Stanford Anthology for Youth: Volume 24

Margot Zelkha

Close Your Eyes

The trees tell their stories
But you don’t stop to listen
They try to explain their hurt
But you give no recognition
To the light inside us all
Only thinking people are bad
Only drowning in your mind of gloom
Only focusing on the sad

So you don’t stop to enjoy
The life you call home
The love in your heart rotting
Your eyes staring at your phone

And you stride on
Running too fast
Chasing your emotions
Wiping away your past

Margot is an eighth grade student at JLS Middle School. She
enjoys ballet practice, writing poetry, and hanging out with her
friends.

51

But find it linger behind you
In your eyes full of tears
Tearing at your only humanity
Your lips trembling with fears

And slowly
One by one
The trees fall down
Your back turning away
Their limbs collapsing to the ground

Dust rising into the air
Coughing up blood
Finding excuses for situations
fingernails digging into the mud

And you say you’re sorry
Right when they start to die
Their branches filling with hope once again
Not recognizing your lie

Yet although you did say sorry
It didn’t mean much
And soon their leaves shriveled and
Your cold heart began to rust

The air became thicker
Hotter
Each day
And soon no children
Not even you
Could go out and play

52

And life ended so fast
Your age turning old
The trees still waiting
For the promise that kept untold
You promised a better world
One where trees could stretch towards the skies
And you chose not to think of it and
Chose to close your eyes

53

Christine Chang

Lise

And I stand.
Looking around the barren room once more, I can finally stop. I can
finally relax. My things have been sold, stored away, or moved to my
college address. Everything is set.
The only item left is the single photograph that I caress, not even
framed. You, my older sister, standing tall, smiling with those crooked
teeth of yours. My fingers brush over your face. I imagine the wind
ruffling your hair, remembering the occasion on which this picture was
taken. It was your tenth birthday. I am perpetually surprised at how young
you look. I can grow old, but you are stuck at ten for eternity, sleeping
under the earth. When I was little, you seemed so mature, so much older
than I was. You will always be my big sister, even though I am now eight
years older than you will forever be.
I remember, with a tender pang, how you used to play the violin. You
would play as I danced in our bedroom, as we reenacted scenes from our
favorite children’s books. You would play when I couldn’t fall asleep. You
played on your tenth birthday.
“Keep playing, Lise,” I say softly, “Keep playing.”

Christine is an eighth grader at Central Middle School. She
cares deeply about the environment and loves dancing ballet.

54

I remember how I used to bring trinkets to you after school. You would
smile and line my dandelions, feathers, and pebbles up on your windowsill
until the wind carried them away. Every day, I would give you something.

I remember how we used to do trust falls together. I was usually the one
falling. I would fall backward, scared, and then stand up after you’d caught
me, giggling and giddy and wanting more, more, more.

“Catch me!” I’d squeal, “Catch me!”
I tried to catch you once. But I let you fall to the floor. You cried when
your head hit the ground. But you still let me try to catch you until I no
longer dropped you. Again and again, you would catch me. You never
dropped me. Not once.
I stand and walk slowly to the window, creaking it open. The photograph
slips from my fingers and drifts around with the dust, illuminated by golden
beams of indirect sunlight spilling through the window. The photograph
settles to the floor behind me as I climb slowly, thoughtfully, onto my usual
spot on the windowsill, my feet hanging down over the busy street far below.
My arms are wide open, my eyes are closed.
“Catch me,” I whisper.
And I fall.

55

Blanche Li

Alpine Creek Cemetery

My grandmother Betty hung on for five days, passing away at the age
of 97. After she died, the whole town of Alpine Creek, consisting of 137
people, chipped in to pay for her mahogany coffin with intricate carvings.
It had a burgundy velvet interior and a cross imprinted on top. We buried
her on the plateau of Alpine Creek Cemetery with her Bible in her hands.
It was the perfect place to bury her. A grass-covered hill, meticulously
maintained like a golf course, with a small plateau at the top.

The whole town mourned for days.
People came up to me, even though I was only seven years old, and
said things like, “Your grandmother was such a wonderful person. You
know, when I lost my job, she brought me fresh vegetables and fruits so I
wouldn’t have to worry about the money for food. I’m so sorry for your
loss!”
Another woman said, “When I was in debt and was stressed, Betty
came over every Sunday to talk to me. She was such a great person, and
your family will be in my prayers.”

Blanche is a seventh grader at DVMS. She enjoys hiking and
photography, along with spending time with her friends and
family.

56

After Grandma passed, I spent my days trying to find items that belonged
to her and keep them in my room, like her floral bookmark, her favorite
white knit sweater, her daisy-scented perfume, and even a ballpoint pen that
I had found in her phonebook. In school, I was quieter, and at home, I often
thought I could still hear her humming in the kitchen.

Two years after Grandma died, the phone rang early one morning. Mom
had just finished making me pancakes. After she hung up, her face looked
tense and uneasy. She said, “It was the cemetery groundskeeper. He called
the police last night because someone dug up your Grandma’s grave. I have
to go down to the cemetery now. I know you don’t want to go, but I can’t leave
you at home. You have to come with me.”

When we got to the cemetery, I saw a police car in the parking lot, the
lights still flashing. My hands quivered a little as I saw the people standing at
the top of the hill around Grandma’s grave. I looked at Mom, who squeezed
my hand. We headed uphill and arrived just as the coffin was being
reopened. After opening it, one officer suddenly shouted, “Oh my goodness!”

I was scared to look and felt my chest getting tighter. What was wrong?
Was Grandma’s body stolen? If not, how would she look now? I glanced at the
coffin quickly and furrowed my eyebrows. Her Bible was gone, but I was
shocked to see that her face was just the same as if she had been asleep the
entire time; her skin was unblemished and smooth, there were the same
wrinkles around her eyes, and her hair was the same curly white color. She
lay peacefully in the coffin.

“Her Bible’s gone!” my mom said.
The police officer ignored my mom’s question and instead asked her,
“Where was she embalmed?”
“Alpine Creek Cemetery.”
“What did they do? Were you in the room at the time?”
“No, I wasn’t there, but I’m sure they just did what they were supposed to
do,” my mom answered. “But where’s her Bible?”
“My concern is that this could cause quite an uproar, seeing that she isn’t
decayed at all. She’s been gone, how many years?"

57

“Two,” my mom answered.
Even though my mom didn’t tell anyone, the word spread around town.
This started a frenzy, and other people who had buried their loved ones in
the same graveyard wanted to see if the bodies had rotted. In the weekly
newspaper, an article described the process of exhuming the other coffins.
They opened them to find that all the bodies in the graveyard were fresh.
Scientists reported that the corpses looked as if they had just been buried,
their cheeks still rosy and marks on one face from an oxygen mask.
The news spread beyond the town, and newspapers began to run
headlines: “Corpses Not Decayed in Alpine Creek Cemetery!” Scientists and
fanatics started to come up with theories. Some claimed that Grandma had
spiritual powers, while others believed that the soil had preservative qualities
that kept the bodies fresh. A scientist had found that from the blood
samples, there were still living cells in Grandma’s body, although some
weren’t. She didn’t have any signs of rigor mortis either.
What was once a suburban and quiet town outside of Billings, Montana,
turned into a tourist attraction for those who weren’t afraid. Instead of being
reburied, Grandma’s body was put into a glass coffin. Two other people who
were buried there were also put into glass coffins, and their bodies remained
fresh. To make the coffins secure, they bolted them to the ground using long
steel poles cemented into the earth. They displayed them so tourists could
see them and scientists and the funeral staff could check on them. The
displayed bodies helped local businesses and tourism, and was a boon for
the town.
Every day, I could hear distant chatter from my school and the click of
cameras. Tourists were constantly trying to claim spots for their loved ones
in the cemetery until the town passed a law that only people from the town
could be buried there. Still, to be buried at the cemetery, it now could cost
tens of thousands, and many people in our town couldn’t afford it anymore.
One day, a shiny Cadillac drove into town. We all recognized the car; it
was Mayor Morris from Billings. He lived in a Tudor-style mansion and wore
Ray-Ban black-tinted aviator sunglasses.

