Stanford Anthology For Youth: Volume 20

EMMA SAMSON

A Small Leap Away From the Storm 201

Sometimes when it rains at night I go outside
And I look up at the twilight sky and shut my eyes so the rain

doesn’t fall in them
And I can never close them fast enough because the rain

gets in anyway and they sting and I smile
I dance around and sometimes I’ll lie down
Right on the pebbly ground, where the water collects in little

pools between the stones
And it’s so cold my teeth start to chatter and disturb my very

bones
I lie there for what feels like hours but is probably only

minutes
And I squint my eyes shut and scrunch my nose up against

the icy embrace of the storm
Leaving cold memories on my cheeks as the droplets slide

down
I don’t get up quite yet, I lie there for a little while longer until

every piece of clothing I’m wearing
Becomes saturated with water and I know I’ll have to wring

them out later
I know my eye makeup is running halfway down my face and

my hair is so wet the dye
Will be washing
right out of it, in puddles of red I hope no one will mistake as

blood
And I get up again and cross the black paradise shrouded

with mist to the deposits of
rain water that have formed in the depressions the filthy rats

have made in the lawn
The result of flaws in nature’s perfect system
I’ll kick my feet through the pools and I pay no mind to the

Emma loves music more than most anything else but has always enjoyed writing as
well. She spends most of her free time playing guitar and painting (not simultane-
ously, although she often wishes she was capable of such a thing).

202
mud that clings to my bare skin

And maybe I’ll stay out there until I can barely breathe
Or maybe I’ll linger until the rain stops
But sometimes I’ll fall asleep there, in the eye of the storm
Under the protection of the big tree
That resides in my yard
Where the droplets riddled with arrows and machinery can’t

reach me
Underneath the leaves of the forest canopy
And when I wake up the next morning my adventure has

reached it’s end
And I’m forced to face reality again
But I know the next time God cries
I’ll lift up my heart which was once so weighed down
And I’ll return to the home I once knew as my own.
For I’m only a small leap away from the storm.

Savannah Voth (“The Rainbow”) has been writing and drawing for as long as she
can remember. She also enjoys spending time with friends, programming com-
puter games, playing the clarinet, and having fun with her dog, Coconut.

MATTHEO ALMAGUER

Spinning Infinity

203

Matteo is a nature enthusiast. He has a large collection of orchids, succulents, and
other plants. He also plays soccer, skies, and loves climbing trees.

MILAD BROWN

Spirits of the Bottle

I
I am confronted with Death. My mind and soul are both
at stake, helpless as the fires of Guilt and Shame burn straight
through my flesh and into my soul. Soon I will be thrust away
from the world as it was thrust upon me; left to wander the
infinite Plutonian plains of Nothingness. I will end this life and
put an end to my suffering. Let me tell you my story.
My story begins on a small estate in the woods. It seems
cruel that my life’s composers would choose such a beautiful
setting for such a horrific tragedy. My mother used to say
that when I entered this world onto a bed of hay, the entire
204 forest sang in harmony. Its song traveled to the corners of
the earth, spreading the message that a special child had
been born. In my early years, I grew in the harmony of the
forest. When I was three years old I spent my days running
through the forest and climbing trees. The Evils of the world
did not reveal themselves to me until I was seven years old.
My mother’s death did not take my father by surprise. Her
fever had robbed her of energy. She was sitting in bed, the
blizzard roaring outside as she coughed blood into a bucket.
Her sweat-drenched face contorted into a grimace as she lay
down onto her hay mattress. My father sat by her side, his
face dark and grim. When my mother’s eyes closed for the
last time my father’s eyes welled up. He burst into tears for
the first time since I was born.

II
By slow degrees, my father’s condition worsened. All of
his sorrows were drowned in alcohol, along with all of his

Milad Brown is a six grader at Ralston Middle School and lives in San Carlos, Cali-
fornia. He is an avid reader and writer who is also interested in computer graphics
and swimming.

joy from the past. Every day, he would walk down a flight 205
of stairs into our tiny cellar to seek his Nepenthe wine. At
the beginning of each day, he would lock me away in my
chambers, while he wasted away with his wine. During these
hungry and lonely days and nights, I had but one companion.
This was an ebony cat with fur as dark as the night sky. This
docile comrade, whom I had named Reaper, was able to
soothe my sorrow and pique my interests effectively. While
my father’s lamentations intensified, my sorrows for my
mother steadily healed.

