Keep Moving Forward: 2021-22 WITS Student Chapbook

KEEP MOVING FORWARD 2021-22 WITS STUDENT CHAPBOOK

KEEP MOVING FORWARD

2021-2022 WITS STUDENT CHAPBOOK

Writers in the Schools (WITS) is a part of the Youth Programs of Literary Arts, a community-based nonprofit literary organization centered in Portland, Oregon, whose mission is to engage readers, support writers, and inspire the next generation with great literature.

925 SW Washington St. Portland, OR 97205 www.literary-arts.org

Keep Moving Forward

2021-2022 WITS Student Chapbook

Copyright © 2021 Literary Arts, Inc. All Rights Reserved. This book may not be duplicated in any way—mechanical, photographic,

LITERARY ARTS STAFF

Andrew Proctor: Executive Director, Maggie Allen, Amanda Bullock, Lydah DeBin, Rui Dun, Jennifer Gurney, Olivia Jones Hall, april joseph, Hope Levy, Alexis Lopez, Allegra Lopez, Jessica

BOARD OF DIRECTORS

Bob Speltz: Chair, Jill Abere, David Angelia, Joan Cirillo Ginnie Cooper: At Large, Amy Donohue, Lana Finley, Sarah Gibbon, Jonathan Hill, Mitchell Jackson, Susheela Jayapal, Maurice King, Anis Mojgani, Justice Adrienne

YOUTH PROGRAMS ADVISORY COUNCIL

Jonathan Hill: Chair, Sandra J. Childs, Jacque Dixon, Robert Geddes, Andrew Goodlow, Mary Hirsch, Maurice King, Briana Linden, André Middleton, Deidra

ANTHOLOGY STAFF

Editors: Olivia Jones Hall, Alberto Sveum

Designers: AHA (cover), Olivia Hammerman (interior)

electronic, or by means yet to be devised—without the written permission of the publisher, except in the case of a brief excerpt or quotations for the purpose of review.

Meza-Torres, Susan Moore, Jules Ohman, Liz Olufson, Leah O’Sullivan, Jyoti Roy, Alberto Sveum, Karin Taylor, Lauren Walbridge

Nelson: At Large, Corrine Oishi, Katherine O’Neil, Ramón Pagán, Dennis Steinman, Geoffrey Tichenor, Chabre Vickers, Renée Watson, Marcia Wood, Andrew Proctor: ex officio

Miner, Anis Mojgani, Joanna Rose, Karena Salmond, Nancy Sullivan, Catherine Theriault, Amy Wayson, Tracey Wyatt, Sharon Wynde

Published by Literary Arts, a 503(c)(3) in Portland, OR First Edition 2022 Printed in the USA

WITS COMMUNITY 2021–22

WRITERS IN RESIDENCE

Alex Behr, Brian Benson, Erica Berry, Monika Cassel, David Ciminello, Katie Borak, Ed Edmo, Vanessa Friedman, Elisabeth Geier, Meg E. Griffitts, april joseph, Amy Minato, Damien MilesPaulson, Laura Moulton, Jennifer Perrine, Bruce Poinsette, Mark Pomeroy, Emilly Prado, Dey Rivers, Matt Smith, CJ Wiggan

VISITING AUTHORS

Brit Bennett, Edwidge Danticat, Cathy Park Hong, Mira Jacob, Richard Powers

PARTICIPATING TEACHERS:

Chloe Avila, Paige Battle, Andrea Binder, Josh Bott, Teresa

Brandt, Ilsa Bruer, Natalie Burton, Allison Byers, Lauren Carrier, Bryan Dykman, Rachel Fortgang, Ayn Frazee, Pam Garrett, Kyle Golphenee, Cassie Lanzas, Carl Larson, Amanda Lawrence,

Sarabeth Leitch, Stuart Levy, Lori Lieberman, Kate Molony, Leigh Morlock, Sydney Mulkey, Michael Navarro, Jacob Patterson, Mary Rechner, Charles Sanderson, Bryan L Smith, Nancy Sullivan, Frank Thomas, Betsy Tighe, Dana Vinger, Willow Weir-Mayorga, Rachel Wilczewski, Desi Wolff, Alethea Work

WITS LIAISONS

Paige Battle, Ilsa Bruer, Ayn Frazee, Cassie Lanzas, Stuart Levy, Lori Lieberman, Betsy Tighe, Charles Sanderson, Nancy Sullivan, Alethea Work

PARTICIPATING PRINCIPALS

Peyton Chapman, Chris Frazier, Bonnie Hobson, Filip Hristić, Joe Jensen, James McGee, Molly Ouche, KD Parman, Drake Shelton, Adam Skyles, Curtis Wilson Jr.

