Stanford Anthology For Youth: Volume 20

Stanford
Anthology

for Youth

1

a prick in the veil
of everlasting night

A collection of writing and art by San Francisco Bay Area middle-school stu-
dents.
Mila Sheng (cover art) is an eighth grade student who loves expressing
herself through art and music. She also enjoys traveling to foreign countries
and hanging out with friends.

Copyright ©2016 Stanford Anthology for Youth
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or

reproduced without prior permission from
Stanford Anthology for Youth.

Published by Giant Horse Printing, South San Francisco, Calif.
Layout and Design by Irene Hsu

The title — a prick in the veil of everlasting night — is taken
from “As Time Flies, the Spirit Tries” by Nathaniel Wolff.

2
Stanford Anthology for Youth
[email protected]
Stanford, Calif.

Stanford Anthology for Youth strives to ensure the originality
of the submissions contained within this publication. Stanford
Anthology for Youth assumes no responsibility for any works

that may not be the original creation of the contributor to
whom the piece is credited.

DEAR WRITERS 3

Why do we write? Is it to remember? To forget? To commu-
nicate? To escape?
Perhaps, more than anything, we write to understand. In a
world bursting with questions, we write to make sense of
ourselves in all of our generosity and greed, courage and
fear, kindness and cruelty. We write to make sense of each
other, our words bridging the chasm between “us” and
“them.” And, fueled by all the whimsy of unbridled imagina-
tion, we write to comprehend what might be.
So join us as we meet anxious gumballs, alcoholic husbands,
chatty crows, and philosophizing passengers. Come with us
to suspicious orphanages, tumultuous anthills, and alien-filled
futures. Float above the world with all the aloofness of a
windblown dandelion seed, and then immerse yourself in one
person’s ocean of thoughts.
And then—who knows? There are lessons to be learned,
connections to be made, wisdom to be found, and conversa-
tions waiting to happen. After a good story, the world is never
quite the same again.
The Editors, Stanford Anthology For Youth
May 2016

EDITORIAL BOARD

GORDON BLAKE DANA HUH
KENT BLAKE JULIA MARTINS
NICOLE BLUM GRACE RAINALDI
JONATHAN ENGEL EMILIA SCHRIER
KATIE GU ALI VAUGHAN

4 FIND THE ARTISTS

KAYLA BLALACK pages 131, 186
ISABELLA BRAVO pages 87, 166
page 11
LAUREN BURT page 206
MARIKA FONG page 107
KIANA GEORGE pages 39, 79, 160
pages 29, 58-59
ASHLEY GUO page 95
MAYA HIRANO page 21
GABIRELA JIMENEZ page 181
ISHIL KUKREJA pages 9, 19
CAMMY KURTZMAN page 220
YAMINI MALLI cover, page 32-33, 108
NINAVA SHARMA pages 25, 68
pages 122,195
MILA SHENG page 202
EMILY TANKEH
GRACE TURNER
SAVANA VOTH

TABLE OF CONTENTS 5

10 NATHANIEL WOLFF

As Time Flies, the Spirit Tries

12 HELENA SILEN

Battle Scars

13 LAYLENA ZIPKIN

Becoming a Bat Mitzvah

16 MARTHA QUIRIE

The Box of Denial

17 SARAH FAZIO

Chicago Angels

21 MARY WILKINSON

A Choice

24 NURCAN SUMBUL

The Clutch of a Crook

30 SOPHIE CATTALINI

Comfort in Us

35 MAYA HIRANO

Crocodile Tears

39 NATALIE BEIER

Crooked Wings

43 ISABELLA YU

The Crows

49 LUCAS HUANG

A Crow’s Funeral

53 LIZA KOLBASOV

A Cup of Friendship Tea

65 ASHLEY GUO

The Dandelion

67 ALICE GODWIN

A Debt to Pay

70 SARAH STAMPLEMAN
Deep Recesses

73 SARAH BOBICH
A Different Kind of Family

77 ALEX CHUANG
The Droplets

78 CAITLIN GARCIA
Dull Roses Haunt Us Forever

81 ELAINE HAN
The Earrings

89 MONICA JEON
Evaporate

90 YAEL SARIG
Existing

97 ISABELLA SIMON
A Fortune Favor

100 CAMMY KURTZMAN
6 From the Corner of My Eye

102 PALOMA BAUWENS
The Girl in the Mirror

104 NAOMI BONEH
The Orphanage

111 EVAN BIGGERS
A Guilty Conscience

114 ANONYMOUS
The Hardest Thing to Say

118 TAYLOR YAMASHITA
Home Planet

129 AZUCENA DURAN
Hope Rises

132 NEHA JOSHI
ZI HO..aEte Being Sick

134 LO
Imanay

138 MICHAEL SIMON
In Thin Air

140 XILIN CHOI 7

Joanne

144 KIANA GEORGE

Lark

149 SVETLANA SOLODILOV

Lies

152 NICOLAS GUGLIELMIN

Lime Time

154 KATIE STAMPER

Macarons?

156 EMILY MURPHY

Maybe Someday

158 MAYA LEE & ELLE HORST

Mirror, Mirror

159 KELSEY SENNETT

On My Mind

162 LILLY HE

One Night

164 DILARA SUMBUL

The Ornament

167 BANAFSHEH HUSSAIN

Out of Sight

168 RACHEL LORAN

Perspective

173 LYDIA RICE

Picture Perfect

176 EMMA HOLLAND

Plucked Feathers

178 BLAKE WIENCKOWSKI

The Presents

182 SHRAY VAIDYA

Raindrops

184 EMMA NATHANSON

Refuge

185 CATIE DONOHUE

Releve´

189 LILLIAN FONG

Road Trip

192 ELEANOR BANGS

The Rose Petal

196 MICHAEL SIMON

Royalty For a Reason

199 SARAH STAMPLEMAN

The Secret Life of Gumball

201 EMMA SAMSON

A Small Leap Away From the Storm

203 MATTHEO ALMAGUER

Spinning Infinity

204 MILAD BROWN

Spirits of the Bottle

208 MOLLY PIGOT

Tears of a Heartbreak

211 SARAH LOWELL

8 The Third-Floor Bedroom

215 KELLEY KADLEC

There’s Always Tomorrow

218 ELIZABETH DENG

They Wouldn’t Believe You

221 CHRISTINE TU

Two Sides of a Coin

224 ELISA WACHA

Vanity

9

NATHANIEL WOLFF

As Time Flies, the Spirit Tries

Darkness swirls like a murmuration
Seething, pressing blackness,
The stifle of the soul, scraping of the happiness
To be? To die, to sleep
They rule, with their charisma and grace
Strike down the others from their rightful place
Dominoes, Benedicts, avaricious with tithes
Pleasure is derived from those lesser who writhe
The flummoxed masses cry out so
My life is at the end of the rainbow
10 To sleep, to, without a trace, fade
Submit to the din of the Black Parade
To meander aimlessly, purpose shattered and so
All that is left to do is let the envy and longing take hold of

the soul
Scream and shout, squirm all alone
Chalice of humanity frayed and split to bone
But wait! A light! A prick in the veil of the everlasting night
The clarion of the sunrise sings to wage the fight
Birds twitter about, children smile
A hope is born to escape the while

Yamini Malli (previous page, “The Woods”) is a seventh grader at Hopkins
Junior High. He loves to read, draw, play with friends, and paint.
Nathaniel Wolff is an avid musician, writer, and bibliophile. He usually en-
joys writing music, playing percussion and keyboard instruments, writing
poems and short stories, even the occasional novel.
Lauren Burt (opposite page, “Standing Out”) is an eight grader at at Cen-
tral Middle School. She enjoys reading, dancing and running and finds her
inspiration for writing and drawing at the most random times and places.

I see that as the time flies, the spirit cries, dies, and revives
The chalice opens to restart its chimes
The melody of the sunrise, rich mahogany chords punctuated

by the yellow staccato
The mountains, deep and covered with rush, stand stalwartly

aglow
 
Standing atop those mountains, high and mighty, hopeful and

engrossed in the bohemian knell
Taken aback the path standing, beckoning you to obliterate

the spell
The spirit emerges, alive and well, tugging forcefully upon

your shoulders
Your ability to start down it is in the eye of the beholder

11

HELENA SILEN

Battle Scars

this is neither a lie
nor is this the truth
but the ignorant mischief of a lost pilgrim
created in the insubstantial weeping
of a soft-hearted fool
who bravely open doors
but found the content too vile
only the shattered remains of battle
the silent screams of a distorted dream
sought help from the loyal
but pity was scarce
so begged from help from the poor
12 and found open hearts
but empty hands

Helena Silen is an 8th-grader who loves making and experiencing art, reading
fiction, and learning new things. She has been interested in poetry for as long as
she can remember.

