiastically pranced around the yard, unaware that my life

* Maeve Heller is an 8th grader at Central Middle School. She loves to read, play sports
such as soccer and volleyball, and spend time with her family and friends.

would drastically change that day. 95
My activities were soon interrupted when small crowds of

people entered through the gate. My siblings and I looked up
from our play. We were all wondering the same thing. Who are
they?

I cautiously sat by the gate, inspecting each person as the
entered. Some were young, some were old. My brothers and
sisters were scattered across the yard, each surrounded by people
petting them and picking them up.

Then he came. Sam walked through the gate, bright blue
eyes, wide with excitement. I slowly approached him, tail wag-
ging softly in the air. He bent down to greet me, softly caressing
me with his gentle hands.

“Hi, buddy, I’m Sam. What’s your name?” He giggled, prob-
ably at the thought of me answering. I instantly liked him. We
played, I chased him, and in that moment I knew we would
become best friends. I let out a satisfied bark, then licked Sam’s
nose. He let out a small, sweet laugh, then carefully picked me up
and ran to his mom with me in his arms.

“Mom! Look! He’s absolutely perfect!” Sam cried. “I promise
I’ll take care of him and walk him. I promise!” Sam pleaded. “I
even thought of a name for him. Charlie.”

A tall, yet thin women with dark brown hair turned in our di-
rection. “A dog is a lot of responsibility Sam. I brought you here
just to look, not make any final decisions yet.”

“I know but I promise I will. It can be my early birthday
present.” She needed some convincing, so I used the strongest
weapon I had. My face. I whimpered and looked up at her with
big, sad eyes. I softly barked, and playfully bit her hand.

She sighed heavily, obviously trying to hide a small smile.
“Fine, but he sleeps in your room, not mine. And if this dog rips
up anything I own, he’s going back.” I ripped up her shoes once,
but she didn’t bring me back, she loved me too much.

I’ve lived with Sam for sixteen years. Things changed a bit
through the years. He’s married now, with one daughter, and a
son on the way. I don’t mind sharing Sam’s love, because every-
one needs a little love in their life. But, now he knows my time is
almost up, and so do I.

“I’ll leave you two alone for a second”, Sam’s wife, Alison,
said, a tinge of sadness to her voice. She knew he was in as much
pain as I was.

Sam bent down to my level so our eyes met. His crystal
blue eyes were coated in tears. I managed to let out a tiny bark
and licked his nose in attempt to try and cheer him up. He gave
a slight smile but it quickly disappeared. “Charlie, we’ve been

96 through a lot together.” That was true. I was there for every
important moment in his life. I was there when he went on his
first date, I watched him get ready. I was there when his first
love broke up with him, I comforted him. I was there when he
got married, I was sitting front row. I was there for his daugh-
ter’s birth--I waited by the window until they got home. I don’t
remember a day he didn’t make me happy, and I will be forever
grateful to him for that.

He continued, barely able to speak the words. “It’s okay to let
go.” Now he was crying, and I strenuously licked the salty tears
off his face. “I don’t want you to be in pain anymore buddy.”

That was all I needed to hear. I had been holding on to life
for so long, making sure death didn’t take me over. I thought it
would make life happier for him, if I was still around. When in
reality, because he loved me so much, my pain was causing him
to hurt as well.

He softly kissed my forehead as I relaxed my old body, let-
ting out one last tiny bark, as I began my journey to the unknown
world above. We were separated for now, but I knew deep inside
that we would see each other again.

