Stanford Anthology For Youth: Volume 20

blankets counts. 101
This is his home.
As I clench my phone tightly in my palm, trying hard to

put it out of his sight, I realize my hands have turned to stone.
My guilt has left my hands immobile. My legs however, take
control and keep me moving. My pace is a little faster than
before, as I am determined to avoid eye contact. I feel his
eyes follow me. He knows that I pretend he’s not there. He
knows that’s what everyone does.

As I walk toward my comfortable and loving home, leav-
ing him behind, thoughts of his plight race around my head. I
wonder, what is his story? How did he get to this point? How
long has he been in this situation? Does he have a family?
Where can he turn to for help? Will he ever have a chance for
a life as blessed as mine?

With my head hung low and my eyes on the concrete
before me, I wonder what I could have done to help him. Why
didn’t I think to? Does the shiny curly brown-­haired lady have
more in her pocket to give than me? Or does she have more
in her heart to give?

I am suddenly jolted out of these thoughts by my iPhone,
this text stealing my attention away from all else that sur-
rounds me.

PALOMA BAUWENS

The Girl in the Mirror

“I’m afraid,” I told my mother as the car slowly stopped in
front of the hair salon. “I don’t want to go anymore.”

“It’s alright. I really think it would be best if we go now.
The more you wait, the harder it’ll be,” my mother answered.
I knew she was right, but I was still afraid. We stepped into the
salon. It was one of those fancy salons with the big reception
desk in the front and expensive chairs with large mirrors. We
had decided to go to this salon because it was recommended
in a brochure handed out by the doctors. Apparently, many
kids with cancer came here because they were “used to”
shaving hair off children.

A woman greeted us. “We are here for Paloma. We have
102 an appointment,” my mother said to the woman. I looked in

the mirror, knowing it would be the last time I’d see myself
with hair. I was losing my hair rapidly and I decided to shave it
off. I didn’t really want to, but seeing my hair slowly all disap-
pear was awful. It’s a feeling nobody deserves to experience.
Every day you see yourself, weakened by the treatment. I felt
like I was slowly falling apart. I know chemotherapy is sup-
posed to cure my cancer, but it felt like it was destroying me.

The woman spun me around so I wasn’t facing the mir-
ror. She took her scissors and quickly snipped off all my hair.
Then, she took an electric razor and started to shave my
head. I can’t describe the feeling. It’s too horrible to write in
words. The soft buzzing of the razor, the hair falling on your
lap, the feeling of the razor as it slowly makes its way around
your head – everything seems to last an eternity. I closed my
eyes and clenched the end of my dress. My mother saw that
I was trembling a little and took my hand. She smiled and told
me I was doing great.

Paloma was born in New York, but her childhood memories are scattered across
the globe. Argentina, Brazil, and Belgium are some of the countries she grew up in.
Almost four years ago, Paloma and her family moved to Palo Alto, where she now
attends J. L. Stanford Middle School as a 7th grader.

“Are you alright? Tell me if it hurts. Okay?” The woman 103
said as she continued to shave my hair off.

“Okay,” I answered. It hurt, but I didn’t want to tell her. I
wanted to get this over with. My scalp was extremely sensi-
tive because of the treatment so it felt as if she was cutting
my skin. I looked at my mother. “Is it almost over?” I whis-
pered to her.

My mother looked at me and nodded, “Almost. Just a little
bit left.” After what seemed like hours, she was done. She
turned the chair so I’d be facing the mirror. I slowly looked
up. I didn’t recognize the girl in the mirror. She wasn’t Paloma.
I felt a tear make its way down my cheek. And another. And
another. Soon, I was crying. “Can we go?” I asked my mother.
“Now.”

She nodded and I headed for the door. My mother turned
towards the woman to pay her but the woman insisted that
we don’t pay. So we left.

Before leaving, I looked one last time in the mirror and
saw a girl who was afraid. I was afraid of myself. Right then,
I was afraid of the girl in the mirror. And that girl was me.
My mother saw me looking and gave me a hug. “I still see
Paloma,” she said softly into my ear as if she’d read my mind.
I looked into the mirror again. I didn’t see Paloma —but a girl
who wasn’t afraid anymore. I saw a girl who’d just conquered
her fear. I smiled. Maybe I didn’t recognize myself, but I saw a
girl full of hope. A girl who knew that even though the jour-
ney ahead would be difficult, it would be alright. I hugged my
mother and we left. I quickly slipped into the car because I
didn’t want to be seen. I knew it would be difficult being bald,
but I also knew it would all grow back. I knew that one day I’d
look into the mirror and see Paloma again.

NAOMI BONEH

The Orphanage

“Alright, here you are.” The taxi driver grumbled as he
pulled up next to a large building. It looked a little out of
place, since there weren’t any other buildings around, just a
road and a forest nearby. The driver got out of the car and
started unloading my luggage. I followed him and stretched,
stiff after the long ride. Oddly, It felt like my parents had
been dead forever, even though they died yesterday and the
memory was as fresh as morning dew.

I remember how I biked home from another ordinary
day of seventh grade. I did my homework, and played video
games until I realized that it was almost 9:00pm, and my
parents still weren’t home. I heard the the doorbell ring and
104 opened to the door to see three police officers.

“Are you Aris?” one of them had asked me. I nodded,
bewildered.

“I’m sorry, but there was a accident on the freeway,” an-
other person said. “Your parents are gone.”

I didn’t cry like I thought I would; I stood there as still as a
stone while they told me they would send a guardian to stay
for the night, and tomorrow they would get me “situated.” I
went to bed hoping the whole thing was a dream, and it took
a long time to fall asleep.

The next morning, my parents were still gone. I mentally
reprimanded myself for thinking they would come back.
I made breakfast for myself, but poured it down the sink
because I wasn’t hungry. The guardian came and told me to
start packing my belongings. I nodded wordlessly. I had no
idea where I was going to go, so I packed anything I thought
was important. I brought all my clothes, some food, my
phone, my computer, cash, some books, other necessities,

Naomi is currently an enthusiastic 7th-grader at JLS Middle School. She enjoys
reading, writing, talking with her friends, going to Starbucks as often as possible,
playing Minecraft (multiplayer) with her pro younger brother, watching TV, and
‘wasting’ time on her computer and phone.

and pictures of me and my parents. I said goodbye to my 105
video games and walked to the doorway with my suitcase,
where I saw a taxi outside. I couldn’t believe I was leaving
so soon. Nevertheless, I followed the guardian outside and
climbed into the taxi as she put my suitcase into the trunk.
She said a few words to the driver.

“He’s going to the one near the forest. It’s the only place
available,” That was all I heard. The taxi driver nodded and off
we were, without the guardian even saying goodbye. The
car ride was silent. I spent most of my time thinking rewriting
my plans for my future and wondering where I was going to
go. Everything had gone by so fast yet it still seemed like my
parents had been dead for years. For lunch, the car stopped
to get gas and I ate the sandwich I packed, even though I still
wasn’t that hungry. In the evening, I read a book I had taken
from my suitcase at lunch. I was surprised the ride was so
long. A few hours later I was at my destination, whatever this
place was.

I stood in front of the building with my suitcase. The
taxi sped away, jolting me out of my thoughts. A cold wind
breezed past me, kissing my cheeks and making them grow
cold. In the night sky, a half moon shone into the forest be-
hind me. A sign on the building read “Davidson Orphanage.
Home of Life.” An orphanage. That’s where I was supposed to
go? Well, it was better than nothing. Nevertheless, I knocked
on the large door and waited. A few seconds later it was
opened by a boy with pale skin who looked about my age.

“Hi! I’m Logan. Welcome to the Davidson Orphanage,” the
boy said, grinning insanely wide.

“Uh...­I’m Aris,” I replied nervously. “Come in. I’ll get you
checked in and show you your room,” he said enthusiasti-
cally. “We were wondering when we would get a new person.
There are only about thirty of us.”

Only? I thought. Aren’t orphanages usually smaller? I
walked behind Logan in a narrow hallway. “So where’s the
headmaster-­leader-p­ rincipal-­person?” I asked, feeling stupid.
Logan frowned. “He’s...” he hesitated, then switched course.
“We don’t have one. I’m in charge,” he responded, regaining
his composure.

I didn’t entirely believe him, but I nodded anyway. We
walked down a long hallway. There was one large portrait
depicting a girl my age, although I didn’t know her from any-
where. The expression on her face wasn’t happy. In fact, her
whole face was grim, except the eyes. Her eyes showed fear.
A caption at the bottom said ‘Laura Carlin.’

“Who’s that?” I said, nodding toward the portrait.
“Oh, her,” Logan said. “She’s the only one we’ve ever had
to Turn. It was a while ago, and she’s long gone anyway. You
know, we all fade away eventually, and Turned ones always do
it earlier.”
“What do you mean ‘Turned?’”
“You know, when a real human ‘a.k.a.’ traitor accidentally
finds out about us, we have to Turn them.”
Wait? Human?!?!?! So what are these people? Are these
actually people? I’m a human! What might they do to me?
My thoughts were coming one after another, like how I felt a
day ago when my parents died. This was supposed to happen
in books! Not in reality, because reality doesn’t have happy
endings! I tried to stay calm and kept my face expressionless.
“Why do you hang her portrait if she’s a traitor?” I asked, will-
ing myself to keep my voice steady.
“Well, we caught her sneaking among us, and she’s one
of our accomplishments. It also reminds anyone what would
happen if they were a real human.”
“Oh,” I said in a small voice, and continued to stare at the
portrait. So the people here, or whatever they were, didn’t
hang this picture to honor her, they hung it to laugh at her.
106 There was a puzzle here, but I couldn’t solve it.
“So what’s your story?” Logan asked curiously, distract-
ing me from the portrait. I looked at him, my face blank. “You
don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” he added hur-
riedly. I said nothing, confused.
Logan led me to a room at the end of the hallway, which
I assumed was mine. I stepped inside and surveyed the room,
but there was only an empty wardrobe, a bare desk, and a
small bathroom. I put down my suitcase down.
“Why isn’t there a bed?”
Logan raised his eyebrows. “For sleep?”
“Um, yeah,”I replied, letting a bit of sarcasm into my
voice. Did these people not sleep or something?
“If you want a bed, we can get one from the storage
room and put it in,” he said. Was it me, or did he sound a bit
suspicious?
“Yeah, I would like that. I should go to sleep soon. It’s
late.” Even though I wasn’t tired, I fake yawned for emphasis,
wanting to be alone.

