Stanford Anthology For Youth: Volume 20

AGAIN!” The woman looked at him. He met her gaze evenly. 151
I dare you to say something. Anything. His eyes said. “Get out
of here you piece of garbage” the officer said dismissively,
angrily. The woman wiped her eyes. She shrunk back into
herself. Her eyes filled with pain. The police officer turned
away from her quickly. “You should go.” he muttered. The
rain poured down even harder. The woman turned her eyes,
her gray face, her sad lies away from him. She lifted up her
purple umbrella and began walking down the street into
darkness.

The policeman stared at her as she walked away. He
paced back and forth. He wanted to say something. Anything.
He fought the urge to run after her. Fought the urge to call to
her.

She deserved it, didn’t she? Coming up to him, opening
her mouth and expecting him to believe the stuff she spout
out. Why would she tell him she saw the criminal, and then
admit that she never did? What if she needs help, and you
pushed her away? What if she was suffering? He pushed the
thought away. She did deserve it, his yelling. He should have
arrested her, that’s what he should have done. This cowardly
woman... oh the nerve!! The nerve she must have had to lie to
a police officer. Thunder crashed, and a streak of white light
soared through the sky. Thunk! The officer quickly whipped
his head around to where the sound had come from. The
street turned cold, and, if possible, grew darker. A shadow
slinked towards him. He reached for his gun, the object was
getting closer. Then, it stopped moving. The officer held
out his gun in front of him and approached the object. He
stopped several feet away, gun hanging uselessly in his hand.
The object was purple, and faded at the edges. A black handle
was snapped in half. Pieces of purple floated in puddles. It
was the purple umbrella.

NICOLAS GUGLIELMIN

Lime Time

The lonely soldier of citrus escaped my hands, spilling
down, down, down, and tumbling over the deep edge of the
sidewalk onto the road. I couldn’t just leave it there. I was all
set to retrieve it so I could bring it home with all the other
limes for some kind of snack. “Oh!” I exclaimed, as I noticed
a car nearby. It meandered slowly down the quiet summer
street, most people relaxing quietly inside or enjoying the
sun at the park or the beach. That car was soon to become a
menace to this one lime. Then, as I came away from the car,
moving from the sidewalk’s edge, I thought, why did I take
these limes? My snack centric reason felt weak. They were
just citizens of the most useless of citrus fruits, freed by me
152 from a cardboard box on someone’s driveway adjacent to
the sidewalk that read: “free limes.” (I am not a crook.)

“Why?” seemed like a very good question to me, as car
and lime would soon meet in a most untimely fashion. I could
smell the pungent zest of the handful of smooth, bright
green limes still cradled in my hands that I was struggling to
carry, a smell that falsely promises good flavors within. The
shadow grew on the one lime out on the road as it rolled its
way to the middle of the street, where the sun shone down
hardest today. The whole world seemed to be quiet, no birds
whistled in the trees. It was as if everyone on Earth stood
behind me, up in the bleachers, watching the poorly pitched
lime roll slowly in step with the road towards the batter. By
sheer habit, however, the driver reacted as the obstruction
to his progress rolled its way into the corner of his eyesight.
This time however, it wasn’t just a ball or a toy. The hulking
brake was pressed and the whole machine lumbered slowly
to a halt, just mere inches from becoming BMW with a hint of
lime. Without the putter of the car’s engine, the whole world
became even more silent around me, the air even more

It’s pronounced GOO-YELL-MIN. Nicolas is an 8th grader at Central Middle School
who enjoys reading and tennis.

still and undisturbed. Why would a car stop for a lime in the 153
middle of the road?, I thought. I realized that, by stopping, it
had become my turn, the person with lime juice on his hands,
a lime’s life on the line, had eloquently been changed to me,
simply by the driver doing nothing at all.

For a split second I just stood there, stupefied, yet still
focused on the car and the driver. The car still made no
sound, no roar or purr, continuing to stand there at attention
like a marble statue, unflinching. I had an idea of what the
driver intended for me to do, to jaywalk and pick up the lime.
Even with driver’s intentions clear, I still hesitated. I would
never consider it normal for a driver to do this. Why does he
care so much?, I thought. All this for what was but a humble
lime. I was clearly old enough to know not to run into the
street. The air was silent and deafening all at once. Those in
the bleachers had collectively inhaled. Lumbering down to
street level, I slowly jogged towards the lime. When I took
careful note of the countenance on the driver’s face, he
answered my question.

Despite the obstruction, the driver’s face was serene,
as if he enjoyed stopping. We often do things we wouldn’t
tolerate in others, as I had just done. I perceived the driver
would be completely set to agree this was intolerable. He
was middle aged, and had somewhere to hustle and bustle
to even on a quiet summer weekend. Yet he wasn’t going to
disapprove of my actions. He was disagreeing with me in a
most agreeable fashion. His face was marked with a cheerful
expression. Yet it was obvious it wasn’t just a face for people
who just happen to pass by. We had made a connection. A
connection of sharing stories, like two travelers. I’d given him
a story story to tell, just as he had given me one. Why take
so much care, I thought, even when no one’s watching, much
less caring. I slowly made my way back up to the pavement,
wishing I knew the answer to this question. As I looked at the
BMW rolling into the far reaches of my vision, I felt I had met
one person who knew. That’s why he’s so happy, I thought. He
knows, and know so do I, you have to give a little in order to
take a lot.

KATIE STAMPER

Macarons?

You scoff at the idea that these odd cookies could
be normal. You watch the cookies suspiciously; you don’t
believe what you have been told. It must have something in
it. Coconut or almond or something. Can you REALLY trust
these cookies?

Looking at your other options, you can’t find anything
you know you like. The entire dessert selection is either
greasy, rock hard, or a macaron. The cheesecake makes you
gag; it looks like someone just put candle wax in a pie shell.
The entire table is filled with what most call delicacies, but
not you. You know you aren’t allergic but nuts just give you
a barfy feeling. “A table of desserts and I can’t find anything
154 I like, I know I’m picky but really? And why aren’t there
chocolate chip cookies? That’s like the most common dessert
ever. Actually, I don’t see any cookies but these?!”

The light murmur of other guests talking makes the
macaron seem to be a casual snack. “If it isn’t a big deal for
them, then it can’t be that bad. Besides, I trust my instinct, any
pure chocolate item should be edible.” The fancy label with
a lacy font and elegant border convinces you to try it. Still
nervous, you take a small pinch. You taste the macaron. The
label was right -- that cookie is suave and has panache. The
most high-class cookie you’ve ever tasted.

Chocolate floods your mouth and your inner chocoholic
shows through. You know you won’t have a choice; these
cookies are here for you and only you. It’s like nothing you’ve
ever tried, fluffy but smooth cookie combined with silky
thick creme that rolls over your tongue. The cookie is slightly
crunchy on the outside and soft on the inside; the perfect
combination of textures pairs well with the velvety creme.
The chocolate is a slightly dark milk chocolate that has the
smallest hint of nuttiness and salt. It really isn’t explainable,

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.

but the first bite creates a black hole in your mouth that can
only be filled by eating more macarons. What is this trickery?
It looks like a chocolate Oreo but seems to be lighter, unlike
any other genre. The flavor is rich and decadent, begging you
to snarf up the entire box before anyone takes another.

The clatter and hum of people slicing pie only intensifies
the situation. Only one dessert will fulfill your desire, yet you
don’t want to be rude. Reaching over the table you grab all
the chocolate macarons. The plate calls to you and steals
your attention away from inquizzitive friends. The macarons
have been secured, you have a treasure to protect. Should
you eat them casually, so nobody will notice that you have
them all? Or is it better to speed it up to lessen your plate
more. Another possibility is to take them to the bathroom and
hide. You decide that the first option is the least ridiculous.

155

EMILY MURPHY

Maybe Someday

I walk into 1st period history not feeling the way
everybody else does. I’m not scared to sit in the front of the
class. I’m not scared to raise my hand, because I know I won’t
be called on or looked at because people feel bad for me.
I get the occasional stare, but they usually look away in an
instant, as if one judgemental look, and I’ll break. I sit down
in a leftover seat next to the other misfits. There’s no point in
trying anyway, I can’t turn my life around. It is what it is. My
therapist tries to encourage me to “get out there” and “do
what makes me happy” but what difference does that make?
At this point I don’t even know what happy is and I’ll still be
sad and lonely on the inside even if I have friends. I know
156 what they say when they think I can’t hear. “Abby is beyond
repair.” “I feel bad for her, but it can’t be healthy to hang out
with such a sad person. I’ll just stay away.” Those are the nice
ones. Most people don’t even care. They think that making a
friend won’t “cure” me they call it. As if I have a contagious
disease. It’s depression, not the flu, I think to myself.

Mom is an alcoholic and always has been since I can
remember. Dad left us when I was six. He comes back every
so often claiming that he’s a “new man” and “is going to
be there for us” only to get drunk and leave us again. It’s a
vicious cycle. I gave up the hope of him ever actually staying
without getting wasted years ago. I dread going home
everyday to the dump that is my house. I never call it my
home, because it doesn’t feel like one and it definitely doesn’t
look like one. Maybe someday I’ll be even the slightest bit
happy, with an actual loving family, if I make it that far.