LAYLENA ZIPKIN

Becoming a Bat Mitzvah 13

My shaking, sweaty hands grip the silver pointer. The
sun, just now peeking out from the fog, beams through the
stained glass windows, spilling liquid colors onto the glow-
ing faces of my relatives in the congregation. Blues, greens,
yellows and reds dance across their focused expressions.
They stare intently at me. A perfectly fitting knee length
bubble dress sits neatly on my body. It is covered in swirls
forged with every possible shade of blue. Long, wavy locks
of brunette hair rest gracefully on my shoulders, glistening in
the sun.

Warmth fills the room. Its feeling of optimism stretches
to where I’m standing in front of a smooth, wooden podium.
The Torah is majestically spread before me, its beige cowskin
taking up most of the podium. My arm brushes the ancient
frayed material, so fragile that one clumsy move could end
its long life. To my left, my parents have their hands placed
lightly on the thick wooden scrolls which keep the unrolled
torah in place. The Rabbi stands to my right, ready to help
me if I mispronounce a word. It’s a comfort, to have them
standing there. My parents have always been there for me,
and today is no exception. Handwritten Hebrew letters dance
among the Torah. My eyes move right to left among the now
familiar hebrew symbols, chanting them out loud.

I sing through the lines, nearing the end of the passage. I
feel one hundred pairs of eyes of my extended family locked
onto me, and yet the pressure is nonexistent. This is the first
time I’ve played this role, the role of Rabbi. Still, my beat
remains steady, my eyes are full of focus, and determination
is splashed across my face. My studies have taught me that I
have earned the right to lead my congregation.

Laylena Zipkin is a 13-year-old artist, writer, actress, and singer. She has a younger
brother, mom, dad, and dog whom she enjoys spending time with. Laylena loves
to express her creativity through these activities and dreams of inspiring future
generations to do what they love.

My immediate and extended family members are here
to support me. But although it is okay to stumble, I will not
fall. I have practiced too hard to trip at the last moment. I’ve
prepared until reading Torah is as natural as breathing.

My mind races as I grow closer to the end of the seventh
alliot, the final part of our Torah Portion. Seven is the largest
number of alliot a B’nai Mitzvah student can read from the
Torah. The pride from achieving the most I can achieve is
overwhelming. Instinctively, I chant faster, living in the future
instead of the moment. As the silver pointer, the yad, nears
the last sentence, I stop to think. This opportunity, this day,
this moment, is a once in a lifetime. Never again will I be on
top of this mountain. Never again will I be just a girl; I am be-
coming a woman. And so, to relish the moment, I make time
stop.

The world around me comes to a halt as I begin the final
stretch. I concentrate on the ground beneath my feet. Roots
sprout from the soles of my silver high heels, digging into
the green carpet, burrowing into the earth. The tendrils lock
themselves in place, steadying me as I slowly continue my
song. I stare intently at my hand as it traces the yad around
the ink symbols. My painted nails glitter from the sunlight
14 seeping through the colored windows. I sense my parents’
presence next to me as their love and support soar from
their hearts to mine. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see my
mom silently reach for a tissue. The only sound in the room
is my voice. It fills the sanctuary, squeezing into every corner
until the room is completely flooded with music.

The words fall off of my tongue like a waterfall, flowing
majestically, until crashing into the jagged stones. But, just like
a waterfall, the water still exists. The boulders below aren’t
the end of the beauty. In fact, they are the beginning. Today,
all around the world, different young adults speak the same
words that I do. Some rush them, not stopping to live in the
moment, to fully appreciate the beauty that the words bring.
But I stretch out the words, soaking up the light that they
have brought into my life. They linger within my heart.

For a moment, I become those words. Their beauty en-
cases me, protecting me from harm. They wash away all bad
emotions, replacing them with joy and wonder. All my life I
have been waiting for this moment. I want to make it last.

My heart pounds. My hands move silently among the
ancient words of the Torah, while my voice sings them out.
“...‘‫’ּתכְרַ ֲא ֽ ַה ְו ְ֔ך ָל בטַי֣ ִ֙ין ַ֨עמַ ְל ְ֑ך ָל־חּ ַקּ ִת םי֖ ִּנ ָב ַה־ת ֶאו‬...”* noticing that I only
have a few words left, I decide to go out with a bang. Make

this moment one to remember. I belt my heart out into the
congregation. I feel lifted to the clouds, beyond the stained
glass windows. Nothing else in the world matters, just this
moment. With great power and grace, I chant the tune of the
final word of Ki Tetze* . I use every ounce of breath I have
to make the yamim last. Finally, I run out of breath. My voice
goes silent.

* . . .You shall send away the mother, and [then] you may
take the young for yourself, in order that it should be good
for you, and you should lengthen your days.

* This week’s Torah Portion

15

MARTHA QUIRIE

The Box of Denial

Mask the quiet stranger
Cover her face in withered time
Bury her in a box of denial
Murmur silent eulogies
Tangle the box in dirt
Leave her there for immortality to take over
Imagine the velvet grip of death
16

Martha Quirie is a 12-year-old girl who lives in a small town in Marin. She loves
math, swimming, and most definitely reading.

SARAH FAZIO

Chicago Angels 17

The man painted a beautiful picture, one with seemingly
endless fields of golden crops, with little outcrops of red
poppies scattered around the page. He crafted a beautiful
royal blue sky, the color of his eyes. His brush moved like the
wind, swift and purposefully. In his deep voice he said, “Deli-
lah, can you hand me the yellow?” The memory was faded
and the painting was gone, so I only remembered a few
details. I knew the man. The man knew me. The man was my
father.


The bus pulled up to the curb as the metal door swung
open to let me in. I climbed in nervously. I paid my fee and
found an empty seat. I’d never ridden the bus, being from a
farm in the middle of Iowa. Chicago’s endless rows of sky-
scrapers were a stark difference from the rows of corn and
green fields I used to see everyday. Chicago was so teeming
with life compared to my town of 200, where everyone knew
everyone, and where the way of life was slow.
We’d picked up our bags and moved here because my
mom had gotten a new job. She said it had better pay, and
our family of 4 really needed that, because she was a single
mom. I hadn’t wanted to move, because I didn’t want to leave
my friends, but it had been tough ever since my dad disap-
peared. One day I woke up and I couldn’t find him. I looked
all through the house, even the basement and the backyard
shed. I had asked my mom where he’d gone, but she said
she didn’t know. I believed her. They never fought, and they
always got along, so I didn’t think he’d left for someone else.
My dad didn’t come home, and I realized he never would.
As the weathered concrete buildings passed, I wondered
about Dad. Did he miss me? Was he okay? Why would Dad
leave, out of the blue, on that winter night when I was still

Sarah enjoys science and math. In her free time, she likes to run and play soccer
with her friends. She also plays the clarinet.

a little girl, without saying anything? Would I ever see him
again? These mysteries plagued me day and night.

The bus slowed to a stop at the convenience store,­ my
destination. The bus let out a sigh and the doors opened.
Grabbing my guitar, I stepped down the stairs and headed
towards the store, planning to buy some candy.

Walking towards the door, I noticed a homeless man
sitting up against a wall. For some reason, I felt compelled
to talk to him. Maybe because my family had gone through
tough times, too. His sea green eyes lit up like the stars when
he noticed me walking over to him.

“Hello, sir. How are you today?”
Wiping his nose on his tattered shirt, he said with a
wheeze, “Just doin’ what I can to survive on these streets,
child. What are you doing all alone?”
“Buying some candy at the store. These times been tough
on you?”
“Yep. I’ve been doing all I can to make money, even
started playing the saxophone again. In my heyday I was a
star!” his raspy voice said triumphantly.
“Oh, really? I play guitar. Do you wanna play some tunes?”
A wry smile spread across his worn face. He pulled his saxo-
18 phone out of his case, and I gave him the beat with my guitar.
His sweet jazz melody echoed against the buildings, making
the man seem larger than life.
After a little while, a small crowd formed around our little
duet. They clapped along to the beat. A few people turned
into several, then into many people, and before I knew it a
crowd of at least 30 people had gathered around us, all smil-
ing and enjoying the music. Nothing was quite like music in
bringing people together, which was shown by how the man
suddenly got up and started singing. His voice his soulful
voice had seen a thousand years pass.
As we wrapped up our impromptu concert and the peo-
ple dispersed, the man turned to face me. “I’m sorry. I forgot
to introduce myself. I’m Kent Hamilton,” he said, stretching
out his hand for a handshake.
Shaking his hand, I replied “Delilah. Delilah Wood.” He
looked shocked. “Oh my.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I believe I knew your father, Dan Wood.”

