Stanford Anthology for Youth: Volume 24

For the habitats who writhed in pain,
ignored by those held responsible.
For the places once called sanctuaries.
For the world now grim and lonely,
vibrant colors dripping from the canvas.
For the light swirling down the drain.
For the humans in isolation,
left to pick up the broken pieces.
For the Earth that we have shattered.
For the ignorance of our people,
all the warnings we did not heed.
For the consequences we must face.
We cannot rewind time.

201

Sophia Zhang

Sharing Curiosity

TRANSCRIPT OF INTERVIEW WITH THE SHARERS’ CREATOR
12/23/2118 SATURDAY
NOTES: CREATOR’S WORDS ONLY; INTERVIEWER DEMANDS HIS/HER
WORDS TO NOT BE RECORDED.

RECORDING STARTED
…

When you’re around other people, do you ever wonder what they are
thinking? When you stand in a crowd, do you wonder if you’re the only
one that doesn’t know something? Perhaps it’s a no hat day and you're the
only one that didn’t get the notice. When I see animals, I ask myself, how
do they think without a language? Do they only feel some primeval
emotion of hunger, need, and lust? How do starfish feel without a brain?
Why are they hungry without a brain? This world is so full of wonders, it
is hard to imagine and discover it all in a brain.

....

Eine is an eighth grader who loves to write, read, and beat her

sister at Mario Kart. She hopes that she will always be a writer

because stories have influenced her life for as long as she can

remember, and she would be honored to share some new ones

with the world. 202

This is how the Sharer was born, a device to answer these questions. The
Sharer is a device made from hours of laboring. The Sharer allows humans
to share their thoughts. It also allows us to see into animals and plants’
thoughts. This doesn’t necessarily mean we can understand what others
think though. Plants may only feel the wanting of sunlight, thirst for water,
which humans may not understand. We have to open our minds to allow
new ways of thinking into our minds. If you’re curious like me, go ahead and
try it on.

…

There is an octopus in the tank to your right. Do you feel its “thoughts?”
So different right? They do not think with language; there is only an emotion.
Wait. Let me put on my Sharer device too.

…

Oh. Oh my. Do you feel it? I can feel the hollowness in the octopus. Its
central brain is lonely. What a small word to describe such a vast feeling. It’s
scared too, afraid. But look, there is something more curious. Humans think
with their brains, but in the past, there was a theory that each of an octopus’s
eight arms have its own personality. Octopuses have a significant amount of
neurons in their arms. It was observed that there was a shy arm, a bold arm,
on octopuses. When limbs were cut off, arms still moved to catch prey. Yes, I
know. Interesting feeling right? Turns out, they do have different
personalities. Do you feel that arm wanting to hide behind the others? Do
you feel that arm itching to move around? Yes.

…

203

You are right. The octopuses’ feeling of loneliness does outmatch other
emotions. The octopus does crave contact with other octopuses too.
…

Hmmm? Why did I create this you ask? Simple question, simple answer:
Curiosity.

Curiosity is beautiful. I feel an unsatisfiable want for more information
always. Only with curiosity can you ask questions and discover answers.
…

How about this. I gift you this machine. Use this to fuel your curiosity. But
don’t let it satisfy your curiosity. Only use it to light it up. Keep being curious.
…

Tape off.
RECORDING STOPPED

204

Clara Lawrence

Fire

Fire...

springs up from sparks
flying down from the lighter
(cheating, I know)
into an old, dusty fire pit
It catches onto one small
splinter
spreads in a jagged, winding line
reaches up towards the sky
but falls into the dirt once again
still in the state of instability
where it feels as if the only thing keeping it alive
is our hawk-eyed glare into the embers
and will as steady as a mountain.

Clara is an eighth grade student at Blach Junior High who is
most likely reading right now. She also likes ballet, soccer, and
art, as well as playing viola and piano.

205

We sit, watching, patient -
for the most part
There is a part of everyone
that just wants to hurry up
so we can have s’mores already
But slowly, with care
the orange, glowing flames progress
until they are confidently dancing
over the rim of the fire pit
We watch, hypnotized
We watch, enthralled
A campfire does have that strange quality
of something mystical, almost
ghostly
I can’t look away.

It warms us
sending glowing heat
onto everyone’s faces
and the occasional hand.

Sometimes
the wide, clear sky
dark, black with a hint of purple
brushed with shimmering stars
calls out
forceful enough to tear my gaze away
from the fire
Look up, my mind tells me
I’m rewarded
with a glimpse into the depths of the universe

206

looking through galaxies
my gaze weaving between stars
and beyond the dark expanse of darkness
It’s a door
not necessarily locked
but rusted and ajar
as we can look in
but never fully explore.

But soon enough
I hear a crackle
and am drawn back into the fire
sparks jumping up and over the rim of the pit
as if they are vying for my attention
Everyone continues to stare
entranced
hypnotized
by the glowing warm flames
the surprisingly good smell of smoke
wafting through crisp forest air
this magical light and warmth
springing up from just a few coarse logs
that captures
the essence of camping

207

"Untitled," Akiva Forrester. Akiva is an eighth grade student at
JLS Middle School. He enjoys doing basketball, programming,
math, science, writing, art, hiking, and scuba diving.

208

David Zhang

The Pigeon

It was the summer of pigeons. They were everywhere. The newspapers
called it a “pigeon invasion.” The birds filled the parks, the rooftop of the
train stations, and the courtyards of business complexes. The Oakland city
workers installed bird spikes on the top of public buildings and signs at
the park saying, “Please Don’t Feed The Pigeons.” Homeowners put out
plastic birds on their roofs and plastic snakes in their gardens. But Max
didn’t mind. He would often stop by Lincoln Square and feed the pigeons
his leftover bread.