The bell that sends me out of first period awakens me
from my thoughts. I use all the strength I can muster to lug
myself out of my desk and through the cramped doorway.
As I leave I give Hazel a shy smile; step one of “bettering my

Emily is aiming to become a photographer or interior designer when she grows
up. She loves dogs and Taylor Swift.

life,” Dr. Stevens tells me in a tone that makes it sound like 157
a chore rather than something I would want to do. Hazel’s
expression back is a sympathetic frown-p­ uppydog eye look.
I get that a lot. We used to be the best of friends, until I
started going to therapy. Her excuse for leaving me was “I
don’t want to make you worse.” I believe she really felt that
way. She’s just one of those people that cares too much,
and think everything that goes wrong is their fault. She was
one of the only people that I knew really cared about me
and would never gossip behind my back. After she left me
everything went downhill from there. I gave up on everyone
and everything that mattered to me. That’s when I knew my
life was over whether I was alive or not. My end goal is to get
Hazel and me back to the way we were before. I know that
that is just a fairytale, but it’s a good place to start.

Hazel and I are in 2nd period together, so we all get
in what we call a line, and wait to be summoned into the
classroom. I stand next to her, and after a long awkward
pause, I try to start up a conversation.

“How’ve you been?” I whisper under my breath. I can tell
she wasn’t expecting for me to say anything by her face.

She stands staring at me until she stutters, “I­-I’ve been
good. I miss you. H­-how are you?”

It’s more of a concerned ‘I actually want to know’ how
are you than a casual how are you? I stand, cracking my
knuckles and rubbing my foot into the floor. I do that when I
get nervous. If I mess this up, I know that I won’t be able to
forgive myself.

“I’ve been better. I miss you too.” I say, my voice getting
fainter with each word.

“I want to be your friend again Abby, I just don’t know
how. I don’t want to make things worse.”

I wait a few seconds, not letting myself say what’s in my
mind. I am filled with anger. I’m angry that depression defines
me. I’m angry that people don’t see anything other than that.
I’m angry that people think I’m fragile. Most of all, I’m angry
that I even have depression.

“That is never gonna happen. Hazel, you were honestly
the only person that I could rely on. You made things better
not worse.” The words flew out of me with no regret. She
startles me with a hug. A hug that I haven’t witnessed in what
feels like forever. She still smells strongly of fresh shampoo, a
smell that I’ve missed. I hug back, my eyes swelling with tears
of joy.

MAYA LEE & ELLE HORST

Mirror, Mirror

The mirror sits there on his throne
reflecting what he sees,
He shows you truths and gives advice,
He always tries to please
He also shows things that are false,
Creating an illusion,
And often will conceal the truth,
And put you in confusion
And though the mirror may seem true
and seems to help you through and through,
Don’t always trust the things you see,
Because the mirror can deceive.
158

Elle Horst and Maya Lee are sixth graders at Ralston Middle School in Belmont. Elle
is a competitive gymnast who enjoys drawing and reading. Maya is a pianist who
writes, reads, and draws in her spare time.

KELSEY SENNETT

On My Mind 159

Sitting in my red embroidered chair I gazed out the
window. The rain fell hard. I usually loved rain, but today I had
too much on my mind to appreciate the beautiful scenery
outside my small home. I scooped back my long white hair
with my wrinkled hands and pulled it into a low ponytail. As I
looked outside at the depressing Seattle rain, it seemed as if
everything reminded me of Buddy. The sidewalk reminded
me of our daily walks together, the rain reminded me of how
we used to snuggle up together in the cold, and the dark
rainclouds mimicked the color of Buddy’s dark fur coat.

After concluding the third day of sitting in my chair, I
decided to get up and grab something to eat. I ambled past
Buddy’s food and water bowls, though seeing the bowls
put me in a deeper depression. Nothing sounded good to
me, so I grabbed a vanilla yogurt from the refrigerator. I
sat back down in my chair and put my yogurt down on a
nearby coffee table. The pit in my stomach wouldn’t let me
consume anything. I felt uneasy from crying so much. My
eyes burned from the tears they collected. Grabbing my lace
handkerchief, I patted my tearstained face dry.

I hadn’t felt this empty since my husband passed away
15 years ago. Six months after he left me, I adopted Buddy,
a German Shepherd, so I would have someone to keep me
company. Now that Buddy is gone, I have nobody to love me.

Thinking back to last week, I never really thought Buddy
was in bad shape. I made an appointment with the vet
immediately after I noticed Buddy’s symptoms of not eating,
vomiting, and fatigue. I figured he was just sick. The doctor
said it was old age, but I know Buddy. He was a survivor. I
may never find out how Buddy left me, but no matter what,
he will always remain on my mind.

I felt like I needed someone to talk to, so I called my best

Kelsey is a fourteen year old who lives in San Carlos. When she isn’t writing, Kelsey
enjoys doing yoga, playing violin, and cheering for her school.

friend, Mildred, on my phone. Mildred was my only friend still
alive, being 87 years old. I was 86 and she always enjoyed
rubbing it in to me that she was one year older, smarter, and
prettier than I was. And that is why we are best friends.
I dialed the number and listened to the crunch of her line
ringing.
“Ethel? Is that you, Honey?”
“Yes, Mildred, it’s me.”
“Why do you sound so down in the dumps? Is it because I
am older than you?” Mildred snickered.
“No. I have some bad news.” Mildred loved Buddy. She
and I used to go out for coffee while Buddy sipped his water
beneath us. I remember the day I brought Buddy home for
the first time. Mildred knit him a sweater with some mistletoe
on it, because I brought him home around Christmas. I still
have the sweater.
“I don’t know how to tell you this. Three days ago, I lost
a friend. Buddy passed away. No one knows how, but he
was old, so that could have something to do with it. I called
because I need someone to talk to.” Silence hovered over us.
“Oh, Sweetie, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say. I
know how much you and Buddy loved each other.” Mildred
finally muttered.
160 We continued talking for the longest time. I knew she

meant well, but it seemed that every time she mentioned
Buddy’s name, my heart sunk a bit more. We concluded our
conversation, and I hung up the phone. Since I hadn’t left
my living room for three days straight, I walked over to my
bathroom and studied myself in the mirror. My red face was
still swollen from crying, and my wrinkles were more defined.

The tears trickled down my face at the pace of honey. I 161
looked awful.

Needing something to take my mind off things, I grabbed
my sewing kit. Even though sewing was my passion, the
empty hole in my heart prevented me from being happy.
The harder I tried to cheer myself up, the sadder I became. I
began sewing an oven mitt to take my mind off of my loss. I
figured there was no way to connect Buddy to an oven mitt,
but I was wrong. It just reminds me of when I used to bake
dog treats with Buddy. I stared at the baking necessity. “I still
have those treats!” I thought. I rambled towards the pantry
and grabbed the bag of treats. Then an idea struck! I grabbed
my keys and got into my car. I was going on an adventure.

I arrived home from the supermarket an hour later with
bags full of flowers, dog bones, and a wooden box. I kicked
the door closed behind me and dropped the full paper bags
on the counter. I started my project immediately.

I gathered my treats, bones, and Buddy’s old sweater
and placed them in the wooden box. I used my acrylic paint
to make a design on top of the box. I settled on painting
a paw print. When I finished, I set the box under a willow
tree in my front yard and surrounded it with peonies,
chrysanthemums, and forget-me-nots. I stepped back to look
at my masterpiece.

My shrine to Buddy made me proud and sad at the same
time. Looking at it reminded me of the good times we had
together, but it also reminded me that I would never have that
feeling of importance again. I knew that without me in his life,
Buddy would not have lived the life he did.

I whispered, “I love you, Buddy”, then wiped away some
tears and looked up at the sky. The rain had cleared and the
sun shone. I swear I could’ve seen a cloud in the shape of a
dog. I smiled and watched my soul rise to heaven.

Ashley Guo (opposite page, “Cows”) is a 8th grader at JLS who loves to read and
write. She enjoys competitive swimming at PASA, playing the piano, and dancing
ballet.

LILLY HE

One Night

The unmoving quiet of night rested gently on the
neighborhood. Streetlights overlooked the roads, casting
a dim light, the only light. There was no warm glow from
windows, no playful stars to feed wonder into their viewers.
The streetlight had a cold nature, adding a cool feeling of
solitude to the stillness.

On second thought, there was a warm glow from one
window.

There was also a young artist behind that window. The
glow was warm, but the artist had a mind of ice. His solitude
equaled that of the streets, and his coldness exceeded that of
the air.
162 In front of the young artist stood a screen with a blank
document on it. The young artist had spent the last hour
staring at that blank screen, trying to prove that woman
wrong.

He was usually extraordinarily mild, his patience nearly
unbreakable. No one in the world could ever present an insult
horrible enough to trigger this blank ­screen s­ taring­­except
for that woman. Only she would accuse him so venomously
of “arrogance,” “zero talent,” “laziness,” and “wasting time”,
among other things, about his writing. Only she would
declare to him, “Give up. You will never improve.” Only she
was his mother, someone who had the authority to injure him,
and seemed more than glad to do so.

The young writer knew he was not very talented in this
subject, but he cherished his favorite art and wished to
protect it. He could swallow insults of every form except for
this. So he created a blank document, and stared at it.