Yamini Malli (opposite page, “Pears”) is a seventh grader at Hopkins Junior High.
He loves to read, draw, play with friends, and paint.

“What?” I asked, shocked. “How did you know him?” 19
“Your father was kidnapped. So was I.” A pained expres-
sion fills Kent’s face. “They took us prisoner. They treated us
awfully. We became good friends.” We were both already in
tears. “One day, he tried to escape. They shot him.”
“Why should I believe you?” I said with despair, not want-
ing to believe this terrible lie. Without saying anything he
pulled out the painting, the painting Dad had so meticulously
crafted, showing it to me. I gasped.
“Because I have this painting. Your father managed to
grab it before the kidnappers got him. He kept it on his bed-
side table. He gave it to me, to give to you. I’ve been looking
for you ever since I escaped. They never caught the kidnap-
pers.”
I stood in shock. My dad, kidnapped? My dad, dead? I
took a seat on the cold, hard sidewalk, wrought with emotion.
For so long I’d wondered where my dad was, but now that I
actually had to face the fact that he was dead, a whole wave
of new feelings flooded over me. Confusion. Anger. Grief.
But there was also solace. Comfort that he’d thought of me.
That I still had a piece of who he was. I would never be con-
tent, but at least there would be peace in the war I’d had with
myself the last 8 years.
“What are the chances?” I mumbled.
The old man said, “You have an angel watching over you,
Delilah Wood.”

20

MARY WILKINSON

A Choice * 21

This story comes from a place that your mind, as well as
my own, cannot ever hope to comprehend. It is of unknown
origin and the route in which these words traveled to arrive
in the very pages of this book happens to intersect a briefly
blank corner of time.

The first character in our story happens to exist in ab-
sence of any conceivable name, but for the purposes of this
story will simply be called Jack.

Now, even in this bizarre gap of the unknown universe,
Jack ranks among the alienated. His face represents that of
all the collective rejects and outcasts you have encountered-
-those you will chance upon within your meaninglessly short
lifespan and those you shall never experience contact with.

This location has more than the tormented, estranged,
and trampled folk in relation with what we vaguely refer to
as “us”. The population colonizing this amorphous void also
bears the people that are domineering and callous. Types that
aid their crippling fears of unworthiness and their worries
of judgement by forcing a vulnerable individual such as Jack
through nothing less than excruciating abuse.We’ll call this
boy Ryan.

* SAY does not in any way endorse violence upon oneself or others. The opinions
and emotions presented in the following piece belong to the writer and in no way re-
flect the magazine’s values. The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in
this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons, places, buildings, and
products is intended or should be inferred.

Ishil Kukreja (opposite page, “As Night Comes”) is a 7th grader at Hopkins
Junior High School. He likes doing art, drama and band. He goes to an art class
where he learns to make these paintings.
Mary enjoys offbeat and plainly foul jokes, cartoons, and comics. She also
believes that it’s the little things in life that matter most, like thumbs and
chocolate milk.

Ryan doesn’t quite understand the true extent of the dam-
age he bestowed upon Jack day after day and gives very little
to no thought about Jack’s despair. In his misguided mind,
Ryan’s relationship with Jack remains nothing more than
amusement for himself and his peers, a way for him to blow
off some stream.

So Jack endures. He endures all the pain and injustice
Ryan inflicts upon him. Jack withstands the laughter and
humiliation, braving the terrible feeling that lurks in every inch
of his body throughout all hours and moments of his time, in
wake and sleep.

Standing in the frigid outer layers of society without
warmth or support, Jack struggles futilely with all his might
to attempt to convince himself that he can make it through
Ryan’s words and violent shoves. That the physical, emotional,
and mental bruises his being has slowly become immersed in
are bearable.

Trembling from the cold, or maybe the fear, Jack spots
something beginning to materialize by his shivering black and
blue toes.

It had a note attached to it, written in a fancy black ink
22 calligraphy that reads: Everything is a choice, and with this,

the choice is now yours to make.
Immediately, Jack knew exactly what the object was, but

he wanted absolutely nothing to do with it as it shone in what
little light available, flashing in all its wicked glory. He didn’t
care where it came from or how it got here; all Jack knew
was that he wanted it gone.

Jack tried to pick it up, but it seemed like it weighed
enough to rip his feeble arms straight out of their sockets.
After several minutes of grunting and sweating, Jack gave up
and let the darkness of sleep overtake him.

For many weeks after that night, Jack ignored the item
that teetered on the edge of existence and nothingness, his
home. To him, it was unthinkable to even consider using such
an atrocious item, for, though it would make Ryan disappear,
the repercussions the item would provide him would change
him forever.

Yet, one dark night, Jack found himself gazing upon the
item, licking his chapped lips nervously. On that particular
day, Ryan had been meaner, more violent, and left Jack all
the more damaged. As Jack reflected upon his treatment, he
knew that nothing had drastically changed from Ryan, but he
realized that something must have shifted within him. Why

else would he still be awake at this time? 23
For hours, Jack pondered, thought, considered, and

weighed his options as his thoughts drifted dangerously
closer to a unthinkable taboo. But, as Jack dared to imagine,
he soon found the item more and more alluring, irresistible to
the deep hunger haunting his mind. Suddenly, the unthinkable,
the forbidden and outrageous...it was all right there. It was all
possible in that very moment.

Jack reached out and felt his weary fingers clench the
bitingly cool metal of the item, and, to his surprise, the item
lifted off the ground with ease.

It knew Jack was ready and he could feel its malicious
grin spread wide and viciously. Although Jack knew that this
was impossible, he couldn’t deny how excited the item felt in
his grip and how powerful he felt with it in his possession.

Jack was scared, this time not from Ryan or the future,
but of himself. How eager he was to use such an item on an-
other person. He became petrified that he was going to love
the feeling of employing such insane measures.

The first few steps were as if sacks of bricks had been
attached to his feet, and it took all the willpower he was ca-
pable of wielding to inch himself along in Ryan’s direction.

Soon his legs were unburdened and he stood before
Ryan in a flash. Jack was frozen in front of him for a long
time, but, before he could process a thing, he found that it
was over before it even begun.

Now, reader, it’s up to you and your thoughts if Jack used
the item and find your own answer to these questions.

Did Jack’s fear win? Or was it his mercy that prevailed?
Does Ryan deserve this fate? And most importantly of all,
who are you? Are you Jack? Weak and cowardly. Either even-
tually succumbing to the most primitive urges in your mind
and finding the item in your hand, or simply lying upon the
loneliness being kicked senseless.

Or maybe, looking at yourself now, are you Ryan? Mind-
lessly cruel in a desperate effort to blend into the crowd of
your fellow conformists. So worried about how others think
of you that you inevitably lose yourself in the minds and eyes
of others, trying to impress people who are empty shells with
a face slapped on them.

But who really knows? Perhaps you are better than the
characters that are Ryan and Jack. The potential is certainly
there. So now, what will you do?

NURCAN SUMBUL

The Clutch of a Crook

Her scream sliced into my heart, shrilling through the
hallway where I was rushed out in the clutches of the crook’s
hands. Her slamming steps thumped against the wooden
floors. She screamed nonstop and yet the traitorous man ran
faster. I was losing everything so fast: my home, my love, my
life. As the man stuffed me into the depths of his black sack,
I screamed internally for the clock to go back to before this
nightmare.

I should have known that my perfect life would never
last. How could I ever believe that something like me could
ever stay so happy? Rewind back to yesterday, and I was the
happiest painting that could ever live. I hung on my favor-
24 ite spot in the world, the dining room wall of my woman’s
kitchen. I spent nearly all of my life hanging in this spot, and I
spent every minute happy, because I was with a human who
brought me ultimate joy. Our connection was unlike anything
any painting like me could dream of, which was why it hurt so
much when it broke.

I thought that when my owner first purchased and hung
me on her wall she created a caring bond between us that
could never be broken. I never expected that something like
a man would ever come between us. This woman I loved had
the heart to care about me, even though I was just one more
obscure painting in the art gallery. From the moment when
she professed her admiration for me, I promised to devote
myself to her eternally. She didn’t need to speak her care for
me, that’s the wonderful thing about emotion. I could just see
the words in her shiny, brown eyes, and her small, glittering
smile that has stayed imprinted in my vision ever since.