Max was a 32-year-old self-employed appliance repairman. He lived in
a shabby apartment building on Lakeshore Avenue. The walls inside his
rented studio were stained gray from the previous tenant who smoked. In
the summer, the air inside was always hot and stuffy like a car in the sun,
and in the winter, as cold as Canada. Max would frequently hear mice
scampering in the space between his ceiling and the floor above. His
apartment had been uninhabited for nearly a year when Max first rented
it, and the landlord hadn’t cared to fix anything in the studio in a decade.

Every weekday, Max carried his heavy toolbox down to his truck. He
didn’t leave his tools in his vehicle overnight because they might be
stolen.

David is an eighth grader at Windemere Ranch Middle School.
He enjoys working on math problems and running.

209

His dolly, box of screwdrivers, wrenches, and multimeter were inexpensive to
some people, but Max couldn’t afford to replace them. He’d drive off to the
homes of elderly ladies who had heard about him and needed him to fix
their refrigerators, washing machines, ovens, or dishwashers.

The problem with Max was that he had built up a reputation for doing
free work. He would arrive at an elderly woman’s apartment and notice the
furniture worn to tatters, the holes in the woman’s slippers, and the open
can of beans on the counter. He would fix her washing machine, and the
woman would ask for the price. Max would respond, “No price today,
ma’am.”

Sometimes, the rich elderly ladies would call Max over to fix their big
refrigerators, dishwashers, or industrial-sized ovens. While he worked, the
women would casually mention their minimal Social Security income. But
meanwhile, he would notice the pool man cleaning the pool, the new
widescreen television, and the perfectly-groomed pomeranian and say,
“That’ll be three hundred plus parts,” or whatever the going rate was at the
time.

Max’s parents had died years ago. They had left him a life insurance of
nearly sixty thousand dollars. But Max’s income was so low that he had to
use the insurance money to live. A thousand for rent, a hundred fifty to buy
the week’s groceries, three hundred for medical insurance, and five hundred
to buy new tires—it all added up until he had spent every penny. Then he had
gone into debt, charging groceries and other necessities on his credit cards.

Sometimes Max would dream that he was out in the wilderness, away
from the city, sitting along a riverbank. The water glistening in the sun,
trickling over river rocks. River banks were filled with flowers in bloom. Tall
trees stood like guardians watching over the landscape, and rabbits poked
their noses out of their holes, whiskers twitching. The dew glistened on the
soft grass like shining pearls. It was a haven that Max longed for.

210

But when he woke up, the weight of his debt fell upon him once again.
In mid-July, his landlord came to the door. He was a tall, burly man who
sniffled a lot. When Max opened the door, the landlord said, “Your rent is a
week overdue.”

Max replied, “I’ll pay you soon, but I haven’t gotten paid much lately.”
“Look, you’ve done some free repairs for me, and I appreciate it, but you
need to start paying your rent, and paying on time.”
After his landlord left, Max called some of the people he’d done free
repairs for and explained his situation to them: “I’ll only need a donation to
keep me going. I can even come over and fix something else.”
“I just can’t.”
“I’m barely scraping by myself.”
“Who is this?”
“Maybe next month.”
Max was forced to sell his truck to pay rent and buy food. Not long after,
the eviction notice came. In a large cardboard box, Max brought his few
belongings—a broken wristwatch, his box of tools, a bundle of clothes, and
some bread—outside onto the street. He wouldn’t miss the screaming baby in
the adjacent apartment, the smell of burnt onions wafting up from the floor
below, or the fighting couple on the third floor. He began to walk. He walked
for hours and hours in Oakland, not knowing what he would do.
By the time he reached Lincoln Square, Max remembered that it was the
summer of pigeons. At the park, people of all ages walked dogs, played
frisbee, and sat on benches talking. Flocks of pigeons stood on trees,
telephone wires, and picnic benches.
That evening, Max fed the pigeons his remaining bread and lay down on
a park bench. He fell asleep within minutes. The next morning, he woke up
to discover that he could see in all directions. When he looked down, he
realized his arms had converted to wings and his feet looked like those of a
dinosaur. His body was covered in gray-and-white feathers, and he could
smell the trees, the grass, and the trash can all at once.

211

But Max didn’t mind. He jumped off his bench into the crisp air,
flapping his wings rhythmically, and flew as if he had done so his entire
life. He flew higher and higher, spiraling upwards. And as the sun
continued to rise, Max felt the lightness of his hollow bones and the flight
muscles that gave him freedom.

212

"Bird," Catherine Cammack. Catherine's friends call her Nara
and she is an 8th grade student at JLS middle school. She enjoys
playing with her cat and baking tasty treats for her friends and
family.

213

Samantha Fan

Nevertheless

I felt the life get sucked out of me just a few hours ago, but like every time,
I’m still alive.

No matter how many times I go through this, it still feels like I’m
drowning in darkness, blocking all my senses and the thought of escape
never occurs. Suffocating me slowly, but every time the darkness just
doesn’t hold on long enough for it to last.

My consciousness comes back to me, as my body starts to warm up, I
feel the sting of the cold air surrounding me. I can barely see anything,
just blobs of mercurial shades of gray in front of me. All my senses finally
come back to me, and I look down to see I’m covered in blood. Whoever
killed me didn’t do a very good job. But after all, I can’t technically be
killed.

All my life, I had one goal, find it, and bring it home. No complications.
Until . . . . that day. One thing came in the way. Love. One of the most
mysterious feelings in the world. The moment I felt it I never wanted to let
it go, like a toddler eating chocolate for the first time. A sense of
familiarity, but unpredictability at its finest.

Interesting enough after being on Earth for so long that was my first
time experiencing it, but you know what they say. First loves never last.

Samantha is an eighth grade student at JLS Middle School. She
loves to read, write, and draw.