III
Near midnight, while a sinister storm howled outside, my
father entered my chambers. He had recently traveled to
town on one of his drinking forages, and his eyes gleamed
with the savage glow of a demon. His breath was laced with
the sour odor of gin, while he muttered deranged oaths at no
one in particular. A clap of thunder and a strong gust of wind
blew the window open. Knife in hand, he approached Reaper,
cursing under his breath. Too quickly for me to interfere,
he brought the knife down, cleaving a piece of reaper’s tail
off, and spraying blood onto the wall. The cat hissed and
pounced at my father, carving a deep gash in his cheek.
My father howled, his mind no longer his own, possessed
with the temper of the devil. With another violent slash he
lopped Reaper’s ear off. Reaper leaped out of the window.
He scampered as fast as he could into the woods, never to
be seen again. My father snarled and struck me across the
face. He stumbled out of the room, clutching his wounds and
cursing loudly. By slow degrees, my anger boiled up inside
me. I was enraged by the loss of my only friend and the
demon my father had become. Finally, I resolved to put an
end to my father’s madness.

IV
One night, as my father staggered into the house, I
crouched by the doorway, knife and stick in hand. As he
opened the door to my chamber, I lept from the shadows.
With one clean swipe of my stick, I clubbed him over the
head, knocking him unconscious. When he woke up he was
hanging from the ceiling of the kitchen. He was suspended
over a pile of kindling and a cauldron of water and in front of
my old grandfather clock. As the clock ticked, I lit the kindling.

The water slowly warmed. In a few minutes, the water
was lukewarm. After another few, it was comfortably warm,
I slowly lowered him into the cauldron. After around ten
minutes, my father sensed discomfort. At the fifteen minute
mark the water began to lightly boil and my father began to
scream, knowing he was close to death. I ignored his pleas
for help and instead added more wood to the fire. In just a
few minutes all of his life was snuffed away

V
I buried the body inside our wine cellar. It seemed fitting
that he would be buried next to the beverage that brought
his fate upon him. With my father gone I took the pleasure
to take a scant sample of the deadly drink. That night, the
demons of the bottle possessed me. I could feel the burn of
flames, and the hellish thirst for water. I heard the wails of my
father and the cat. I awoke in a cold sweat, screaming.
The next night I awoke to knocking on my chamber door.
I answered, but was greeted by darkness on the other side. I
swiveled around to behold the sight my father with his knife.
Around his neck was a cord flaunting Reaper’s ear. His eyes
206 were those of a demon, engulfed in flames of pure hatred.
Reaper’s body lay by his feet, still and unmoving, with blank
eyes. Suddenly, the cat burst into flame, burning all that was

left of the only friend I had ever known. My father stepped 207
over the body, knife in hand. I screamed, to no avail. Not a
single sound passed my lips. I ran away from my father, from
the demon he had become. No matter how fast I ran, he was
still behind me unmoving, glaring at me with pure hatred. I
left the cottage to see a large red moon overhead. In front
of me was the grave of my mother, the grave of my father,
and my own grave. I desperately reached out to touch my
mother’s grave. When my hands met the surface, I could see
her, hear gasping for breath as she lived her last seconds,
feeling the tears of my father and myself as they fell to the
floor. I howled in anguish. The torment was too much for me
to handle. The world began to spin around me. I awoke in the
cellar, a wine bottle in my hand, empty. On the ground beside
me sat three more empty bottles.

Indisposed by the contents of these bottles, I flew into
a rage. I threw each bottle at the wall, all of them shattering.
I drunkenly stumbled up the stairs, through the door, and
into my kitchen. I grabbed a log from the fireplace. My flesh
sizzled but I felt nothing. I walked down the steps, closing the
door behind me. I set the log underneath an ancient wooden
rack and watched in satisfaction as the flames engulfed the
alcohol.

Promptly, this satisfaction turned itself to horror. A bottle
of wine above me exploded, staining the wall with its blood
red contents. My head turned to the door, which had caught
fire. Realizing my ignorance, I sat in the corner of the room,
away from the racks, which is where I sit now. As the flames
approach, my only regret is that my grave will be next to the
grave of my father, and not my mother.

Marika Fong (opposite page, “Treat Yourself”) is an eighth grader at Central Mid-
dle School and enjoys traveling, volleyball, running, and dancing. When she has free
time, she loves to write and do art.