Emily Tankeh (opposite page, “Stapler Gun”) loves all mediums of art and en-
joys being on a competitive dance team. Her favorite subject is science and
she loves her adorable dog, Spritle!
Nurcan Sumbul is a theater-loving student at Central Middle School. She
enjoys laughing, Netflix, and food.

It was this human that gave me something to care about 25
in my dreary existence as a framed piece of canvas paper.
This human showed me what real emotion felt like. Being
an emotionless painting before I met her was so numb and
dreadful, filled with pointless and depressing memories. So,
I tried to never think of any memories before her. Thinking
about my life as an emotionless painting brought a funny
feeling of numbness and depression back to me, so I wanted
to steer clear of that. This rule was very hard for me, because
as a painting hanging on a wall your whole life, there’s not
much you can do except for think. Often times I wondered
how I could feel depressed about a life that I used to be
content with, but I realized that once I felt the emotions I had
been missing, I could never go back to living happily without
them again. My rightful place was among this human, caring
relentlessly for her. I was never content living without emo-
tion, I just never knew how incredible it felt.

Because my existence revolved around binging on
thoughts, I binged on this woman who filled my thoughts the
most. I watched her every day, finding her habits so interest-
ing and lively. I wondered about her life outside the dining
room. There were times that I wanted desperately to travel
outside my dining room habitat, but little did I know how

much I would hate the outside later.
Looking back, I should have seen it coming. Brown,
tousled hair with a crooked grin. A seemingly alienoid strang-
er in our house with my owner. He was essentially human.
He laughed when my owner laughed. He smiled, and talked.
But there was something missing from him. I knew what real
emotion felt like, and he did not posses any of it. His laughs
were hollow and his smiles sent chills up my wooden frame,
warning me even more that he was someone to be wary of.
I wondered if my owner noticed. She seemed oddly flushed
and sparkling, oblivious to my anxiety. Her vulnerable de-
meanor startled me more than anything else, and I began to
feel extremely protective of her. I wanted to do something
to stop this social exchange, yet I wasn’t sure why I felt this
way about him. I watched his graceful, seemingly practiced
movements as my insides trembled in anxiety. My owner was
talking, but I kept my eyes on the man, preparing to de-
fend her if he made any move. As he opened his mouth, the
question came into my mind, how would I even defend this
woman that I loved? He talked to her, his eyes looking her up
and down, and I realized that I couldn’t stop him from doing
anything while hanging on a wall.
26 His body shifted closer to her, and I bristled in shock. I

had to stop him, but I couldn’t move. Never before had my
spot on the wall seemed so outcast. He was only a few feet
away from me, but those feet might as well have been miles.
To my horror, his hands twitched, then started to reach for
hers. No. This couldn’t be happening. I scrambled my mind
in panic wondering what to do. How could I stop this man?
What can a painting do to stop a man? His hand neared closer
to hers. I needed to stop this man! I looked at my owner in
panic, and suddenly, my frantic train of thought speeded into
crash, leaving me in a heap at the ruins. If I had a heart that
could break, it would be shattered into a million pieces.
She was staring at him with the same glittering smile that
she gave me.
She looked at him deeply with her shining, brown eyes.
Slowly, he took her hand and smiled back.
NO! This couldn’t be real, I thought desperately. I wanted
to burst into tears and hide away. For the first time in my ex-
istence, I was doubting what I meant to her. What was I to her
if she looked the same way towards a stranger? That wicked,
terrible, fake man. What I felt for her was more real than any-
thing I’d ever felt before, and the idea that she, my longtime
love, didn’t feel the same for me drowned me in hopeless-

ness. They were holding on to each other, talking. It was as if 27
I didn’t exist.

It was truly as if I never meant anything to her.
They talked for so long it felt like hours. I was suffocat-
ing in silence, cowering in sadness. She didn’t hear my inter-
nal screaming, and she didn’t look at me at all. I wanted to
scream. I wanted to cry. I hung there for so long, watching
her denounce all her connection with me. I was terrorized
and shaken, but eventually I realized that nothing I could do
could stop him. I could only hang on the wall and wait for the
cruel man to leave.
Time passed. The lighting progressed from darker to
dark, and when they finally made goodbyes I was past the
phase of wallowing in my sadness, and I decided to sulk, not
caring if I was being self-pitying. The woman walked the man
out of the dining room out of my sight, and I felt a wave of
relief hearing the front door open and close shut. He was
gone. As I internally wept, I hoped she closed the door on his
toes. I didn’t even want to look at the woman as she crossed
through the dining room to go to her bedroom. I couldn’t
think about this right now. I just wanted to be alone.
Suddenly, my sulking was interrupted by a large “Creeak.”
My senses suddenly jolted awake. I bristled in anxiety, fearing
the front door had been opened. What was that? I thought.
Who could that be? I tried to glance through the archway that
led to the front door, but I couldn’t see anything. For a long
minute, there was silence. I began to wonder if I had imag-
ined it. I reassured myself that it was only my imagination and
went back to sulking. Everything was quiet. The room was
dark and quiet, without another soul in the room.
Another minute passed before a shadow darted across
the dark room. I gasped internally. Was that my imagination
too? No, something was here, I was certain of it. I scanned
the room and panicked when I caught sight of it’s long,
limber frame. Someone was here. My mind raced in hysteria.
We were having a break-in, and for the second time today
I was helpless! I wished someone would pinch me. I was
stunned with fear as the dark figure slowly tiptoed closer and
closer to me. What could it want with me, a despairing, help-
less painting? To my horror, the figure came up to me and
grabbed my wooden frame with it’s dirty, yellow nails. In the
near light, I saw it’s familiar face. It was the brown-haired man.
His hands grasped my sides, yanking me off my wall-hooks as
I went internally berserk. How could he be back? I thought in
disbelief. I realized as he tugged my last hook out of the wall

that this man was about to steal me from my own home. As if
stealing the love of my life wasn’t enough! I screamed inter-
nally. In an action too quick to process, he tucked me under
his arms and sped out the door.

I couldn’t kick, I couldn’t shout, and I couldn’t cry, but
I could pray with all my strength that this wasn’t real. So I
prayed with all I could, wishing someone would pinch me
from this nightmare. I wanted to call out for the woman so
badly. Screeches and emotions swirled through my mind
like a hurricane. The door to my home became smaller and
smaller as the man ran down farther and farther down the
long hall. Everything was going so fast. Suddenly, I heard
the piercing scream of the woman as she realized what had
happened, and it broke me to pieces. I had been yanked
away from my home, shoved in the knapsack of my enemy,
and stolen from the love of my life in a crook’s clutch, but it
wasn’t until I heard her screech that I realized I would never
feel happiness again.
28

Maya Hirano (opposite, “We Are the Future”) is a quizzical 8th grader at Central
Middle School who is convinced that her drawings will someday come to life and
haunt her dreams. In her spare time, she likes to draw, write, read, and prance
around the house for fun.

29

SOPHIE CATTALINI

Comfort in Us

“What time is it?” Brennan asks as he slumps into his
sleeping bag, ready to put the late night to an end. It’s pretty
late, or it feels like it, and we are all wondering what time it
is. Our parents had kicked us out of the tent, so tonight, we
sleep under the stars.

Before responding to my older brother I finish packing
away my skin care products, which I just used, and put on my
most loved beanie, pulling it down just above my eyebrows.
“I’m not sure. I turned my phone off on the way over here.”

We had just walked back from my parents’ tent, where we
had played cards and listened to music off of my phone. Not
everyone appreciated the songs, probably because I con-
30 stantly play them over and over. Dad claims they all sound the
same.

It was a short walk, only about five minutes, but a chal-
lenging one due to the various plants that reached out and
scratched our legs. My parents say that camping is important
for kids— sleeping under the stars and all. “Nature is good for
you. Rafting is a fun experience,” they’d say.

They dragged us on a two day rafting and camping trip
along the Middle Fork of the American River. My parents
take over the one tent we had, which was a six person tent,
claiming that it “doesn’t actually fit six people” and they “need
room for the bags.” I don’t believe it, though. Last time I was
in that tent, there was, in fact, six girls. And the bags— they
don’t really need to be in the tent, do they? I, for one, am
not particularly excited about sleeping outside. I’ve done it
before, only to realize that rocks stick out, prickling my back.
My brother doesn’t seem to be enjoying the sky, only fretting
about how he left his phone in the car, many miles away. Gabi
looks like she wants to sleep, but she usually looks like that
anyway. I couldn’t blame her for that. We spent all day rafting,

Sophie enjoys spending her time watching YouTube videos and listening to music.

and even more tomorrow. 31
I’m ready to put this splendid night to rest. I surprised

myself with how much I liked spending several hours with
my family on a raft. My family never gets along smoothly for
hours. I had expected tension today. Alas, I roll over on my
inflatable mattress, trying to hide from the wind. I am quietly
humming one of my new favorite songs, desperately trying
to get it out of my head.