214

Despite all of the horrifying memories I have, the my most vivid ones are
their bright smile that can light up the whole world and the sound of their
soft laughter echoing all around me. That rush of adrenaline when you see
them, I wish it would never go away. Within all that happiness, it is also a
weakness that people take advantage of. And I will find whoever is
responsible for their death.

“Loving someone is basically giving them a loaded gun and hoping they
don’t shoot”, someone wise once told me this. Well in this case I guess the
gun was fired, but by someone else. They wanted to get to me, taunt me. I’m
not gonna let them. Although last time I technically got killed, I’m not giving
up. Whoever killed them is part of a cult that worships some sort of leader -
all I know is part of the cult is in Brazil. And I was killed once already, so I
know I’m on the right path.

My next destination is a chapel. Apparently, this is where some of the cult
members worship. The chapel looks normal, just basic items and decoration
you would see in a place where people practice their religion. I’ve been alive
long enough to know to never judge a book by its cover. I walk right over to
the bookshelf and pull on the biggest book on the shelf, bingo. A door opens
with a loud creak which reveals a staircase. I walk down and make sure that
there are no booby traps. The air is surprisingly warm, I can barely see a
thing. I carefully look around me. There are random marks that give me that
odd feeling of deja vu. I guess it’s what being alive for so long does to you.
Walking deeper into the hallway, chants start to surround the room. Looks
like the members are summoning someone or something. A person in a
dark cloak walks right by but doesn’t seem to notice me. Strange. I peek into
the room where the chants came from. Whispers flood the room, suddenly
someone says something, Portuguese. My real name. How? Confusion flares
up in my mind, my body enters the room before my brain even processes
what just happened.

215

They all turn to me, I see jars of blood perched on the shelves that lined
the walls. That’s why the body was drained of blood. Scanning the shelves I
see her name, anger fills up within me. One of them takes off their hood to
reveal a wooden mask with a big grin covering the mouth. I should have
done what I learned throughout the year. Run. But I didn’t, I stood there with
utter despair, rage, fear, confusion pumping in my body. Feeling like my
heart is about to shatter, trying to move but my kneecaps stay locked. I was
out of breath even though I haven’t moved for a whole minute. Right there
and then I took out my knife and lunged towards the closest one to me. The
rest all goes into a frenzy although one remains somewhat calm. They walk
towards a box and take out an arrow. My face goes blank, out of instinct I
take a knife from my ankle and throw it towards them. Somehow I miss.
Running towards the person who has the arrow, I slip. What just happened. A
sharp jab of pain hits my abdomen, looking down I see the arrow
penetrating my skin. I feel the wetness of my blood, drop by drop, slowly
escaping my body. Even with the mask covering their whole face, I can feel
the grin they have, staring right into my eyes, as if they know me personally.

My vision gets blurry and I fall to the ground, the surrounding swirls
against me. The darkness comes back again, but it feels slightly different.
Warmer, a kindness that you can feel. Somehow I’m not scared like I usually
am. Even though this time I’m not sure I will come back. Still, I welcome the
darkness like an old friend.

216

Ashley Louie

A Taste of Freedom

I felt as if I hadn't eaten for six months as I stood drooling over the
cakes. They were decorated with toppings like kiwis, strawberries,
chocolate, blueberries, and one of them even had a mahjong pattern. The
Hong Kong bakery smelled like buttery, sugary bread fresh out of the
oven. It made my stomach grumble. I wanted to take all of the large cakes
with me, but all I could do was look through the glass display case and
point at a small chocolate cake for my birthday. Unfortunately, his mouth-
watering moment in the bakery wouldn't last.

"I want this one, Dad," I said.
Just before Dad paid the money, roars came from outside.
"We want freedom!" the voices yelled in Cantonese.
In the middle of this sudden chaos, I felt Dad's hand firmly grasping
onto mine, as if telling me to stay calm. But I wondered, Are we going to
die?
On the Hong Kong streets outside, I saw people wearing black shirts
and black masks and holding signs that read words I couldn't read.
I asked Dad, "What's going on?"
He pulled me out the door, saying, "Let's go." His voice was urgent as if
we suddenly needed to escape a fire.

Ashley Louie is a sixth grader who loves to spend time with her
family and her dog, Sushi. In her free time, she likes to write,
play the violin, and decorate donuts.

217

I thought, what about the cake? I wanted to ask if we could take it with us
as we attempted to run across the street, through the wall of protestors, as
fast as our legs could take us.

It was chaos. In the middle of the protestors towering over me, daylight
turned dark. People shoved us as we weaved through arms and legs. It was
like an ocean wave crashing against us, the current dragging us with it. We
were suddenly in the middle of thousands of people. I lost Dad's hand for a
second. Voices sounded like volcanoes exploding in my ears. When I looked
up, the protesters' eyes flamed with anger as people from all sides joined the
large crowd to make it even larger. Dad grabbed my hand again and
squeezed it tighter. In the distance, I could hear the sirens and the honking
horns. How had a calm morning in the bakery turned into this so fast? I'd
seen it on the news, but never in person. It felt like being on a plane that was
taking off—with roars coming from engines, with my hands getting sweaty
from holding the handles of my chair, and my stomach being squeezed by
the tight seatbelt.

While Dad pulled me along, I thought that we'd be trampled. Briefly, we
were part of the protesters, moving in the same direction. What if the police
officers thought we were with the protestors, and we got arrested by accident? I
was so small among the crowd and so disoriented that my heart felt jittery
like a pack of Tic Tacs scattered on the street. My legs didn't move fast
enough, but Dad pulled my weight.

And then, despite the protests, Hong Kong's transportation did not fail us.
We reached the curb and jumped onto a waiting bus.