58

He raised property taxes and took bribes. Once he heard about the town, he
drove to the cemetery even though he wasn’t allowed to be buried there
because he wasn’t from Alpine Creek.

“I’m going to die soon,” he told the funeral director. “I’ll pay you an
additional $300,000 to be buried here.”

The funeral director thought about his kids he had to put through college
and the medical insurance he had to pay for, and he agreed.

The mayor went back to his home in Billings, where he slowly died of lung
cancer. Before Morris was put into a glass coffin to be displayed, the funeral
director dressed him in his best Tom Ford suit. There was a planned funeral
procession but only a few people showed up.

About three days later, when I was walking to school and passed by the
cemetery, there were some people gathered around the coffins. I heard a
person say, “It smells so bad!” I could smell it too; the air smelled like the
garbage trucks that came every Thursday.

“It’s a shame this happened,” one of the police officer’s told me. There
was a big hole in the ground in the shape of a coffin and a wooden coffin
next to it.

“What happened?” I asked.
“All the bodies decayed, so we’ve decided to bury them.”
I looked to see Grandma’s body in her glass coffin, which was now
unbolted, ready to be buried. Dried and shriveled up, her skin was a
brownish-black. Her eyelids were no longer visible, only the socket of her
eyes were present. Her teeth were exposed and her body looked stiff. Her
wrinkles and soft skin were gone.
I thought about decay. I’d read about it in a biology book from the library.
How bodies first stiffened, rigor mortis set in, and then they bloated. During
that period, the smell would start to arise. After that, the body would actively
decay, when the organs, muscles, and skin would liquefy. At the end, the
corpse would turn into a skeleton. I thought about how everybody would turn
into skeletons or ashes one day. But even miracles that occur can’t last
forever. Somebody will always come along and tarnish the magic.

59

"Finally Blossoming," Elia Gvili. Elia is an eighth grade student at
Central Middle school. She draws in her free time and plays the
Clarinet.

60

Resilience

Neema Sakariya

You Told Me I Wouldn't Get Hurt

You told me I wouldn’t get hurt.
You promised me I wouldn’t get hurt.
You lied to me.
And so now here I am, in a flippin’ hospital bed, my whole body wrapped
up like a flippin’ mummy, weak and fragile and torn apart and drained of
emotion and so many other words that I don’t have the energy to say. My
face is as pale as the bleached linen hospital bed sheets I’m lying on, my
eyes as haunted as a twisted creature emerging from the dark place in all of
our minds, my heart as devoid of emotion as whatever it is that is devoid of
emotion.
That night, you woke me up. I was sleeping, and you came into my house,
because I gave you the key and I trusted you. You, of all people—not my
absent mother or alcoholic father or even one of the girls at school. I trusted
you, the boy I met in sixth grade accelerated math, the boy I’d shared banana
split sundaes with and laid on springy green grass with, the boy I raced with
on his quiet street and jumped with for hours and hours on end on my
trampoline and the boy who taught me how to drive. You, the boy and only
person who I could act like I didn’t have another care in the world around,
the boy who I’d treated as a close brother and trusted with my life.

Neema is an eighth grader who loves to dance, run, and laugh with her
friends until she snorts. During quarantine, even though she has been
bored out of her mind, she has also done some fun things like solving
more logic puzzles than she has in her whole life, learning card tricks,
and tutoring underprivileged elementary school kids.

61

You, the boy I’d shared so, so many of my most intimate moments and
thoughts with—so many that you could destroy me by telling a single soul.

I was mistaken to give in to you so much.
You pulled me outside the house, in the pouring rain, my fuzzy electric
blue pajamas getting soaked and chilling me to the bone. My beachy waves
of cappuccino hair clung to my cheeks, rain tracing down my back. My eyes
were almost completely sealed shut with sleep. You knew my AP Calculus and
Computer Science and God knows how many other AP classes’ final exams
were on Monday. You knew, and you pulled me from my bed, whispering that
everything was going to be okay, and I would be safe—just like you had so
many times before.
When I was fourteen, my father had hit me. Hard. Blood had spurted
from my lips and gums like water flowing from an open dam or a waterfall
rushing over a jagged cliff. Crimson circles of different sizes had patterned
the soft, once-welcoming carpet, alongside sharp, ominously gleaming
shards of beer bottles. My mother was on one of her eternal business trips,
nonexistent in my life, living only in my heart. This scene wasn’t anything
unusual; it had been happening for the past half a year. But it stands out in
my memories, because you had been there afterward, your big hands
wrapped around my slumped back as my mind was warring with itself and
my shoulders were vehemently shaking with silent sobs, your dark green
fleece sweatshirt damp with my slimy snot and blood and tears. “Shhhh,” you
had said. “Cry it all out. No matter what happens, I’ll always be there for you.
You won’t get hurt now.”
I thought you were the same boy as you were then, but I was mistaken to
think that.
This wasn’t like you, I had thought. I told you that this was a bad idea. You
wouldn’t listen. Your sopping hair and clothes reeked of lemon and mud and
—and my father. Oh God, I didn’t think you’d morph into someone like my
father—drunk. I didn’t think that you would be like him. I remember shouting
in your ear and pinching you, even slapping you once—anything to wake you
from your euphoria.

62

I screamed. I screamed and screamed and screamed, tears running down
my face and splattering on the ground, disguising themselves as raindrops.
Nobody heard because of the pouring rain enveloping us, tucking us into its
folds until we couldn’t find our way out again. I didn’t think that you could do
this to me. I thought it would pain you to do this to me, to see me crying so
vehemently, with the intensity of someone throwing up on all fours. I thought
you said you’d always be there for me, no matter what, to have a shoulder to
cry on, a shirt to soak through with tears.

In the end, you won. You gripped my arm, hard, like my father sometimes
did, nearly cutting off my circulation and turning my forearm a sickening
shade of mauve. “I just need to talk to you,” your slurred voice had said. I
wondered why we couldn’t talk inside the house, safe from the relentless rain
and from the world. I was naive enough to want you to tell me that
everything was okay, and that you’d be there no matter what.

But the car keys stuffed in your jacket pocket chose that exact moment to
glimmer; my eyes were momentarily blinded by the sudden flicker of silver
radiating from your clothing. I should have run back into my house right
then and there, not caring if I broke bones, locking the door and going back
to sleep, away from all this madness and into my dreams. I should have just
run back and thought it was all a bad, bad dream.

But I didn’t. I trusted you, and I trusted myself, and I trusted our
friendship enough that I thought—I thought I could calm you down.