MOLLY PIGOT

Tears of a Heartbreak

What a stupid thing. A fight started from items brought
home in some grocery bags.

Vulgar words, thrown at one another, as a small soul
watched. Not even six years ­old, a boy, overhearing his
parents’ argument from behind his bedroom door. Curses
spat back and forth getting more and more intense. Built up
anger, thrashing at one another. All the boy thought was, “Why
don’t Mommy and Daddy love each other?”

He sat on the floor, a shabby blanket bundled around him.
Salty tears streamed down his cheeks as he stared back at
the door. All he wanted was for his parents to be happy, and
they were anything but that. He thought of his sister sleeping
208 in the dark corner of the room, wishing he could be as
oblivious as her.

He tried to sleep, but couldn’t. Anger and hatred kept him
up. He looked back to his older sister who seemed untouched
by the scene. At least she had been able to sleep while the
massacre of emotion echoed throughout the house.

He quickly wrapped the worn blanket tighter around his
head, as the screams intensified.

“BUT I SPECIFICALLY TOLD YOU TO GET LEMON-
SCENTED SOAP!”

“WELL DID YOU SPECIFICALLY TELL JESSICA TO FLIRT
WITH YOU WHEN I DROPPED OFF YOUR LUNCH TODAY?!”
The little boy’s mother screamed at his father as if

she was trying to talk to him from miles away.
One, two, three more screams could be heard, right as
three more tears ran down from the boy’s eyes and softly
to the old wood floor. He buried his face in the blanket and
wept. The boy felt as if all feelings of joy or love had run
away from him. He wished the blanket was filled with love so
whenever he squeezed it, it would fill him up with some.

Molly is currently in 8th grade at Central Middle School. She enjoys music and
dance.

The boy eventually found enough strength to rise and 209
walk to the bed. But he was met with more tears. The boy’s
sister, the only loving person in his life, had been crying. To
him, she was the most beautiful human, with a heart that
could shed light on even the darkest of places. And she was
crying. Not only that, but she muffled the sound just so her
brother couldn’t hear it. She knew how it broke her brother’s
heart to see her cry, so she hid all emotions except for joy.

The little boy’s heart shattered to see his sister crying.
Not knowing what to do, he returned to the floor to
reciprocate his sister’s actions.

Weighted down with misery, the boy felt sadness pour
out of him. He felt like a raining cloud, full of wet heartache
that had built up and started pouring out. His mangled life,
started to break even more. All hidden happiness that he had
once found had to shield itself so it wouldn’t be infected by
anguish.

The yelling intensified once more, and all of the boy’s
thoughts continued to cover up what bane words could be
spoken. Loud profanities swirled around the boy’s head as he
tried to block them out. There had been a sudden slam that
could be felt in the bedroom, causing some glass to shatter
and the boy to jump. He scurried to the bed, avoiding any
other unwanted jolts,

then crawled in.
He was welcomed by the warm embrace of his sister.
Feelings of love radiated on to him, off of her.
“You okay bud?” His sister asked him with tears still
caught in her voice.
“I just wish that Mommy and Daddy didn’t fight. It makes
me really sad.”
“I know it does, it makes me sad too. It’ll stop soon
though.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” The sound of sorrow lingered in her voice
and guilt glimmered in her eyes. Her lie was met with a tight
squeeze around her waist from her gullible brother. She
felt as if she poisoned his vulnerable mind with thoughts of
hope, made a promise she had already broke. Tears fell from
her eyes as she looked over to the door. Memories of past
arguments flooded her mind and misery struck her, wishing
she had the benefit of hope by her side.
She had spent many years hiding with the fear of getting
hurt. She only wished that her brother wouldn’t have to follow
in her footsteps. A small, quiet snore could be heard from the

girl’s brother, and she let out a sigh of relief. The girl knew, as
long as he slept, her brother couldn’t be hurt by the screams
of hatred and regret.

The only thought that danced around the girl’s mind
was that she wanted to leave. She wanted to leave her life
of constant yelling and fear of being taken away from what
could provide her with the slightest amount of happiness.
She wanted to leave that life behind so she could start over,
create a world of her own that she would enjoy. The girl
wanted to live a life that allowed her to forget about all of the
horrible things that consumed her current life.