Tucking her hands inside her jacket sleeves, Gabi tries to
pull her sleeping bag over herself. “Stop singing stupid Troye
Sivan music. He’s just another stupid Youtuber,” she harshly
whispers, clearly annoyed because I have been playing the
album nonstop since it came out.

“He’s not stupid. He makes really good music.” I say back,
trying to defend him. Anytime I express my passion and love
for anything about the internet, she shuts me down. It hurts to
know that your family hates something you love. I’m learn-
ing to not talk about it. Our relationship is better neutral than
negative.

Silence follows, occasional deep breaths here and there.
I can hear my sister and brother toss and turn on their yoga
mats. The ground is hard and covered with rocks, leaving
them with inevitable back pain tomorrow morning. It must be
near forty degrees because it’s too cold not to be wrapped in
several jackets, beanies and socks. The wind nips at my face,
leaving a constant sting. No doubt that my face is bright red.

Of course the idiocy of my siblings had to tag along
with them on this trip, leading to my brother borrowing my
favorite sweatpants that spell ‘HATERS BACK OFF’ across the
butt. I don’t understand how he forgets pants. It’s a comedic
sight when your older brother is wearing sweatpants that you
adore. I’m not sure what, but something about makes it seem
ridiculous.

We could hear the river several feet away from us flow-
ing calmly, leaves and branches delicately floating on the
water. There are trees and bushes rustling in the wind. The
sand beneath us stirred every time we moved. As the wind
picks up, dust flies above us, whirling around before being
inhaled. The silence is soothing, as if time stopped, leaving us
in the moment. The clear sky left an array of the thousands of
stars for our eyes to take in. The lack of tree branches above
us allowed a full spectrum of the lights to shine. It is funny
how scary nature is. Nature is powerful enough to harm you,
but it could also fill you with such bliss. It had always crossed
my mind how we look at stars that are too far of a distance

to even comprehend. The sky seemed to stretch so far out-
ward, appearing as a dome. The sky looks fake. It’s far more
brighter than I imagined. Stars seem to stretch out farther,
connecting the dots in a display of beams. I don’t think any of
us actually had experienced the stars like this, not talking, but
just simply enjoying the beauty in nature itself.

Despite my aching muscles and burned legs from the
rafting several hours before, combined with the late hour
it has to be, I’m not tired. But I’m not fully awake either, it’s
as if I’m in a state of awe and satisfaction. I don’t want to
sleep, anyway. I wish I could just stay in moment, enjoying the
company of my siblings, the sky, and the warmth of the hugs
from all the layers I am wearing. I hate to admit it, but the
moment of just being with my siblings was something that I
never knew. Before this, there was plain bitterness from all of
us. My brother’s school and social life, combined with my life,
never allowed us to spend time together other than a ques-
tion here and there about missing earphones. I never knew
what it was like to have a good relationship with him, to actu-
ally know him. Now that I am here, I don’t want to leave.

Interrupting the steady breaths and the river nearby, a
not-so-quiet whisper from my sister says, “Oh my god! Did
32 you see that shooting star?” I never would have expected
Gabi to be so excited to see one. Usually she’s zoning out, a
laid-back kind of person.

For some unknown reason, this sparks a conversation.
“Yeah. There are so many stars out.” My brother, Brennan,
says. He never was the one to talk about nature. Usually, if he

would talk about how he’s going to be a famous singer and 33
actor one day or ranting about a dumb decision a celebrity
made.

“Nothing like San Carlos.”I hoist myself up on my elbows.
I turn to look at my siblings, both barely visible. Gabi is tightly
wrapped in her sleeping bag, head and neck perked up look-
ing at my brother. Her hands seem to be tightly gripping the
sleeping bag, trying to keep any warmth left in there. Bren-
nan is sprawled out, hands resting under his head. He seems
oddly comfortable, despite his lack of jacket and the extreme
temperature.

Silence falls upon us momentarily. Our happy trio just a
moment closer to sleep.

I turn on my side. “I think it’s unfair that Mom and Dad get
the tent. We’re here to freeze to death without one.”

“I don’t know, this is pretty cool. We never get to do this.”
Brennan counters. He does have a point. The only other time
I’ve done this was at Girl Scout camp, but it could never com-
pare to this. There, I was sharing the moment with people I’d
just met a few days before hand. Now, I get to share a mi-
raculous moment with people I’ve known for my whole life. I
love how the feeling of trust can comfort you, make the set-
ting you’re in feel like home. The mellow river gently rolls in
the background. Our voices put me at ease. I worry that I am
going to say something embarrassing, something that could
mess everything up. I speak with a sense of excitement. My
voice shakes ever so slightly. The nerves build up, anxiously
waiting until I say something wrong. I’m not sure why I am

nervous. I don’t want to ruin the best conversation I’ve had
with them. I could potentially end the night, leaving us to fall
asleep in an awkward silence. How could I ever live with that?
It’s almost nostalgic, this moment. We used to get along
when we were younger, play at family reunions. Goofing off
and being children was so nice. Why did it have to stop? At
least I can finally drop all my stress about the world around
us, and just talk with a new level of trust between my brother,
sister, and I.
I never knew my brother had much concern for us. He
keeps talking about the best high school class course to take.
It’s all so confusing, I don’t understand the flexibility of it all.
He really is a different character tonight. He always seems
so closed off, serious and bitter. Brennan never talks to us. It
seems like he never comes out of his room at home, other
than his job. The joy radiating from him is almost overwhelm-
ing. He is quite animated considering we are lying down and
it’s probably close or passed midnight.
For now, our relationship is at its best. The comfortability
and trust is the only thing that matters tonight. Not the rafting,
the cards and music, not the cold. I wouldn’t trade it for the
world. It’s amazing how much your perspective of a person
34 can change in only minutes.

Mila Sheng (previous page, “Snacks”) is an eighth grade student who loves ex-
pressing herself through art and music. She also enjoys traveling to foreign coun-
tries and hanging out with friends.

MAYA HIRANO

Crocodile Tears 35

August 21, 2015: William Matsuoka Hirano commits sui-
cide.
Dead. Hung himself. Depressed for how long? Leaving behind
a mourning family...

I can almost hear them, almost as real as the hushed
whispers filling the large house, words of consolation, shared
memories. And yet, despite the facts dangling right in front
of their faces, not a single person present at his memorial
says the words. It’s as if I am the only person to admit that
my brother is actually dead, the only person out of my entire
family to be able to describe how he really died. Suicide is
never mentioned. From my shadowed, unnoticed corner in
the living room, I don’t hear the word gone either.

Somehow, the past tense is avoided as well. I don’t catch
a single person say, “He loved to draw, his pictures were
splendid!” I only hear how he loves talking with Grandpa, play-
ing with little cousin Kiku. It sickens me, fills my mouth with
a tangy, rusty bile that almost tastes like blood. Why couldn’t
they accept that he was finally gone? Their nearly childish
ignorance makes my stomach clench with an unknown fear,
as if I am going into battle.

I can imagine it in my mind far too well, almost like an
actual memory. I am the last one standing in a barren, dusty
land. Battlew­ orn, sturdy armor protecting me from all pain,
fists clenched with determination. My dark, weary eyes nar-
rowed behind that familiar curtain of ebony hair. And most of
all, the fear--those invisible, tight, nervous thoughts that I will
not survive this battle, that I will join the ranks of the fallen,
that I wouldn’t be strong enough to make it through a single,

Maya is a quizzical 8th grader at Central Middle School who is convinced that her
drawings will someday come to life and haunt her dreams. In her spare time, she
likes to draw, write, read, and prance around the house for fun.

fateful day. It seems that one battle is never enough, as I have
returned again and again to that desert.

My attention is drawn out of my thoughts as Grandpa
Thomas, standing in front of the television, begins his speech.
His bones are weary; he leans against a chair for support. I
wonder if he is strong enough to bear the weight of all this
pain too. “As you know, William Matsuoka Hirano has passed
on to a better place. We are all going to miss him so much.
We do miss him right now. But I know one thing. He is right
here, in our hearts, to guide us through times of sorrow and
happiness alike. And I will someday join him too. We will talk
like we once did before. We will once again be reunited as
Grandfather and Grandson. We will never lose a moment of
the time that has been pulled out of our grasp now. We will
become alive again.”