The young writer only lacked a subject to write about.
Ideas would occasionally surface, but they never deserved

Lilly is an all-purpose nerd in seventh grade who has a degree of affection for all
arts that don’t involve vigorous exercise. Music is the current favorite, along with
irregular bursts of writing juice.

being written about. He tried most of them, and ended up 163
holding down the “Backspace” key after a few sentences. He
called himself a coward and tried to force himself to keep on
writing. What came out still suffered the “Backspace” key.

He sat in front of the blank screen.
A spirit floated in a mist. It was a warm mist, somehow,
and resembled a sunrise through fog. The spirit wasn’t sure
whether it was real or imaginary.
The spirit had questions, too many questions, all
unanswerable. It could faintly recall a past life, as well as its
fading. There seemed no clear transition between that world
and the one it now floated in. The deathbed was solid, and
gravity brought order to everything there. In this mist, there
was nothing real, nothing definite. The spirit wondered how
and why it was here, and where this was. And what would
happen next? When?
No one knows how long the spirit had remained in this
fog. No one knows if time even exists in such places. What we
do know is that the spirit was not stuck there forever.
The spirit felt itself traveling; in what direction it did not
know. There was no point where the mist cleared into an
earthly world. Eventually, the spirit saw itself travel towards a
creature and into its abdomen.
He liked that. The keyboard continued tapping.
A young artist in a warm glowing room finished a piece
of writing in the night. It told the story of a spirit experiencing
death and rebirth, and looked more promising than any other
past failure the writer had experienced.
A small amount of light escaped over the horizon. The
writer smiled at his work.

DILARA SUMBUL

The Ornament

An ornament heard the sound it had been longing for
so long, the scraping sound of cardboard pieces dragged
against each other. Though it was not necessarily the sound
the ornament longed for, it most certainly welcomed the
motion that followed. The noise lasted for a few minutes, as
though the person making the noise was struggling. Finally,
after several minutes, the ornament was lifted from the dank,
cold, box that had been its home for the last eleven months.
It was held lovingly. The person holding it was staring at the
intricate and detailed carvings of brown and red reindeer on
the little bulb, remembering the years before. It was finally set
down gently on a red and gold decorated carpet on the floor.
164 Another ornament plopped down beside it, resting on its
side. It was a large, elderly gent with a red outfit and a white
beard that was lugging a bag full of presents. More such
ornaments continued to be set down. A wooden soldier with
a working jaw, a white cane with red stripes, and countless
small multi colored bulbs and figurines of different animals.
Once the seemingly endless flow of colorful and elaborate
ornaments stopped, it saw a shaky hand delicately lift the
elderly gent that sat beside the ornament up, grasping onto
the elder’s brown sack that he was lugging on his shoulder.
He didn’t come back down.

The ornament felt a wave of fear. It saw this happen to
the wooden soldier, and the striped cane. The fear grew
stronger. The ornament was lifted up. It was shaken slightly,
though not deliberately, by the hand clutching it as it rose up.
A gut wrenching fear was now held in its delicate ceramics.
The hand moved it forward, till the ornament was pressed
up against a scratchy substance. It saw a dark, lush green. A
green of which only could be given off by a living thing. It
suddenly stopped, suspended in the air.

Dilara Sumbul is a 6th grader at Central Middle School. She enjoys writing, reading
and science.

Slowly rotating, it could see all the other ornaments, 165
suspended in the air as well, and burrowed in the vibrant
green. The fear left, and confusion took over. Strings of
different colors with and without bulbs and popcorn were put
on, smothering the ornament, it didn’t mind. Pinecones were
put on next, decorating every empty space left. Finally, the
ornament heard footsteps leading away from the tree and
felt a bit confused again. The green didn’t feel complete yet.

The ornament would have gasped as light arched over
it, coming from different colored bulbs placed strategically
around the green. Everything was lit up, the light cascading
down on all the ornaments. The ornament was cheered.
It glinted happily in the light. Then it remembered. It
remembered that after a few nights it would go back in that
box for another eleven months. A hand poked its way through
the green and lifted the ornament up. This didn’t usually
happen. The ornament saw a blazing fire ahead. It seized
up, suddenly terrified. It was lifted onto a smooth, wooden
mantle. The ornament relaxed, relieved.

A new glass case was set on the mantle, creating a loud
clink as it was deposited on the glossy, white wood. It had
a crimson velvet cushion on the bottom of the case. The
ornament stared, suspicious. It was lifted again and set in the
case, nestled in front side forward. It felt prized. It had seen
old and treasured ornaments being lifted up from the green
never to return, but it hadn’t thought about where they went
afterwards. In other glass cases lining the mantle, it saw them.

A gingerbread man with a chef’s hat on was to his right.
To his left was a ballerina figurine in a dusty pink tutu, with
cracked porcelain skin.

There were many more lining the mantle, all treasured
and respected in the family. An elf dressed in a green tailored
outfit, with white trim at the end. A snowman wearing an
orange scarf and smoking a pipe. All gleaming and polished,
glowing brightly from where they rested. Now the ornament
was one of them. The ornament relaxed against its luxurious
pillow, content, as he watched the shimmering lights dancing
in the vibrant green, highlighting the beautiful ornaments as
they swayed slightly on their strings.

166

BANAFSHEH HUSSAIN 167

Out of Sight

My name speaks before I open my mouth
Waving a red flag over my head
Saying
Hey! This one’s
Different
They stumble over the letters
Never getting it just
Right
I escape from my shackles
Lying on my bed
Curled up on the sofa
Dreaming
Of places far
Beyond my reach
But I return
To school
As the
Quiet girl
They say my name
Never looking past it
Ignoring
What they never
Understood

Isabelle Bravo (opposite page, “Emily”) is an enthusiastic girl who enjoys act-
ing, singing, sketching and reading Edgar Allen Poe’s stories And poems. Her
favorite story by Edgar Allan Poe is “The Tell-Tale Heart.” She has done more
than 11 shows in her life including Annie where she played Miss Hanigan, Peter
Pan where she played Peter Pan and now Aladdin Jr. where she plays the genie.
When Isabelle grows up she wants to be an actor. Isabelle enjoys listening to
60s and 70s music. Some of her favorites are Jimi Hendrix, AC/DC, and KISS.
Banafsheh is a seventh grader at JLS Middle School who likes to stare into
space at very random moments. She is a competitive swimmer at PASA and
spends most of her time reading, writing, swimming, and dreaming.

RACHEL LORAN

Perspective

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder” –A proverb
I feel my heart race as we reach the final jump, a three
foot oxer. Normally, this would be no problem, but after
fourteen jumps before, I’m not sure if Oz can make it.
Although I know I can’t lose my concentration, I look to my
right, to see my proud parents standing in the crowd, my
mom’s hand covering her face. She’s always worried I’m
going to crash and fall—I’m not. I urge Oz to push himself for
the last jump, and I count my strides before takeoff. Four...
three...two—oops. No not yet!
Getting too excited, Oz takes off a stride too early. He
will have to stretch all the way to clear the jump. As I lift
168 myself up, so I’m not hurting his back, I pray that we will
make it. Please please please, I’ve worked so hard. I land, and
just when I think I’ve cleared it, I hear a thud behind me. Just
my luck. I’ve prepared for the Spring Finale for months, and I
did all of it to knock down the last fence. Pouting, I storm out
the arena, hop off, and hand my so-called-champion horse,
Wizard of Oz, to my disappointed dad.
“You did great, Alli,” my mom tries to calm me down.
“I was so sure you would fall off, but you didn’t. You’re a
winner to me.” She knows I won’t win. The competitors
before already had clear rounds, meaning there is no
way I can come home with a blue ribbon. My dad isn’t so
understanding. “What was that, Allison? You missed an entire
stride before the last wall.” He doesn’t know anything about
horses, but according to him, he knows everything about
winning.
“It’s an oxer, Dad, not a wall. I don’t know. The stupid
horse got too excited.” Even if I’ve loved horses all my life,
my relationship with them has changed. I used to crave being
at the barn, and just spending time with Oz. Now that I’ve

Rachel loves writing among other hobbies, especially horseback riding. On her
free time, she can be found at the barn, the park, or with her dog.

moved him to a new show jumping barn, I’ve been annoyed 169
at him for messing up the small things, like missing a stride or
tiring quickly. I know exactly what my critical dad will say next;
he’s too predictable.

“Maybe you need to stop blaming your mistakes on
your horse, and start fixing your own mistakes. Whether the
mistake was Oz’s or yours, you lost, and I don’t want to pay
for admission fees to watch you lose.” My mom recoils.

“Now, Alli has been working for the Spring Finale for a
long time. I trust she has learned whatever lesson there is to
learn from this. Why don’t you and I get something to eat,
while Alli sits here with Oz to watch the other competitors
and learn from them?” I know this is just so they can talk
about me behind my back, but the truth is, I want to spend
some time with Oz anyway.

“Okay, Mom, I’ll go let him graze while I untack him, and
then we’ll go watch other horses try to clear the round.” Off
they go, as I lead Oz to the grazing field.