Kiana George (opposite page, “Seurafina”) is a curious 6th grader who enjoys
exploring her creativity through art, writing, and cooking. She also loves playing
basketball!

Logan looked even more startled. “Ok, but first come to
the Central Room so I can introduce you.”

Inside the Central Room, as Logan called it, was very
cozy. A fireplace burned in the corner, and plenty of people
milled around. They all looked around my age. Some were
playing games, while others were talking, and some people
were even watching TV. Most of the orphanages I had heard
of in books were small, gloomy, dark. This was almost the ex-
act opposite. The atmosphere was filled with excited chatter,
and even the building itself was modern and welcoming.

“Aris,” Logan started, leading me to a girl sitting on a
table, looking around the room. “This is Sheila. She’s the other
person in charge, although­”

“Hi!!!” Sheila said cheerfully, revealing her neon blue brac-
es. “What’s your name? I’m so glad we have another person.
Here, I’ll get everyone’s attention!”

“She’s usually not this peppy,” Logan muttered. Even
though I would have prefered to blend in for now, it was too
late. Sheila clapped her hands loudly, and everyone turned

107

108 to face her. The talking ceased, and the people paused what
they were doing.
“Guess what? We’ve got a new person!” Sheila yelled,
gesturing with her hands toward me. Everyone cheered.
Some people clapped and some whooped. Yep, complete op-
posite of the orphanages I’d heard about. Right now, I expect-
ed to still be sad about my parents’ death, but surprisingly
I wasn’t. Maybe it was just how everyone else was having a
good time. For some reason I felt like I could actually fit in
here, even though I had only arrived a few minutes ago.
I raised my hand uncertainly. “I’m Aris,” I squeaked, al-
though it came out sounding like a question. “Okay, can I go
now?” I hissed to Logan. He nodded and started leading me
out of room Several people high-f­ ived me or slapped me on
the back when I passed them.
Once we were near my room, Logan turned towards
me. “Sorry about Sheila. It’s just, we don’t get new people
that often, unlike the other places like us, so she tends to be
dramatic.”
I shrugged, not quite knowing what to say. “All right, I’ll
give you time to think. Goodnight, Aris.” Logan said.
“Bye.” I closed the door of my room and changed into
my pajamas. Not bothering to brush my teeth or unpack my

suitcase, I then lay in the newly installed bed, staring at the 109
ceiling. The kids at the orphanage seemed friendly enough,
despite the orphanage being a bit weird. I could still hear
them laughing in the Central Room. They must go to sleep
late, or, remembering the absence of a bed earlier, maybe
they didn’t sleep much. I sighed, trying not to think about the
mysterious portrait that I had to pass again in the hallway go-
ing to my room. It was hours until I fell into a dreamless sleep.

I woke up early, somewhere around 6:00am. I decided
not to change into my regular clothes and instead ambled
down the hallway. It was too early for breakfast, and I wasn’t
that hungry. Kids were talking in the Central Room. Did they
even go to sleep? I thought about how there wasn’t a bed in
my room at first. Maybe they didn’t. Huh. I walked past the
Central Room and through another hallway. I heard a pair of
voices, whispering.The sound was coming from a room with
a locked door. As any person would do, I pressed my ear
against the door and listened.

“Do you think he’s one of us?” It was Logan’s voice.
“What do you think?” Sheila was there too. They were
both talking in dark voices, completely different from the
ecstatic tones they were using yesterday.
I heard Logan sigh. “He doesn’t show any signs of be-
ing like us. In fact, he behaved like one of the others, and he
wouldn’t tell me how he died.”
“Yes, but if he ended up here he must be one of us.
Maybe he’s just shy, or misses the past. “Or maybe...” her
voice quieting. I strained to hear what she was saying. “Maybe
he doesn’t remember. Could be amnesia.”
“Unlikely. I could test him.”
“And if he’s not like us? Not a spirit?”
“Then we’ll make him one of us. We’ll Turn him. We’ve
done it before. Remember Laura? We can do it again.” Logan
said, now sounding sinister. I swallowed and ran back to my
room before I could hear anything else that would unnerve
me. Spirits? What was that all about? Were they talking about
me? They probably were. And what did Logan mean, ‘we can
do it again?’ And why did they mention Laura, that girl in the
portrait? Was I going to have the same fate as her? And what
did ‘Turning’ really mean? I had too many questions and not
enough answers. I was still pretty sure I was a human, and

Mila Sheng (opposite page, “Music to My Ears”) 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.

right here that was probably a bad thing for me. I lay on my
back on the bed, my arms stretched out, thinking about that
mysterious conversation. All of a sudden, I felt something
papery. I sat up.

Between the mattress and the bed frame, there was a
small blue notebook, like something you would get for a
dollar at the store. The notebook looked old, as if it had been
sitting there for years. I picked it up and blew the thick layer
of dust off. Then I flipped through the pages. All empty. Then
I flipped to the first page. There were several words, which
looked as if they had been written hurriedly. They looked a
little faded too. But it was what the words said that made a
chill run down my spine and the hairs on my neck rise.

“If you are reading this, run from the Davidson Orphan-
age immediately. Go anywhere and forget about this horrid
place. Don’t make the same mistake I did. Don’t bring your
future to an end. Don’t ask questions and don’t look back.”

And at the bottom of the page, there were small, very
faded words that seemed to whisper:


110 ‘They’re ghosts, all of them. They don’t sleep or eat.

They’re dead, just lost spirits floating around waiting to disap-
pear. It’s just illusions that make you believe they’re real. Run
away before you become one too. RUN. L­ aura Carlin, 1980’.

EVAN BIGGERS

A Guilty Conscience 111

You gruelingly fill out the answers of the seemingly end-
less test, giving a cautious glance to the pair of glasses that
overlook the lifeless, colorless cube that is the classroom
with disgust. The fingertips that grasp your pencil are begin-
ning to whiten and pale with tension and pressure as you pray
that your teacher does not catch you. You stayed up all last
night playing video games and texting, and you never wanted
or even tried to study for next morning’s big test. The dark
bags under your eyes give away your dysfunctional sleep
schedule. As you hope your teacher does not look this way in
the next moments, as you pull out the sheet of answers you
got from a friend in an earlier class period.

You just cannot help but to check if your teacher is
watching. As you give your teacher another stressed spin of
your head right in the teacher’s direction, and you meet eyes.
You pretend to not have seen your teacher, but you secretly
know what is to come, as you saw the final look on the
teacher’s face before you looked away. Wide-eyed. Looking
at your classmates, you casually pretend to be working hard
on your test. You stare directly across the table to the other
students too see if they are looking at you and have discov-
ered your secret. Thankfully, they are not looking at you, nor
the teacher, so the teacher must not be looking at you. Yet,
they have the most uncomforting expressions on their faces,
the usual frustrated or a panicked blank stare of confusion,
their sweating, wrinkled foreheads getting sore with pressure.
But, then you also spot faces that annoy you, the “Straight
A Students.” You watch as their pencils fly through the test
with ease, and they have a happy, relaxed expression. You are
angered that they do not struggle like you do and that you
cannot be like them. Then, the image hits you again, what you
saw on your teacher’s face. You can visualize the pair of eyes

Evan is an 8th grader at Central Middle School in San Carlos, California. He enjoys
writing and spending time with his friends.

behind the glasses worn by the teacher squint, then widen.
Quickly checking to see if all is calm, you look over to the
teacher for the last time, and you mean it this time! Unfortu-
nately, all is not calm. The teacher rises slowly, keeping her
eyes trained on you like a sniper as she stomps toward you,
slamming empty chairs sitting in the center of the aisle. As
she is approaching you, you hear her thundering call as she
comes stomping with unchallenged, determined strides. Your
mind fills with feelings of panic and stress, and your stomach
churns and deepens with the regret carried within your ac-
tions.You feel blood drain from your head and chest, going
down to your legs, yet you can feel your face sear with the
infamous blush that gives away any secret. You think about
running, getting away, escaping the pit of regret and such
idiotic decisions you’ve dug yourself into, wanting to wake up
from your actions and actually realize you cannot cheat your
way through life.

As you sit, frozen in fear like a statue, you go back and
forth with the ideas in your head, slowly forming more pan-
icked thoughts about what all your friends and classmates
will think, what your teacher will think, and especially what
your parents will think, unconsciously reflecting about how
112 you’re an awful person. You go off in a train of thoughts of
the worst scenarios as you spiral down into what feels like
insanity. Meanwhile, your teacher insistently barks at you, yell-
ing such statements as “You are in BIG trouble, mister!” and
“I guess we’ll have to see what your parents think of this!” but
you are not listening. You can only feel the cold disappoint-
ment in the stares from the bystanders watching through-
out the room. They sit in fear of what is to come when the
teacher concludes your punishment. This does not help you
to calm your uneasiness the least bit. You feel as if the room
is getting smaller and smaller and you are sitting in your
chair, your face is blank, pale with fear. You just can’t help it
anymore, with your tension and hatred of yourself, as you
view her, idiotic and annoying teacher, you shoot immense
amounts of force into your palms, as you hear a loud SNAP!

Your pencil...
You look down with the steaming anger inside you build-
ing up, and then you wonder, with sorrow displayed upon
your face: who am I really angry at? Am I truly only disap-
pointed with myself and my actions, thinking only to take it
out with physical power? Your mouth widens as you gape at
your new findings, your vision begins to shake back and forth,
getting blurry, breaking out into tears as you shoot off into

deep thought.
This is it, Evan, the end of your life. You are never going

to survive, your mom and dad will never forgive you and you
will be the laughing stock forever. You will be a never-ending
disappointment to everyone you aspire to impress.