She also wished that her brother could grow up knowing
what good could be found in life. All her brother knew was
that yelling made him sad. She wanted him to know what it
felt like to live in a house where everyone got along and no
one constantly yelled. He needed to know what having an
abundance of love felt like. He didn’t deserve the continuous
yelling or fighting, he needed acceptance and the ability to
feel welcome.

Anger came upon the girl as she wished for a different
life to live. Tears, hot with fury, pooled in her eyes. Then she
looked to the door. Instantly, the heat inside of her cooled.
210 Sadness and fear replaced the burning emotion she had just
felt. The girl felt a single drop of her despair fall to her cheek,
but no more followed. She knew she could never become
either one of her parents.

SARAH LOWELL

The Third-Floor Bedroom 211

“It all began when someone left the window open.”

I’m still not entirely sure what happened on that warm
July night. But I do know that this town has never been the
same since. People seem more quiet now, a little more wary
of going out after dark. Perhaps if Adrienne had never dared
me to climb to the top floor of the old, empty house on
Orchard Avenue, I would still be alive. Now I’m just a ghostly
spirit, drifting aimlessly around this rickety old house for the
rest of eternity.
When I first came to the house, the sky was dark and
clear. It was Adrienne’s idea, just another midnight summer
adventure. We assumed it was harmless. I can assure you, I
have never been more wrong.
Of course, I did have my doubts. As I stepped onto the
front porch, the wooden floorboards creaked horribly and
even splintered a bit. “Are you sure it’s safe?” I asked my best
friend Adrienne. It didn’t seem that sturdy.
“It’s fine, Ethan,” she whispered back, laughing as if
everything would be okay. “It’s nothing to worry about,” she
assured me, seeing my doubt. “Just a little old, that’s all.” She
tiptoed to the front door, her curly brown hair gleaming silver
in the moonlight. An old lamp stood on a post, but it obviously
hadn’t been lit for decades. Very slowly, Adrienne began to
turn the rusted brass door handle. Nothing out of the ordinary
happened when we cracked the door open, so we proceeded
to enter.
The interior was just as average as the outside, decorated
with old furniture that appeared to be from the early 1900’s.
Everything seemed to be in good shape, even though the
house had been uninhabited for years. The surfaces of
tables and chairs were completely devoid of any dust, and

Sarah grew up in Orange County and later moved to the Bay Area. She enjoys
horror movies and music.

no silky cobwebs hung in the corner. Even the display of
fancy silverware on the wall had no rust or sign of rotting on
the wooden frame. Although it seemed a bit suspicious, we
shrugged it off and continued toward the spiral staircase.

We began our ascent, climbing up the flights of stairs to
the third floor ­the top of the building. “I feel like I’m in a spy
movie,” Adrienne giggled, lightening my anxiety a little. “Or
maybe a horror film. Look out, Ethan, there’s a ghost!” She
teased.

I jumped a little, whipping my head around to spot the
ghost. “Not funny, Adrienne,” I told her, even though I was
laughing too. “Wait, why is there only one room up here?” I
wondered as we reached the third floor, noticing that there
was only one door.

“Well, it was probably a hassle to climb three flights of
stairs to reach whatever’s up here, so they probably didn’t
want to build many rooms here,” Adrienne suggested.

“Maybe,” I agreed reluctantly. “But, anyway, can we go
back now? You said you wanted to go to the top floor of the
house, and now we’re here. If we stay longer we might get
lost. So let’s just leave now,” I rambled, not wanting to go any
farther.
212 Adrienne rolled her eyes at me, amused by my
nervousness. “There’s literally only one room up here. We
can’t get lost, even if we wanted to,” she reminded me,
striding down the long hallway to the single door. I followed
uncertainly, not wanting to go but not selfish enough to leave
Adrienne up here alone. She grasped the door handle and
threw the door open, casting away all caution. “See? Nothing
to worry about,” she smiled, entering the small room. It was
just as ordinary as the rest of the house: a bed in the corner,
striped wallpaper with doves on it, a clean white dresser, and
a window. An open window.

“Why is that window open?” I pondered. It couldn’t have
been opened when the house was abandoned ­the inspectors
would have closed it. The window panes were perfectly clean,
with no streaks of dirty rain or cracks from harsh weather. A
soft breeze blew through it, gently pushing the door closed
behind us and ruffling the sheer white curtains. Although it
was just an ordinary room, it seemed eerie.