I’m not sure why Alli and her parents were upset. I
actually think we had a great round. It was obvious she was
tense, like she always is at new places and shows, but she did
a good job of hiding it. It did surprise me that I jumped the
scary bush fence; it could have killed me. I’m not sure why
we jumped the last one early, because I know she cued me
to takeoff. I could feel her heels squeeze into my sides, so I
jumped. Maybe this is what they were upset about. Oh well,
she probably would have been upset with me either way.
Ever since she took me to a new barn with cleaner stalls, and
a bigger arena, sometimes she gets upset at me for doing
things she told me to do. I hope we can go back to the old
barn with Panda and Ollie. I miss them. Oh, the parents are
leaving, I wonder where Allie is taking me. Oooh, grass, this is
perfect.

Watching Oz graze always calms me down. I can watch
him strategically wiggle his upper lip to separate dirt from
grass, before inhaling it into his mouth. After watching
him for half an hour, I decide I’m ready to watch the other
competitors. Forcing myself to get up, I lead Oz to the
ring, where rider #152, Cassie Smith, is starting her round. I
watch in awe as she perches over her beautiful bay Danish
Warmblood’s back.

Oz is a 16.3hh, or sixty-seven-inch-tall, chestnut-colored
Quarter Arab with four white socks, and a picture-perfect star

on his forehead. But the grass is always greener on the other
side. At this moment, all I want is a horse just like Cassie’s.
She looks gorgeous as she urges her horse into the perfect
canter, and rises out of the saddle with each jump. Someday, I
want to look like her when I jump.

By the time her round is over, Cassie is in the lead with a
time of one minute, twenty six seconds. I’ve seen Cassie and
her mare jump in previous shows, and they always look great.
But today was special, she looked amazing. Looking back,
I see Oz staring at Cassie’s mare, probably shocked by her
gracefulness as she clears each bush and fence. As Cassie
exits the arena looking proud as ever, I can see a nervous girl,
#76, Elizabeth Sherman, and her splotchy sturdy gelding enter
the arena. I don’t believe her horse can jump very high at all;
he looks half asleep. I can see Elizabeth barely controlling her
nerves as she picks up the reins, and her gelding immediately
picks up the canter. He may look hideous, but I will say he
can move quickly. Her form, however, is not impressive. She
is struggling with her half-seat, and almost loses her balance
multiple times.

If you ask me, a girl like her doesn’t belong at shows like
this. As she canters, her back is hunched, like she is afraid of
170 making contact with the saddle. Her hair is flying out of her
hair net, clearly showing her inexperience in shows. People
like this disgust me, so we have to leave. Pulling on Oz’s lead
rope, I drag him out of the audience, and back to his trailer.

For some reason, after we jump in strange new places,
Alli has me sit next to her around other people and watch
other horses jump. I don’t know why this is, as they will
never jump with the same level of spring, energy, and
awesomeness as me. Maybe it’s to make the other horses
jealous of my amazing owner. Who knows. I just can’t wait
to go back to my stall where I can finally eat my dinner. Oh,
and I can’t wait to tell the other horses about today and the
horses I saw. They’ll be so envious that they spent their entire
day locked in a hot and humid stall.

When we get to the trailer, my parents are there waiting
for us. Avoiding eye contact, I hitch Oz to the trailer, and
begin to sponge and groom him down.

“Well, Allison, what did you learn from today? What will
you be able to tell your trainer about your experience?” Ew,
my dad sounds like a worksheet in school.

“I don’t know dad, I don’t want to talk about it.” My mom 171
rolls her eyes, but I pretend not to see it.

“Alli, if you can’t learn from your show experiences, I
don’t think we should take you to them any more.” It’s almost
as if Mom loves threatening me.

“That’s not fair, Mom, you would never say that if I won. I
probably learned something, I just don’t want to talk about it.”
Oh great, the perfect moment for Dad to chime in.

“Allison, we’re not starting the car until you tell us what
you learned from this, so I suggest you tell us now.” “Ugh,
fine. I learned that I can’t let anything distract me, and that I
need to work harder. Good?”

Giving me a disapproving glare, my dad signals me to
get in the truck. Quickly, I load Oz in to the trailer, and shut
the door. I double check that all the windows are closed,
the doors are locked, all his tack is shut in the tack room,
and I have all the gear I brought. Not looking forward to the
multiple-hour drive home, I get in the truck, and put in my
earbuds, signaling I don’t want to talk to anybody.

“Allison,” I can see his eyes in the car mirror. “Are you
going to be texting your friends, or are you going to have a
conversation with the people actually near you?”

“Dad, I’m tired, and I don’t want to have this conversation.
Can you just leave me alone for two hours?” I can tell my dad
is about to blow a gasket when my mom shoots him a glance
deadly enough to stop a rhino in its path. Finally, peace at last.

Two and a half silent hours later, we are back at
Whispering Oak Stables, Oz’s home. Drowsily, I take my
hungry horse out of the trailer, and put him in his stall. It’s not
long before he is kicking the door, waiting for his dinner.

“Ok, ok already, I’m getting it. Jeez.” I’m so sleepy, I am
not amused by his acts of impatience. Getting bits of hay and
dust all over my outfit, I grab a flake of alfalfa hay, and toss
it into his manger. Ready for a good nap, I say goodbye, and
run to the car, where my agitated parents have been waiting,
ready to go home.

Trailers are very confusing. One minute, I’m at a strange
new place, and then I get in a huge scary metal box. Soon,
I’m back home and eating my dinner. I’m not complaining.
Only after I eat do I realize I still need to tell Pepper and
Tally about my day. Exhaling, I blow my nose and get their
attention.

“Hey, guys, how was your day? I bet it was terrible. Mine
was amazing, you wanna hear about it?”

Tally is the first to respond. “Ugh, fine. But just so you
know, my day was great. Holly took me out on a trail ride, and
we visited the lake. Then she tied me up and went swimming
with her friends, it was perfect.” Whatever, I’m sure my day
was better. I begin to tell her the story, when I remember
watching the other horses I saw.

“Oh yeah! I almost forgot! After the ride, Alli took me to
watch other horses jump, and some of the people there were
so weird. The first girl, I think her name was Cassie. Her mare
looked miserable. The entire time, her ears were flat against
her face, and she was on the brink of bucking her rider off.”

Pepper finally joins in. “Ouch, that sounds painful, Danielle
would never do that to me. If she did... HA, she wouldn’t be
riding me anymore.” A pause. “What else did she do?”

“Well, she jumped really high, but that’s just because
Cassie was abusing her spurs. Each time they reached a jump,
I could see her heels punch into her ribs; it made me cringe.
Alli was watching her jump also. She seemed just as shocked.
I’m so lucky I have an owner who knows what they’re doing.”
That’s when cranky Jasper lost it, and pinned his ears back.

“If you guys don’t be quiet soon, I swear, you will have
two perfect hoof imprints on you tomorrow.”
172 I know if he says it, he means it. “Ok, Jasper, ok. We’ll be
quieter, calm down. Where was I? Oh yeah. If that Cassie girl
moves her horse here, I’m sure Alli will take me to a different
barn. Oh, and then there was another girl, Elizabeth. She didn’t
look like she’d been riding for a long time, and she didn’t
seem very experienced, but her gelding loved her so much.”

Tally isn’t convinced, “How so? If my rider wasn’t
advanced, I would hate them.” This is what happens when a
horse is only ridden by one person, they never realize what
other horses have to deal with.

“No, it’s possible. Every time Elizabeth started to lose her
balance, he immediately slowed down and adjusted himself
to help her stay on. And he didn’t seem annoyed at all, he
just wanted her to be safe. Man, I don’t know any horse who
would do that for a girl.”

“Heck, even I wouldn’t do that for someone. That gelding
must be crazy, it’s the only explanation.” Typical Pepper.
Oops, I think Pepper was too loud. Screaming, Jasper makes
his point final.

“I swear to carrots, If you don’t stop talking, I will make
sure you can’t leave your stall for a month. No more talking,
I’m trying to sleep!” And with that, the conversation is over. I
wonder what Alli and I will do tomorrow.

LYDIA RICE

Picture Perfect 173

“I wanna see it!” As the shutter flashes, five shrill voices
clamor, demanding to examine the group selfie. Our parade
of quirky cast members wearing mismatched checkers, blue
frills, black cards, pink stripes, and red hearts, inspects the
image now displayed on the glowing phone screen. My eyes
are drawn to my appearance, as I check if every piece of my
Halloween ensemble is in order. A giggle, a subtle snort from
the direction of the brown haired Cheshire Cat, interrupts
this process. What’s that for, Sophie? I attempt to murmur,
but these words halt at the tip of my tongue as two pudgy
fingers press against the cracked screen to zoom in on my
face. The lonely snicker transforms into a rolling guffaw from
the other characters in the dimly lit kitchen. Confused by
their amusement, I hold my position like a soldier standing
at attention, inwardly withdrawing myself. Attempting to
act nonchalant, I say nothing, while secretly insecure as the
cackles continue. Worried that my friends were making fun of
me, embarrassment ripens on my face like a red tomato.