The teacher violently thrusts her feared fist into the air,
declaring the sanction that is to be forced upon a guilty child.
You. But she, in yelling, does not yell the right name. Your
name isn’t Ray; that’s the kid behind you. Perhaps she made a
simple mistake. You instantaneously whip your head around
to see a pale-faced kid, almost to the point of tears. Poor
Raymond you think to yourself, wiping your sweaty, blushing
forehead. Poor Raymond.

113

ANONYMOUS

The Hardest Thing to Say

The smallest things I took for granted. Waking up, breath-
ing, feeling, taking in the colors that wirl past me day by day.
But now, now that I’m broken and scarred, everything mat-
ters. And I will live again someday, but I will never forgive
myself.

December 18, 2014 was the day. I changed; I lost a piece
of myself to that moment. To that stupid decision that almost
cost me my life. I was in a downward spiral, I had depression
and I had hid it from everyone except the one person who
would make it worse. And he did. He made it so much worse.
I had thought over and over again how do I make the pain,
the emotion, go away without having to die. I couldn’t think of
114 a way.

I walked down the hall slowly padding along. Holding
the pink liquid, the nail polish remover in my shaking hands.
My sister looked up and asked me what I was doing without
much interest. “Nothing,” I responded shakily, clearing my
throat, “just taking off some nail polish.” Without a second
glance she looked back down to the pages spread out in
front of her. Guilt, shame, and regret instantly filled me be-
yond the ability of words to describe. I turned the cold knob
on the first door, the guest bedroom. Flipping on the light
switch, I sat down on the maroon chair. Counting my shallow
breaths. It’ll be over soon I repeated over and over. So scared,
I was so scared. Take the amount of fear you think I had
and multiply it by 100. My hands like a miniature earthquake
poured the tinted pink liquid into the black lined cap of the
bottle.

I sent a goodbye text to the boy, the one who made me
feel like I was unwhole. Looking down at my phone I saw
that he texted back saying, my mum’s coming over, sorry I
couldn’t stop her. Swallowing a few powdery white painkillers,

This author’s biography has been withheld by the editors of SAY in order to pre-
serve anonymity.

I hesitated. Then I took a tentative sip. It burned like fire and 115
hell were sliding down my throat. Pushing open the bedroom
door I stumbled into the bathroom pouring out the contents
from the cap. I unsteadily walked towards the kitchen to grab
a glass of water. Before I could grab my glass off the coun-
ter. The doorbell rang. I never thought he meant it. I was so
scared, the terror pulsing through me that everyone was go-
ing to find out what I had done. That they would hurt me for
wanting the pain to end. My sister opened the door.

“Hello,” a short pudgy woman said. From my post behind
the wall I catch a glimpse of her recognizing her instantly:
the boy’s mum. “I was wondering if Arthi was okay?” My
sister asked me to come to the door. I said in a matter of fact
voice I drank acetone. They both asked “what?” generally not
understanding what I had just said. Realizing I had not said the
word of what I had just swallowed right I repeated nail polish
remover. They looked struck back in horror. I quietly went and
drank water to soothe the burning ache in my throat. Tears
I was holding back escaped when she asked why would you
do this? You’re happy, a good kid, who does good in school.
I didn’t have an answer, so I just held onto her embrace and
cried.

Minutes later, my dad comes screaming in asking what’s
going on. We tell him everything and he hits me, screams
at me, making me sob harder against the couch. The boy’s
mother gets up to leave with final words of solace. Once
the door closes on her he does it all over again. Hear-
ing the knock on the door he checks to see who it is. The
boy’s mother. She heard him screaming and him hurting me
through the window and came back for me. Talking in hushed
tones not knowing I could hear them, they were politely
hostile to each other. In the end, she told him that we all make
mistakes. She closed the air with a finality.

My dad asked me finally, “Are you ok? Do you need a
doctor?” I shook my head, biting my lips so hard they bled,
letting me taste the rust type taste the blood left behind. Then
he asked, “Why did you do it?” I responded with the easiest lie
that came to my mind. “Mum keeps leaving us.” But no, that
wasn’t even close to the truth. The truth is, I don’t know. The
emotions were too much, overwhelming me, that’s the best
reason I can give myself now. But that’s still not good enough.
And the way my dad looked at me like he was about to shat-
ter into a million pieces. He said firmly,” You think people give
up because of problems? NO. Only strong people keep living
and you are strong.” He walked away and told my sister he

was going out and to watch me. He slammed the front door
shut and I heard the lock turn.

My sister could barely look at me, the one person who
was always at my side. At that moment I broke. I croaked out,
“I’m going to get that Starbucks peppermint coffee from
the fridge will you finish half? I can’t, drink it all.” “Okay,” she
replied quietly. Sitting down at the dining table, the typing on
our laptops was the only thing to be heard in the house as we
slowly drank the peppermint drink.

With a bang the front door opened again, my mum. Drop-
ping all her stuff on the floor, she grabbed my laptop, closed
it in a fraction of a second, and hit me on the head with it.
She was screaming at me, words I didn’t register because the
tears mingled with snot, the pain, the strikes with the laptop,
and her hands were too much. She screamed and screamed
and screamed not taking in a word she said, responding in
vague answers I don’t remember. She took everything from
me. Sent me up to move into her room. She didn’t trust me
to share a room with my sister. Slowly crying I screamed
back, “No.” She asked me what I said hitting me once again. I
started up the stairs slowly to move rooms.

I could hear her yelling at my sister for being so careless,
116 for not knowing. For not taking care of me. All the blame was

put on her when I was the one making the mistakes. But this
is for her: It’s not your fault, it never was and I love you, be-
cause you were the best sister and you still are. You were the
best stand-in mum when mum left us and when I’m with you I
feel more at home than anywhere else.

After that night I slowly moved back into the room I
shared with my sister and everything seemed like it went
back to normal. My dad attempted jokes about it, but never
did follow through on them. My mum, I don’t know, we’re not
that close, but in my heart I know I hurt the three people I
love the most. To my dad: you won your first volleyball tour-
nament that day; you were coming home to celebrate. I’m so
sorry I ruined what was supposed to be one of the greatest
nights of your life. And to my mum: I’m sorry, I’m just sorry.
And to my sister: I always hurt you the most. There will always
be a void in you bigger than mum’s and dad’s because you
were there, you were responsible for me that night, but I just
want you to know that I’ll be okay.

That was the biggest mistake I’ll ever make in my life,
and I should take the blame not you. I have lived with a hole
in my shadow of a soul, shutting down when people said the
word suicide. I still, today, refer to it as my attempt. Very few

people know about it; it is something that I’m ashamed of.
It’s something that separates me from people. No one under-
stands the way I think, the way I act because there is a barrier
between us now. There will always be that distance, but I’m
learning to heal. I said the word suicide twice in November
and it took a whole lot of effort, but it was one step forward.
I still can’t stop the feeling of nausea when people say it or
when they joke about it I feel like screaming my lungs out at
them, “Do you know what it feels like?!?! Do you?!?!?!?”

But one day I’ll be okay and this will be another memory.
One that I will look upon and feel emotions I cannot describe,
but I’ll finally be okay.

117

TAYLOR YAMASHITA

Home Planet

The year is 2847. I stand in a dark, enclosed room in a
rural town near Planet Earth’s north pole. Around me, dead
beings lay on the floor, almost obscured from view by the
many boxes stacked up around the walls. This must have been
a factory, I think. As I lower my weapon, the creature before
me falls to the ground, dead. Silence. I breathe at last, puffing
out white clouds in front of me from the cold. I peer at the
creature I have just killed through my night-vision goggles.
Its body is black, with a single stripe down its back, and many
long legs. A Blue-Striped Flash. I stand up, and report back to
headquarters.

“Captain Nuvema here. I’ve got another one,” I relay
118 through my headset.

“Good work, Captain. You’re done for the day,” Com-
mander Icirrus, my boss, responds. It takes only minutes to
reorder myself and my belongings and exit the building. The
heavy door slams behind me with a thud.

I am surrounded for miles by a pristine, white tundra.
Here and there, various animals are living their lives, unaware
of the threat of alien forces. The freezing wind whips at my
thick, heavy, brown hair, and I hurriedly stuff it inside my
hood. Thanks to my antifreeze field gear, I still feel as cozy as
if I were sitting in front of a warm fire. Because us agents are
constantly traveling all over the planet for missions, we have
to be prepared for any type of climate. Slowly, I begin to walk
back towards the woods.

Many centuries ago, aliens invaded our planet and
wreaked havoc worldwide. Various groups of aliens mas-
sacred entire countries and reduced major cities to piles of
rubble. Their murderous, disastrous actions caused billions of
humans to flee elsewhere in the galaxy. Earth, for the most
part, is now a desolate and deserted wasteland; it is the result

Taylor is a thirteen-year-old girl who loves to dance, draw, and play the piano in her
free time. She enjoys reading dystopian and realistic fiction books.

of countless raids, skirmishes, and deaths. Ever since the 119
aliens first appeared, they have inhabited stolen land all over
the planet, and have been trying to expand their empire ever
since. On this partly ruined planet, government-established
organizations, like mine, fight to rid it of all foreign life forms.

Walking down the heavily wooded path, I reach the junc-
tion point and teleport back to headquarters in what once
was known as Washington, D.C. Ever since it was invented in
the 2500s, teleportation has become the most convenient
way to travel long-distance, although it is costly. Upon my ar-
rival, I am greeted by my deputy and closest friend, Jo Caste-
lia. I brush off the snow that has gathered on my shoulders,
and hug her. Jo and I have been through everything together,
from childhood playdates to the countless years of training
we endured.

“Back already?” she says, taking my arm and dragging me
over to the coffee shop. Coffee is one of the few things that
has remained a customary beverage from the Machine Era
of the twenty-first century. We purchase a cup each, and sit
down to talk in a corner. Around us are other agents, doctors,
and workers, relaxing or talking to their friends.