As the bus pulled away and the police entered the crowd, Dad explained
why these people were shouting. He said, "The government won't let people
have freedom. They made certain laws, and now the people have lost hope in
Hong Kong." He said something more, but I couldn't hear him. I was
watching a police officer throw a canister into the crowd while people ran
away screaming. I knew it was tear gas. As the bus turned the corner onto a
quiet street, I forgot all about the cake.

218

It took us two hours to get back to my grandparent's home, where we
spent the afternoon eating mango and playing mahjong. We celebrated
my birthday by eating leftover pineapple buns. But the sounds of the
nonviolent protesters seeking freedom were in my head all day, and I
never forgot about them. For weeks, I thought of Martin Luther King's
quote that we learned in school, "Nonviolence is a powerful and just
weapon, which cuts without wounding and enables the man who wields it.
It is a sword that heals." Despite the police's angry response, at the end of
all this, I realized that nonviolence is a way of speaking, and each
protestor had a right to speak.

219

"Opia," Kate Lee. Kate is an eighth grade student at Blach. She
enjoys playing basketball with her friends, as well as drawing
both traditionally and digitally in her free time.

220

Kate Lee

A New Beginning

Kate is an eighth grade student at Blach. She enjoys playing
basketball with her friends, as well as drawing both traditionally
and digitally in her free time.

221

Mia Ravishankar

Room of Memories

I step into a dark, stuffy room
The walls are coated in cracked white paint
A beige carpet scratches along my feet
Speckled in dirt
From moments long forgotten
Magenta red curtains reflect a bloody light across the room

Once a family’s beloved bedroom
Now, old and rusting

As a child
I had flung myself into bed alongside my parents
I had been scared of the impending storms
I was comforted and reminded that it would be okay
That everything would be okay

We always said goodnight there
Every night
Knowing there will always be another

Mia is a student at Blach Intermediate School. She is a softball
player who enjoys reading and spending time with her three
fluffy dogs.

222

A moment flashes across my eyes
A scene
A vision
A long-lost memory

It’s an unhealed scar
Once again rising to the surface

I can see a family huddled around a hospital bed
The family is quietly sobbing
As they watch their loved one disappear

The mother
Holding her breath
Wishing it was just a dream

The daughters are clueless
Worried
Lost in their empty thoughts

The monster nears
Moving closer and closer
Each step is a hit to the stomach
Knocking the wind out

Nobody moves
Afraid they will trigger the monster

The final breath
A song of relief

223

His soul finally released from the pain
To a better place

The downward spiral
Finally ending on a cloud

Mistakes were made
Regrets were filled
We can’t take them back

In a single second
A single word
A family is torn apart

But it won’t stop us from believing
Believing it isn’t true
Believing it isn’t over
Believing we get second chances

I stand there staring at my father’s body
Dead
Gone
Forever

There are no second chances in life

224

Michelle Tang

Lost Tiles

I don't know exactly when I forgot how to speak Chinese, but I did.
When I was little, I used to speak it well. I showed off how good I was to

my relatives and friends by speaking whole conversations in Chinese. I
could even discuss the politics of China. I could travel to China and
interact with cashiers in grocery stores, saying, "How much is that toy?" I
even got a compliment from a vendor once who said, "Your Chinese is so
good!" I took great pride in being able to speak the language of my culture.

Then, in fourth grade, I walked up to my mother one day with black clips
in my hair. "Mom, I'm letting my hair grow now. None of my friends at
school have bangs!"

At the time, I also noticed that my assortment of friends was not only
Chinese, but Indian, Filipino, White, and Japanese. Among them, Chinese
was useless to me and was no longer a flex. Besides, speaking English to
my parents was good practice for them to get better since they had to use
English every day to talk to their co-workers and managers.

My mother would ask me in Chinese, "What time do I have to pick you
up?" And I'd say in English, "Four fifteen" because I suddenly couldn't
remember the words in Chinese.

Michelle is a seventh grade student at Windemere Ranch
Middle School. She enjoys drawing, dancing, and writing.

225

Of course, speaking Chinese might have made communication with my
mom easier, but I'd lost so much over the previous few years. Putting those
words together was suddenly like playing Scrabble; only I had to put
different word tiles together to make a sentence.

I figured that someday, if I really needed the language, I could just study
hard and bring it all back again. My brother often talked about his regrets
that he didn’t study Chinese when he was a middle schooler, like I am now.
“Why though? Couldn’t you just learn the language again when you're
older and when you actually need it?”
“No,” he said. “Turns out that as you grow older, your ability to learn a
language gets worse.”

With that in mind every day, I still couldn’t bring myself to study and
drill those characters into my memory. Basically, it was like
procrastinating on a homework assignment, except the homework
assignment was to memorize language, and the deadline was before my
ability to learn to speak it like a native was gone.

Last Thanksgiving in 2019, I wanted to ask my mom to make her beef
stew that I love, but I couldn't form the words. I tried to say "Beef soup with
potatoes and carrots," but the Chinese words wouldn't come out of my
mouth correctly. So instead, I told her a description with English words.
She replied, "Okay, sure I can make it!"

I thought she knew what I was talking about, but instead, she made a
different soup. I wasn't mad but embarrassed that I couldn't tell Mom what
I wanted.
That evening, my family and I sat around the table with my three older
cousins and their friend. On the leaf-patterned table, there were turkey,
mashed potatoes, green beans, stew, and Chinese food. We all started
stuffing ourselves, and they began speaking Chinese, talking about their
jobs, about the condition of the new apartments they had just moved into
in Silicon Valley, and how their mom (my aunt) was doing. They also
discussed Donald Trump’s impeachment, and how the Hong Kong protests
were starting to escalate.

226

I really wanted to join in, being interested in politics myself, but I could
barely understand. I could only grasp certain bits of information, like
“Donald Trump,” “Hong Kong,” and

“Protests.” I just sat there, picking at my mashed potatoes and string
beans, in silence. I felt isolated, even though the room was full of people.