One question plagues my mind: what is wrong with
how I look in the picture? Their laughter, not meant to hurt,
somehow stings in my side like a bullet. Perplexion turns to
dread as I frantically search for something amiss about my
image, too scared to simply ask. Once again, I am ultimately
unable to understand what is so funny about it. What should
provided relief only brings more worry. Maybe my hair is
unkempt. Perhaps my outfit is too wacky, the excessively
bouncy red skirt and the bedazzled crown are certainly
dramatic. While that is the intention for imitating the Queen
of Hearts, it’s probably not just the accessories they are
ridiculing. However, the apparently hilariously hideous image
is merely a normal photo of me in my eyes. Are we looking at
the same photo?. Although I search, begging to blame some

Lydia is an eighth grader at Central Middle School. When she is not doing home-
work, she is obsessing over bunnies, watching YouTube, or listening to music.

factor, I stare at a face that looks exactly like mine and find
nothing unusual about my plain brown hair and freckles. The
amusing snapshot is now etched into eternity and witnessed
by my closest friends. An overwhelming desire to comb my
hair and brush my teeth begins to gnaw at me.

Do I look funny now? Do I always look funny to them?
one part of me questions. I repress the urge to scream, to
have any reaction besides standing wide­-eyed and teary.
No one seems to notice though, all too distracted by the
brief commotion to care. I remain paralyzed, continuing to
overa­ nalyze one simple event. Am I overreacting? It’s so
much easier to wonder than to actually stop scrutinizing a
meaningless interaction. Uncertainty toward what they mean
still manages to fester in the back of my mind.

Exhausted from marching down illuminated streets,
we try to impersonate a look of happiness in the photo’s
pose, so later we will only remember joy and not have the
picture reveal the reality of our impatience. We paint our
smiles on, like the kind that the person at the cash register
flashes you when you leave and they call, “Have a nice day.”
The expressions on our faces match the luring treats our
group has raided from houses: sickly sweet but artificial. The
174 eccentric costumes leer out at us in each attempt of a new
pose or a new angle to capture the best lighting from the
faint overhead bulb. A different character ends up unhappy
with the resulting picture each time. It is simply a photo, yet is
a tiresome process of readjustment and complaining.

All the while I wish for a fleeting memory, one not
preserved by an everlasting snapshot. How preferable it
would be to recall the crisp scent of the autumn air tingling
our frozen finger tips. Or the exhilarating sense of freedom
wandering the world unaccompanied by parents, only with
friends who slowly become family. The wonder of this
eventually grows thin and saps our

patience as we grow weary from navigating the
neighborhood. Even after coming back to my house for a
break, irritation nips at our heads like crows pecking for a
morsel of food. We force ourselves to take these group
photos to memorialize an enchanted evening; instead it
ignites arguments and creates discord. The outing has
become tainted by pointless bickering.

Somewhere a light switches on, a defense: I don’t have
to be self-­conscious. Maybe it’s their fault. They’re the ones
making fun of me, how horrible! How rude! A newly acquired
rage demands to be released, like a wailing tea kettle about

to boil over. Outraged by their mocking, I seek revenge as
I mock them back, hoping that insulting their large noses
and bushy eyebrows will make my nose smaller and my
eyebrows more trim. Anger seeps out of me as I envision
clawing at their eyes, desperate to alter their perception of
my appearance. My sharp talons itch as if I am a roaring lion
longingly gazing at their pristine throats, eager to silence
their cruel laughter forever. No longer myself, but a beast, a
wounded wolf on the prowl for vengeance.

After analyzing this brutal sequence of reactions in my
head like scenes from a play, none of them accomplish
anything except driving me to madness. Remembering my
friends’ faces, I feel increasingly overcome by guilt. Their
innocent response hasn’t been intended to hurt, yet I became
obsessed by it. I imagine all the things I could say to them.
But instead, I do not utter a sound.

175

EMMA HOLLAND

Plucked Feathers

he flops flimsily through the air as if a pigeon
willing to be hunted
by friends who make him choose:
weak with them, or targeted without
surely it’s just a game
except for the truth
found between shouts of glee
that he is their prey

he conceals the half of himself that is virtuous
leaving only a callous exterior
176 so they won’t pin his wings to the ground

he collapses on the earth below
not strong enough to flap his wings
lacking the courage to support himself
alone against opposing winds

the protection and inclusion
a preeminent group can provide
confuses all that is ethical
with all that is ruthless

for if they are not with him
they are for sure against him
leaving a trail of plucked feathers
to tell the tale of a boy
who once was one of them


Emma is an eighth grader at Central Middle School. She loves a variety of things
from volleyball to reading to music. She hopes to one day be a pediatric oncolo-
gist.

trapped in confusion
he is confined to their regulations
until he gains the clarity
to fly on his own





177

BLAKE WIENCKOWSKI

The Presents

Christmas day begins in a quiet San Francisco
neighborhood. Cars are parked in their small, cramped
driveways. Lights shine from Christmas trees as families rise
to celebrate and open their remote control airplanes and new
clothes. Unfortunately there are many that don’t have a small,
cramped driveway with a car parked in it, or a tree shining
bright in their home. Instead, they live in a tent pitched on the
grass in a park and have only a couple pairs of dingy, tattered
clothes. Their stomachs are empty, but their hearts are full as
they care for each other, supporting the healthy and the ill.
They typically wake early to line up at the local food kitchen,
but on this morning they anxiously await the arrival of a
178 group outside their city limits.

Our caravan of cars approach what appears to be
a deserted park, but a crowd gazes from their hidden
encampment and emerge in happiness. Their presents have
arrived.

“We’re here,” Dad says in a soft voice, his hands releasing
the steering wheel after safely navigating the pred­ awn
journey up to the city.

Siblings and friends are still sleeping in the back seat,
blankets comforting their bodies, each wanting just a few
more minutes of rest. The park residents approach to greet
the families in cars, observing what has been brought from
them this year.

Their presents aren’t toys, or gift cards. They are much
more important than that. They mean the world to them, even
though the gifts might not seem like much to those doing
the gifting. They aren’t wrapped in red and green wrapping
paper, or tied off with a bow sitting perfectly on top. They are
wrapped with joy and love from their givers.

Blake Wienckowski is a student athlete who loves to play sports. He is currently
playing for San Carlos United and plays on the Central basketball team. Blake also
loves to read, and his favorite books are the Maze Runner series.

Over the past year, their stomachs have been filled with 179
nothing but a handful of meals a week, and their limited
clothing is damp and thoroughly worn out. Their beanies
have been punctured with holes and the warmth they once
provided is long gone.

I step outside, covered with a nice, warm jacket to keep
my tired body from getting cold. Step by step, my feet splash
puddles of water on the dewy grass, but neither my socks or
feet get wet.

“I hope you can last for a while out here, son,” Dad calls
out to me. “It will only be 38 degrees at 10 o’clock.”

Dad opens the back of the white car, and heaves out
several gray tables. The crowd watches us haul the tables
across the empty street and set them down near their tents.
They can’t bear another moment, as they are excited to
receive their gifts. They begin to line up, single file behind the
first table as they wait for the presents to be placed before
them. I notice a smile emerge from each of their cold faces
as they see the presents coming closer and closer to them.

The crowd of cold and tired people gets bigger as more
step out from their tents, and walk quickly in their ripped
shoes to the tables. The first person in line scrambles up to
the gifts. I glance up to see an older, dark­-skinned man with
very few teeth left in his mouth. His body is covered in a
torn, brown leather jacket, and some old, baggy Levi’s jeans.
I hand him a plastic bag...his present: a turkey sandwich, Oreo
cookies, bottled water, a wool beanie, and fresh pair of socks.

“Thank you, young man,” he whispers in a raspy voice,
looking at his present.

“You are so welcome, sir,” I respond.
His blue eyes weep water as he stands there, stone­-faced,
staring hard at his present. His body is now filled with love,
and the pain in his stomach begins to wash away from him.
He opens up the ziploc bag and snatches his new beanie. He
slips it on, covering his nearly bald head. He stands there a
little longer, taking in what he has received from me.
“Here you go kid, it’s all I got,” he says.
He reaches in the pocket of his leather jacket, opens his
wrinkled, dirty hands, and gives me six, rusty coins. The years
on the coins have long faded and are barely visible. I count
them up, 52 cents.
“Sir, you don’t have to do this. Please take your money
back and spend it on something special,” I tell him, offering
the coins back to him.
“I just did, young man,” he says, walking away from the

tables back to the tents beyond the treeline.
“I’ll be back in a sec,” I hastily inform my Dad as I scurry

past him to catch up with the old man.
I reach the old gentleman just before he unzips the thin

fabric door of his tent. I slip my warm, glove­-covered hand
into the pocket of my jeans, pull out a five dollar bill, and
hand it to him. He slowly takes the bill from my hands, staring
at the freshly printed picture of Abe Lincoln and the number
five stamped on all four corners. With his weathered fingers,
he grips the side of the new bill and rubs it, feeling its crisp
texture.

“Here you go sir,” I tell him. “It’s all I got.”
180

Cammy Kurtzman (opposite page, “Confusion”) is 13 years old and loves art,
dance, running, surfing, cooking, and food.

181

SHRAY VAIDYA

Raindrops

They say eyes are windows to the soul. If that’s true, then
what do people see when they look at me? Do they see the
black tar of depression boiling away inside me, or do they
see the small, shy sixteen year old boy who can’t quite find
the words to say what he wants to? As I stand in front of
the mirror, these are the thoughts flying through my head,
never staying long enough for me to grasp hold of one and
make it an idea, but fluttering down long enough to leave me
wondering.