“Well, there’s nothing interesting up here,” Adrienne
sighed disappointedly. “I guess we can leave now.” She
tugged on the doorknob, attempting to open it. “I think it’s
stuck,” she said, trying again, this time yanking it with all her
strength. Still, the door didn’t budge. I pulled at it too, also met

by failure. 213
“Ethan,” Adrienne spoke slowly, “do you see this? Or am

I just going crazy?” I turned around, seeing her staring at the
wall. One of the doves on the wallpaper print was peeling
off the wall, somehow becoming a real bird. Other birds
followed, fluttering their wings and opening their beaks.

“What’s going on?” I panicked. I knew we shouldn’t have
come up here, I thought to myself. The birds seemed to
be glaring at us, their eyes glinting in the moonlight as they
observed me and Adrienne. Then, suddenly, the first one that
had come off the wall let out a loud shriek, causing us to clap
our hands over our ears. Right after it screamed, the rest of
them did too, flying and swirling around us, tearing at our
clothes and skin with their razor sharp beaks.

“Get down!” Adrienne yelled, dropping to the floor and
crawling toward the door, all the while being chased by the
vicious doves. But I stumbled on one of the birds that was
at my ankles, tripping over my own feet and the torrent
of wings and talons. I reeled backwards, my back hitting
the window sill and half falling out of the house. “ETHAN!”
Adrienne shouted at me, reaching out her hand even though
she was on the other side of the room. I tried to pull myself
back inside, but the flock of doves pressed against me,
pushing me out of the window instead.

“Help! Please help me!” I called out to the empty street,
knowing that Adrienne couldn’t reach me. The birds forced
me even farther out of the house as I struggled, only stopped
from falling by my ankles hooked around the window frame.
Adrienne kept shouting at me, begging me to hold on for just
a little bit longer so she could help me. But she was too late.

Some of the feathery creatures flew out of the window,
grabbing onto my shirt and limbs as they dragged me out
of the house. At that point, I knew it was my end. “Goodbye,
Adrienne!” I yelled as I was carried out of the house
completely.

“WAIT! Ethan, just ­” Adrienne began desperately. But I
never heard the rest of her sentence. The doves all let go of
me simultaneously, letting me fall toward the earth. I watched
as the ground grew nearer and nearer, knowing that I couldn’t
survive the fall. My vision went black upon impact, then white,
and finally green as I ­now a spirit ­opened my eyes again,
facing the grass.

I rolled over, gasping as I saw my own lifeless, mangled
body lying on the ground. The birds, which were clustered
around it, spread their wings and flew away, some flying right

through me. It looked like a snowy cloud was soaring towards
the horizon, growing smaller and smaller and eventually
disappearing.

Adrienne must have called an ambulance, because soon
a white vehicle with flashing lights came into the driveway. I
watched her sobbing as she told the police what happened,
barely being able to talk from crying so much. They lifted my
body into the ambulance and drove away, taking Adrienne
with them.

Now I’m stuck on the grounds around this house, forever.
I never found out what happened to Adrienne, and I never
will. Even the mysterious doves on the wallpaper never
returned. So if you ever find yourself at the abandoned house
on Orchard Avenue, just remember: beware of the third-f­ loor
bedroom.
214

KELLEY KADLEC

There’s Always Tomorrow 215

“It’s okay Kell,” says Mom, “It’s hard for a parent to watch
too.” she sat in the driver’s seat. She was gradually slowing
down the car for the upcoming stop sign.

How is it hard for a parent to watch? It’s not like there are
volleyball coaches evaluating their posture while watching
from the bench. I didn’t see any adults setting balls to outside
hitters on the court. The most exercise they did was moving
their fingers to type into their phones.

With all the anger built up inside of me, I wanted to say to
her You didn’t do squat mom! Or just saying a simple Leave
me alone. Instead, I grunt in response. I wasn’t in the mood to
speak, I was frustrated, and terribly disappointed. It felt as if in
just one day, my world would come crumbling down.

Sitting in the passenger seat, looking out the car window
into the side mirror, I see my reflection. I am a mess. Bags
underneath my eyes. The mirror becomes foggy, and I start
to zone out from reality. There I stand, with hundreds of
girls on one of the three volleyball courts. Girls the size of
Godzilla, and girls the size of mice. All gathered there to do
the same thing; present our skills to the coaches and try to
win a spot on a club team. Within a few minutes, coaches
pulled aside Godzilla after Godzilla. I tried to get their
attention by passing the ball perfectly.