You drove. Saying that it was violent is an understatement. I sat in
shotgun, silently trembling with cold, and fear, and so much more. The
storefronts across the streets were dark—any light that was supposed to
come from the streetlamps never made it to us, and from inside the car, it
looked like my vivacious and fast-moving town was a desolate little village
where truckers rested. The dark, isolated streets were unrecognizable as they
blurred past, and every so often, we zoomed into a puddle of water, the spray
drenching the car and slithering back down the window.

63

The constant heavy thud of raindrops drumming down on the car’s roof did
nothing to help calm my racing mind and matched the pace of my
heartbeats. We were probably traveling double the speed limit, yet all I could
do was gulp down fear and tears and confusion and the thing you feel after
you’ve been betrayed by someone who knows you better than yourself.

We drove aimlessly through the night, occasionally speeding through
reds. I was as scared as heck, dang it. I was powerless. I thought my father
was the only one who could make me feel so insignificant and nominal and
plain small, but I was mistaken to think that. You also had the power to make
me feel that way, and all I could do was succumb to you.

As we were in the car, I remembered how we were so comfortable with
each other—we jokingly threw insults at each other and wrestled with each
other and didn’t use a single emoji while texting since we both knew the
other’s facial expression so well. Stretches of silence between us were never
awkward; we were always there for each other. I was an angry thunderstorm,
and you were the rainbow that came after it. I was a roaring lion, wounded
and in pain, and you were the one to wrap my bandages. But other times you
were an erupting volcano, and I was the breeze, cooling you down.
Sometimes you were the ship lost at sea, and I was the shining beacon of
hope.

I wonder, now: did you ever inwardly laugh at me when I told you about
myself? That I wanted to be an FBI hacker after college, or that I had dreams
of being valedictorian when I was in ninth grade but after a couple of B’s in
English Literature my aspirations slipped? That my parents didn’t have
enough money to buy me new notebooks each year, so I ripped out used
pages from previous years’ notebooks and used the blank ones that were
left? That I simply didn’t know how to make friends, no matter how hard I
tried?

But you also told me your secrets. You also made yourself vulnerable,
possibly even more than I made myself to you.

Then why did you come wake me, of all people? Did it occur to you that in
your current state, you hurt me more than I ever thought possible?

64

I don’t know how it happened, or when. All I remember is a light coming
at us, bright white against the colorless night. I remember swerving violently,
my passenger side door jerking open and squeaking fiercely as it flew off its
hinges. I remember laying on the ground, in a ditch off the road, my head
pounding, my body immobile, trying to shout your name. I remember
forcing my hand to my temple, my arm going slack as my fingers drew back
wet.

And so now here I am. I don’t know where you are or what you’re doing, if
you’re okay or even alive. Here I am, broken and torn and helpless, wrapped
up like those Egyptian mummies we constantly joked about. You ripped me
from an already painful life, plucking me out and placing me in a new
environment, because you had no one better to wake up.

You told me I wouldn’t get hurt, yet here I am.

65

Emma Wang

The Misfortunate Astronaut

It began quite normally. There was no indication of the series of
unfortunate events that were to follow. Like any other day, Elliot had
woken up at 8:00 am sharp, and after meticulously grooming himself, he
was ready to begin his many rigorous duties for the day. As he folded and
smoothed his rumpled blankets, Elliot thought about his almost
nonexistent family. His mother and father were long gone, not even
bothering to contact him once every few months. He recalled the last time
he had seen them was when they had dumped him off to boarding school.
His sister was a despicable hypocrite, claiming that Elliot would never be
successful in life when she herself worked at a fast food joint, neglecting
her taxes. They hadn’t ever had the bond siblings should have; even as
children they were apt to avoid each other. Bereft of love, Elliot was forced
to fend for himself at a young age. He seethed just thinking of how his
family treated him as worthless, even before he learnt to read or write.
Elliot turned away and chided himself for dawdling. After all, today was
the day of the grand launch! The time had come to finally prove that he
wasn’t the inadequate good-for-nothing everyone had always made him
out to be. Elliot should be exuberant and thrilled! ...If only he could get rid
of that dreadful feeling that something was about to go very, very, wrong.

Emma is a 7th grade student at Central Middle School. She
enjoys playing cello and writing fictitious stories.

66

As of now, the astronaut was getting ready for the big launch. Elliot kept
replaying the scene over and over in his head: 3..2..1...lift off! Elliot soared
through the sky, enjoying the pure exhilaration of being launched at a speed of
over 18,000 miles per hour! A loud voice over the intercom interrupted
Elliot’s reverie, booming, “Elliot Yang, please report to the mess hall for your
breakfast.” Elliot rushed to comply with the command.

He was going to be the first person launched alone into space! It
happened like it was in his dreams. Elliot moved as if in a trance, taking his
seat at the front of the rocket. 3..2..1...lift off! Elliot did what he had rehearsed
multiple times, reaching down to press the right buttons when given a
certain command.

His astronaut’s suit was awfully itchy. He reached down to adjust the
sleeves, brushing his elbow on one of the buttons in the process. A loud beep
startled him. Beep! Elliot stilled, wondering what the source of the beeping
was. Looking down, Elliot found that he had accidentally pressed a button
that he was not supposed to touch. His trainer had told him that it was only
for life and death situations and that it could only be used once. A
countdown started. Three… Two… Elliot knew that countdowns were not good
unless you knew what they meant for sure, and his trainer had neglected to
inform him what that particular button did. He quickly jumped into an
escape pod and pressed the eject button. There was a thundering of noise as
the pod was propelled out of the rocketship. Elliot watched in despair as he
helplessly floated away from his one ticket back to earth.

Less than a few seconds later, Elliot saw the rocketship deploy the nose
cone, the same part of the rocket that he had been sitting in just moments
before. “Thank goodness!” Elliot exclaimed. He was so relieved that he hadn’t
been in the nose cone when it was deployed. Bringing himself back to the
present situation, he took his spacesuit off, as it was getting a little too warm
for Elliot’s tastes.

67

He maneuvered the pod onto a nearby asteroid, where he rested for a bit
to regain his bearings. A strange purring sound interrupted him.
Prrrrrrrrruuurrrrrr? It seemed to be coming from outside of his escape pod.
Elliot hastily put his spacesuit on, and he fumbled with the door latch on his
way out.

The purring sound soon grew louder, and as Elliot searched for where it
was coming from, the strange sound became nothing more than a
monotonous droning in his ear. Giving up, Elliot trekked back up to his pod.
He pushed open the door and sat down inside. “AaaAaaAAaaAaAaHH!”
Elliot’s scream ricocheted off of the pod’s white walls. The bird screamed too,
an unearthly imitation of Elliot’s scream. Oh no! Elliot thought. I forgot to
close the door on my way out! That’s how that thing got in! After resolving to
never leave the door open again, Elliot took a breath and closed the door so
that the bird could not escape. The bird looked at Elliot quizzically. It
resembled a strange mix of parrot, lizard, and some other animal that Elliot
could not identify. The alien moved, strutting to the opposite side of the pod,
revealing something drawn in almost indecipherable handwriting. Elliot
bent down, examining the papers. They were blueprints for an engine! Elliot
glanced at the parrot with newfound respect. How did the parrot get them? It
purred again, hopping over to the blueprints. Lifting its wings, it grabbed
onto something underneath. It rolled out, and Elliot saw that it was a writing
tool of some sort. Dumbfounded, he watched as the thing grabbed it in his
talons and started writing on the blueprint. It could use English! Elliot wasn’t
sure how, but he was glad they could communicate. Use solar panels for
energy and fuel, it read. The alien seemed to smirk at Elliot as if he was
trying to make fun of the fact that he was smarter.