I turn the rope over in my hands for the umpteenth
time, feeling the rough strands of twine on the pads of my
fingers. This is not the first time I have stood in front of this
182 mirror having an almost identical conversation with myself. I
look at my reflection one more time. “Go”, he seems to say.
“What are you waiting for?” he sneers. But I linger still, trying
to think, trying to find that one moment of clarity that has
escaped me for so long.

Depression is not a choice. That is my mantra, the words
I say to myself when the people in the halls at school brush
past me, when I catch snippets of conversations that abruptly
stop when I walk into a room. Those words have gotten me
far in my short life, but “Will they get me through this?” is the
question that not even my smug reflection seems to have an
answer for.

For a second, as I stand there listening to the rain thud on
my window, I find that fleeting moment of clarity, and, for a
second, I convince myself that there is more. That depression
is not a choice, but healing is. That I only have to choose
to make a difference in my own life. But then that moment
passes, and I am once again left to ponder what I want to do.

Sometimes on days like this when rain pours down

Shray is an 8th grader who goes to Hopkins Junior High School. He loves to read,
watch television, and hang out with his friends. When he writes, he tries to make
the reader feel what he feels.

endlessly, I like to go down to the coffee shop across the 183
street, to just sit and watch the people. I like to watch them,
to imagine what they are looking forward to, what they’re
getting their kids for Christmas. I do it as a reminder, that
each of these people are their own person, with their own
dreams and hopes and problems. I do it to remember that if
these people can make it through their lives then so can I. But
today I do not have that luxury. Today, on the first day of the
new year, I have decided that I will do what I was too afraid
to do all those times before. It’s ironic, in a way, that this year
will be born with my death.

Somewhere, deep inside of me, a tiny voice shouts about
how much I have to live for, that doing this is selfish in so
many ways, but a louder, stronger voice eggs me on. In the
end, the bigger voice drowns out everything else, and I am
barely aware of tying the rope to the fan and making a noose.

It is at that exact moment in which I am about to tie the
last knot do I realize the finality of my actions. If I do this,
there is no coming back. If I do this, I seal my fate. I glance
out my window, and see that even in the endless onslaught of
rain, the coffee shop lights shine without a flicker. In that split
second, I realize that I don’t want to die. I’m not ready, not
ready for everything to be over, not ready say goodbye.

I tear down the rope and throw it across the room, where
it slams into the mirror with such force that it cracks. I reach
into the closet and pull out my coat, deciding that I will go
and watch all those frenzied people after all. As I walk out
the door, yelling a quick goodbye to my mother, I think about
what I chose. Because, in the end, I did make a choice, and
that choice was to heal.

EMMA NATHANSON

Refuge

Your life boxed in mourning, held by fear, desperate for a
single ray of hope.

Dark encircles you, crowds the happiness and stands in its
place.

You take the risk
try to cut a window in the dark, so there might be light for

laughter to dance on.
Because now, only sobs prowl through the murky sea over

which you travel.
a gale constantly overhead, tossing the boat, rocking your

life, quenching dreams so one by one they slip
over the railings
184 to die in turbulent waters.
Someone throws a life ring,
holds out a helping hand, to pull you out of the dark water.
I want to drape a warm blanket over your shoulders.
To do my part. To calm the sea. To flood the sky with sun.
To give you
Refuge.

Emma Nathanson lives with dogs, parents, chickens, bees, and a cat. She loves the
outdoors, especially the mountains. She loves rock climbing, hiking, making knives,
trap shooting, and riding horses.

CATIE DONOHUE

Releve´ 185

My trembling leg quivers in mid air as I struggle to lift it
higher. We’ve been warming up for 10 minutes, but it might as
well have been an hour. The classical music being broadcast
from the speakers gives a false sense of simplicity— like what
we’re doing is easy. The teachers say that’s the point. To the
audience, every dancer needs to look as if they could do the
moves in their sleep. Sure, a plie looks like you’re just bending
your knees, but it’s a lot more difficult when each muscle
in your leg is engaged, forcing your body to mold into
unnatural shapes. All the training we do goes into performing
for the audience. They enjoy the beautiful lines we make with
our arms, the seemingly effortless leaps across the stage,
and the way we can conform our bodies to show off our
flexibility. That is, if you have any flexibility. Unlike the other
dancers in class, who smoothly lift their legs into the air, mine
stays stuck in the same position, unable to break past some
invisible barrier. As the final notes evaporate into silence, I
allow my aching muscles a few seconds to rest and prepare
for the next combination.

Our instructor, Rika, gives us corrections. “Ali, you aren’t
keeping your legs straight when you releve´. Center your
weight on the big toe, or else you’ll be unbalanced....” She
rambles on. This could take a while.

Glancing at the full length mirror, I see a muscular
brunette staring back. People have told me that I have a great
“dance body.” I guess that means I’m skinny, but compared
to the 12 girls surrounding me, I look anything but. People
making that comment obviously haven’t seen these dancers.
They have long legs, tall bodies, and skinny frames. On top
of that, they are all insanely flexible. They go beyond basic
splits, and can actually prop their leg up on a chair to stretch

Catie is an 8th grader who loves traveling around the world with her family as well
as playing the bassoon at Central Middle School. She is a dancer and enjoys playing
soccer for her local club team.

even more. I, on the other hand, am the least flexible dancer
here. My muscular legs, lack of height, and inflexibility often
leave me wondering why I chose to be a dancer. For a while,
I had also played competitive soccer, but eventually dropped
it to focus on dance. There was simply not enough time to do
both.

“Cara!” Rika snaps me back to reality. “Do you have
something better to do than participate in my class?” Oops.
The music had already started. I look away to avoid meeting
her icy stare.

“No,” I mumble.
“Good,” she responds. “Shall we begin again?” Everyone
nods their head collectively. It’s never a good idea to get
on Rita’s bad side. Although, if you’re me, it’s pretty much
inevitable. I always find a way to become unfocused. As the
music starts again, I try to concentrate on the combination.
This time nothing will distract me.
But someone does. As I stare at my reflection in the
mirror, she comes into my peripheral vision. A bitter taste
emerges from the back of my mouth. Concentrate Cara. I
tell myself sternly. Don’t let her distract you. Yet as my feet
brush against the floor in precise, contained movements that
186 have become muscle memory, I can’t stop watching. To any
other person, the expression she wears could be defined as
boredom. Mouth in a straight line, eyebrows slightly lifted.
But I know Alana. Underneath that indifferent facade, she’s
working hard, trying to impress Rika. Critically judging every
single aspect of her dancing.
Even when we were little kids, she always strove for
perfection. Maybe that’s part of the reason I decided to focus
on dance. It’s about trying to become better, even of you
are already a good dancer. There will always be someone
who is more flexible than you, or can lift their leg higher
than you. Even though there is no scoreboard, we are always
competing. I thought this type of environment, where you’re
competing every day, would help me to become more like
Alana. The kind of girl who is perfect at everything she does.
I remember making small talk with her parents on the
first day of 5th grade, as she tried on the 4th outfit of the
morning. “How about this one?” She asked, and since I didn’t

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

187
wanted to be late to school, I told her it looked perfect. She
had smiled a little at that. I guess I knew a little more about
fashion than I had originally thought, because when we got
to class, I heard squeals of “Your outfit is so cute, Alana!”
and “Where did you get your clothes?” Nobody bothered to
comment on my clothes, or ask me where I got them. Not
that I cared. That was Alana’s area of expertise, not mine. I
much preferred playing soccer and reading to shopping at
the mall. Still, it would have been nice to see people look at
me the way they do Alana— like they’re overjoyed you even
bothered to talk to them. Their words are often laced with
envy.

Finally the music ends. I’m still staring at her, and
suddenly she looks up at me. Her piercing blue eyes bore
into my green ones. Gulping, I look away. Did she know I was
watching her? I must’ve looked pretty strange, staring at her
the whole time.

“Alright dancers,” Rita says, and for the first time I’m
relieved to hear her commanding voice. “Take a break. You’ve
earned it.” Quickly, I grab my water bottle, and head for the

door to fill it up.
“Cara, wait up!” Even before I turn around, I know it’s

Alana. Surprised, I smile hesitantly at her. A heavy silence
hangs over us as we face each other. I shift from leg to leg,
not knowing what to say next.

“Hey.” I say at last. It’s clear we’ve forgotten how to talk
to each other in the past year.

“Hey,” she says in reply, smiling a little. “I was wondering
if you wanted to come over tomorrow after school.”
She’s nervous, her face rigid in anticipation of my answer.
It feels good, for once, to have that kind of effect on
someone. Where they look at you as if your answer is the
most important thing in the world. The old Alana I knew in
elementary school is in there somewhere.