“FOUR, SET FOUR!” I shout to the setter. The ball springs
from her hands and dances up high in the air. I approach
the ball as it arcs through the air. Right, left, right, I think to
myself as I take my steps to the ball. I swing my arms to get
momentum and jump into the air. SLAP! I hit the ball with
strength and watch in spin down to ground. Perfect hit! Never
once did the coaches sneak me away from the action during
that tryout to tell me I made the team. After every tryout I

Kelly is an 8th grader at Central Middle School. She plays clarinet in her school
band. She enjoys competitive volleyball, snow skiing, wakeboarding and being out-
doors.

felt as if I was a piece of trash thrown out the car window.
I snap back to reality when hearing a police siren in the

distance. My elbow digging into the armrest and fist pressing
against my chin, exhaustion and disappointment fills my
body. My back is hunched over and slightly sticks to the
passenger’s seat from the leftover sweat.

Thinking about the years of hitting, digging, serving, and
setting, my eyes fill up with salty tears that quickly spread to
the corners of my eyes. I turn away from Mom to hide them
from view. I feel all of these hours of practice have gone
to waste. A tear breaks free and I feel as if I will blow any
second. I don’t want mom to see me crying over a sport. I
have a rule: do not cry over something that does not go your
way. If I do cry, I feel very unsportsmanlike, like a big fat cry
baby. Unfortunately, I know I am going to break that rule at
any moment.

Through mom’s eyes, I probably look like a teenager
going through any other normal day. The grim expression
from the stress of school. The droopy bags under my eyes
from studying all night. On the inside, I feel like a ticking
time bomb that will explode any second iftalked to. But, in
the weird mixed up way that teenagers are, I also I want her
216 loving arms wrapped around my body, to pat me on the back
and tell me everything will be okay. Music seeps out from
the speakers. “The Scientist” by Coldplay plays on the radio.
This song makes me feel worse. The slow and quiet sound
of the instruments make me want to break down. I hope that
the music distracts Mom from hearing my slight sniffles. Still
tears slowly escape my sorrowful eyes.

Losing interest in my surroundings, I return to my
scattered thoughts, to a question that I could never answer.
Why didn’t the coaches pay attention to me? Did my clothing
choices blend in with the others too much? Did I not have
enough skill as some other girls? I worked so hard to become
a better player, now all that hard work is a bunch of wasted
time. Replays of the day run through my head. I remember
the feeling of pride when the coach chose me to pass the
ball to the setter. I felt like the chosen one. As if I was the
only girl in the gym who completed that action correctly. I
immediately felt I would become a member of the team. But
that wish never came true.

I glance down at my worn, dirty volleyball shoes. At this
moment, I feel as if I was not worthy enough for these shoes.
I put hard work and effort into them. They have traveled with
me all over the Bay Area during my school volleyball season,

and club too. Thinking of memories from the times before, I
feel like tears will burst out. I want to be a good sport, but I
can’t. Mom said I can be upset, but remember there is always
tomorrow, more tryouts and more opportunities to make a
team.

217

ELIZABETH DENG

They Wouldn’t Believe You

If I told you a tale--if I told you my tale
Of my own song of selfishness, of pain
You’d scoff and wave me away, ignore with disdain
You wouldn’t believe me.
But if I did, I would tell you
that I lived with two meaningless husks who burned
their souls away whenever they were home
and there was nothing left but laughing shells
and I was a silent ghost
a wisp of a child
pretend you’re not there pretend you’re not there
218 But since, oh, since they stitch on smiles
and try to be happy even though they could not
You wouldn’t believe me.
I would tell you that I would hold the cold metal barrel in my

hands
turning turning turning
stop
raise it lower it raise it throw it down
and I would stare at the wall sitting in silence
until suddenly I stared without seeing
and I couldn’t feel the ground and my thoughts scattered
through the loss of my soul and the hole in my head
But you wouldn’t believe me
because it was everyone else they found dead
not me
because I ran but killed before I fled
I would tell you that they never found me but that was okay

Elizabeth is a 7th grader at Hopkins Jr. High who really likes cartoons, animals, and
attempting to do things she knows she can’t but wants to try anyway. She plays
piano and french horn, has two pet mice, and really likes medieval fantasy.