Elliot almost rolled his eyes but seeing as the parrot was the one who
came up with the pod modifications, he politely contained himself. Elliot
grabbed the blueprint and ran out of the escape pod. Quickly gathering some
space rocks for the outside of the engine, he walked back to that thing, who
was sitting inside of the pod. It seemed to nod in approval. With a whoosh of
wind, it flew outside and disappeared into the dark unknown outside.

68

“Alien?” Elliot shouted. “Where are you?!” Elliot’s pleas got no reply. Dejected,
Elliot sat down, completely depressed. Less than two minutes later, Elliot
startled as the alien flew back inside. “What do you want?” Elliot demanded.
It had only caused him misery and false hope so far. It squawked and gave
Elliot a haughty expression. Gesturing with his wing to the outside of the pod,
a large burlap sack laid. Elliot gasped. He rushed outside and grabbed the
sack as if it were his lifeline. Elliot dumped its contents out onto the polished
floor of the pod. Four large solar panels laid on the floor in a heap. “Where
did you get those?” Elliot inquired, intrigued. It raised its wing, revealing that
his feathers were slightly singed and that the tips were green with some
sticky sort of slime.

“Never mind. I probably don’t want to know.” Elliot declared, repulsed.
Pulling the panels to the side of the room so that they wouldn’t get trampled,
he grabbed the blueprints of the table. Several hours later, Elliot was panting
hard and the alien was lying flopped on the ground. They were both
extremely fatigued. But their efforts paid off, and the engine was finished.
Although the strange parrot hybrid hadn’t done much physical work, it
wasn’t an exaggeration to say that he had a splitting headache. After all, the
parrot had done most of the thinking, whilst it was Elliot who was doing the
physical work. Elliot carried the engine over to the backside of the escape
pod and cautiously installed it. Elliot looked at the alien and proclaimed to
him, “Good job, friend. Thank you.” The alien started to give Elliot a vain
look, then seemed to acquiesce, cawing his assent. “Alien?” Elliot questioned.
“Will you come back with me to Earth?” The alien looked downcast. He slowly
shook his head and grabbed the blueprints and pencil. I’m sorry, Elliot. But
my life is here, not down on Earth. I can’t come with you. He wrote. Elliot was
saddened, but he understood. “It’s okay,” he told his friend. And so it was.
Without further adieu, Elliot and his friend we tearfully parted. Elliot
watched the alien that he had become so attached to fly away, and after a
second, went his separate way.

69

Elliot pressed a button and the whole pod jerked as a powerful thrust
knocked it forward. The engine works! Elliot thought, elated. As the asteroid
was close to Earth, it only took Elliot a couple of minutes to arrive. The
escape pod landed with a splash in the sea, and it only took a few moments
for helicopters to start appearing. One of them lowered a ladder, and Elliot
climbed up joyously. He assured the pilot and the medical attention that he
was unhurt, and was feeling quite well. Elliot wondered how the helicopters
had known where he was, but decided that was a conversation for another
time. Back at NASA, Elliot was enjoying his newfound and sudden fame.
Everyone was questioning how Elliot had gotten back to Earth, but that was a
secret that Elliot wouldn’t reveal.

70

"African Daisy Photograph," Aanjuli Das. Aanjuli is a seventh
grade student at Horner Middle School. If you don't find her
painting silently in her room, you'll find her baking or playing
badminton outside! She can make art out of almost everything,
including broken pencils!

71

Resilience

Jane Yoon

Revenge

“It’s okay,” I whisper into Lola’s ear. I found her crying outside, and it’s
obvious she’s mourning our dead brother. The news came yesterday that
Isaac passed away by bleeding out from a shot that Charles Murphy, a
British soldier, made. Isaac’s buddy, Andrew King, witnessed his death, but
he was hidden in the foliage. He went back after to retrieve Isaac’s body
and found a postcard addressed to Charles that most likely fell out of his
pocket when Isaac died. I desire revenge, but I can’t fight in the
revolutionary war because mom is always out working and someone needs
to care for Lola.

“Thanks Jay, but I know you’re sad too,” she sniffs.
I let out a deep sigh. “I always forget that you’re grown up now, I can’t
hide anything from you!” A fit of giggles is her response. Anything that
forms a smile on Lola’s face is important. She’s only 9, but she definitely
needs a bit of confidence in her life. Even though she’s young, I’ve taught
her everything I know. “How about we go back inside and eat?”
“Okay,” Lola replies. I look inside the cupboard and see beans, corn, and
some pork.

Jane is an eighth grader at Central Middle School. She plays
violin and enjoys drawing.

72

“Not much to work with,” I murmur as I grab the beans. It’s just me and
Lola today, so beans should be enough. We’ve always managed to scrape up
just enough money for food. We eat and then I tuck Lola into bed.

I hear the door knob rattle, and mom comes in. She’s holding a bag of
groceries, and a smile covers my face. “You get paid today?” I ask.

“Yup! I’m sorry that I can’t be home often, I try to work as much as I
possibly can…”

“That’s alright, you should get some rest.”
“Thanks for watching Lola, and you’re right, I’m going to sleep,” she says.
She gets in bed next to Lola and drifts off almost immediately. My
shoulders relax. I can finally mourn for Isaac. I put up a wall so my family
doesn’t worry, but once they’re asleep I can finally be myself. I think of Isaac
and how well he kept the family together before he went to war. I would have
gone, but I was too young and someone had to take care of the family. I’d
been planning since we got the news of Isaac’s passing. I want revenge. I am
going to go fight against the British, in honor of Isaac.
I slip on a jacket and silently walk out of the house. I knew that if I was
going to do this, I needed help from Andrew, because he was Isaac’s friend,
and he is the only one who might help me. I run to Andrew’s house, then
knock on the door. He lives by himself so I don’t have to be quiet. When he
answers he’s in pajamas, but lets me in.
“I need your help. I want to go fight,” I say. He looks appalled.
“Why on earth would you want to fight?” Andrew sounds shocked, but I
respond, “Isaac is dead! I need revenge on the British!”
Andrew breathes in deeply. “Vengeance shouldn’t be the reason for you
going into war. However, if you really want to, I’ll help.” I think he’s helping
me out of pity, but I’ll take it.
“Thanks, and yes it’s what I want, I’m sure of it,” I answer appreciatively.
Ever since Isaac died, my body wants to fight. It’s not enough to workout, I
desire the rush of adrenaline from war.

SKIP TO THE BATTLEFIELD

73

“I’m tired,” I groan. Andrew and I are two amongst many Americans,
attempting to train ourselves. I’m fit, but definitely not compared to the
people here.

“This is what you wanted, revenge for your brother. You certainly can’t
avenge him if you’re too weak to fight.” Andrew has a point. How will I
avenge Isaac if I’m dead? “Think about Lola, it helps to think of home.”

I imagine Lola at home, hoping she understands why I left so abruptly. If
she doesn’t, I don’t know what I’ll do. She’s my only friend, and she’s my
younger sister! I think about the fun times I’ve had with Lola, teaching her
math, English, and life skills. I feel light on my feet now, and I block
Andrew’s first punch. I notice a flaw in Andrew’s stance, he isn’t guarding his
face. I take the opportunity, and go for the hit, and the rush of energy I got
from thinking of Lola strengthens my jab. I make contact with his jaw, and
he’s on the floor. Wait. Why is he in so much pain? I didn’t punch him that
hard, did I?