My mom wanted me to introduce myself to their friend, but they were all
speaking so fluently that I couldn't participate. My memory no longer
possessed any Chinese tiles that could form proper sentences. The
language of my childhood was like a bicycle I'd forgotten how to ride.

227

Sabine Fuchs

Awake at the Witching Hour

I never thought Yet maybe all of those would slowly slip into
that a cold night things together reliance,
in all its listless glory brought me to hide away to hiding,
could offer such warmth. in the witching hour. to sleepless nights.

Or maybe I have always As a witch Just out of grasp
known, I pour over enchanting lies unconsciousness
perhaps the hours spent books but ever closer are
exploring the skies from drink lukewarm tea nightmares.
a perch on my bedposts wear facemasks at 11:00
and the sea from the and put makeup on at For someone who so
soft blankets of my 12. dearly loves the
bedding darkness,
taught me to hide. I never thought I fear it in a way
Not out of fear or that my love of my own that keeps me from
sadness space sleep.
nor insecurity or
shyness.

Sabine is a homeschooled eighth-grader. She always includes
deeper meanings in her art and writing. When she isn't drawing
or painting she can be found playing with her 3 dogs.

228

Cayla Chen

Lakeview Boulevard

I hate thinking.
I hate thinking about all the things I have done wrong, I hate thinking

about all things I could have done differently. Yet I take time to think every
day. Most nights I get home from work with a quick pace so I can take care
of Mama. Mama's skin has become so pallaid and saggy.
Her bones protrude from her cheeks and her ribs. Her once flowing thick
hair has become thin and lacks the luster it used to have. The doctors said
they couldn't help. Sadness they said, she was wasting away from sadness. I
stare up at the sky. It is black rather than dark cobalt, yet the stars glimmer
brightly without fail. How do they do it? How do they come back night after
night never dimming? I locate Orion's belt and stare. Mama and I used to
watch the stars together.

Thinking, it is the poison that I can't stop drinking. I turn down Lakeview
Boulevard. To the right and left are large glamorous houses that are too
expensive. I wish I could have bought a house on Lakeview Boulevard for
Mama. It was just the two of us, Papa had left us. An ocean of emotions
floods me, anger, sorrow, resentment.

Cayla is an eighth grade student at Central Middle School. She
enjoys expanding her knowledge on subjects such as english
and enjoys playing soccer.

229

My vision becomes clouded with tears, from which emotion, I do not know.
I focus back on the road and the houses for a distraction. The expensive
houses that I had seen when I first turned down Lakeview Boulevard don't
compare to the houses that now meet my eyes. It is as if the houses are
getting more and more expensive as I travel further down the street. I turn
the dial on my car slowly and music blares in my ears causing the car to
rattle. I open the windows to let the breeze in. My hair whips into my face
and I wipe it away so I can see the road. I sing loudly. My throat starts to get
sore and my lungs burn. I barely care if the rich families hear me and call
the police to complain. I know it is reckless. I should be thinking about
Mama.

The song ends and I don't hear sirens or see red and blue lights. I close
my windows and lower the volume of my music. It makes me feel like I am
shut in a box again. It reminded me of how I felt whenever I had to face
Amanda.

Amanda.
Long sleek chestnut hair. Porcelain-like skin. Everyone pretends to like
her and at first I didn't understand why, but I know now. When I first
started attending Dalton High School, I had a temper. An inextinguishable
fiery rage that could not be controlled. The day I had first stepped foot into
the halls, Amanda had made fun of my unruly hair and my torn hand-me-
down shoes. I had yelled at her. In response she gave me a nonchalant
smirk. It confused me, I had thrown many insults without denting her
armour. When I had walked into school the next day, a rumor about me
had spread like wildfire. No one has wanted to be involved with me since.
Being friendless and alone has brought me to resent thinking. This is the
origin of my nightly ritual.
I look at the houses I pass by wondering if I would ever be able to buy one.
White stone. A balcony that faces the front. A tended lawn with lush green
grass and round bushes that line the pathway to the front door. But, what
really catches my eyes is a couple fighting. They are illuminated by the
lights in the living room. I drive slowly. I don't want to get caught watching
but I can't tear my eyes away.

230

Anger radiates from them and bounces off the walls in all directions. The
woman's bleach blonde hair is in a bun at the base of her neck. Her bun
has become disheveled and messy, yet she seems like a woman who would
never have a hair out of place. She wears a dress of pure onyx. Her hands
are in the air, while the man across from her points his finger at her. His
white dress shirt is creased and his blue tie is loosened. He has a full head
of white hair. My eyes move to look at their surroundings. There is the
largest flat screen tv I had ever seen sitting directly across from a luxurious
white couch made of leather. To the left of it sits a tall lamp and above is a
painting with the scene of smiling people strolling with ease. The door is
slightly ajar, behind it is a figure of a girl. She listens with the shadows
hiding her from view. I can see her chestnut hair even with the shadows.
Her hair reminds me of Amanda's.

Amanda.
She lives on Lakeview Boulevard. The perfect girl, with perfect hair, with
perfect clothes, has a not so perfect family. She looked scared. So unlike
the Amanda I had known for three years. Her head is tilted down and she
seems to be hiding from the anger that suffocates the room.
I couldn't look away fast enough. I drive the rest of the way home at a
frenzied speed, I awaited a speeding ticket with baited breath but again the
police never came. Each house seems blurred to my hazy brain. I speed
past red lights and miss stop signs. I parallel park on the dirt road in front
of my trailer home. I step out of my car and walk in, Mama lays on her side
in the only bed we own. She turns to lay on her back and I kiss her frail
forehead. I back away and tip-toe to the couch I had picked up from the
side of the road. I lay there all night thinking, I no longer wish I could
afford a house on Lakeview Boulevard.