because the empty house was only empty for a year after 219
that day

and the family that smiled
the family I wanted
moved in as I watched, as I stared, now seeing
but unseen because you can’t be seen without being
You wouldn’t believe me
because I stayed silent
the ghost of a child that became reckless and violent
and the family stayed alive but I watched and I waited
I would tell you that there was a child
who was never left alone and never wanted to be
and they had so many friends talking to me was easy
finding me was not
I would always be there but they never knew
I saw every hardship they ever went through
they were so different from me
yet so alike
because whenever faced with a challenge they preferred to

take flight
instead of resolving, they ran away
from every difficulty that they ever faced
and I didn’t want that for them
so I whispered at night
“You don’t want to make a decision you’ll regret
so you’ll avoid confrontation-
isn’t that right?”
and they didn’t disagree
so they talked to me
I didn’t want anything bad for them
But because their misfortune is all you’ll ever see
You’ll never believe me.
I stood at a parallel, a mirror of my own
when I watched this child I watched grow old
stroke the barrel of a gun and the blade of knife
deciding which one was to be used to take their own life
and it was so ironic to watch them decide
for the one decision that would change things forever
because corrupted children are birds of a feather
You wouldn’t believe me if I told you I didn’t speak
for everyone believed the Devil made them weak.
I would tell you that I had nothing to do with it

But you wouldn’t believe me
because they seemed perfectly fine
and tragedies are only tragedies when there’s something to

blame
But insanity’s in the eye of the beholder
even when they leave the fire they kindled to smolder
I would tell you that you have nothing to be afraid of
because only the weak break under the weight of the world
But you wouldn’t believe me, and with good reason
because I am why the world faces hardship
and man by himself alone
cannot defeat me.
And even if you did, as long as you bear the scars,
No one will believe you.

220

CHRISTINE TU

Two Sides of a Coin 221

Introductions are pivotal. They give us a lasting first
impression, which leads to judgment.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Broad, you can call me Mary”
“I’m Nick.” He nervously shook the proffered hand, and
sank onto the stiff white couch. From the open window, he
could hear the honks and voices of busy New York traffic.
The psychologist’s office was located in a more run-down
section of the city, but her clean, white, sparse workplace was
a whole world different from the weary grey building that
surrounded it.
“How did you know her?”
The percussive sounds of a pair of rushing feet slapping
the stone tiles, which belonged to two opposites who
were about to be late for class in the empty, open hallway
harmonized the sweet melody of the sparrow’s cries. BAM!
The song ended with the happy combination of spilled books
and sprawled feet.
Apologies were made, and the gentleman helped the lady,
and they soon departed on their different destination. To their
surprise, they later crossed paths at a Philomathean Society
meeting.
“You were the--”
Then, introductions were made.
“I’m Penelope”
“Nick.”
3 meetings later, they were strolling, arm in arm, the

Ninava Sharma (opposite page, “And Then There Were None”) is a eighth
grader at Blach Intermediate School who loves to doodle in her free time.
She feels very strongly about the hunting of animals for sport or luxury and
depicts these cruelties in her drawings. She also loves sketching about her
hobbies, which are classical ballet and piano.
Christine is an 8th grader at JLS Middle School. She enjoys playing piano, bak-
ing, and, most of all, reading.

newest, gleefully gossiped about, couple.
“How did you feel about her?”
Nick raised his haggard blue eyes and exhaustively ran his

nail-bitten fingers into his dark, neatly trimmed hair. He gazed
into the distance, lost in his thoughts.

Silence.
How did he feel about her? He loves her, obviously. The
psychologist watched his reactions with cold, analytical eyes.
Her own judgments, very thinly concealed.
“What made you attracted to her?”
Silence ensued.
What made her attracted to him? Which side of him? The
monster or the man?
It happened at a bar. Nick took a deep breath and
walked down the cobbled lane. He walked with a confidence
that suggested that he was tough on the outside, soft and
quiet on the inside. The bar pumped out a loud bass line,
and the rowdy shouts of the intoxicated assured mothers
and children to stay away. The lane itself emulated a quiet,
dangerous warning to all. It was a kind that one imagined that
222 shady people would do shady business in.
Then he changed. Some say that the eyes are the window
to the soul, and this is true in this situation. A dark liquid
seemed to dilute the light blue in his eyes, until his irises were
pitch black. But, behind that, there was change going on in the
brain. His breath came first, becoming uncontrolled, raging
gasps. His hands, subconsciously flexed, and his muscles
became sinewy, the type of strong that was hidden by the
appearance of thinness. His new, dark eyes were cruel and
cold. They contained a hidden unspeakable anger, that filled
him with uncontrolled rage. He stalked into the room, and
ten minutes later, walked out. No one noticed the missing
voices, but when the nightly custodian came in to sweep up,
he screamed. Shortly after, that man admitted himself into the
county asylum.
“Nick?” The psychologist prompted.
“Let me remind that you were ordered by court to be
here.” Nick fiddled with the zipper of his black bomber jacket.
The psychologist tried again.
“Have you ever fought with her?”
“No.” Nick shortly replied. The psychologist tensed.
Something was going on.