The words flow from Grandpa, soon coming easier.
Memories begin spilling into the room like a waterfall. I feel
like a crocodile, watching the Nile River rush past me, head
ducked under the water, unseen and silent. I watch as a herd
of antelopes cross the river. Their hoofs churn the water,
trying so hard to reach dry land once again, to recover what
they once had, forcing their heads above the water as I
36 plunge myself into it. The united. The solitary. Both feel the
strength of the river, but only one accepts it. Which one is
stronger? Who knows.

From my corner in the living room, I examine every-
one’s faces. Some bite their lips. Others wipe eyes tight with
emotions. Some let the tears fall freely. The smaller children
began to sniffle at the sight of their parents breaking down.
The family mourns as one.

Yet, I feel detached from all of it. This aura that sepa-
rates me from the rest of my family, this corner of solitude I
wedge myself into, they are the form of the world I wish for,
because maybe if I forget all this pain and sorrow, then per-
haps I can finally find my real self. Even all my memories with
the people I love, the memories my entire life relies on, seem
like lonely illusions, as if I had memorized them from watch-
ing a video. They feel lifeless.

My eyes cast upwards at the sight of my parents shuf-
fling towards me, hunched backs, tightly gripping one an-
other, as if they would be blown over if a single breeze swept
through. Mom reaches out her hand, begging for me to join
our torn family’s mourning. I simply turn my head away, my
face hidden by my long curtain of hair pulled closed. It is the
end of the show, and nobody is going to come out and bow

to the audience. When my mother’s hand brushes against my
folded arms, I quickly shake her off and murmur, “No thank
you,” unable to put my torn emotions into words. I begin to
walk away, not strong enough to look back to their pleading,
broken eyes.

Solitude. The path I had chosen. William chose it too. He
made the journey along this worn path alone, with nothing
but himself and the strength to keep going, hoping to finally
come upon the light at the end. I had heard his voice, urging
me to follow him, and believed it with a horribly cold expres-
sion. Even now, he’s standing on the bank of this river, watch-
ing the antelopes struggle across, and I swear an indifferent
smile is on his face, even if I’m too far away to tell for sure.
I am tempted to crawl up from the depth of this water and
join him, because if I did, I wouldn’t have to worry about the
difficulties of the river. If I could finally find myself, find the
real self that could truly live, then maybe I could return home
again. Alas, this twisted world won’t let us do much of any-
thing else other than to cry crocodile tears.

37

38

NATALIE BEIER

Crooked Wings 39

I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
Piles of paper surround me, enclosing me. I am suffocat-
ing, too stressed. My breath comes in shaky gasps. The world
becomes blotchy. My muscles tense as black clouds obscure
my vision. I must study for the exams! If I don’t study, I will
fail the test, and flunk the class, and not get into a good col-
lege and...and—Mackenzie get a grip! I rub my aching head,
massaging my temples. Rotating my shoulders backwards, I
inhale deeply.
Tenth grade high school textbooks are open and spread
across my desk. Crumpled-up binder paper has been care-
lessly strewn across the floor. I pick up my sharpened pencil,
loathing the work ahead. This is too much.
“Mackenzie, I’m going downtown. Keep an eye on your
sister, will you?” My mom hollers from up the stairs.
Great. Just what I needed.
“Okay, mom,” I yell back, barely registering the front door
slamming, and the rev of a car engine.
Math problems fly through my brain as I scan over the
textbook’s review quiz. A variety of symbols, variables, and
complex equations stare back at me. They wait patiently to be
solved.
I don’t care what x is. But I have to study!
I can’t do this. Yes you can! No I can’t.
My eyes well up with tears. Unable to contain my feelings,
I stumble across the room. I faceplant into my bed, welcom-
ing the soft comforter. I mash my head between my pillows

Natalie is an eighth grader at Central Middle School. She is known by many
of her friends as “that girl who takes too many photos”. In her free time you
may find her having artsy photoshoots, reading Harry Potter, drawing, writing
creative stories, and playing viola. When she grows up she hopes to become
a writer or an illustrator so she can share her creative abilities with the world.
Ashley Guo (opposite page, “Stills”) is a 8th grader at JLS who loves to read
and write. She enjoys competitive swimming at PASA, playing the piano, and
dancing ballet.

as tears begin to stream down my face. A great sob racks my
body, rattling me to the core.

The sound of hinges creaking stops me. Tiny footsteps
on the carpet make their way towards my bed.

“Mackenzie, can you play with me?” Hattie, my little sister,
says as she begins to repetitively poke me with her pudgy
finger.

I lift my head slightly from my pillow, sniffle and glare
at her. Placed precariously on her head, between two bushy
blonde pigtails, is a dreadful sparkly tiara. Glitter-covered,
cardboard fairy wings stick out crookedly from her back.

She makes puppy dog eyes, “Pwease?”
Giggling to herself she turns her back. A few seconds
later she turns around, a wide toothless grin spreading across
her face.
“Daisy wants to invite you to our Fairy Salon!”
Oh joy. Hattie must be insane if not at least missing a
few brain cells. This is the fifth time, this week, that Daisy, the
“fairy queen”, has invited me to their Fairy Salon.
“No, Hattie, can’t you see I’m a little busy?” I gesture
vaguely towards my overcrowded desk. “I have at least three
more hours of homework left.”
40 “But...but...but...it won’t take that long.” She bats her eye-
lashes, trying a different approach at persuasion.
“Fine. Fine. Only ‘cause Mom is gone...”
And I don’t want to repeat what happened last time when
you jumped off a tree believing that your flimsy wings would
make you fly. Maybe, if I play with her for just a bit, she will
leave me alone.
I get up grudgingly and follow as Hattie pulls me down
the hall. She stops me in front of her door.
“Are you ready?” She asks bouncing up and down on her
toes giddy with excitement.
“Okay.” I say to her, a faint smile flickering across my
face.
What in the world have I gotten myself into.
Hattie ceremoniously flies the door open.
“Ta­da! Welcome to the Fairy Salon,” Hattie says gesturing
around. Her room doesn’t look that different, same old pink
comforter, fluffy rug, and Barbie house in the corner. I glance
upwards. Twinkling butterflies hang from the ceiling. Their iri-
descent wings create rainbows against Hattie’s wall. A single
chair sits facing the window. Below it is a basket of multicol-
ored clips, a brush, a spray bottle filled with a gooey concoc-
tion, a bedazzled handheld mirror, and child safety scissors.

My stomach flips. If she chops of all my hair I will kill her. 41
I walk hesitantly forward, careful not to step on the plas-

tic dolls that litter the floor.
Patting the soft cushion on the chair Hattie says, “Come

in, sit down, sit down. You are our first customer!”
Plopping myself onto the chair, I shudder.
“Hattie can we make this quick? I still have to study.” I say

eyeing the scissors nervously.
“Of course, anything for you madam. Now relax. I will

tell you the legend of.... What do you think Daisy?” She stops,
turns around, and whispers to her imaginary friend.

Turning back she says, “Daisy and I have decided on tell-
ing you the legend of ‘The Lost Fairy Princess’ while you are
in the Fairy Salon.”

This will be so fun. Not.
Hattie picks her tool of choice, a basic brush.
Well, a brush can’t do that much damage can it?
I cross my fingers and squint my eyes shut.
I tense in pain as the brush bristles are yanked through
my hair. She presses harder into my skull, leaving my scalp
numb.
“Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful fairy.” Hat-
tie begins as another brush stroke pulls through my knotted
locks.
“Her name was Rose, and she had red hair! Kinda like
yours Mackenzie!”
I roll my eyes. My hair is blonde.
Brush, yank, pull, wince.
“Rose lived in the magical fairy kingdom of Windy Glen...”
How can she still believe in fairies? I thought by the age
of six she would be old enough to realize they are made up.
But nooooooo. I begin to zone out. Brilliant flowers in full
bloom shine back at me from behind the glass.
Even the flowers look happier than me. My eyes glaze
over. The assortments of colors slowly blur into a rainbow
mesh.
Suddenly a flutter of movement catches my eye. I jerk my
head, the brush ripping out strands of my hair. Scrunching my
nose up in agony, I continue searching. I swear something just
moved in the flowerbed. My ears ring with the sound of bub-
bling laughter, like bells. I squint.
A flash of glitter, and a swatch of purple. My breath
catches in my throat. Could it be? A fairy?
An old cat emerges licking its chops. It’s orange fur is
matted with clumps of dirt, but it looks unfazed. He settles

himself onto the soil fluffing out his tail. Opening his mouth
into a bored yawn, he flashes me his sharp feline teeth. He
licks his paw, rubs his ear, and closes his eyes.