“You know, Lexa, Commander Striaton ends his term this
week. You could very well be the next!” Jo exclaims, winking
at me. Jo has always been the perky one, with her chestnut
hair in a pixie cut, and her usual smile on her face. I think
about what she has said. It would be amazing if I were ap-
pointed Commander! I think of all the privileges I would gain,
the exclusive matters and discussions I would be included in,
and the respect I would earn from so many others. I am in
the top five of my class, who are automatically nominated for
the position. In fact, I am in the top two. But one person still
stands in my way.

“Bianca Juniper will probably get it. No one can beat her,”
I sigh, slowly sipping my drink.

“Right. Top scores, reliable field performances, and a
quick and smart thinker,” Jo rambles on. “It’s crazy how she
is always on top of things, and in the right places at the right
times. She just never makes mistakes.”

“Not to mention the money and looks she has,” I contin-
ue, rolling my eyes. We laugh loudly; Jo and I both understand
how annoying Bianca is, and has always been. For as long as I
have known Jo, I have also known Bianca. She has been ahead
of us since day one. I picture her gorgeous golden hair and
her sparkling blue eyes; Bianca would obviously have been
a model if she hadn’t been accepted into this agency. It’s no

wonder she always has a crowd of boys following her.
We continue to chat for a while, then return to our

agency-provided rooms.
“The results are in,” announces a messenger, patiently

standing at the door of my squad’s lounge. The afternoon
sunlight streams through the many sixth-floor windows, and
hits everything, including the couch all thirteen of us are sit-
ting on. My squad and I perk up attentively, while Jo shoots an
excited look at me. “Captain,” the messenger addresses. He
hands me the envelope and promptly leaves. Eagerly, I open
the note and read it aloud.

“To account for Commander Striaton’s end of term, a
new commander has been selected from the top five agents
in the field class. The nominees are as follows: Bianca Juniper,
Lexa Nuvema, Ralph Mistralton, Evelyn Skyarrow, and Cheren
Unova. It is with honor that we appoint Bianca Juniper of
Squad A-4 as the new commander of Sector C. Should she
fall in the line of duty, Lexa Nuvema will be the next replace-
ment. Please congratulate Commander Juniper on her pro-
motion,” I finish.

Hands shaking slightly, I file the notice away in the stor-
120 age unit. I am not disappointed, I tell myself. Bianca deserves

this. It’s not even that important. I wouldn’t even make a good
commander . I turn to my squad, and try to cover up with a
weak smile. People commend me on my runner-up position,
and the conversation eventually turns somewhere else.


“Excuse me,” a voice states candidly, in a tone recogniz-
able all over the agency. I turn away from the secretary I was
chatting with as my thoughts are confirmed--it is Bianca Juni-
per. Her shiny, flowing, blonde hair is tied up into a neat pony-
tail, and she is flanked by two other male agents. Her outfit is
as put-together as always, and her makeup flawless. I can only
imagine how long it took to perfect her look this morning.
“Oh, my bad,” I reply, trying to use a polite voice instead
of the sarcastic one I wish I could use. I move out of her way,
and let her pass down the hallway. “Wait, Bianca?”

She stops, and stares at me. The men beside her are car-
rying her packages, and they stop as well.
“Congratulations!” I say. I add on the brightest smile I
can manage at the moment, just for the heck of it. Everyone
knows it’s best to stay on her good side. Bianca relaxes a bit.
“Thank you,” she says sweetly. She flips her hair and

walks away briskly, her glossy pumps tapping the tile floor 121
with each step. How can she wear heels, while also flawlessly
completing missions? I glance down at my clunky field boots
in disgust.


Days after the promotion, I am back in the field, capturing
alien territory. I have teleported across the world, to Machine-
Era Europe. This time, I am not alone.
“So we’re in an intergalactic war with aliens, trying to
reclaim our home planet. Why don’t we just nuke their capital
cities?” my squadmate, Cress Router suggests. He is the new-
est member in my squad, and is always spouting the most
random ideas. Even so, he is always an excellent partner to
have out on the field; when he isn’t talking, Cress makes for a
top-class agent. I can usually rely on him to lighten my mood.
I reload my weapon, a trusty Alien Laser Rifle X-750, and walk
on ahead.
“Because, Cress, we don’t want to turn our homeland
into a wasteland,” I answer tiredly. He protests, and starts to
explain in detail how his solutions would help us win the war.
The two of us move behind another abandoned building, and
make way for the alien camp ahead. “Okay now, shush up
for a bit. You get the left wing, and I’ll get the right. Regroup
at the old fountain when you’re done,” I order, in a whisper.
Cress nods, and silently makes his way across an old garden.
The deserted village is still reminiscent of the Italian city it
once was. I cut across the cracked road, and fire at a few
approaching aliens. I spot another, and shoot it dead. There
shouldn’t be many more. I clear the rest of the areas, and
head for the fountain.
Cress runs up to me. “All clear,” he reports. I nod, and
communicate our success back to headquarters.

“Captains of Sector A. We are gathered here today to
discuss some disappearances,” Commander Icirrus, a stocky,
battle-hardened man acknowledges us. The twelve of us
are sitting around a table, and I notice that Bianca has been
replaced by a nervous, young man. The commander clears
his throat. “Agents and commanders from sectors B, C, G, L,
N, and T have been captured. They have been taken during
missions and have not been accounted for for long periods
of time. After thorough investigation, our head intelligence
team has concluded that seventy-two of them are being held
hostage in a camp in Machine-Era Mongolia.”
Our agents, who have been trained for this their entire

122

lives, who have defended against countless alien attacks, who 123
are strong and powerful, have been captured with little fight?
I shiver. This is not good. We discuss tactics for a solid hour,
then Commander Icirrus directs our attention to a live cam-
era feed.

“This is an aerial view of the camp,” he explains. We all
search the screen for aliens, but none are in view. The camp
is small; it can’t possibly be more than a half mile long. Our
camera must be hidden in one of the trees surrounding the
dilapidated wooden buildings. I squint at the screen, and mo-
tion to a large building on the right.

“Commander, is that where they are being held?” I ask.
He nods, then frowns. Two aliens, which I identify as Black
Blinds, have crawled out and are staring straight at us. In a
flash, we are at ground level, and are shakily being brought
over to the fire pit in the center of the clearing. One positions
the camera, while the other moves out of view. What are they
doing? I wonder. This cannot be good.

“Commander, should I cut the connection?” someone
asks nervously. The commander shakes his head no, his eyes
glued to the screen before him. Suddenly, four people, hands
tied together tightly, are yanked into view. Three agents from
our agency, whom I do not recognize, and then one that I do.

“Bianca,” I mumble, my voice lost. Her face is dirty, her
hair tangled and broken in places, and she looks as if she
hasn’t eaten in days. I have never seen her as weak as she
looks right now. This is the only time I have ever seen her
off her game, and yet I simply can’t rejoice at it. I turn to
the Commander. “Sir, is there anything we can-” I am cut off
by the pair of aliens, who are now shrieking horrendously.
One has a blade, an old human sword. It is cold, shiny, silver,
crafted specifically for causing pain. I start to panic. No, no,
no... The other captains in the room are as rigid with fear as I
am. The alien raises its blade. I hear four sickening noises, and
when I finally bring myself to look back at the screen, four
dead bodies are left in view. Bianca’s eyes stare at me; the
once beautiful blue irises are now lifelessly empty. No, no, no,
no, no... I had seen so many deaths before, so why do I even
care about Bianca? This is the girl who has always been my
greatest competitor, who has always stood right in front of
me, who has taken awards that could have been mine. This is
the girl who flaunts her talent and beauty, and uses it to cap-

Grace Turner (opposite page, “Beauty”) is originally from Chicago, but she moved
to California at age 13. She started writing in 3rd grade.

tivate and manipulate people around her into doing what she
wants. This is the girl whom I have envied and despised for
too many years. And now she is gone, her life stolen from her
in such a horrible way. Why am I so distressed?

Commander Icirrus is grim as he speaks. “We will be in
all out war in a matter of days; I just know it.” He pauses to
swallow, and I can see that he is choosing his words carefully.
“Captains, ready your squads, and be strong.”


I remain dull for the remainder of the day, hollowed out
by the tragedy I have witnessed. Then I remember something
important.
“Should she fall...,” I whisper to myself that night, “Lexa
Nuvema will be the replacement.” I can’t believe my own ears.
Why didn’t I think of this before?
Surely enough, I am promoted to Commander the next
morning. As I file the notice, all twelve of my squadmates
cheer. I hug Jo, who has been promoted to Captain. Surpris-
ingly enough, Cress is now known as Deputy Router.
We are to take on the alien camp at dawn.

“Captains, prepare for entry,” I order. I observe as my
124 twelve squadmates scramble to get in order, preparing both
their weapons and minds. We stand atop a forested hill in
Mongolia, with a small view of the camp below. Even from
here, I recognize the shabby wooden buildings and leafy
trees. I am anxious about this mission, pressured, because I
am now responsible for the lives of so many. How will I deal
with the guilt if not everyone makes it back alive? Did Bianca
ever feel like this?
The sun begins to rise, and we spread out into our as-
signed positions. I am still unaccustomed to being without my
squad, and though I can rely on Jo to keep things straight, I
almost wish I weren’t promoted. When the captains each have
replied “ready,” I give the order to advance. Here we go.
At first, the camp appears empty. For a good fifteen
minutes, there are no aliens to be seen. Each squad stakes
out their own sections, searching buildings and checking the
surrounding woods.
I advance towards the largest building, the one where
the captives are being held. The door is locked, with a hu-
man combination padlock from centuries ago. Who knew the
aliens could figure that out. I shoot it, and enter quickly.
The room is dark, and the smell reeks of people who
have lived here messily for days. I pull down my night-vision

goggles, and immediately am made aware of the situation be- 125
fore me. All sixty-eight hostages are present, after accounting
for those killed a few days ago. The problem is, as soon as I
entered, at least thirty Black Blinds responded as well. With a
jolt, I back away from the building. I have to get them away
from the hostages. I raise my gun, and fire. The aliens roar
and stream out of the building. I dash away to take cover be-
hind a tree and command the squads to prioritize this horde
of aliens. As more and more of these monsters stream out of
the large building, a sea of aliens begins to form. Where are
they all coming from? We are clearly outnumbered.