Nick gritted his teeth. He couldn’t change here, of all 223
places. A dead body belonging to his psychologist would be
too suspicious. Please, not here, of all places.

She found out. He never knew how she figured it out; he
had covered his tracks so efficiently.

“I don’t understand. Who are you?” She spat, glaring at
the man she once loved. Suddenly, all of the pretenses of
composure broke. Penelope lunged at Nick, tearing at him,
punching him between sobs.

Nick seized her wrists, like handcuffs and she flinched, he
let go, and she slumped shakily onto the hard concrete floor
of the unused, dusty biology classroom.

“Oh god, you were the one in the newspapers. You did it,”
her voice rose hysterically, “...You killed all of those people.”

“You don’t understand, please Pen, please let me explain.”
Nick’s blue eyes gazed at Penelope.

“I can’t control it, please, stop. I might change again,” Nick
pleaded “I can’t control when I change, and what I do. All I’m
left with after, are memories. It’s like... a hunger” At this, he
changed.

He was found at the crime scene, standing over his
loved one’s lifeless jumble of limbs. His blue eyes were filled
with unspeakable horror, grief, and a rage that was slowly
drifting from his eyes. In his clenched, raised hand, with blood
streaming down it, he held a held a human heart.

“Nick?”
“Yes?” Nick fingered the cold metal handle of the gun in
his jacket pocket. The hot feeling of shame filled him, until
he lost the ability to refocus himself into the present. He was
ashamed. How could he commit such a heinous act, on the
woman he had pledged his love upon? He was undeserving
to stay on this earth, yet he only had one bullet.
The psychologist had figured it out. She lunged forward
from her seat, but she wasn’t fast enough.
A gunshot noise rang throughout the room.

ELISE WACHA

Vanity

I cracked my mirror and lost myself
Somewhere deep inside
And with it went my dignity
My joys, my dreams, my pride
So much time spent on my perfection
Staring at my own reflection
So stuck I was on my own face
I thought that talking was a waste
Now I see that I was wrong
I’ll start again
And I’ll stand strong
224 I’ll try real hard to get it right
So I can finally sleep at night
No longer will I gaze in the mirror
At my pretty face
Now I’ll go have fun and play
I’ll truly find my place

Elise has loved to write anything from poems to songs to music scores ever since
she learned to talk and hold a pencil. As well as writing being a huge part of her
life, she is also a dedicated 4H member and owner of a dog named Shadow, whom
she loves dearly.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Stanford Anthology for Youth would like to thank the follow-
ing groups for their contributions and support:
Associated Students of Stanford University
Haas Center for Public Service
Stanford Student Activities and Leadership

We would also like to thank all of the participating schools, 225
teachers, and parents for nurturing the creativity and talent of

these young writers and artists. In particular:
Gerri Bibat (J.L. Stanford Middle School)
Devika Brandt (Marin Teen Poets)

Jennifer Coluzzi (J.L. Stanford Middle School)
Sarah Coyle (J.L. Stanford Middle School)
Ranjana Das (Hopkins Junior High)
Jo Ana Hu (Hopkins Junior High)

Renee Johnson (J.L. Stanford Middle School)
Kim Lohse (J.L. Stanford Middle School)
Emily McDonald (Central Middle School)

Caite McNeil (Crystal Springs Uplands School)
Mary Natoli (Ralston Middle School)
Jill Nida (Tierra Linda Middle School)

Kari Nygaard (J.L. Stanford Middle School)
Angie Parke (Hopkins Junior High)

Jay Richards (Central Middle School)
Katherine Schramm (J.L. Stanford Middle School)

Diane Shepherd (Blach Middle School)
Hart Walsh (J.L. Stanford Middle School)
Tammy Woolbright (Hopkins Junior High)

226