**

*JULiEt aBLaza 97

Message Sent

The clacking of mechanical keyboards and the intrusive
tones of phones ringing permeated the office. The scent of strong,
early morning coffee wafted into my cubicle. I leaned back, the
cheapo plastic swivel chair squealing in protest. I closed my eyes,
blocking out the harsh fluorescent light and trying to ignore the
everyday office noises—staplers, copy machines, and conference
calls. I focused on the day ahead of me: file the mission reports
for Boss, email the vacation photos to Rachel, remember to wish
Mom a happy birthday, then send a couple hundred emails. I
opened my eyes and sighed. Just another day in the SSA corpo-
rate offices. The company consisted mostly of James Bond-esque
agents who risked their lives every day saving the world from
bad guys. The rest of the company was a bunch of normal cubicle
workers whose only jobs were to send emails and complete the
finances for the SSA’s top operatives. We were a bunch of Av-
erage Joes who wanted more. Hollywood wasn’t interested in
making movies about us. People didn’t think or know about us.
No one acknowledged this part of the company. I would’ve loved
to be out in the field, saving innocent civilians, defusing bombs,
and running on top of moving trains, but I could barely make
the fifteen minute bike ride to work without passing out from
exhaustion. I really needed to go on a diet.

I opened the thin drawer of my desk and pulled out the 2002
company-issued Apple laptop. The company logo was pasted
onto the top. It was circular with a bald eagle spreading its
wings, staring ahead, its beady eyes glaring. The company name
was arced above the eagle in a bold, imposing font: SSA - Super
Secret Agency. I opened it and poked the power key, the tiny

* Juliet Ablaza loves to read, write, and use computers and other technology. She
has a labrador and spends too much time watching YouTube videos.

** Jesse Uiterwijk (opposite page) is a skinny 8th grader at Central Middle School
who enjoys playing trumpet, running and making short films for his YouTube
channel. He lives with his parents, sister, dog and four fish, and wants to work in
the film industry when he grows up.

98 symbol almost completely invisible under the layer of grime that
had accumulated after years of use. It took a whole five minutes
for the ancient device to boot up, so my eyes wandered around
my cubicle. My gaze moved over my desk, bare except for a stack
of mission reports to be scanned, a low quality ballpoint pen with
the SSA logo wearing off, and a framed photo featuring the most
beautiful girl I knew–Rachel, my girlfriend. She was the sweet-
est, most accepting person I’d ever met, and I loved her to pieces.
The photo was taken a few months ago, at a comic convention
where we first met. I had been surprised to meet a person like
her there because events like those mostly consisted of single
male geeks who valued their comics above their own lives. In the
photo, her short brown hair was tucked behind her ears and her
eyes shone like stars. She was holding a giant stuffed Pokémon
(Mew, her favorite) that I had bought her. She loved Pokémon
and had a whole collection of Pokémon memorabilia—sort of
weird, but also kinda cute in my opinion.

My thoughts were interrupted by my co-worker, Jerry, barg-
ing into my cubicle. His tie was loose and his face resembled a
tomato. The thinning hair on his head was standing up. It was
the most frazzled I’d seen him since the Great Copy Machine Jam
of 2011 (I still had the ink stains).

“Joe! Email these files to the head of security, would ya?” He
tossed me an inconspicuous looking flash drive. His hands were
shaking slightly. “Use the secure database. We would not want
these plans getting intercepted. The last time it happened, the se-
curity department had to track down the guy and then they...” He
trailed off and shuddered, then walked briskly out of the cubicle
without giving me the chance to answer.

I put the flash drive in my desk. It was crowded with power
cords, headphones, envelopes, pens, and several bottles of
5-Hour Energy (grape flavored). I slowly turned back towards the
outdated laptop, which had finally started up. I opened the web
browser and logged into the company’s secure email server. The
little icon in the corner of the screen told me I had 526 unread
emails. The most recent was from Rachel:

Subject: Vacation Photos
From: Rachel Arnold <[email protected]>
Sent To: Joe Smith <[email protected]>
Sent at 10:33 Oct 24, 2014

Hey Joe! :)

Could you send me the photos from our NY trip?

Thanks, love you! 99

<3, Rachel

I replied with a lighthearted “Here you go!” and the overuse
of emoticons, then realized I had forgotten to actually attach the
photos to the email, which were in a flash drive in my desk. That
was embarrassing. I wanted to bang my head against the cubicle
wall. I yanked open the desk drawer and scrambled for the flash
drive with one hand while composing a new email with the other.
I jammed the drive into my laptop and opened it. The only folder
inside was titled “Untitled Folder” and, without thinking, I at-
tached it to the email and hit send.