231

Resilience

Sophia Howell

Small One Lost

If only fate would recognize his Yet, the man still believes the
story is different, and If only Greater the love, the more
fortune would spare him. Alas, excruciating the song must be.
like Prometheus, he awaits his And, by now, his heart is long
torture. And whether his chains gone. It’s been taken. And it’s all
are bound, and The eagle is only to meet her in the
driven by the fragility of the champagne palace in the sky that
human heart or by His stubborn he so adamantly refuses to
grip on that gentle laughter, he believe in.
Intends to stay there.
It’s all only to hear that chuckle.
And so, his screams and the Only to see her pretoria diamond
eagle’s excruciating caw fill the blue eyes.
chilled mountain air with a Only to stroke those cornsilk
broken harmony. The eagle locks.
eviscerates him slowly and takes Only to smell the lilac shampoo
joy in agonizing his already that I can
debilitated heart. Only imagine her using.

Sophia is an eighth grader at JLS Middle School who enjoys the
arts. She is dyslexic and an avid broadway fan who loves both
"Hamilton" and "Dear Evan Hansen". She also enjoys going to
the beach and walking with her mom, dad, sibling, and dog.

232

And sometimes the man Resilience
smells sickly sweet,

And sometimes like dish soap
and grease. And other times yet
like hair soap and a freshly
ironed suit. Nevertheless, it Never
changes. He fails to recognize
that he does not need Hercules’
spear and breathtaking aim to
tame the golden-brown Beast and
set him free; rather, he has
another small hand and a couple
of larger ones too, ready to face
the peacock alongside him.

Even so, the twisted dance
continues.

233

Resilience

Lucia Kitching

The Mountains of Chamonix

I feel my heart beating faster and faster, adrenaline rising, as I approach
the cliff. I break into a sprint, bracing myself for the free fall I’m sure will
happen. As soon as my feet run off the cliff, pulsing the air instead of the
firm grass I was on seconds ago, I lift off, and suddenly, I’m flying. The
guide behind me adjusts the straps that I’m sitting in, carefully steering us
towards the great cliffs. I suddenly have a full 360° view of the white peaks.
They are bright, the buttery-yellow sunlight reflecting off of them. The
mountains look huge from this view, with the whole valley of the small
French city Chamonix laid out before me.

It is so beautiful, with the forest green trees running up its steep sides,
birds flying around it, taking in the same perspective that I see now. The
paraglide guide lifts us up to the top of the hill that we ran off of, to the
very top of the town, where the full view of the mountains comes to view. I
forget where I am and take in the view that I will remember forever. It feels
like I am inside of an art show, a beauty that is stronger than anything that
I’ve seen or may ever see.

Lucia is an eighth grade student at Central Middle School. She
plays soccer and cello, and enjoys singing.

234

Meanwhile, in a small, forgotten town in Kenya, a small girl around my
age walks with her mother in the hot desert, shoes a treasure not bestowed
to her. Sweat beads collect on her forehead as her feet travel further into
the desert, toward the water hole that supplies her family with life. She
makes this trip to and from three or more times a day, and her favorite
times of day are when her father and brother come home from their jobs,
bringing food, and having dinner together.

Everywhere in the world, everyone has their happy places, their
memories that make their day and make them feel alive. Some are better
than others, with a reality that is appreciated by some and not by others. As
one child goes on a road trip with their family, complaining about the
small space in the car, with their sibling screaming in their ears, thinking
they wish they could be anyone else, there is another person who wishes
their family had a car, or had a brother or sister, or wishing they could see
their dad again after they died from cancer.

One of the greatest tools a human has, one that changes their outlook
on life, is empathy. While you’re complaining about not being able to see
your friends, the ability to recognize that millions of families are grieving
the loss of a family member from COVID-19, cannot be stressed enough.
Realize that if you are fortunate enough to have experiences, or moments
with people you love, you need to experience them to the fullest. Knowing
that these experiences make you feel happy, and doing all you can to make
sure someone else can experience those moments as well is something
that humans were made for. Helping each other is the one thing that fixes
everything. When we cooperate, everything is better, and more people can
feel those experiences and make those moments part of their lives as well.
Change your life to be thankful for the moments that you have, to
recognize that it isn’t granted to everyone, and to try to make it so is one of
the best things you can do as a human being.

235

"Nestled Away," Corinne Mitchell. Corinne is an eighth grade
student who is passionate about music, sports, and photography
among other things.

236

Resilience

Jenna Swei

The Forfeit of Competition

First-born, a sun-kissed girl
Dashing down the halls,
Underlying wisdom behind her hazel eyes

Second-born, a kindhearted girl
Tracing behind her sister,
Stumbling to catch up

When her teachers praised her, I studied harder
When she won awards, I longed for the same applause
When she connected to others, I felt like an outcast

Insecurity filled my heart
Envy clouded my judgment
I broke down, thrashing against the walls of my prison
A trap that enveloped all I did
A mindset that robbed me of my freedom

Jenna is an eighth grade student at Central Middle School. She
plays competitive soccer, hangs out with her friends, and loves
to play with her three cats.

237

I lived in a facade,
One that I could no longer maintain

Jenna SweiShe was first in everything,

Blazing a trail with her successes
Her biggest accomplishments became the standard
An expectation so high that I continuously failed to meet
While she forged her own path,
Her smile widened, her eyes gleamed
As I continued to follow,
I knew that I could never get the same satisfaction
But her achievements were her own,
Just as my achievements should be mine
My life did not need to be measured against hers
It was time to find my own passion
In the forfeit of competition, I found happiness within
The first-born was sun-kissed
The second-born had captivated her own light

238

Carolyn Kao

Anti-Ode to Pickles

I despise you.
Your disgusting color,
And warty, wrinkled, skin,
Make me want to puke.
You are the evil twin of a cucumber, The true villain in this story.
You ruin everything.