Wow. How could I have been so stupid to think that was
a fairy. They aren’t real! I snorted realizing how dumb my
excitement was.

“And then Rose had to cross the sacred river of... What’s
so funny?” Hattie’s voice snaps me out of my head. She walks
around the chair to face me, hands on her hips.

“I was trying to tell a story!”
“Oh sorry! It was nothing really. Please continue with your
story.” I flash her a genuine smile, something very rare in me
nowadays.
“It took Rose two weeks to cross the River of Sparkles in
her lily pad boat but she succeeded....”
I wish I could be Hattie. So naive and innocent, with not a
care in the world. She does not know the stresses of grow-
ing up. She doesn’t have homework, school stress, friendship
troubles, or anxiety. For her, life seems perfect.
I spent the next 30 minutes learning about the River of
Sparkles, Lake of Dreams, and the many adventures Rose
undertook in order to find her way home. I realized that I
42 was most relaxed around Hattie. She cheers me up, calms me
down, and makes me forget about the stresses of my normal
life. Even though my hair did look crazy afterwards, I have
never smiled more. Hattie’s wings may be crooked, but she
can still fly.

ISABELLA YU

The Crows 43

Cassie Ravel pedaled furiously through the silvery sheets
of rain, screaming curse words in her head every few sec-
onds. Going to the school dance by bike turned out to be a
bad idea, even if she only lived half a mile away. Her parents
still didn’t trust her to give her a phone for these situations,
even if she was an eighth grader. Her bike was splashed with
unrecognizable brown goop and her white dress was soaked
through with rainwater. Well, she could say in her defense
that she hadn’t checked the weather forecast. It was May, and
with the drought, she hadn’t expected a molecule of water to
fall from the sky. But her mom was still going to kill her when
she got home.

One... more... block! She could do it! Cassie saw the tree-
lined hill up ahead get closer and closer, and she pounded her
feet against the pedals. She’d read somewhere that biking fast
through the rain got you wetter, but she longed for her cozy
room on the second floor, which was stacked with books
and endorphin-boosting boxes of chocolate. The thought
propelled her up the steep slope and a rush of exhilaration
flooded her head when saw the top. She loved the ups and
downs of San Francisco, but the logical corner of her brain
screamed that her adrenaline-junkie self would someday
regret it.

As Cassie rocketed to the top of the hill, she knew she
was going too fast. The ride down was going to be rough.
Blaring warning signs flashed in her head as she glanced
down at the dizzying drop for half a millisecond before
plunging down.

Cassie’s sopping brown hair flew out from behind her
like it was going to rip out of her scalp as her bike catapulted
through the air, bouncing off loose bits of gravel. She loved

Isabella is an eighth-grader at JLS Middle school. She enjoys playing the piano,
writing, reading, and drawing.

the exhilaration of speeding down a hill, but her bike was fly-
ing through the air every few seconds and she was slightly
worried about getting a major injury.

Suddenly, a tree branch above Cassie rustled and what
looked like a small bird hurtled from it, making a pitiful war-
bling sound. It plummeted to the asphalt at the base of the
slope, landing with a croak and a dull thump. Cassie flinched
and released her hold on the handlebars momentarily, but
that was all it took for the bike to go wild like an uncaged
beast. Before she could scream, it bounced into the air and
and landed on the bird’s body with a sickening crunch.

Cassie gasped and fell off her bike on her side, hitting the
asphalt on her elbow before her bike flopped on top of her
like a dying elephant. Shocks of pain resonated in both shoul-
ders, causing her to groan as she slapped her bike away and
got up. Though her shoulder screamed in pain, she ignored
the giant scrape on it. She needed to get back home, fast.
Then she remembered something. The bird!

She pushed the front wheel of her bike away and peered
down at the broken body underneath. The darkness of the
storm shrouded it in shadows, but Cassie could tell it was a
nestling, with dark feathers poking out from its naked skin.
44 Perhaps a crow. A dark dribble of rain - or was it blood? - ran
down its white eye. It was blind, but the eye was staring omi-
nously into Cassie’s own brown ones.

The crow was still clinging to life, but Cassie could tell
it was going to die soon. It let out a dry croak, its tiny body
heaving with coughs. And then it lay still. The crow’s white eye
stared unblinkingly at her.

Guilt wracked her shivering body. The baby had fallen
from its nest, but she had caused it to die. She had given
it more pain than it needed. Cassie thought of crying as a
weakness, but a single, unbidden tear leaked from her eye,
mixing with the rain on her face. She gingerly righted her bike
and pedaled home, trying to keep the dead crow as far away
from her as possible. But her repentant thoughts tortured her
again as two mournful caws emanated from the hill behind
her.

Cassie’s prediction about her mother was right. The mo-
ment she stepped into her living room, dripping all over the
carpet, her mom flipped out and sent her to her room to
wring herself dry. That was a rather mild reaction for a thir-
teen-year-old girl’s stubborn mother, whom Cassie’s friends
called “The Nazi.”

The time was 10:13 p.m. Cassie was toweling her hair, 45
wondering if the two caws she’d heard were the dead baby
crow’s parents mourning their loss. Hopefully, they didn’t
know she’d aided its death, and if they did, she hoped they
wouldn’t come after her seeking vengeance.

What? Come after her? Cassie frowned at her paranoid
thoughts. Crows were intelligent animals who could recog-
nize different humans and seek revenge on them, but they
wouldn’t follow her home, would they?

Just then, the rain just... stopped. Like someone pressed
the “off” button in the clouds. Cassie looked out her bed-
room window, and she could see the blood moon astrono-
mers had predicted would appear that night. It was barely
visible through the clouds, but its dark red hue sent a chill of
foreboding crawling up her spine. It reminded her of the trail
of blood dribbling from the crow’s sightless eye.

Cassie sighed, dismissing her hounded thoughts, and
went into her closet to retrieve her pajamas.

Just then, a light tap reverberated from her window.
Cassie’s eyes darted towards it, but only saw the red
fence lining her backyard. It was probably a stupid bug. She
continued rifling through her closet.
Another tap. This time, on the other window.
Cassie narrowed her eyes at it. There was nothing there.
It was probably just a team bugs suiciding on her window. But
it didn’t hurt to check.
She peered at the window, and seeing no squashed insect
on it, she slid it wide open and looked down. All she saw was
dry, drought-thirsted grass. It must’ve fallen down. Just a stu-
pid, nearsighted bug.
Something coarse brushed her arm.
Cassie gasped and jumped half a foot into the air while
whipping her head to her right. There’s something in here, her
thoughts whispered, though there was nothing where she felt
something brush her arm, only her littered desk. Adrenaline
immediately started coursing through her veins, and though
she loved that feeling, her hands were shaking with paranoia.
I need to tell Mom. But first, find out what it is. She
groped for the lamp switch on her table and dim orange light
sputtered into the room. She looked at the windowsill, and
seeing nothing there, she checked all four corners of her
room. Still nothing. She started to go back to her closet.
Wings flapped behind her.
Cassie emitted a strangled gasp and backed away until
her calves slammed into her desk. A black, moving thing was

on her bed. Her eyes went blurry with fear. She calmed her
thoughts and realized it was a large crow staring innocently
at her.

Oh shoot, it probably got in here when I opened the win-
dow. It was the thing that had brushed her arm. But that didn’t
explain how it was moving around without Cassie seeing or
hearing it. Like a ghost. Slightly annoyed, she walked up to it
and tried to shoo it back out.

“Get off my bed and go outside! It isn’t raining anymore!”
she whispered, waving her arms. The bird cocked its head.

It was then when she remembered about crows seek-
ing vengeance on humans. It may have been one of the baby
crow’s parents. Cassie tried to be gentler with the crow, but it
still didn’t want to move off her bed unless she carried it out
the window. But she didn’t want to touch it and get sick.

The sound of a lock turning made startled her from the
crow. Her dad was a paramedic and he usually wasn’t back
home until midnight, but the earlier the better. She was just
about to walk down to the living room to greet him when the
sound of flapping wings echoed up the stairs and into the
hallway of the second floor.

What? Is that the baby crow’s other parent? How did it
46 get in? Cassie froze in her steps. Did it pick the lock of the

front door with its beak? She wavered near the door, uncer-
tain about which crow to deal with. Cassie looked back at the
one on her bed. It seemed to have perked up upon hearing its
mate come in, and was staring at her with new intensity. She
didn’t want to leave it alone in here.