It took a few seconds for me to realize how stupid I was. My
heart dropped to the bottom of my stomach like a stone and I
felt like I had eaten one too many donuts that morning. I double-
clicked the folder I had sent and I knew that I was in trouble. I
peeked in my desk. The flash drive with our vacation photos still
sat there, tangled in a huge knot of headphone wires. The flash
drive that held the top secret, highly confidential, ultra hush-
hush files was still plugged into my computer, and I had sent the
contents of it to my girlfriend. I remembered Jerry’s face when
he recalled what the security department had done to the last
person who had laid eyes on files like those and almost burst
into tears. This time, I didn’t resist the urge to bang my head
against the wall, no doubt surprising the bored office worker in
the neighboring cubicle. After my mini tantrum, I sat back down
and stared blankly at the “Message Sent” notice on the screen for
a while, contemplating my stupidity and carelessness.

After a few moments, my thoughts cleared and the urgency
of the situation settled in my mind. I needed to act. I recalled the
last time I had gone to Rachel’s apartment. I had been picking
her up to go to our favorite pizza place for dinner last Friday
night. When I arrived at her apartment, she had to reply to an
email before we left. Once she was done, I reminded her to sign
out before we left but she had told me “I never sign out on my
home computer because I’m way too lazy to log back in every
time I need to check my email.” I would normally be against
that habit, but in this situation, it was perfect for what I had
in mind. All I needed to do was go to her apartment, somehow
get in, then delete the email from her computer before she got
home from her job at the local art center. Easy right? My hand
reached for the flash drive containing the shots of New York City
skylines. I turned in my swivel chair and stood, facing the door,
legs shoulder-width apart, one hand clenched around the drive.

100 The manliness of the action was slightly hampered by the long
squeaks of the chair as it was relieved of my weight. It sounded
like a goat was being murdered. I briskly walked out the door,
the sound of my loafers on the floor muffled by the coffee-stained
carpet. I passed several rows of identical cubicles until I saw that
my path was blocked by my boss, Rick, who was standing right
in front of the elevator. I ducked behind a potted fern before he
could spot me. I hoped he wouldn’t notice the slightly overweight
torso protruding from either side of the bushy green office plant.

Rick was the most serious guy I had ever met. His face had
a natural scowl and his voice was so deep that when he talked,
you could almost feel the vibrations of the sound waves coming
out of his mouth. He used to be one of the SSA’s top agents, but
he had to stop working in the field when a genetically modified,
cyborg shark bit off his right leg from the calf down. His face was
covered with scars he’d gotten from his years of mixed martial
arts and kickboxing. He had a gaze so harsh and menacing that
it felt like a lightsaber was stabbing you every time he made eye
contact. In other words, if you got him angry, you were basically
dead meat. The toughest men in the world would run away at the
sight of him, screaming for their mommies. It was totally under-
standable why I was cowering behind an office plant.

As I hid there, squatting behind the bushy fern, I realized
that I couldn’t get past Rick and leave the building without a
good excuse— I got a bad stomach bug from the spoiled milk in
the office fridge and if I don’t leave right this instant, I’ll throw up
all over the place? Gross! I was staring at a computer screen so
long that I went blind and now I can’t see anything? Impossible!
I got a mega paper cut and if I don’t get medical attention I could
bleed to death? Unbelievable. I started to lose hope, then realized
that there was another option. I hated the idea even more than
actually facing Rick and asking him if I could leave, but desper-
ate times call for desperate measures. I slowly turned towards
the worst part of the office: the stairs. I sighed. Risking the wrath
of Rick or climbing down a hundred flights of stairs? The SSA
building was one hundred sixty stories tall – the tallest building
in the world. I was on the 100th floor. Then again, the last time
someone asked to go home early, Rick had stapled his tie to the
wall, forcing him to stay. Rick wouldn’t even let anyone free the
poor guy with a staple remover at the end of the day – he just had
to rip his tie off the wall. I’d rather lose my breath than lose my
life.

The crawl to the stairwell was a long one. I ducked behind
desks, trashcans, copy machines, anything I could find that
blocked Rick’s view of me. In my head, the Mission Impossible