A burger,
A hot dog,
A grilled cheese.
Even standing next to something, You still ruin it.
Invading and permeating,
A precious sandwich.
As your sour,
Salty juice,
Seeps into the pristine,
Fluffy bread,
And contaminates,
A perfectly good sandwich, That shall never be,
properly enjoyed.

Carolyn is an eighth grader at Blach Intermediate School. Like
many others during quarantine, she has spent the last few
months reading, attempting to bake without setting the house
on fire, and spending time with family.

239

"See," Simone Brown. Simone is an eighth grader at JLS Middle
School. She enjoys roller skating, painting, and playing with her
dog Justice.

240

Ben Romanowsky

Le Crunch à Paris

The French flag waved from the outside of my white-walled condo. The
forecast was gloomy. Drops drizzled from clouds set over the towering
buildings. I walk excitedly down the bustling streets as stores begin to open
and life in Paris begins. This city calls to me. It blows a soothing breeze
over my skin. I feel as if I am in the place of hope. More than hundreds of
bakeries flow through Paris, but this bakery was my bakery of choice, my
bakery of truth.

I imagine it's crunch dripping down my mouth as the sky continues to
pour. Each drop felt like every mistake I've made. Every drip down as gray
as a tombstone. The haze was so gray that the sky had a hint of evil. In such
a beautiful place, you can feel so alone from a single drip of water. In such
a beautiful location, I feel as if the rain washed all the beautiful away. As if I
was reminded of every mistake I made from one drop of water. Behind the
fog and clouds, we had arrived at the famously known bakery, La Maison
d'Isabelle. A sign with bright gold lettering hung over the rooftop of the
square-like facility. It looked like a place that was bland and ordinary From
the outside, it had a basic, beige coating. It looked like a simple place to get
breakfast, a coffee, and maybe some tea.

Ben is an eighth grade student at Central Middle School. He
enjoys playing piano and traveling all over the world. Ben also
enjoys to row and loves to write in his free time.

241

I pulled the door with all of my might. The aroma of bread filled the
French air. Wind gust through the entrance. A line with all ages was
wrapped around the counter. Toddlers played as the businessmen and
women grabbed their morning breakfast. The room was gray inside with a
couple of paintings. I felt like I was in an art museum when the louvre was
tens of miles away.

“Une baguette, pas trop cuite, s'il vous plaît,” stated an old lady.
She wanted her bread to not be too crispy or overcooked. I licked my chops
as the line came to an end. Mom frantically points at the menu. The barista
helping us out had a smile that lit up the room. Blonde. With a couple
brown strands. She made the experience so meaningful. She grabbed her
oven mitts to open the steamy oven. I could almost taste the crunch from
the oven. Sizzle. The perfect amount of salt and the right quantity of butter

“Merci!” stated gratefully from my sisters and I.
I’ve never seen my family so filled with joy. It’s as if a light had shone over
their faces in an instance.
We found a place under a tarp to sit. The rain poured down.

Trickle, Trickle. One drop after another.
I turned my back, only to see the gray sky start to turn blue. The sky turned
all the awful memories I had to a beautiful essence. The blue had a hint of
happiness. The air cleared up, and the smell of the busy city filled the air. I
felt at home. The home I wished to be in. With a comforting essence, I
would be happy to call this city home. With the perfect baguette in hand, I
knew it was time to take a bite. My hands start to shake. As if I were opening
an expensive item. I’m thinking about all the possibilities. Would I have
spent forty-five minutes walking for a bad baguette? The moment of truth
came. I took the knife, dipped it in butter…
I spread it on the bread.

Yum.
I felt as if my family’s eyes were glued on me as I slowly took a bite of the
bread. I felt like a sloth as I slowly tried to preserve every movement to the
mouth.

242

The crunch, the taste, the sensation of the butter dripping down my throat
was like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

“How is it?’’ my mom asked me in a desirable tone.
I could barely speak. The taste needed to be refreshed.

“Delicious!” I responded.
The taste brought together the culture of France. The lifestyle and cuisine
was brought together in one bite. I passed the bread around the square
table. My family's hands rushed in from every direction. We salivated over
the bread as it filled everyone’s faces with delight. Some got angry as the
bread wasn’t in their hands. I feel a set of French eyes watch us as we
frantically tore the bread open. It was official, the best bread we had ever
tasted was in our hands.

It was extravagant.
I taste the feeling in my mouth, only to see an empty piece of paper
without any bread in it. The crunch, the sensation, all gone away. As if the
culture had disappeared right in front of me. One of the most memorable
days in my life was gone. I start to visualize my quest to this place. Ten
hours on a plane, for the crunch in Paris. The walk, and the need to feel,
succeeded. As we hobbled back, I wished two baguettes were purchased. As I
still ponder and ponder on what would happen if we had another piece drip
down my throat. Alas, that day was far from now. I dream in years to come,
we will visit again. I wish to hear the unique French language. I crave the
crunch. I need the taste of complexity of not only a piece of bread, but a
piece of succession.

243

"The Jacket," Abirami Kumar. Abirami is an eighth grade student
at John M. Horner Middle School. She enjoys doing digital art
and playing the piano in her free time.

244

Madeline Silva

Let Me Tape You

It was a sound I’d heard before, but not from him. The pounding of the
metal sink in the kitchen, the drain gurgling him to stop. And then it did.
Those once warm eyes laced with fear, bitten back by ice and hate, he saw
me in the doorway. Caught. Liam.

I froze, my left hand doing the same nervous twitch whenever I’m scared.
He wasn’t like this, he shouldn’t be. Liam keeps me afloat so I don’t drown.
Those eyes, always warm and welcoming, telling me it’s okay. Making me
laugh, making me cry. But sometimes even his bottle cracks and the cork
becomes too loose. And sometimes it leaks and can’t be put back together,
so he tapes it. I wonder if his glass is completely consumed by tape wrapped
so tightly that he can’t breathe. Or even if it is closed up to his head, the
brown of the cork the only thing showing. His brown hair and blue eyes, the
only thing remaining. The only thing seen. Because I can’t get through. He
won’t let me.