“Sounds good. Where should I meet you?” I ask.
“In front of the office after school,” she replies gratefully.
“Cool. I’ll see you then.” Simultaneously, we turn and walk
away. I don’t know what sparked her sudden change of heart.
We had drifted apart— she got swept up in the popular crowd
while I stayed with the same group of friends. From dancing
to grades, every part of her was perfect, and she made
friends more easily than I did. I thought losing my friendship
188 wasn’t something she was too concerned about. But maybe
she really did care. And, if we became close again, I could ask
her to help me out with dance.
For a while, I had been stuck; unable to build a good
foundation to hold up all the things I valued in my life:
schoolwork, dance, and friends. I was comparing myself to
her, when I should have been focusing solely on me and what
I could do to improve. If there is one thing I’ve learned about
dancing in the past 7 years, it’s that you need to be balanced
before you attempt to turn or complete a hard barre
combination. Now I’m balanced— I have a strong foundation
to help me reach my goals. And much like a releve´ , where
you rely on just your big toe to keep you from falling, only
one person needs to reach out to keep you balanced.

LILLIAN FONG

Road Trip 189

If all the chaos in the world had migrated to a single,
central point, that point would’ve been twelve year-old Jessica
Koring’s family van one hot July. Jessica sat in the middle row,
trying and failing to block out a consistent stream of noise.

“Lalalala! Lalalala!” her four year-old brother Justin
giggled. “Elmo’s world!”

From the backseat, her fifteen year-old sister Lauren tore
her eyes away from her phone to glare at Justin. “Can you be
quiet for once in your life?”

“Lauren don’t be so mean,” their mother, Joyce, scolded.
“He’s just happy.”

“Yeah? Well he’s been ‘happy’ since we left Red Bluff and
hour and a half ago! No other person I know acts like that!
Ugh. When will we get to Portland?” Jessica couldn’t blame
her sister for being so worked up. The final destination of the
trip would be Portland, but it felt like they would just drive up
and down the North West forever. Justin’s endless giddiness
didn’t help matters. Combined with hours in a car made
Jessica feel like she was going crazy.

“Joyce, do I take that exit?” Jessica’s father, Luke, asked.
“Wait, that one? Yes, the one right there! Yeah, that one!
That one!” Joyce waved her arms frantically and pointed in
what looked like five different directions. The car swerved
just before it missed the exit and Luke yelled, “Sorry,
everyone!”
Justin, upset by the sudden motion, began to wail. “My
h-h-head hurts! Wahhh!”
Lauren barely noticed the movement. “Justin, I told you to
stop talking!” Lauren snapped. Jessica muttered, “Oh, like that
helps.”
“What?” Laurens eyes narrowed.
“Nothing. Just a comment.”

Lillian Fong is a 7th grader at JLS Middle School. She likes writing a lot but can also
be found reading a book.

“Jessica... Tell me now or--”
“Girls, please!” Luke said. “Justin, you’re fine. Just look out
the window and hold on to Mr. Bear! Yes, there you go. Now,
girls, I don’t want to hear you arguing again today, okay?” The
sisters eyed each other cautiously. They hadn’t gotten along
well since Lauren turned thirteen. “Fine,” Lauren said. “When
will we reach Portland or somewhere with free Wi-fi?” “Oh,
I don’t know... an hour?” Joyce grinned. Jessica grinned too,
knowing it would annoy her sister.
“Ugh! You say that like it’s a good thing! I cannot do
anything without Wi-fi!” Lauren slumped farther down in
her seat. “I guess I’ll just endure another hour of torture,
then.” After an hour, Lauren suddenly perked up, surprising
everyone. “My phone works! It works! I have Wi-fi!”
“Well, the hotel is right there,” Jessica pointed out a large
building with various small buildings surrounding it. As soon
as the van squeaked its way into a tiny parking space, Lauren
tripped over Jessica’s legs and leapt out of the car.
“We’re here, Portland, we’re here!” She sang happily.
Suddenly, Lauren tripped over a bush and hit her head on a
sign that read: KLAMATH FALLS INN. Jessica doubled over
in laughter and started laughing so hard she could barely
190 breathe. Justin erupted in giggles too, making Lauren’s face
turn different shades of red.
“I-I totally saw that sign!” she said, clutching her head in
pain.
“Wow, Lauren. Nice!” Jessica called.
“Jessica, if you say another word-”
“Girls, please help unload the car!” Luke yelled,
interrupting Lauren’s minor pain and Jessica’s glee fest.
Two days later, the family piled back into the car for four
more hours of driving on the final stretch to Portland. For
an hour, they stopped at Crater Lake National Park. Jessica
grew tired of Lauren’s whines and Justin’s giggles about ten
minutes into the stop. Back on the road, it didn’t take long for
the car to fill with the normal chaos.
“My tummy hurts!” Justin wailed. “I’m gonna barf!”
“Justin, shush!” Lauren yelled, still staring at her phone.
“Lauren, be helpful. There are plastic bags behind you,
please give one to Justin,” Joyce said sternly.
“I always have to do everything!” But she reached back
and held out a bag to Justin.
Unfortunately, a second too late. Justin spewed his half-
digested lunch around the front of the car. By that point,
Jessica didn’t know if she was the crazy one or the rest of

her family was. 191
Finally, half and hour late, the car became unusually silent.

Lauren, as usual, stared at her phone. Justin slept quietly, his
stuffed bear clutched in his hand. Their father Luke looked
like he too would fall asleep if he didn’t have to drive. For
once, Jessica didn’t know what to do. It felt unsettling.

“Mom?” She whispered, not wanting to wake anyone.
“Hmmm?” Her mom stirred from a light sleep.
“I don’t have anything to do. I’ve read all my books, I filled
up my journal, and I’ve tried sleeping. My phone died just
now.”
“Well, that sounds like a problem,” Joyce said with a grin.
“I know this has been a totally crazy trip so far. Why don’t you
just enjoy the view?”
Jessica nodded reluctantly and gazed outside. The view
was two endless rows of trees on either side. Tree, tree, tree,
tree...
Just before she actually dozed off of boredom, her dad
said, “Kids, look at this!” Jessica sat up. “Oh, whoa...” she
breathed. What had been a million trees before had expanded
into a huge navy blue expanse of water complimented by the
endless baby blue sky.
Lauren held up her phone. “My friends have to see this!”
Justin’s eyes looked as big as the water in front of them.
Stunned by the change in her siblings, Jessica smiled. You
know, she thought. Maybe this trip won’t be so bad.

ELEANOR BANGS

The Rose Petal

The bathroom mirror shows me exactly what I don’t want
to see. Dark waves that don’t know the meaning of “comb,”
cold hazel eyes, a smile that’s supposed to be kind but looks
like a sneer. There, a snapshot in time: the girl who’s been
bitter since her cousin’s death, now clad in a rose­-print tunic
that doesn’t belong to her. I tug at the corner, willing away
tears. Why did I wear this?

I set my jaw and start for my bedroom. I’ll change into
something different, something that won’t break my back
with the weight of so many memories.

“Ari! Time to go!” The cry of Aunt Hilda, telling me it is
too late. The tunic hangs heavy against my skin, promising
192 every bone in my body will be shattered into a thousand tiny
pieces. Lizzie’s scream threatens to resurface. Don’t let her
haunt you.

I walk downstairs, careful that my sneakers don’t squeak. I
don’t know if this is one of Hilda’s good days or her bad days;
her tone has betrayed nothing. I peek around the corner.
She’s turned away, searching frantically for her purse.

“Morning, Hilda,” I say.
She harrumphs, barely acknowledging my presence. After
another minute, she turns around, clutching a tasteful leather
bag.
“Here it is!” she exclaims. When she sees me wearing
Lizzie’s tunic, she falters, her face tight with restrained
emotion. I slung my backpack over my shoulder, sighing.
Moodiness confirmed.
She opens the door, striding towards the driveway. Her
black sedan glitters in the sunlight. Somehow, it reminds me
of the funeral hearse Lizzie rode in. Stop thinking about it!
It has to be the tunic. I hate it. I want to tear it in two. Why

Eleanor is an eighth grader at Central Middle School who likes cats (big or small)
and many forms of art and literature. She hopes to someday become a science
fiction novelist, astronaut, and engineer.

did she have to slip? I should have grabbed her hand and 193
saved her. I shake my head at my failure and hurry to get in
the car.

Hilda grips the steering wheel like a racecar driver. She
doesn’t look at me when she speaks. “The anniversary is
coming up on Friday.”

I’d forgotten. “Oh.”
Her navigation system interrupts awkwardly, telling her
to take the next left in our journey to reach my summer
camp. I turn it off. She’s normally so composed, but her face
crumbles for a second, eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
“We’ll be going to Michigan,” she says. Of course. Lizzie’s
favorite place. A grave visit wasn’t my idea of a thrilling
summer vacation, especially since I knew where we’d stay.
That vile house by the lake has overflowing rosebushes and
a roof that’s all too easy to fall off of. Images bubble up in
my head. I can’t fight them any longer. Reality fizzles away,
replaced by roses.
I can’t sleep. Something feels wrong, like the world is
on the verge of breaking apart. I’m in the garden, my face
in a rose, trying to smell my worries away. The July air is
deliciously warm against my bare arms. There’s a ladder
against the roof, but I don’t think much of it. Something
shuffles nearby. A pebble clangs against the watering can.
“Ari?” someone whispers. I jump and look up, startled.
A petal comes off in my hand. Lizzie’s sitting on the roof,
the moonlight giving her face an unearthly glow. Her blue
eyes blink down at me, huge and owlish. I expect her to pat
the shingles next to her and call me up, but she doesn’t. She
seems very gloomy, which is unusual. I pad over to the ladder
and scramble up. Lizzie flicks another pebble into the garden,
this time hitting an ugly garden gnome. I step further onto the
roof, skirting around the chimney.
“You okay?” I ask, reaching for her shoulder. She shifts
away and bobs her head vaguely. I can’t tell whether it’s a yes
or a no, but her silence isn’t a good sign. I sit beside her, our
knees touching. She’s looking at the night sky, eyes glistening.
I rub the rose petal I’ve been clenching, and tuck it into her
open palm. She barely notices. The starlight illuminates the
gold threads in her loose brown curls. My darker, straighter
locks look plain compared to hers.
“Who am I, Ari?” She’s run out of pebbles and throws one
of her slippers instead. The gnome she hit earlier falls on his
back. She turns slightly, showing a long wet line trailing from

her eye to her chin. It takes me a second to realize what it is.
Lizzie, who’s probably the most cheerful girl in America, is
crying.