“You okay?” I ask, concerned.
“Yeah, just give me a minute,” he mumbles.
“Boom!” Something explodes a couple yards away from us. Dirt flies
everywhere, and I cough.
“Cannons along the coast!” I hear. “The ship has Brits onboard!” My head
perks up. Brits? This is my chance! I start towards the coast, but Andrew
stops me.
“That’s a suicide mission! What are you going to do? Kill everyone?”
“I’m going to kill as many as I can.” I take a deep breath. “It’s either run
away and feel like I could’ve done something, or defend my country, and put
my life on the line for it.” I run, and Andrew tries to keep up, but he’s too
injured. I stop, and I only see one ship, so it seems as though they are there
just to eliminate us. I grab bullets and a musket, and crouch. I aim for the
first redcoat I see, and I shoot. First I miss, but I adjust my aim and the shot
lands the second time. My ears are thundering. My heart is pounding. I gun
down two more, not caring whether they are dead or not. For Isaac! I reload
the gun, but before I shoot I feel a piercing pain in my stomach.

74

I look down to see a bullet wound and blood pouring out of me. The pain
is unbearable, like a thousand punches to the gut. My vision is going blurry,
but I remember that this is how Isaac went, and that I can finally see him
again. I smile to myself as my vision goes blank.

75

"Untitled," Zerach Chan. Zerach is in eighth grade at Central
Middle School. He enjoys swimming, drawing, gaming, and loves
his pets. Zerach has 18 chickens, 8 ducks, and 2 dogs.

76

Francis Luo

Snowmen

The only snowmen that my eyes have seen
without the glossy, luminescent sheen
of 8 by 5 inch Hallmark Christmas cards
and not the glaring thousand-pixel screens
or those inflated in my neighbors’ yards

are piles of slush and clumps of muddied white
alone on the roadside—a dismal sight.
These snowmen search beyond where they are piled.
They yearn to see the Tahoe waters bright
but only see what humans have defiled.

I stare outside the window of this car
the snowmen are but yet another scar—
but not one made of ignorance and greed.
The innocence of children from afar
tried hard, but built these sorry sights to see.

Francis is an eighth grader at Horner Middle School in
Fremont. Along with writing, he enjoys playing the trumpet and
debating.

77

It’s not their fault—it couldn’t be—I’m sure
the children’s words are true. Their hearts are pure.
That does not mean they cannot make mistakes,
or that they never feel corrupt allure,
but only that they have not seen the stakes.

I used to long to build those snowmen too,
those effigies of me, and them, and you.
The East Coast, snowy Christmas was the norm
in all the songs and movies that we knew.
We did not know the blizzards or the storms.

I wish that we could cease this vain pursuit.
All efforts to be what we aren’t are moot.
We have a heritage to call our own.
We always will be firm and resolute.
Unlike those snowmen, we are not alone.

The snowmen standing in my neighbors’ yards
are just balloons, a few now-shattered shards
of some blurred mirror of another land.
Why should we model artificial cards
that never were created by our hand?

78

"Melting Homes," Deeksha Vajha. Deeksha Vajha is an eighth
grader at Hopkins Junior High. Her hobbies include singing,
acting, writing, drawing, and painting.

79

Victor Delvat

The Day

Just like any other day, Monica wakes up to a constant beep. She looks
around a white room filled with her drawings and posters as she sits up
in her white bed. Outside the window, birds chirp and cars drive by in the
bustling city.

The door opens as a woman dressed in a white gown walks in. “Good
morning,” says the nurse with a smile. She walks over to the IV machine
and turns off the alarm. “Everything seems to be looking good, how did
you sleep?” She asks, still looking at the beeping machine. Monica doesn’t
want to tell her that, like every other night, she couldn’t sleep due to the
burning in her lungs, the sensation of losing her breath little by little as
she woke up in excruciating pain, tears pouring through her eyes like a
waterfall of sadness. She shrugs off the question, only answering with a
faint smile.

Monica gets up to brush her teeth in the small bathroom she has next
to her bed. She grabs the metallic pole where an IV bag is hanging and
drags it with her to make sure she isn’t disconnected. On her way, she
coughs and, as she sees herself in the mirror, she sees a few drops of
blood on her lips. She lays back down afterwards, exhausted by the short
distance.

Victor is an eighth grader at Central Middle School. He likes to
play board games and read historical fiction stories.

80

She begins her long morning procedure: she starts by putting an infrared
sensor on her index finger to check her blood levels. Then, she continues by
sorting the different medications she has to take: a rather large box filled
with each day's medication. She opens the one named Tuesday / Morning
and takes out the six pills, each of a different size and color. She slowly
arranges them by size, from smallest to largest, and brings them painfully,
one by one, to her lips. The glass feels heavy in her hand as she slowly
brings it up to take a sip.

She gets on with her day as usual, putting on her nicest dress. Pleased
with herself and how quickly she got up, she then proceeds to walk out the
door, singing the beat of her favorite song. She opens the door to her
classroom, ecstatic as she notices Mary, her best friend. The two start
chatting about the nurses and other things, both with a twinkle in their eyes.

Soon after, the teacher walks in: “Settle down, settle down now. Alright, so
today we will be learning about geometry. As you can see ...” his voice fades
away while Monica starts daydreaming of her and her friends running in the
fields as the sunlight hits their skin and warms them up. She also visualizes
her and her grandmother finally talking in her own real bedroom. Minutes
feel like hours.

“Mrs. Monica, what was I just saying?” asks the teacher as Monica tries to
wake up with the bright white light in her eyes. She looks around to find the
answer, then she notices the whiteboard. “You were showing us how to
transform a shape,” says Monica, still not sure of her answer. “Correct, but
next time don’t let me catch you daydreaming,” says the teacher with a bit of
anger in his tone.

The door opens and a doctor enters the room. “Can I talk to Mrs. Monica
please,” he says with a calm tone. “Yes, she is right here. Monica, would you
please go talk to the doctor,” says the teacher. She steps outside and the
doctor announces that she will have her lung transplant soon. She is as
excited as a puppy and quickly returns to class. As the day goes on she grows
more and more excited and by the time lunch arrives she is on the edge of
her seat.

81

School soon ends and Monica goes back to her room with Mary. They
chit-chatted for a while but time flew by quickly. Now, it was time for Monica
to go see the doctors; she changed from her school clothes into the white
gown for her chemotherapy. After entering her room, the nurse walks in
soon after. Monica lays down on the chair, the nurse sits next to her asking
Monica if she is ready. The nurse starts to line up the needles and pierce the
skin one by one, then slowly pumps the liquid from the syringes. Once the
procedure is done, she is sent back to her room with recommendations to
take a nap.

Once back in her room Monica lays on her bed and falls asleep. This time
she dreams of driving around in a car of her very own, something Monica
will need to wait two more years for. She also dreams about flying in an
airplane for the first time and going to see her beloved grandmother who
she wishes to see. The alarm beeps reminding her that she still has
homework to do. Monica wakes up and before doing her homework she calls
her grandmother. Her grandmother is very happy when she answers the
phone, the call goes on for about an hour until Monica finally hangs up. She
prepares to do her homework, the long dreaded thing that kids hate to do. As
time goes on Monica does more and more homework, almost two hours later
she is finally done.