“Captains, change to tactic eight. We have underestimat-
ed the enemy’s numbers,” I order tersely. This does not look
good.

“Commander, I’ve got your back,” I hear Jo, over my
headset. Within seconds, six squads’ worth of agents come
running from each side, firing at aliens left and right. I run
out from behind my tree and join the battle. Yes, aim at that
one, fire! Good, it’s dead. Next one. Aim, fire! Oh no, dodge
that, don’t run into him, aim and fire! The battle drags on as
I shoot down the despicable, disgusting creatures all around
me. Next, next, next, breathe, but keep killing. Fire. Fire. Fire.
Keep shooting. Shoot until it’s over. The sun continues to rise
steadily over the hills.

“Medics, we have a few down in the western section,”
I inform our medical team over my headset. A response is
shouted back, then I keep fighting. I try not to look at the
agents who are injured, or possibly dead. Aim, fire. Fire. Fi-

In a flash, pain strikes me in the side like an explosion. I
freeze. My eyes tear up and I am forced to bend over. No... I
move towards the woods, and find a spot behind the trees to
crouch. It hurts. My hands are glued to that one spot by my
right ribs, but I can still feel the blood trickling out. The aliens
must have gotten ahold of one of our laser guns, because I
can tell that it was not a bullet. This is bad. I lift my hand to my
headset, but stop when I see that it is dripping with crimson
red. I feel sick to my stomach. How stupid. You can’t even
take one hit, I tell myself. But no matter how many times I
try to encourage or belittle myself into standing, I am im-
mobilized. Stop the flow. Call for help. MOVE. I wince with
pain, gather the cloth of my shirt and use it to cover the wide
wound in my side. I can tell that it is a deep one, a hit worse
than those I have tolerated before. Antibiotics! I can’t let
the wound get infected! I have some on me, somewhere...I
search myself, and come up with a small bottle. Quickly now,

open up...And suddenly, I see an alien before me. I curse in
my head, sitting ever so vulnerably on the forest floor. My
gun! I lunge for my weapon and hold it up, arms shaking.
My head throbs and I struggle to get on my feet. The alien
shrieks and moves towards me, way too fast. Fire. I miss on
the first shot, but somehow I manage to kill the alien. My
wound is bleeding heavily, and the pain is more unbearable
than it had ever been before. My vision blurs, and I hear a
voice in front of me. “Lexa...”

Bianca?? It can’t be... I black out.

“Commander. Commander, can you hear me?” a voice
prompts. Whoever it is sounds so far away. I groan, and I hear
footsteps hurriedly running away from my side.
“Where am I?” I ask to nobody in particular, rubbing my
eyes. I feel a dull pain in my side, but at least I can handle it at
the moment. I sit up, and realize that I am alone in the hospi-
tal room. Headquarters? What am I doing here? Somebody
knocks, and enters. It is a doctor.
“Commander Nuvema, I am glad that you are awake. To-
day is Monday, only a day or two after your mission, I believe.
You’ve made for a quick recovery so far, and I expect you
126 will be completely healed in a matter of weeks,” the doctor
reports. I look out the window at the Machine-Era Washington
D.C. landscape. A battle. In Mongolia. I was shot.
“Doctor, what happened?” I ask tentatively. Jo. Cress. My
squad, no, my whole sector.
“Captain Castelia found you out cold, dying in the middle
of the woods. It is thanks to her that you are here. Overall,
your mission suffered only three fatalities and seventy-six
injuries. I should add that all of the captives made it out alive,”
he responds politely. I ignore my success, and cringe at the
numbers of those I failed to protect.
“Jo-”
“Miss Castelia is perfectly healthy. So is Mr. Router. In
fact, they were just visiting this morning,” he reassures me.
The block of weight I had been holding in my chest begins to
dissipate. They’re alive. I can’t help but smile.

“Thank you,doctor. May I go now?”I request. I need to
find Jo.
“It’s a bit early, but if you feel up to it, you may go ahead,”
he says slowly, with much thought. He talks to me for a few
more minutes, telling me to drink lots of liquids, sleep, and to
treat my wound every night. When we are finished, I exit the

room feeling both relieved and nervous. 127

“Lexa!”
“Jo!” I embrace my friend tightly, trying not to press my

injury.
“Thank you for saving my life. Jo, I can’t believe I just left

the battle so easily...” I say abashedly. I can hardly face her. A
commander, abandoning their entire squad in the middle of a
battle? That’s me.

“No, Lexa,” she replies, looking me straight in the face, “I
owe you. And you did amazing. So amazing, in fact, that you
were awarded this last night,” Jo continues, holding up a small
black box and waving it happily in my face. I grin with curios-
ity. “Open it,” she prompts, thrusting it into my hands. I oblige,
and reveal a shiny gold medal sitting prominently inside. A
medal!

“You deserve it!” Jo congratulates me, excitedly. I hug her
once again, then remember something strange. How can I
put this?

“Jo, one other thing... I swear I heard Bianca right before I
blacked out, but that must have been you, right?” I ask, slowly.
Jo is the only person I can ever trust with these sort of things.

“Bianca? As in Juniper?” she asks, bewildered. I nod, in-
stantly feeling foolish.

“Never mind. I think it was just your voice, but you sound-
ed off because I was sick and hurt,” I say hurriedly, covering
up my mistake. Maybe this just goes to show how jealous I
used to be.

“Yeah, probably. Lexa, this is your mission, not hers. Bi-
anca can’t take your glory now,” Jo laughs. I try to smile, but
there’s still something inside, bothering me.


“Commander Nuvema. Congratulations on your outstand-
ing performance two days ago. I trust that Captain Castelia
has given you your award?” Mr. Ghetsis, the chairman of our
agency, praises me. He is an aging man, with neatly clipped
silver hair, and a black suit.
“Yes, thank you very much, Sir,” I say, timidly. Mr. Ghetsis,
the man in charge of everybody in this building, has asked to
meet with me privately! I can hardly get over the huge honor
I have been granted. I, along with more than the majority of
our agency, have never seen Mr. Ghetsis in person, until now.
“I wanted to discuss with you our plans for the next year
or so. The alien camp you cleared yesterday turned out to
be their last capital city on Earth. They had been living under-

ground for the past few years. Thanks to your leadership, we
have successfully rid our home planet of all outside organ-
isms. We can safely move groups of people back to their
place of origin. For this, I applaud you,” he begins. I nod, try-
ing to hide my excitement that t he chairman was personally
congratulating me. Mr. Ghetsis clears his throat and goes on.

“Nevertheless, there are still larger objectives at hand. We
are now at the peak of a raging war that has been going on
for decades. Your next tasks may not even be on this planet.
I trust you know this,” he pauses, and looks at me. I nod.
“Commander, you have proven yourself to be the strongest,
most capable agent in this entire agency,” he smiles and adds,
“But you’re no Bianca...” That’s odd, I think. But I feel so guilty
about loathing Bianca that I let it go. “This means that you will
hold a lot of responsibility from now on. But now, I must ask
you: Are you ready for what lies beyond?” Mr. Ghetsis stops,
leans forward in his seat, and looks at me straight in the eyes.

“Yes, sir!” I smile. Not only have I proven it to those above
me, I have also proven to myself that I am strong enough
to face whatever is thrown at me. Even though I can still be
put out of action by a simple gunshot, I am no longer the
shy, second-place agent I was before. I will not let myself be
128 smothered by people who deem themselves better than me.

But then I notice something strange.
Mr. Ghetsis has risen, and is pointing a gun straight at
my face. “Lexa, unfortunately, you will have to say goodbye
as of right now.” Lexa? Why is he calling me Lexa? I whip a
smaller gun, an emergency laser pistol, out of my pocket,
and point it directly at Mr. Ghetsis. He simply looks amused. I
frown. Something is not right, but I can’t place my finger on
what it is. Mr. Ghetsis’ face is changing, changing into some-
body else. No human can shapeshift like that. I find my secret
communicating device, and flick it on. Slowly, I raise it to my
mouth as discreetly as possible, still holding my gun up to
the alien before me, the alien who has somehow managed to
deceive us all for years.
“Jo, we have a situation up here,” I mutter. I drop the
device and prepare to shoot. Bianca, finished with her shape-
shifting, smiles coldly. “You humans are so stupid. I can’t
believe you fell for all of my tricks.” Her gun is held straight
at my face, in the same position that mine is to hers. The air is
filled with a heavy silence, one of anticipation and dread. Who
will shoot first?

BANG!

AZUCENA DURAN

Hope Rises 129

Tip Tap Tip Tap
The grogginess still lingers, in the morning
The gleam of sun comes into view, still unsure if dream or

reality
Was I dreaming?
Could it be, the noise that came was mistaken
Tip Tap Tip Tap, there again distinguishing between fantasy

and reality
An unsuspected place

The window
Lifted to see what has come to disrupt my slumber

Blue eyes staring back
Shoo Shoo comes first thought, thirst of curiosity over-

whelms
Why do you come?
Do not come for if you do, you might end up regretful
One family full of hate, for a creature so small
Can love continue?

Shade falls
Tip Tap Tip Tap

Will this end?
Another day has passed yet the tapping has occurred yet

again
Fly away, fly away, no one will give in to you

Leave our hateful family
Why come back?, Do you wish to stay?

Hopeful eyes staring back
Shade falls

Thoughts come across, should I, should I not

Azucena loves fashion and reading. She enjoys spending time with her family and
friends, and her favorite food is pizza.