Her mom’s bedroom door creaked open and Cassie
heard claws clicking against the floor, one agonizing step at a
time. A soft caw emanated from the room.

Then it stopped walking. Her mom mumbled sleepily.
Before Cassie could open the door, her mother
screamed like a tortured prisoner as the sound of ripping
flesh gurgled in her room.
“Mom!” Cassie cried. She grabbed her pencil sharpening
knife from her desk and rocketed out of her room, slam-
ming the door behind her. She flicked the light switch on and
screeched. The blankets had been flung from her mother’s
body, and underneath it, her mom’s neck was cut cleanly with
a red line of blood. Her eyes had been plucked out, and she
was sitting up with her mouth open impossibly wide, as if she
wanted to suck Cassie into her corpse. The murderer was
nowhere to be seen, as was the crow.
Cassie held a hand to her mouth and backed out of the

room, tears streaming down her face. She picked up her 47
mom’s phone on her bedside table and dialed the San Fran-
cisco Police Department. She would find the killer and make
them pay. If not today, someday.

After a few dial tones, someone picked up. “What is the
nature of your emergency?” asked a bored voice on the
other end.

Cassie tried not to sound too hysterical as she told them
about the situation and her address. She lived on the outskirts
of San Francisco, and it could take the police could take ten
minutes to drive here. The murderer might be anywhere in
her house.

She put down the phone and crept out the bedroom,
mentally urging the police to come faster. When she stepped
out into the hallway, she could see her door was slightly ajar.
Shivers wracked her spine. She’d closed it before going out.

Cassie raised her knife above her head before pushing
the door open. Everything was where she had left it, except
Cassie couldn’t help but feel like something was in there.
Then she realized the crow on her bed was gone.

Cassie turned her room upside down searching for it, but
it was nowhere to be seen. Well, the window was open, so it
might’ve gone out. But the door was also open, and it might
still be roaming around inside, along with the other crow. She
wasn’t taking chances.

After several heart-pounding minutes of scouring the
house, Cassie was positive both the murderer and the crows
weren’t inside, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t on high
alert when she came back to her room. With the knife still
clenched in her fist, she closed the door and window of her
room, letting nothing in or out.

She grasped the lamp switch with her sweaty fingers and
debated whether to turn it off. There might still be a murder-
er in the house, even if she searched everywhere. Before she
could decide, the lamp flickered and died.

Cassie clenched her fist around the knife and tried to
even out her breathing. She didn’t touch anything that would
make the lamp go out. It was something else.

A knock reverberated through the house, and rough voice
outside said, “This is the police.”

“Coming!” Cassie, still in her half-dry white dress, ran to
the door, but something sharp dug into her arm.

She screamed and twisted around to see two crows cling-
ing onto her back, digging their beaks into her flesh. They had
been in her room all along! She was so, so stupid!

Cassie tried valiantly to fight them off with her knife, but
they impossibly lifted her into the air and threw her at the
wall. Pain ricocheted through her head and she slid down, the
knife falling from her hands. One the crows picked it up and
stabbed it into her thigh.

“HELP!” she screeched, hearing the police officers trying
to break down the door.

She tried to get up, but her stabbed leg crumpled beneath
her and she flung her arms in the air like a crazed octopus.
But the crow with the knife stabbed her arms and they fell
limp onto the ground. The crow parents were getting their
revenge.

The crow that had been in her mother’s room slowly
walked up to her until its beak was an inch from her nose. It
was the crow that had murdered her mother! She screamed
at it, but it was as undaunted as ever when it cocked its head
to the side, as if in amusement. It was then when Cassie no-
ticed that its right eye was white. Blind.

That was the last thing she saw before it plucked out her
eyeballs.

48 The girl screamed like a banshee when Papa Crow ripped
out her eyes and ate them, but it was nothing compared to
the joy he had when he drove his beak into her neck, silenc-
ing her forever. This felt even better than when he’d killed the
girl’s mother. Mama Crow rattled her beak in approval as they
feasted on her. This was her rightful punishment for killing
their beloved daughter.
The loud humans outside had finally gotten into the
house and started searching for the crows. Papa Crow had
just finished pecking out one of her toes when the door
flung open and a barrel-chested man came in. He shouted
something and tried to grab the crows with his ham-like fists,
but they were much faster than him, and they had already
opened the window with their beaks and flown away before
he could blink. Mama Crow cawed indignantly back at the
man and headed towards their now empty nest. Papa Crow
told her to calm down. They didn’t need to cause more dis-
ruption than needed.
But the night was worth it. There was still a sliver of eye-
ball in Papa Crow’s beak, and he flipped it around his tongue
before swallowing it whole. He loved its taste.
It was the sweet taste of revenge.

LUCAS HUANG

A Crow’s Funeral 49

Cold. Freezing cold. I twisted and turned. Still cold. I
opened my eyes and found myself staring out the window.
The rest of my family had gone off to an important meeting.
They had said I was too young to go. Sometimes I feel like all
children, except me, grow up. I still believe in things that only
children believe, like talking animals, talking trees... I got up,
got dressed, and went downstairs. I decided to watch televi-
sion, like my family always does on a Sunday morning. I sat
down on the sofa, but something else caught my eye. A dead
crow, lying on the street. A sad, dead crow. I decided to bury
it. I took a small shovel and went outside. I heard a sad, hum-
ming sound as I got close. Guess he wasn’t dead after all. I
picked him up.

“Greetings, human,” someone said. I put the crow back
down on the ground and looked around, searching for the
man who spoke. Strangely, no one was around. I picked the
crow up again.

“Or, should I say hello.” I dropped the crow on the ground
with a start. It croaked. Did the crow talk? Did he talk? He
looked mad, and it also looked like he was trying to speak. I
picked him up again. “Is it just you, or are all human beings
stupid?” he asked. His blood was trickling onto the ground
from under his crumpled feathers. “What are you going to do
with me? Kill me? Like every stupid human kid wants to do? Is
that what the shovel is for?”

“I knew you animals could talk!” I shouted. I paused for a
moment, then continued. “Don’t you ever yell at me again, I’m
here to bury you, or else I’ll be watching TV!” I stared at him.
He stared back. Strangely, I saw wisdom in his dark eyes.

“Only us crows can speak the human tongue,” he said.
Then he began to cough. “Quick. Do what you want, human.

Lucas Huang is a boy, not very calm and clever, and from time to time he could
be lazy, but he will surprise you with his imagination and his strong will to learn.

My life is slipping through my claws.” I started walking, carry-
ing him in my right hand, holding the shovel in my left.

“Why aren’t you dead?” I asked. I was scared and I felt
dumb and helpless. We passed by houses. There was frost on
the lawns.

“We crows are not weak like you humans,” he said. “You
humans are careless and arrogant. We are not.”

“Who do you think you are? You do realize we are smart-
er than all the animals on Earth, including crows.”

“Lies. Lies, lies, lies,” he replied. “There’s no shame in me
being a crow. You should be ashamed.”

“But...”
“Quiet, human. I know you have questions. But let me
talk first, for my time is passing by.” I felt him shaking. “A
long time ago, a sculptor made statues out of his imagina-
tion. Statues of beautiful creatures. He went on and named
them, and spoke their nature unto them. The squirrel, curi-
ous and clumsy, has but one mood: joy. The dog is loyal, and
quite intelligent, but must always obey its master, even if its
master is a fool. And the humble crow, the only animal other
than man that could speak the human language. Finally, the
sculptor created man, arrogant, cunning, and a liar. The man
50 convinced himself that the sculptor didn’t exist, and started
to spread lies all over the world. Therefore, the sculptor hid
himself from all creatures, until their deaths, when he’ll ap-
pear to them to bring them to his hut. The man felt guilty for
what he did, so he blamed it on the crow. He claimed that the
crow lied with him. So the sculptor cursed the crow, so that
the crow could only speak upon contact with a human.”
We were about to cross a street when, suddenly, a red
sports car rushed by right in front of us.
“Evil machines,” croaked the crow. “Almost got me killed.”
“You got run over by a car?” I asked. “And you survived?”
“Is that what you called it? A car?” he asked. I nodded.
“I was too into the patterns on the ground. It ran over my
left wing.”
“And you call that smart?” I teased.
“Do you see any other animals eating themselves fat,
eating even when they are not hungry? Do they hunt for fun,
killing animals and putting their heads on display? No. Only hu-
mans do that. And you are the only human who’d spend time
burying a crow. Is that smart or dumb?” We both laughed.
“What about trees? Do they ever talk?” I asked.
“Trees,” he started, “the everyday giants, the patient ones.
No, they do not speak...”