“Did you zone out again,” he asks, a smile spreading across his face,
“Because it’s starting to creep me out.”

It doesn’t reach his eyes, and instead I focus on his perfectly straight
teeth.

"Definitely not,” I say, because I know him too well, “Just staring at you.”

Madeline is an eighth grader at Central Middle School. She
enjoys reading and writing as well as drawing in her free time.

245

“You’re gonna have to try harder than that to convince me, Olivia.”
“I know.”
He hides. He’s always hid. Crawling away into that unseen place, dark
and quiet, I know he’s gone. But I step closer to him, staring into those ice
blue eyes, and search for him. For that quiet, scared boy I’d seen. Maybe
there’s a trace. I see his knees pulled up to his chest, his body trembling
and rocking back and forth, that same loving face streaked with tears. I
want to see that. But I don’t. He looks away.
“Just doing the dishes….”
“This early?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“You’re gonna have to do better to convince me that you were washing
them.”
“That’s all I got.”
And then there are times when he’s frustrating. So incredibly irritating,
that sometimes all I want to do is whack some sense into his head. His
eyebrows, dark and thick, drawn taught across his forehead, wrinkling his
brow. His posture tense, his comments edged. A smirk drawn across his
lips. A wink sparkling in his eye. An irresistible urge to make him talk to
me about what he hides. A twitch in my hand. Let me tape you.
He hangs the towel, done, finished. The dishes sparkle in the dim light.
He’s slipping away, like water between my fingertips. I want to hold on, but
my hands are too cracked, too broken, too empty…. Thoughts flee my mind
and I slam the sink. He jumps, eyes wide, turning to me. When I’ve been at
my worst, he’s been there. When I’ve needed him, he’s come. He knows
something’s wrong. With me, he’s always known. Maybe it’s the cries that
leave my throat burning, or the need to be held at night when I’m alone. But
I don’t know what he hides. He suspects that I’m digging.
“What is it?”
A violent shake of the head. Tenseness in his shoulders. Footfalls backing
away, running, running….
But he doesn’t. He stands there, nonchalant. Broken. I want him to
crumble.

246

“Let the bottle leak….”
The room spins. Liam steps closer, I see the fear in his face. Withholding
that secret, the one thing he won’t dare to tell me. I look at him. What lies
beyond his cutting eyes, I don’t know.
But they glare. Wielding daggers, they pin me down, wanting me to stop,
to go away. But mine throw knives. They’re long and sharp and pointed at
his heart, pointing at the secret, pointing at his resolve, willing him to
shatter. To bleed. Threatening.
The air is silent as the weapons clash.
But he won’t budge.
“Tell me….”
“No.”
His response is deadly. More dangerous than the daggers. More
dangerous than my knives. I wilt. Then it comes. The thing I had fought for
so long to control. It settles deep in my gut, worming through my blood,
leaking into my heart. Sorrow. My bottle begins to leak. It can’t hold too
much. The tape peels away, wet and withered, dissolving in my tears.
Running, running, down my cheeks, pooling onto the floor.
The glass is thin.
It sees things, it hears things. It’s watched and it’s waited, observing him.
Wanting to be let in. To do for him what he’s done for me. To tape him. But
I can’t cry, and I won’t. He’s watching me now. Maybe his bottle is thin too.
Maybe he’s been watching and waiting, observing me. Looking for the
opportunity to tell me. For the moment when he can give me his roll of
tape, whatever of it is left.
“Please.”
“I can’t….”
“I’ve always been open to you.”
“It’s different.”
“How?”
I’ve gone too far, too far…. I see his fight. Not with me but with himself.
The fight for control. His struggle.

247

“No,” he says, angry now, “It doesn’t matter…. You wouldn’t care.”
“About what?”
And then he stops. He doesn’t move. All he does is stare at me, those
brilliant blue eyes flashing. He steps closer, eyes roving, moving across my
face. He takes in my eyes, big and brown, and I wonder what he sees in
them.
“Olivia, everyone likes you,” he begins, softly, “You’re so incredibly
amazing, and it hurts me that you don’t see that. And you are. I don’t know
anyone like you, but I can’t tell you what you want to know. Because I’m
afraid of what it might ruin.”’
“You can’t go back,” I say, my voice mumbling, “Not now.”
He nods.
Looking around me, his eyes move, trying to find the last object to cling
to that will make him hide. But there’s nothing but the dishes, which glean,
like mischievous smiles, taunting him. He’s scared, and when he looks me
in the eyes, I see how frightened he is.
And then he kisses me.

248

"Hiraeth," Elisa Patterson. Elisa is a 7th grade student at CMS.
She has a passion for art and music. She also enjoys reading
manga in her free time.

249

Resilience

Genna Pravdin

RESILIENCE

Ready for the battle to commence and begin,
Even though I’m small and I know it’s hard to win.

Still I hold my head up high, stepping in the great big blue,
I feel butterflies in my stomach ‘cause I have not got a clue.
Light as a feather, I touch my own skin,
It marks everywhere I’m going and everywhere I’ve been.
Eventually as I soar, I start to feel a speck of hesitation,
Now I’m falling fast, without a pinch of celebration.
Considering the events, I stand back up on my own two feet,
Even though I fell, I know that I have not been beat…

Genna Pravdin is a seventh grade student at Central Middle School.
She's a competitive ballroom dancer at Dance Vita who also enjoys
playing with her two cats. When she's not at dance practice or doing
homework, you can always find her curled up in a chair with a book on
her lap.

250