Rejecting the thoughts of others
Curiosity and love overflowing
Hope for such a hated creature

Shade opens
130

Kayla Blalack (opposite page, “Above the World”) is an eighth grader at Blach Mid-
dle School who loves reading, doodling, math, and spending time with friends. She
also enjoys directing and editing short videos of all kinds.

131

NEHA JOSHI

I Hate Being Sick

My throat clogs up,
I gasp for air,
I cough and cough,
I eat a pear,
My eyes are red,
So is my nose,
Stop being sick,
I do propose,
I watch TV,
And sniffle and sneeze,
Check on my homework,
Eat some peas,
132 I shuffle down,
To the kitchen,
Try to eat
Some... lichen?

Ergh. No. Disgusting. Spare me.
*gags* Sigh. Outta food. Humph.
Anywho...
Food is done,
I’m not impressed,
Time for dance,
I gotta get dressed,
My stomach rumbles,
My TV tumbles,
My sister mumbles,
I scream.
And start coughing.

Neha is a seventh grader at JLS Middle School who has a tendency to say random
things at random times, such as ‘pantaloons’, or ‘pterodactyl’ during lunch. She
recently acquired a black belt in mixed martial arts and spends most her her time
reading, doing martial arts or basketball, and making up stories in her head.

And have to skip dance.
And become hungry.

Seriously, what is it with
being sick and hungry?

The clock first tocks,
And then comes ‘tick!’ , All in all,
I hate being sick.

133

ZO.. E LO

Imanay

“Imanay, it’s not too late to run. You can leave tonight!
Here, I packed three days worth of sweet potatoes. You
would make it out of the capital by sunrise tomorrow, but
three days is just to be safe in case you can’t find anywhere
to stay.”

My dear servant offered me a brown bag. She chose my
favorite bag, the one I loved to bring along wherever I went.
It blended with the dirt and didn’t stand out in the crowd. I
adored running out into the street. I knew every temple, ev-
ery crook and alleyway. This was the city I knew best. I looked
back at her with all the determination I could muster. She
started to cry.
134 “You don’t have to do this. You can leave, so leave,” she
begs. I reached out to grab the sack, but then I put down on
my bed. I held strong.

“No, this is an honor. I am doing my people a favor,” I
replied. What favor, I had no idea, but Father said it would help
strengthen our empire, and Mother approved. Tears flowed
down her cheeks. She left me alone in my room. I looked into
the washing basin. All I saw was a scared little girl. No, not
scared, but dignified. Not little, but powerful.

I sat in my chair, staring at my reflection. Tomorrow the
people will be saved, and the gods will be satisfied. It’s not
too late to run, she had said, her words haunting me. I looked
out to the stars several times, seeking for guidance and
advice. All it offered was a hole of darkness and doubt which
seeped into my heart. All I had to do was take that brown
sack, slip into the night, and never return again. I was used
to secretly running off during the night. I would walk around
the city and come back when the first rays of light emerged
from the horizon. It was hard to contain my rebellious na-

Zo..e is 13 year old who loves to write. She enjoys sitting down in a comfy sofa with
a nice glass of lemonade and a good book to spend a typical afternoon.

ture. Father never managed to lock me at home. None of 135
them expected me to escape from this glorious opportunity.
Still, there was a fire in me that begged to go outside, not
trapped in a room. These past two years have been noth-
ing but torture. Everyone told me it was for the good of our
people. Mother explained the highest degree of worship we
Incas could perform was to give up our perfect children. I
was brought up in the ideal life, and as daughter of a chief, it
should be a great honor.

The perfect daughter side of me urged me to listen
because they knew what was best for the mighty Inca em-
pire. The disobedient side of me warned me to run and never
come back, that they never could understand the horror of
having a deadline to your own short life. I wanted to listen
and trust my instincts, but I thought of everyone’s reactions
when they found me gone in the morning. How could I leave
my parents thinking I didn’t respect them? They would think
I did not trust their opinions and advice. I could never do that
to them. Yet something in the back of my mind nagged and
tried to tell me something, like a diviner attempting to fore-
see the disastrous future. I grew tired of my heart unable to
feel what was right and for my mind to listen to my heart. In
the end, I fell asleep, perhaps from extreme exhaustion.

Mother came in the next morning. She reeked an aura of
sorrow.

“Imanay, it’s your big day, be proud!” Mother made a
forced smile. I smiled back.

Whether she was joyful or in pain, I could not tell. She
gently took my hands and looked into my eyes. They were
the color of rich soil and pride, but today, my mother’s eyes
lacked their usual sparkle and showed a numbed soul about
to lose her daughter to the gods above.

A bowl of corn was put in front of me but I had lost my
appetite. I was disgusted by this mixture that I was forced to
eat. For two years I have had to prepare for this monumen-
tal event by eating this sickening food. The elders have told
me it will keep me pure for the ceremony. I smiled weakly
and shoved some down just for show, or rumors would go
around by the servants’ mouths. On my bed, an elaborate
outfit was laid out. It was absolutely magnificent. How could
something so beautiful cover up a tragic spirit? It screamed
royalty and superiority, even though we were just wealthy
noblemen. I put on my shawl and attached the silver clasp.
Father made sure I was adorned with jewelry and wearing
comfortable shoes.

Mother and I walked out of my room. From there, a reli-
gious priest held my hands and took me to the bottom of the
mountain. As I walked up the mountain, citizens lined up along
both sides. My eyes followed many of the neighbors I grew
up with. All approved of this sacrifice, all claimed they would
cheer for this event and for my family. My mother looked at
me from the bottom of the steps. She lifted her chin up with
her fingers. I beamed and lifted my head up. Be proud, I could
hear her say. Next to her, a great Inca nobleman stood. My
father. He stood up straight and he never looked at me, his
forehead full of wrinkles. His face was masked with a look of
a statue. He looked courageous and elegant, and that is how I
will always see my father as, a chief swelled with confidence.

We climbed the steep steps up to the top. I never noticed
the true beauty of our holy place Cuzco, dedicated to the
sun god Inti, until this moment. I saw how the Andes Moun-
tains hovered over our city. I noticed the way the sun peaked
over the top of the highlands. If I had listened to my servant, I
would have been long gone by now. I would’ve been running
through the maze-­like structure of our capital, where all the
red rooftops lined up together. I could weave through that
alleyway next to the temple, climb over the stone walls, and
136 hike up the hills on the other side of where I stood. But now
there was no place for me to hide. This would be the last time
I saw the daylight.

The air grew chilly around me. We were getting closer
and closer to the top of the mountain. The peak was where
we were closest to the gods, and the mountain side served
as a ramp up into the heavens. I kept shaking and quivering
while anticipating my death. It’s for the benefit of the empire,
Imanay.

It’s not too late, my servant had said. It wasn’t too late
to run, to run from all my fears and worries. I looked down
the steps and I almost fell. There was no way I could make
it all the way down those stairs, into my room, grab my bag,
and get away. It just simply wasn’t possible, the steps were
crowded with people and I would’ve tripped before I got to
the bottom. But it was the humiliation I couldn’t bear. Even if
I escaped and made it out of the city in time, I could never
show my face again in this place, in my home. I would never
see my parents again. I would never see the glee on the face
of my brothers and sisters. What hurt me the most was how I
could never abandon them, yet they were abandoning me for
the sake of glorifying our family name. No, I could not run.
The window for leaving was open and closed. My opportunity

to get away had vanished.
The chanting started. The priest began to mumble

prayers. He reached for the red macaw feather cap and gen-
tly began to lower it on my head.

Not too late to run.
Not too late to run.
I had lost a battle. A battle between my heart and tradi-
tion. Time after time, I told myself to trust how I felt. Yet time
after time I caved in to what everyone else believed was
right. I fought hard during training but stepped down when
the real battle came. Society had taken its toll on me, and I
could not bring myself to go against years of culture and
tradition.
That’s when I felt something hard hit the back of head,
near my neck. All I could feel was the pounding in my mind,
the beat of the drums that said run, run, run, run . The priest’s
prayers echoed inside the walls of my aching head. A black
and unforgiving sky began to eat away at my vision.
Be proud, Mother had said.
I’m proud, Mother, I’m proud.
I shall be remembered.

137

MICHAEL SIMON

In Thin Air

We’ve been in the air for hours now, but the time is obso-
lete. Many would distract themselves with pastimes, but not I.
Something about being 30,000 feet in the air in a giant metal
tube allows me to reflect. I gaze out the moisture ridden win-
dow and drift away from all bias. The clouds are cotton balls
in the aftermath of a stuffed animal war, floating on an invis-
ible layer of air. Below that, farmland, houses, towns, a body
of water, more farmland, more houses, a city; a movie on
a sunset screen. Monotonous, and an argument against the
claim that “It’s a Small World after All”. We’re past the waters
of the Gulf of Mexico, and the marshes and thick forestry
of the deep south are history. The plane is moving at over
138 500 mph, but this high up, we seem to inch along above the
grasslands. It’s a giant contradiction in my mind. Music hums
through my earbuds, somewhat drowned out by the turbines
of the plane. The cool and dry air numbs my nerves, further
toning down the taste of my once minty gum and eradicating
all smells. Whether it’s the cabin pressure dropping, or just my
mind zoning out, I’m in limbo.

I am anything but in the moment, curiously aware of the
other 200­-some people aboard. I know the hundred around
me lead their own lives, years and years of stories and ex-
periences that I will never know. Normal people I will never
see again. Years and years of potential, a hundred respective
chances to be remembered. I acknowledge them only now,
because the circumstances; in no other place than an airplane
do over a hundred strangers get thrown together in a space
the size of an elongated classroom, voluntarily, for a couple
hours. What is the difference between me and them? Most of
them are adults, probably three or four times my age. Sure,
I’m unique, but in terms of productivity, of achievement, of

Michael is an 8th grader attending Central Middle School who enjoys reading,
writing, math, basketball, and running. He’s extremely ambitious and wants to have
a lasting legacy.

fame, what leverage do I hold? I cling to the dogma that in 139
some deep and fundamental way, I must be better than the
rest. For if I’m not, what is the point of my life if there is no
significant difference from the person next to me? As of now,
I am no better than the others surrounding me. Talent means
nothing unless it’s put to use. I’m disturbed, angered by my
sudden loss of individuality. What must I do about this sudden
degradation?