The nurse walks into Monica’s room with her food. “Eat up and then go to
bed,” orders the nurse. Monica takes the plate and answers the nurse with a
warm smile. After the nurse leaves Monica eats her food and gulps down her
glass of water. Once ready she lies down and goes to sleep.

Monica dreams of that day, the day in which she will go outside. How
much fun that would be to play sports as her parents and friends cheer her
on. All the fun things she couldn’t do, most importantly Monica dreams of
the day she will get her transplant, the day she will have officially beaten her
lung cancer.

82

"Visions of Music," Nicholas Cottrell. Nicholas is an 8th grader
at Central Middle School and enjoys art and soccer. He makes
board games out of cardboard and paper.

83

Emma Billing

Family Time

We're lying on the tube. My brothers, Oliver and Aaron are holding
onto the handles next to me. Floating out with water surrounding us like a
blanket. The late afternoon sun beating down on my back, excitement
pulsing through me. Brothers by my side. All of us waiting. Waiting for
my dad to start the boat. We hear the gentle grumble of the engine and
another shock of excitement shoots through me. I know i’ve done this
before, but I'm always thrilled to be back on the water with my brothers.

“Excited?” I ask them even though I already know the answer.
“Duh! Of course,” Oliver says with a big grin and shining eyes.
We’re always jumping up and down, counting down the days until we
get to go back to the beach in Park Rapids, Minnesota. My family has been
coming to Minnesota since I was a baby. I have so many memories like
seeing friends and family, going on boat rides with my Uncle’s boats,
roasting s’mores in front of the campfire, swimming in the lake and so
much more.
Finally the wait is over. We’ve been waiting for a pretty long time,
about ten minutes.
“You know what to say,” Dad calls from the boat to us, his hand on the
wheel. “When you’re ready.”

Emma is an eighth grader at CMS. She enjoys dancing and
biking with friends.

84

“Hit it!” we yell.
We take off zooming through the lake, water spraying around us and
wind whipping my hair around. The boat starts slow and gathers speed
getting faster and faster. I always want to go faster and catch the big waves.
The rope holding the tube to boat, whipping up and down.
“Here comes a really big wave,” I shout to Aaron and Oliver over the loud
roar of the boat engine.
I don’t hear their reply over the wind whipping through my ears, but I see
Oliver’s mouth moving. I focus my eyes on the big wave coming up. Another
jolt of excitement surges through me as we bounce over the waves. I can tell
Aaron and Oliver are having lots of fun too. Up and down we bounce on the
waves.
One big bounce and I fly into the air.
Oliver and Aaron fly even higher than me. I plunge into the water eyes
closed, the lake swallowing me up. The water cools my skin on the hot
summer day. My head pops up out of the water. I wipe the water out of my
eyes, swim over to my brothers and give them a big hug. This is a little hard
to do because we're wearing bulky life jackets.
“You’re an amazing brother,” I tell Oliver. I mean it. “I know,” he replies
with another grin. I roll my eyes but smile. I say it to my other brother too.
After we get back to the beach we swim in the lake more. Playing games and
splashing each other. Splash splash.

85

Isabella Taylor

Shadow

I stared through the large window at the dog pressed against the wall. I
stopped in front of the small cell at the Peninsula Humane Society. The
walls are a light grey giving the room a feeling of emptiness. I peer in but
all I can see are a few ratty toys scattered around the dark room. A dirty
blanket was spread in a corner like a dog bed. What poor animal would
call this a home? Then I noticed a dog pressed against the wall. She was
curled in a tight ball giving the illusion that she was hugging herself. At
first glance I wouldn’t have noticed her. It was hard to determine what she
looked like. She was covered in thick black fur with a dash of white on the
tip of her tail.

Never in my life had I seen such a sad scene.

There was such a clear lack of love and belonging. I could feel despair
surround me like a heavy fog. I had to know more about this dog’s story.

I glanced at her picture displayed on the glass and looked back at her.
The dog in the cell seemed completely different then the dog displayed in
the picture. In the picture she was smiling and had a shine in her eyes.

Bella is an eighth grade student at Central Middle School. She
enjoys playing soccer and spending time with her pets.

86

The dog before me was still like a statue, unmoving. It almost looked like the
dog was dead. She seemed dead inside. I tapped on the glass lightly and
called her name.

“Chanel” I said as I twisted to get a better view of the black dog.
I thought that Chanel was a strange name for an animal. Chanel made
me think of glamor and heavy perfume. A dog needed a name that suited
them and this dog seemed too sad to be a Chanel. She just laid in the corner
like a shadow. I yearned to make this dog have that shine in her eyes again.
Maybe human contact would cheer her up? The door that led into the room
had a vent so the dog could smell you. I put the back of my hand to the vent
on the door and called her again.
Nothing, she just ignored me. I tried again with more enthusiasm but she
continued to lay motionless. I sighed and decided to read about her. The
paper said that she was a happy dog who loved to play fetch and walk on the
beach. The document also categorized her as a purple dog. This means that
the dog should not go to just any family because she might have some
behavioral problems. I wasn’t worried about that because Dad had dogs
before.
She sounded perfect for my family. I could picture her splashing into
waves and chasing birds on the beach. I looked at the dog again. There was
something so sad about the way she laid there. It was like she had given up
and didn’t care anymore. I wondered why this dog looked so melancholy. I
glanced back at her paper and noticed that she had belonged to a family
before.
These papers told a story of a German Shepherd puppy who was brought
into a family with a senior miniature poodle. The puppy was trained to sit,
stay and come. She was smart and learned quickly. The only problem was
the poodle. Every meal was a battlefield. The poodle growled at the puppy
refusing to let her eat. After being bullied for over a year, the puppy had
enough. Even though she knew it was wrong she scooped the poodle up in
her mouth and shook it. The poodle was a white blur of fur in the puppy’s
mouth.

87

I can imagine the panic racing through the owner while they witnessed this
event. The owners couldn’t risk endangering their precious poodle so the
puppy had to go.

This made me understand why she looked so sad. She had been left here.
She probably thought that they were taking her for a walk when they
abandoned her at the SPCA. This was an animal who had belonged to a
family and felt loved. Then one day it was all taken away from her. The
definition of despair is the complete loss or absence of hope. This dog had a
complete absence of hope that she would ever be loved by a family again.

I realized that I had the power to make a huge difference in this dog's life.
I could bring back that shine in her eyes and give her the love she deserves.
My love could give her hope and bring back her feeling of belonging.

Dad turned the corner. Short brown hair. Strong. He came over and
peered into the room. He read her papers and watched her as he thought for
a moment.

“Let's bring Chanel into the “get to know you” room” I suggested as he
continued examining the dog’s card.

“That is the saddest dog I have ever seen. Sometimes a dog is too
damaged after a bad experience. I don’t think this is the right dog for us.”
Dad said.

I watched her as she laid there, still as a rock. I knew something that he
didn’t. I knew that she could be more than just a sad dog. People always have
a gift to give. The gift of love can save someone from despair.

“She just needs a home like ours.” I said.

88

Resilience

Taliesin Miller

The Sun is Also Orange

“The sun is white” I said again to the pairs of quizzical eyes watching
me. A few condescending giggles and furrowed eyebrows then a burst of
“How can you possibly see that? It’s yellow!” It was like our class couldn’t
accept a different thought. Was I crazy? Sometimes I feel it, when the kids
laugh at me. I didn’t like being laughed at. The sun looks white to me, as
white as a dandelion not yet blown apart, like a warm piece of paper from
the printer.