“You’re my cousin and friend. You’re the angel of the
family. You cheer us up when we are sad,” I tell her, swiping
away her tears. She gives me a long, hard look.

“The girls at my school gossip about me. I’ve lost all my
friends. Why can’t they see my good side?” I’m shocked that
anyone could hurt Lizzie; she’s impossibly sweet.

“They’re just jealous. Don’t mind them.” I reach for her
hand and curl her fingers tighter around the petal.

“Liar.” She stands, pushing my hand away. She makes a
move towards the ladder, but her foot slips. And then she’s
gone, tumbling through the air. A bloodcurdling scream
pierces the air, the second-worst sound I’ve ever heard.

Then the most awful, heart­-wrenching noise. Pure silence.
Somehow I’ve ended up at the end of the roof, knuckles
white from gripping the edge. Now I’m the one screaming.

“Lizzie! LIZZIE!” The adults come rushing out, pajama-­
clad. Uncle Frederick sprints up the ladder and grabs me
into a protective bear hug. Aunt Hilda crumbles to her knees
when she sees her daughter on the flagstones. The others are
194 rushing around, calling an ambulance. Frederick tries to smile
comfortingly but it comes out as a grimace. I know from
Hilda’s devastated face that it’s already too late. Her eyes
are affixed on Lizzie’s arm draped limply over the gnome,
the rose petal fluttering from her hand, swirling away on the
summer wind.

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

195

MICHAEL SIMON

Royalty For a Reason

The sun was at its zenith in the clouded sky, which
meant, of course, that there was loot to be brought back to
the colony. It was the optimal time to bring the extraction
lines in; this was when the colossals ate at the great green
structures. Furthermore, the winged beasts never dared to
steal from the colossals when they gathered. The cowards
always waited to clean up the scraps. Thankfully, the ants
were stealthy, unlike those absurd din inducing creatures.
The abdomen shaking bell rings from the sky, signaling the
oncoming of the colossals. And with that, the games begin.

The ant known only as Henry watches intently through
his multi­faceted eyes at the comrade in front of him. He
196 marches in line, the perfect citizen to the naked eye; it’s been
drilled into him since he was born. Rumor is, an entire red
delicious apple had been found just across the plain of death.
Henry ascends out of the Northeast tunnel and felt the dim
light of a cloudy sky grace his eyes. It was as if he could see
for miles; the plain of death was a light grey, criss crossed
by deep grooves by which they traveled. What did I need to
remember... yes, yes, watch for the feet. They’ll get me killed,
especially those darned flats, no grooves to hide between for
those. And there was one more thing right? Oh yeah, a crack
is your best friend.

Henry follows the comrade in front of him ahead into
the Eastern crack. Occasionally, some crumbs would get
wedged here, but today the ants have no such luck today.
There’s a moment of darkness as a colossal passes overhead,
a little too close for comfort. It seems like hours pass as the
cohort traverses the straightaway. The cohort takes a sharp
left towards the hyped treasure, and Henry’s antennae are
twitching in excitement.

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.

The wait is over; the red delicious apple stands tall, 197
swarming with comrades, all identically in a frenetic struggle
to consume and retrieve this cache. Perhaps it’s the sky’s
gloominess, but now that he’s here however, he doesn’t
experience the gratification he’d expected. Sure, his limited
sensual abilities are entranced, but that little knot of nerves
in his head doesn’t agree. For the first time in his pathetically
short life, Henry steps out of line. Or rather, he stops in tracks
and is crawled over by his comrades. Mandibles closed tight,
he scuttles to the right in frustration. He doesn’t know why
(independent thought is still new to him), but a renegade
notion is beginning to wash over him. An invisible hand slaps
him across the face. The queen! That dictator... why am I
loyal to her? She sits around all day in the comfort of home,
and I have to obey her? I’m not even going to get to eat this
bugging fruit! Us workers are ordered to bring food back to
feed the queen and her babies, who grow up only to repeat
the cycle! Overcome with doubt, Henry takes one last look at
the rotting apple and crawls back into the depths of a crack
in the concrete. As he heads home, his comrades don’t spare
a sidelong glance.

A bright flash blinds Henry for a moment, and a
rolling grumble of thunder follows. Then, a pitter patter
accompanies the splashes of water on the ground. All hell
breaks loose; never before had Henry or his cohort, relatively
young, seen this inscrutable scene of water falling from the
sky. There’s 360 degrees of Henry’s comrades being washed
away. Luckily, Henry is under an overhang on a slope, where
he stays, watching the walls of descending water flood the
plain of death. Translucent daggers strike all who dare to live
and obliterate any with six legs. Colossals begin to scream
and dash for cover; pandemonium. The red delicious apple
tumbles into a muddied miniature stream, engulfed in filth.

After eternity the rain subsides. There is no rainbow like
the ancient ant myths suggest. Instead, everything seems to
be dulled, the soil black, the plain of death a thundercloud
grey. Henry takes a couple tentative steps towards the safety
of home, then scuttles faster than ever before, dodging
puddles on the way. His antennae droop slowly as he rounds
the corner towards the Northwest tunnel... and sees nothing
but a barren, soaked, wasteland. His mandibles snap open, his
antennae twitch, and his head cocks to the right. Carefully,
he recounts in his pitiful mind how he’d returned home,
confirming that he isn’t lost. Comprehension begins to
dawn on him. The rumors of water flooding tunnels in other

colonies, killing unsuspecting queens and workers alike are
fiction no more. Not even the most tyrannical ruler should
deserve this. Henry look to the side, seeing a drop of water
of his height bounce and and down happily, devious with the
colors of the darkened sky.

Henry is a fluctuating swath of emotions, overcome with
a sensory overload that bombards his limited thinking abilities.
If insects had tear ducts, he’d be sobbing, the question of
why drowns everything else out. Instead, he stares at himself
in the water droplet, appearing rather clandestine and out
of place. A swarm of mosquitoes comes to benefit from
the aftermath of the slaughter, violating Henry’s personal
cemetery. The sky is clearing now, seemingly sarcastic,
teasing him at his loss.

I was so gung ho about swimming against the flow... Hah,
I survived this mess for what? I have no shelter, no way to
find my kin, no place to be, nothing to do, and no purpose
anymore. And I thought I could live on my own! What a fool.
To think that just an hour ago I hated the queen! Oh did I ever
underestimate her leadership.

The water drop beckoned.
“I will join you, your majesty!”
198 Henry takes a step forwards. Another. Again. One more.
He hesitates no longer, then plunges deep into oblivion, then
rises above murderous clouds.

SARAH STAMPLEMAN 199

The Secret Life of Gumball

3 gumball machines
stand in a row,
atop a counter
white as snow.

Each one its own, yet similar so,
colors amany in each’s head glow.
The machine in the middle, let’s zero in,
on the most special gumball among its kin.

It’s special you ask?
What makes it so great?
Thinking, and wondering, and pondering are you,
well take a step into my point of view,
Because he is the one we will interview.
Hello, young gumball, what’s it like to be here?
What’s it like, to be on the very top tier?
Is it at all nerve racking to think
That you may fall, down that chute with a plink?
Or maybe it’s glorious, to know that you’re safe
No reasons for you to get your pants up and chafed
You’re at the top and others down below,
better them than you as you probably know.
Well what are you thinking?
Let’s get in your head,
We’re interviewing YOU not Chad,or Ned.
Ladies and gentlemen, let’s have a long clap,
for this here young fellow is a jolly good chap.
Now may I present, our very special guest,

Sarah would like to live in a world where slippers are the only acceptable shoe to
wear and where it is perfectly normal to wear pajamas to school on a regular basis.
She wants to travel the world when she is older and set foot on all seven continents
and a variety of countries within them.

And he is the very best of the best!
(At what, I couldn’t begin to guess)
Hello, and despite what you have heard,
the thing that is false is what you have learned.
I’m not at all wracked through my nerves,
nor is it glorious up here with the birds.
My feeling jumps right in between,
from up on cloud 9, to in the ravine.
Whatever is going up there in my head

Will never, ever, ever be said.
But this I will leave you,
I think it’s enough,

To realize the life of a gumball is tough.
3 sentences, is all but it is sufficient

by the time I am done you will all be proficient.
No, please,

no please not me.
I’m 1 in a million what do I have to fear,

I’m at the top, the very top tier.
200 But then there’s that chance,

that one little thing,
that may send me falling down the chute with a

ching!