I’m brought back down to Earth for a moment as a flight
attendant purposely says over the intercom, “We will be ex-
periencing some slight turbulence shortly.” Whispers spread
like a silent wildfire as everyone braces for the unknown.
The anticipation is too much to handle, so I ignore the warn-
ing until the forecasted unease occurs. With the exception of
the occasional reading light, the airplane is fairly dark. Many
windows are closed, for those notorious sleepers, who skip
a good chance to think in thin air. My lapse into philosophy
is only delayed for a second, however. Back I am, above the
clouds, again away from reality. A small city comes into sight.
Thousands living together, all sharing the Earth with their 7
billion fellow humans. Am I crazy to think myself elite? One in
a million? Like the approach of dusk, it dawns on me. Almost
no one knows my name today. I’m going to change that.

I hear some rustling to my left, and glance at the source.
My sister has never been a one for roller coasters, and tur-
bulence is only worse; the ride is invisible and unpredictable.
She asks apprehensively, “Michael what time it is?” I’d nearly
forgotten my family was beside me! “About 5:30.” Mentally,
I scold myself for drifting away and practicing philosophy in
such an inappropriate place.

Again, a loud, rough, female voice over the intercom cuts
through my focus, “I apologize, my mistake, there will be
no turbulence. However, we are beginning our final descent
into Dallas Fort Worth.” The rest melts away into white noise,
as I’ve heard this monologue too many times before. I beat
myself up again over rambling on to myself, but in the back
of my mind, I know I’ve taught myself a lesson, an impressive
feat considering the circumstances, giving this flight a boost
of added value. As the turbulence that was, then wasn’t, and
now is, throws my stomach ten feet in the air, I’m leave limbo.
I’m back in the moment; I’ve relapsed into actuality. Up goes
the the tray table, up goes the seatback, zip goes the back-
pack, down goes the plane. Why? Who knows, intuition is om-
niscient. Thought only through a wordless medium of instinct.
Back to the automatic, to the unthinking depths.

XILIN CHOI

Joanne

Rain turned the narrow path into a stream of mud and
dead leaves. As my soaked sneakers monotonously trudged
through the dark, brown puddles, strings of rain falling from
the sky began to beat down harder and harder, masking the
salty tears that streamed down my face.

Why did it have to be her? What did she ever do to de-
serve this fate?

I imagined her the last time I saw her, her face tired, but
nevertheless smiling. It was a smile I knew well — a smile that
reassured me even in the darkest times.

But not anymore.
She’s gone now.
140 I have tried time and time again to remember her before
she was diagnosed and was appalled to find that I couldn’t.
There are occasional flashbacks of us when she was a tod-
dler and I was just an elementary schooler, where we would
chase each other around, screaming. But that hasn’t hap-
pened in a countless number of years.
All that’s left of her now is her music.
My parents didn’t know about this for most of the time
she was alive. It was our secret — Joanne’s and mine.
Of course, they’ve always known about Joanne’s talent.
They’d witnessed it firsthand infinite times. But they never
truly acknowledged how much music meant to her and how
much she depended on it until it was too late to do anything
about it.
She begged me to help her that afternoon. She was about
to begin her second round of chemotherapy at age seven,
and I was willing to do just about anything for her. It didn’t
take much for me to agree, and it wouldn’t cost me anything.
She sat at the edge of the hospital bed in that horrid infirmary

XiLin is an 8th grader at JLS Middle School who has a passion for reading fiction
and creative writing. In addition, she greatly enjoys playing softball on the local
Palo Alto team.

that reeked of death, clutching her sheets and looking at me 141
like I was the only thing in the world that could possibly save
her from the pain she had to endure.

I agreed to aid her. I would accompany her and spread
her voice. Together, Joanne and I formed what you might
refer to as a two-person band. It was the least I could do.

While I had my entire life to mold and to shape in any
way I desired, Joanne’s was already spelled out for her. It
was decided, inscribed on paper, and accepted the same day
she was diagnosed. Leukemia: cancer of the blood. Terminal.
That’s what they all said. The best doctors in world­-famous
treatment facilities all agreed on this one word. But I’ve
always been headstrong. I didn’t — I wouldn’t — believe them.
Not then. I’m not even sure if I believe it now.

That evening, I visited her in the hospital again, bringing
along my basic acoustic guitar and a few sheets of music
accompanied by chord progressions. Her face lit up when
she saw me with my guitar, just like I’d promised a few hours
before.

“You came!” she blinked, almost unbelieving.
“Of course I did,” I replied, smiling.
And then she began to sing. I caught on after a couple
of measures, and every note of our duet seemed to light up
another faraway star in the dark night sky. The slight breeze
gently carried our melody out the windows and through
the cracks under the heavy, metal doors, and soon, doctors,
nurses, and patients alike were standing just outside Joanne’s
hospital room in awe.
That was the first night.
Eventually, this became something like a ritual. A few
nights each week, I would come over with my guitar and I
would play while Joanne sang. Even during my daily after-­
-school visits, we would be talking about our music, brain-
storming what we would play during our next “concert”. It
was almost like we were caught in a spell that could never be
broken.
One night when Joanne was 11, I entered her hospital
room, just like I had several times a week for the past three
years, only to find her sitting on her bed with a grim expres-
sion on her face. This was unusual, given that Joanne was by
far the most positive and resilient person I knew.
“Bryan, I have to tell you something important,” she
started.
“What happened? Is something wrong?” I asked hurriedly,
concerned.

“No — I mean — I’m coming home, Bryan.”
“That’s great! You haven’t been home in so long —this
is perfect! You’ll be home just in time to help us put up our
holiday decorations!”
“But —” Joanne choked back tears, “this means that
they’ve given up on me. They don’t believe that I have any
more hope of beating back the cancer anymore, and this
is their way of telling me. Returning home could mean two
things — I have either lost hope or I have been cured — and
we all know that it isn’t the latter.”
“That’s impossible. There must be some way...” but even
as my voice spoke reassurances, I knew that Joanne was
right. Finally being permitted to return home was not a posi-
tive step.
From there on, everything went downhill. It was gradual at
first —I almost failed to notice. But after a couple months, the
change in Joanne’s condition was painfully evident. It became
increasingly easier for her to tire, and her skin was steadily
beginning to lose its pigment. She began to spend more and
more time lying in bed and less and less time awake. Time
became a privilege — a treasure. It was torturous to watch
her condition worsen, day by day.
142 But she never lost her love for music. Occasionally, when
she was strong enough, she would greet my entrance home
with a new piece she composed or a new song of mine that
she learned. We would practice for hours on end, and our
dreams of a future together signed with a major record label
were as conspicuous as ever. I had even begun to promote
our duets, which I told myself were in an effort to give her
hope, but in truth the greater purpose was probably to give
myself — rather than her — a reason to believe. Music acted
as our rock — it supported both Joanne and I, and it con-
vinced us to hold on when it seemed like there was no reason
to do so.
February 18th. We signed the contract, and Joanne was
absolutely ecstatic. The two of us spent a solid half hour
jumping up and down screaming. I couldn’t believe that we
had finally achieved what we had dreamed of doing for so
long.
Joanne seemed just the slightest bit revived — her skin
possessed more color and her eyes were a little brighter
— after we were hired. But on the night before we were
scheduled to release our debut single, Joanne overdid it. The
following morning, Joanne had to be hooked up to the ven-
tilator, and I felt guilty for it. Her face looked so small and so

innocent, covered in all those tubes that kept her alive. That 143
one night of not caring most likely resulted in several days, if
not weeks, of her life taken away from her.

I stayed home that day, refreshing my computer over
and over, awaiting our first song’s release. It appeared on the
screen just after noon, and I went insane. I ran the fastest I
had ever run before out of my room, down the hallway, and
burst into my sister’s room out of breath. She was awake, but
just barely.

Kneeling down next to her, I whispered, “We did it,” and
she smiled, just a little.

After that, the musical part of our band fell apart. She was
too tired and I was too sad to make much progress. Most of
the time we spent together consisted of me leaning against
her bed next to her small, frail body talking softly about noth-
ing and her politely pretending to listen. It was comforting for
her to be there, as always, and I was grateful.

The clouds were an unforgiving gray the day of her
funeral. She left my world in late March, almost ironically. It
seemed like she had to leave in an effort to make room for
the new lives that were sprouting courageously from the dirt.
My parents and I lined up next to the coffin and just stood
there for what seemed like forever. I looked up at the sky as
big, fat droplets began to dot the ground on which we stood.
Pushing back my matted hair, I threw a handful of dirt into the
crater where my sister lay, and then I ran.

I guess I thought I could outrun the pain and the memo-
ries that trailed behind me everywhere I went. I was foolish
to think anything I could do would help ease the misery and
hurt that came with losing my sister. The thought itself was
bizarre. 80% survival rate and she’s part of the 20%? Why
choose to take someone so young, so innocent, so kind?

I didn’t understand — I couldn’t. I never will.
After many endless hours spent stomping through mud
and fallen foliage with no sense of direction, I accepted the
fact that sulking wouldn’t do my sister any good.
What would she want me to do? What would make her
proud?
The answer pulsed into my brain like a flash of lightning.
Of course. Music.
I ran home as fast as my legs would allow. Pushing open
the front door, I rushed up the stairs and burst into my room.
Then I dusted off my guitar and began to strum.