“He’s just messing with you guys.” A few girls rolled their eyes and
walked away to play on the grass. The school was small but it had a nice
field, asphalt, and a playground with bars to swing on and ropes to climb.
The big lettering on the side of the school building read “Pine Hill
Elementary.”

We kids had all grown up alike, a few blocks apart, some shops
downtown. That was our whole world. We never had anything interesting
happen, so we had to make things interesting. Maybe that was why they
cared so much about someone believing something differently. It was
unnatural to them, they never had experienced anything besides what
they knew. A couple more people dispersed from the crowd around me,
laughing and muttering under their breath “He’s blind.” or “He’s just
dumb.”

Tallie is in eighth grade at Central Middle School. She enjoys
writing, playing sports and always tries hard at everything she
does. She hopes to submit to more things in the future.

89

My face got hot with shame. It wasn’t like I could explain to them what I
saw, they believed the sun is a lemony blurr in the sky. They couldn’t think of
it possibly being anything else. After a minute most of the other boys and
girls lost interest in me and started screaming and snatching the biggest and
bounciest balls to play with for the remainder of recess.

I ran up to Albert Newmon, my best friend, and stole the big red ball from
his hands.

“What are we playing?” I asked fake happily, ignoring the nasty stares and
whispers that aimed at me.

“I’m playing with Randy,” Albert said curtly and pushed past my shoulder,
as if I wasn’t there or he didn’t even care if I was.

“Yeah go play with a white ball or something- oh wait it doesn't exist!”
Randy snorted at his own joke, and ran away with Albert to the other side of
the blacktop. Albert hangs out with Randy when he thinks I make a fool of
myself. By now all the kids were in their groups, and it was only me left on
the blacktop, my heart clenched with a deep sadness of abandonment and
embarrassment. Nobody wanted to play with me anymore.

The ring of the bell sounded, summoning us back into the classroom as if
we were livestock being herded into the barn. I was the last one to finally file
into the classroom and sit down in my chair. I noticed that all of our desks
were covered in newspaper with a clean white sheet of paper on top,
accompanied by some paints and paintbrushes. I looked around at the other
kids who were attempting to read the old newspapers and sticking their
paintbrush into the cup of water that also sat before them.

“Okay quiet please! Quiet! Today we are going to paint a landscape. When
you are finished, please bring it up here so I can hang it to dry.” My teacher,
Mrs. Burton, was a short stout woman that liked to yell, trying to grab our
attention before we stained our hands blue, or knocked over the dirty water
onto the rug. I started with the grass, spreading emerald back and forth
across the page.

90

Most of the kids hated painting, but I rather enjoyed it, it was calming. I
looked over at Albert who sat next to me, he was starting with the sky, using
big thick and swirly brushes to fill up the page. He dipped his paintbrush
into the water letting off an explosion of deep blue into the cup.

Then he dipped his brush into the yellow paint and looked at me with a
sneer.

“See how I’m painting the sun yellow?” He tried to reach over to my page
and press the brush into my paper but I quickly snatched it away.

“You can’t paint the sun white or else it won’t show up,” He said again
hoping to get a rise out of me. Instead I just ignored him, which I knew would
make him more upset. I dipped my brush into brown and made a couple of
tree trunks, topping them off with a blob of chartreuse for the leaves. The
other kids mostly painted a landscape of the school, random swirls for the
playground, but they all had a yellow sun.

“Charlie, class is ending soon, do you need any help finishing up?” Mrs.
Burton was standing before me, starting to clean up other kids' desks. I
realized that I was the last kid still painting.

“No thanks,” I responded, quickly lathering on a coat of blue for the sky. I
left a small circle in the top right corner blank, it was my sun. Even if
nobody else would know what it was or gave me weird looks, I knew that that
small round white circle was the sun. I looked up again at Mrs. Burton who
was still hovering over my shoulder.

“Charlie, you haven’t painted your sun yet. Is your yellow too dirty? I can
get you a different one,” Mrs. Burton reached over to Albert’s desk and put
his set of paint colors on my desk.

“Good, you left a little circle, just paint that in and tell me when you’ve
finished.”
I went flush with anger.

“But the sun is white.” I whispered quietly. She looked at me and laughed.
“No dear, it’s yellow.” She said it slowly as if I didn’t speak her language.

91

“No it’s not.” I repeated louder. By now all the kids were looking straight at
me, a couple of them laughed. Mrs. Burton’s eyes widened a little and then
she grasped my paintbrush and dipped it right into the paint and filled in
the circle.

“Doesn’t that look better dear?” She said with a twinge in her voice, and
the eyes of a deranged cat. I sat stunned in my chair, fuming. How dare she
change my painting.

My sun! I was still burning hot when the bell finally rang and I ran
straight out of the classroom door and through the open gate, close to tears.
The other children were right behind. I saw Albert with Randy, laughing and
pointing at me as I ran down the sidewalk. What was wrong with me?
Everybody else saw it the same. Everyone said the sun is yellow. An old man
that was walking by me on the sidewalk stopped me with his cane. I looked
up startled with big and glossy eyes full of surprise. He looked at me a
second before he spoke with an old tired voice that seemed to be full of
wisdom

“Boy, don’t look so sad when the day is beautiful and the sun shines so
orange.” The old man looked at me with a little smile on his wrinkly skin. I
looked back strangely for a moment then smiled slightly.

I decided then that maybe the sun is yellow, but it is also orange like a
Halloween pumpkin, and as white as fresh fallen snow.

92

"Sailing Over The Horizon," Soundarya Vasudevan. Soundarya is
a seventh grader at Union Middle School. She enjoys playing
basketball and spending time with her friends and family.

93

Resilience

Cameron Reynolds

The Blind Putt

Sometimes, I think of the world as one big putt. A putt that could go
anywhere and could make a wrong turn. One putt, but so many outcomes.
Each putt is so precise, yet so unique, just like me.

It was a dazzling Saturday morning. I felt the sun’s rays beaming
through the window like dozens of welcoming beams, expressing
themselves. The golf ball was nested in the palm of my hand as I was seated
at my desk in my room. I runned my thumb along the surface of the ball,
feeling each and every little dimple. Five hundred dimples all clumped
together, like the five hundred memories I still had of my father swimming
in my head like gobs of school of fish, but so many more. I sighed. My life
was this golf ball, and it consisted of all five hundred of them. This golf ball
meant so much to me. Dad gave it to me before he passed away not long
ago. I loved him to death and he was a big part of my life.

“Benny Boo! It’s time for your big golf day!” Mom’s voice traveled to my
room, interrupting my day dreaming. With the ball still locked in my fist, I
dashed down the stairs to the kitchen, screaming with bundles of
excitement. Mom greeted me with a kiss.

Cameron is a very talented, athletic eighth grade student at
Central Middle School. He loves music, magic and sports and
enjoys spending time with family and his dog.