KIANA GEORGE

Lark

Time turbulently perplexed me as by slow degrees it ticked
I am not perverse nor insane, just a unfledged, wretched man
My heart was black like a famished Raven in a bitter winter

night
Until I met a ravishing, radiant maiden whom was named

Anne
Anne was my only desire, my future beloved, beguiling plan
This is how my piteous, putrid, perplexing story began
Love was my Anne, my azure dove, my messenger from

Heaven
Where do I begin? Her creamy, velvety, luxuriously soft, silken
144 skin
Her scarlet red, resplendent rose was wholly blossomed

unfurled
Anne was my luminous lit angel of Lucifer’s shining, sovereign

sin
Her smooth, yet serene, elongated hair was thick vented

from its pin
Anne was a beauty, like the angelic sound of an acacia wood

violin
I was amply obsessed with this lavishing, tame dispositioned

damsel
Anne was truly blessed with vast beauty, a beguiling ability to

disarm
I imagined her quaffing daintily from the shimmering fountain

of youth
Her slender body was immaculately wrought to culminating

charm
I shall nevermore concededly allow myself to maliciously do

harm

Kiana George is a curious 6th grader who enjoys exploring her creativity through
art, writing, and cooking. She also loves playing basketball!

For I could not bear my dearest damsel suffering distressing 145
alarm

 
My intense adorement for her was very, deeply, madly

complex
Anne never loved me back, which left me bewildered,

perplexed
I Beckoned her passionately, coaxing her “Come, come, my

Anne.”
But she never appeared, never, I was indignant, acrimoniously

vexed
Someone I swear, someone churlish, has deliberately

forsaken me hexed
Who I declare, who I demand, WHO I ASK! Who has left me

hexed?
My fervent, bewailing, withering affection would never come

to fruition
Anne was to be taken forth as another’s genteel, swathed in

silk bride
My anguish consumed my every thought, all I yearned for

was my precious
My sorrow, melancholy yet piqued emotions I could no

longer endure to hide
My fond affection for my revered allure couldn’t bear to be

put back aside
I was shattered with remorse, denied, Anne would evermore

be occupied
In my madly cruel lugubrious condition, I tortuously turned to

another lass
Together, we contentedly, merrily married satisfying our

purest yearning
Anne’s sweet young sister was pulchritudinous, and I was her

dapper mister
Tis this ring and its burnished gold all is wrought by the

scintillating churning
But my hankering thoughts about seducing my shining Anne

were yet returning
Provoking thoughts I couldn’t condemn for these luring

thoughts were burning
 
Anne was mournfully present in my contemplations in a

delicate crown of thistle
“Get out of my glutted mind! Hearken,” vociferated I, in my

disquieted disposition.
I had forgotten all my vital lore, I desired little, winsome Anne

desperately more
Anne my perpetual haunting apparition, my adoration as

unexplainable as intuition
My sweet, adoring wife, Lark, became aware of a revoltingly

grim premonition
Lark’s slowly growing apprehensions intensified with her

dreadful suspicion

But I continued with my benevolently pleasing marriage with
lovely Lark

Her sweet demeanor and soft sweet plum lips I could not
dare to betray

I desperately expressed affection, I carefully caressed her
innocent face

Lark delighted in my attention and became noticeably,
copiously gay

Her prodigiously contented emotions blossomed like a Spring
bouquet

The unfulfilling marriage I would endure, from Lark I would
not stray

146
A quaint glistening necklace made of platinum, a flickering
opulent light
A shining platinum necklace for prosperity, a gleaming sheet
of glass
An ornament for a docile damsel to swelly grant her my
amiable choice
My plunging, plummeting feelings for Lark would surely,
assuredly pass
Tempting, longing thoughts of Anne, dying hopes to be with
her at last
Imagining, dreaming, distracted I shall be joyous for Lark to
be my lass

One bleak winter night, the vicious tempest outside bellowed
vehemently

Inside cozily aglow. My glinting, lustrous necklace awaiting in
my hand

cosseting, caressing, coddling, cherishing my oh so darling,
dearest Lark

Wrapping the strand around her elegant porcelain neck as
intricately planned

Lovingly embracing the pendant, stroking the glistening

platinum strand 147
Soothing the necklace in my pale hands; my vision of this

moment so grand
As I ran my hand along the platinum, my disturbing thought

of Anne returned
Enraged and suddenly full of anger; I was a whirling, thrashing

tempest inside
Deprived of my Anne, a dangerous thought surfaced for Lark

was no compare.
Evil made a viperous demon appear. The necklace tightened,

strangling, tied
The last tiny bit of song choked out of my lovely, frail dove,

as she softly cried
Cherry red blood eyed. My dark, malevolent demon did this,

my Lark had died
She laid still in her heavenly sleep; I hid the gruesome

evidence of mine
Stuffing each exquisitely elegant limb in every pillow laid

upon on our bed
Her ethereal body a deep rose red; I had deliberately sawed

each dying limb
They became a deep shade of wine red from blood my little

Lark had bled
Each winter night this is where I rested my evil, revolting,

villainous head
This is where gentle, tolerant Lark’s brief, shortened life was

sorrowly led
‘Twere my neighbors who missed my engaging, delightful,

little Lark
The police visited my distinguished home, trying to unearth

my plot
They detected a stench oh, so horribly horrific--foul, rotten,

decayed
Headed towards my malodorous chamber reeking red

pillows sought
My aghast face turning sweltering, my anxious conscience

searing hot
I feared that my fiendish, heinous, committed crime had been

caught
Shaking the laden loaded stained pillows, knocking, thumping
Banging, my heart pounding faster, and more and more rapid

Out came decomposing bloody limbs from thirteen deathly
pillows

One-by-one, pieces of Lark fell softly as she slept so vapid
Quaffing Absinthe to relieve my panic, Absinthe, oh-so-sapid
Staring, drinking, pondering my unfeeling heart turned rancid
By slow degrees my hope, dreams, love was deteriorating,

demolished
This is my morbid, grim story and how I ended securely

locked in jail
Now my tale is over and Lark is evermore in a gracefully,

silent sleep
Deteriorating, withering, her pale body gradually, frightfully

frail
My beastly crime so grieves my soured soul, out escapes a

piercing wail
My shamefully horrid life, a wretched ending to my

melancholy tale

148

SVETLANA SOLODILOV

Lies 149

Aretha walked slowly. Her mind had kicked out all except
the desire to sleep. She didn’t notice the droplets of water
that were falling onto her coat, or that the streets were bare
of people. Every step felt heavy, all because of work. She
hated work. Hated her boss especially. Even though she had
left several hours ago, she still felt as if she was sitting in her
cubicle. A low sound broke her thoughts apart. The woman
turned around to find a homeless man snoring loudly in a
corner. Maybe it’s better to be homeless, Aretha thought.
Then, at least I could sleep. She knew that this wasn’t an
option. To be homeless in a town like this was worse than
being dead. The woman took out a purple umbrella. It had
several holes in it, gray at the edges. Nonetheless, Aretha
loved this umbrella. Her parents had given it to her, when
they were still alive, when she was in her junior year of high
school. It was one of her only treasured possessions. It
reminded of a time before her life was this messed up. Back
when she was in high school, her life had so many choices,
so many possibilities. She yawned and slowed down next
to a gray bench. She was so tired of everything. The rain
continued to fall.

The police officer gave out a long sigh. His job was
far from pleasant. He had been standing here on this rainy
corner, in this small town holding up a picture and asking
people if they recognized the man. This town was a subject
to crimes, and most of them had been pinpointed back to a
guy named John Badhanck. Unfortunately, no one knew John.
No one had seen him, most of the time when asked people
would shrug and walk away. He spotted movement out of
the corner of his eye. Dressed in black with a mop of brown
hair, someone was walking towards him. Her despondent
demeanor made him twitch, but he continued to stare. She

Svetlana is 14 years old and enjoys eating, drawing, reading and writing. She goes
to Central Middle School and lives with her mom, dad, and younger sister.

looked depressing really, like a rat stuck in an endless maze.
The officer was ready to leave.

Aretha stood in front of the officer. She cocked her head
to the left and looked at him. He looked like a kind, hard
working person. Strange. “Ma’am?” the officer asked. “Ma’am
are you alright?’.

“Wha?... Oh, yes, I’m fine” she muttered, ashamed that she
had been staring. The officer still looked concerned. Then, he
pulled a picture out of his pocket. “Have you seen this man?”
he asked her. Her eyes flashed. “Yes.” Their was enough
confidence in that syllable to knock him off his feet.

“Really?” The police officer asked, surprised. Pulling out
a pad he jotted down a few notes. He looked up, beaming at
Aretha as if she was a prized jewel. “Can you please tell me
when and where you’ve seen him?” he asked, careful to keep
the excitement out of his tone.

“Yes. He walked down Elm St, and disappeared into the
alley way next to the grocery store. I saw him about three
days ago, and then again yesterday. I just assumed he was a
tourist.” she replied.

The officer’s gaze met hers, and he smiled. The woman’s
face looked as if it was lit up with a thousand christmas
150 lights. Her bright eyes shined like a star in the sky. The officer
cleared his throat. “Um, right. Thank you.” The officer began
walking away.

Stop him! Aretha thought suddenly. “Wait!” she yelled. The
officer turned around. “Is there a problem?”

“Oh. Well.. yes. ” Aretha sighed, a noise that made the
officer flinch. “The truth is, I haven’t seen him. I lied to you. ”
she said quietly. The officer just stared at her.

Lied to you. Lied to you. She’s a liar. Liar. Liar. Why would
this woman lie to him? Why would anyone lie to him? And
without any regard for how it made him feel! She’s a liar. Liar.
Liar. The officer tried to speak. Words, usually his first line of
defense, failed him. “You...you...you...lied to me?”

“Yes” Aretha responded, refusing to meet his gaze. She
adjusted her grip on the umbrella and stared into the rain. The
officer looked outraged. “WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT!?” No
response. “WELL!? ANSWER ME YOU SCUMBAG! The truth
was, Aretha didn’t know why she had lied. It just, had made
her feel good, useful. The way the officer had looked at
her, like she was the most important person on Earth. “FINE.
YOU CAN’T ANSWER!? I DON’T CARE! JUST TAKE YOUR
LIES AND YOUR STUPID UMBRELLA, AND GET OUT OF
HERE! JUST GO! DON’T TALK TO ME, OR TO ANY OFFICER