94

I’m Benny, the fourteen year old soon-to-be-freshman at Oceanside High
School down in Southern California. Mom tells me that I have dirty blonde
hair, blue eyes, glasses, I always have a big smile and I’m pretty short for my
age. People always doubted me, even for the smallest things, but I didn’t let
that bother me. I proved them wrong. I have always been bullied and made
fun of, though. I really don’t fit it anywhere, and I’m not able to do other
enjoyable things. I’m always picked on at school. People make fun of me
because I can’t read, and I always look like an old man because I like to hold
a stick. I want to be like everyone else; like the cool kids who get to play
football and basketball. But I can’t, because I’m different. Dad was usually the
one I could come talk to when I needed to and when I felt lonely. But now
that he’s gone, I only have mom.

Golf is the only sport that I can play to encapsulate myself. I'm a junior
golf pro, but I have always struggled in golf. I find myself pretty good, but
others don’t. Today was the day to prove them wrong. I was about to play in
the City Tournament, and if I win it, it would mean so much. I was awfully
nervous, but I couldn't wait. I was doing it for dad.

***
The scent of the mowed green grass, the smelly sewer water, the freshly
raked bunkers, as well as the clicking sounds of the clubs as they made
contact with the ball alerted me that we had arrived at the Bayside Golf
Course. I was ready, and I felt ready, despite the fact that my heart constantly
skipped a beat. I was guided to the check-in where I was signed in. I heard
the pitter-patter of the pen as my name was written down on paper. A hand
unexpectedly clutched my shoulder. It was my coach, Frank. I was delighted
to greet him. Frank was exactly like dad, very outgoing and supportive. I
usually thought about dad, wishing he were here. Dad was always a role
model for me and loved to watch me play golf.
“C’mon, buddy, let’s go tee up,” Frank suggested. “You’re going to do
great.” Indeed I was. I knew that for a fact.

95

***
I was about to swing and show dad that I was winning this game for him. I
had to swing for him. I took a deep breath. And so I did.
Clink.
There was something about that hit that made me feel really good. A
pulse of excitement rushed through my body, although I expected to hear
claps and cheers. But no, all I heard was a dull clap from my mom, who was
always cheering me on. I could tell her clap from anything, even if there
were hundreds of people in the crowd. “Ninety-three yards isn’t bad. Look on
the bright side, you got plenty more holes ahead of you!” Frank proclaimed. I
knew it was him by his rich, deep voice. I slapped my head and groaned. The
words “ninety three yards” sent millions of shivers down my spine. It was like
an F on a test, but worse. The next shot, I used my hybrid. One hundred-ten
yards wasn't bad either, but I still wasn’t satisfied. It was going to take more
than just an average shot to impress dad, and Frank for that matter.
The sound of the ball rattling in the cup was a relief. After all, it was a par
4, so I was pleased with a Bogey.
Holes two through twelve went by so expeditiously as if I was on
Christmas Break. It didn’t just go by like a breeze, but it went by abominably.
I had awful drives and completely dreadful putts. I kept hitting sand traps,
and hitting the ball off the fairway. Then, things turned around. Before I
knew it, I was already on the back nine on hole twelve. I was lying at T10,
which I was gosh darn proud of based on how bad I was playing. It was a long
journey between the thirteenth and the seventeenth hole. I did have an Eagle
which thankfully helped boost my place up to eight, but I was for sure getting
worn out, and I hadn’t been playing my best. I didn’t know if I could do it
anymore. It was just about my time to tee off on hole eighteen. I sat down on
a bench nearby, and Frank joined me. I buried my head in my arms and
groaned. I told Frank I couldn’t do it anymore.

96

The sun was scorching on me, and I wasn’t going to win. I was overwhelmed,
feeling worthless, and I almost decided to give up, until Frank encouraged
me and told me, “Look, things might not go the way you want them to, and
it’s okay. It’s part of life. The important thing is that you have fun, and try
your best. Real players never give up, they just keep on going no matter how
tired they’re feeling.” He patted me on the back. “Go get ‘em!” and set me up
for the drive. Not only did I feel the enthusiasm from Frank, but from the
fans as well. I was never going to give up. Never. Frank told me the pin was
three-hundred ninety yards away. A par 4. Not too far.

“I got this. Real players never give up, they just keep on going.”
Clink.
Who knew that just a simple clink could blow away so many people? The
delicate sound of whistles and cheers evolved into a parade of them.
“Atta boy. Two-hundred nine yards.” Frank boasted. I was pretty
astonished hearing how far I hit it. I looked up at the charming blue sky. I
reminded myself that I was doing this for dad.

***
Suddenly, there I was. Standing seve feet from the cup. I had so many
thoughts running through my head, making me overwhelmed. This putt was
so important and it meant so much to me. I was doing this for my beloved
father. Dad taught me so much about golf, although we were very different.
I picked up my marker which was substituting my golf ball. The ball
marker felt smooth like the freshly cut grass beneath my feet. I knelt down,
placed the golf ball dad had given me and ran my hand along the grass to
survey the slope of it. The green sloped left. Only a seven foot putt. It wasn’t
far, but it was going to be tough. I had been playing golf all summer, and
here I was. It was all on the line. The putt to win the city golf tournament. I
licked my finger and pointed it to the sky as if I had an idea. The wind was
blowing south. Around three miles an hour. I grinned and nodded
confidently. At that moment, I felt hands grasp my arms.

97

I knew it was my coach lining me up for the seven foot putt. “It's just a putt,” I
thought to myself. “Just a putt.” Frank aligned me with the cup. I adjusted my
hands and my feet. The pressure was on. My putter slowly swung back.

Smack.
The putter made contact with the ball and I was waiting for the sound of
overwhelming cheers and claps from the fans. There was an abrupt moment
of silence. The next thing I heard was the rattling sound of the ball dropping
into the cup. I knew I had made it. I knew it. I thrusted my arms up into the
air and unintentionally threw my club. I fell to the ground and bawled tears
of joy, my hands wrapped around my face. Claps and whoops came from
everyone. I smiled, which turned into a white sea of thirty-two teeth. I wish I
could’ve seen the reaction dad would’ve given if he were present, but I knew
dad would be very proud of me. And I wish I was able to see my mom’s
reaction, but I couldn’t. After all these years, I was still not able to see the
most memorable moments. Because I was blind. Each putt is so precise, yet
so unique, just like me.

98

"Desert Sunset," Samhita Konduri. Samhita is an eighth grader
at JLS Middle School. She enjoys singing and spending time with
her younger sister.

99

Tommy Miller

Drifting into The Sea Grass

With just one look around I see for what seems like a mile of nothing
but sand and seagrass and little homes for all the small fish, but just to
my left there is a big enough rock that the fish swim circles around, but
also serves as a home for these little fish. The little fish are taking a vivid
interest in me, circling and even going through my legs. Even as I start to
drift away meters at a time the current pulls me against my will while I'm
turning trying to keep my eyes on the fish, the fish are still following and
circling me. I don't know why the current is pulling me but it feels like a
rollercoaster through an aquarium. It looks like the fish are unbothered
by the current while they glide through the waters effortlessly like an
eagle does in the sky.

The dive was coming to an end and the fish would still swim up to me.I
wondered why the fish were taking such a great interest in me, or why
they wanted to do their dance around me, but they seemed to be having a
great time. Even away from the coral in the ocean plains with nothing but
sea grass and sand, the little colorful fish were swimming to me. I looked
up and even twenty feet deep the sun was shining down on me drifting
down to my skin as we rose up making me warm after a long cold dive
and the fish started to return to their coral before they got too far.

Tommy is a eighth grade student at Central Middle School. He
likes playing football and hanging out with his friends.

100