CONTENTS

Introduction x

Vincent Devita • Round One 13

Chase Cornell • The Meg 16

Lynn Ledgerwood • Council of Powers 19

Samantha • War Isn’t the Answer 23

Phillip Ramsey • My Name is Steven Brewer 24

Sebastian/Gracie Fultz • The Three Social Injustices of High School in the U.S. 31

Beatrice Musette • Rebirth 37

Ethan Meditz • Snowy Mess 38

Olivia Oliver • Quaranteen 40

Hanako Duff • The Other World 47

Aiden Padilla • Pleroma 49

Joanna Karam • Oh Love, Oh the Time 52

MCL • A New Day 54

Daniela Hernandez • Nightmare 59

Pippin Houser • Scary Story 60

Kelan Egusa • Sunken 64

Eloisa Ribbing • Cycles 67

Monica Perez-Igl • Divided 69

Ivette Hernandez • Suspended 73

Aki Franklin • The Trip of a Lifetime 77

Gracie • 2120 79

Bonnie Laborico • Meeting My New Dad When I Was Little 82

Elsa Warner • Jack, Henry, and I 84

Dashiell • You Can’t Run From Death 86

Kaylee Rios • Unconscious 88

Owen Kilber • Like a Stone in a Lake 90

Aniyah Burns • Better Year Than 2020 94

Olivia Stefanisko • The Home in Mary’s TV 99

Ezra • Brave 103

Callan Fenger • To the Ends of Space 107

chloe h • His Cologne 113

Joey MacDonald • Achelous 116

Crystal M Garcia Gomez • Unexpected 118

Writers in Residence 2021-22 123

Index 135

Youth Programs Support 2021–22 137

INTRODUCTION

When students and teachers returned to classrooms last September it was, understandably, with some trepidation. The stillness of the pandemic routine was abruptly exchanged for the chaos of early mornings, bus rides, and passing periods. The constant unknowing of the prior eighteen months, however, started to evaporate amidst the budding joy in the newly filled hallways. But while the muscles of society flexed back to life, there remained a residual caution: how long would it last? How settled could everyone become?

Juniors returned, having left for a two-week cautionary break halfway through their freshman year and coming back with half of their high school career left. Freshmen walked through the doors having barely experienced middle school. Sophomores arrived for the first time, learning the height and fashion sense of their peers after only seeing them in two dimensions and above the shoulders since they started high school. Educators, having kept schools afloat for eighteen months through laptops and sheer will, despite staffing shortages, fear, anger, trauma, and constantly shifting safety guidelines, poured all they had and more into the return. This is the setting that greeted WITS when our residencies began, and this is where the work in this book was born.

In reading through the nearly one hundred thirty submissions, I was reminded of the power of student voices. Young minds see the world so differently than

adults; clearer, I think, and with more urgency. Guided by the devotion and expertise of WITS writers in residence, students dream of the mundane routines of other worlds and the exquisite possibilities of this one. They write about who they are and, just as importantly, who they could become. There is hope in these pages for great and small; there is also difficulty and struggle— the young writers have crafted a delicate balance. Keep Moving Forward expresses this promise of something better on its way: a theme of emergence, new beginnings, and possibility sung by the pieces in this book.

Over 850 students from four school districts participated in WITS in the 2021-22 year. They walked out of remote learning and into creative writing residencies, and what they created is daring, heartfelt, inspiring, and healing. Students were hesitant to read their work aloud throughout the year, so the massive influx of chapbook submissions was especially moving this time as we finally get to experience all the incredible writing.

Though the WITS program remains ultimately the same as we protect the tenet of inspiring young people to engage with creativity, each school year offers a completely brand-new experience and chapbook. I like to think of the books as an encyclopedia of youth consciousness wherein we can trace the content of student minds over the past twenty-odd years. What moves them? Excites them? Angers them? What are they choosing to share with the greater world? What do they choose to keep for themselves?

It’s such a privilege to do this work and to read these words. Thank you, young writers everywhere. As always, your voices matter.

Olivia Jones Hall Director of Youth Programs

Vincent Devita Parkrose High School Emilly Prado Round One

Martial arts have been taught for centuries. It is an artform handed down from generation to generation. Taekwondo is one of the oldest forms of martial arts. I have taken taekwondo since I was four years old. I am thirteen now and a second-degree black belt. My parents put me in it to help “build my character.” Apparently, I had a lot of energy and needed an outlet. Martial arts have heavily influenced who I am as a person today. Taekwondo has taught me self-respect, integrity, selfcontrol, indomitable spirit, and self-defense. The academy’s mantra lives within me in decisions I make in my day-to-day life.

As I prepared for the buzzer to ring, thoughts chanted in my ear: “Please let me win!” “Don’t get knocked out,” again, “Please let me win. Don’t get knocked out.” My breathing became labored, and my heart raced. Did the buzzer just ring? I thought. The sound of the buzzer was muffled by my headgear. “Ding!” The time clock started to count down. Go! As I fought for my life, all the training I had gone over repeatedly in my taekwondo classes methodically took over my body. It was like I was floating across the ring. Kick, block, punch. The years of training since I was four years old had prepared me for this moment. I was fighting in my first national tournament. What if I’m not good enough? I glanced at my opponent: he was just as nervous as me. Ding! Round one complete.

As I walked back to my corner, my coach looked at me proudly. “Good job, remember to pace yourself and don’t forget you earned this.” Yes, he was right. I needed to strategize my moves and remember all my training led me to this. Ding! Round two. Block, kick, turn-back kick. My opponent was hurt. The referee stopped the fight. I had won! As a sense of wonderment swept over me, I felt bad my opponent had gotten hurt. I turned to help him up. Shake hands. Bow. I am good enough. This thought plagued me for years. Sometimes I feel like I don’t know enough, or am not quick enough, I always had this feeling someone was always better than me. As I think about how appreciative I am of the moment, I realize I hope I never have to fight like this in real life, but if I do, I am glad my body took over from the years of training I have. I know I can trust myself in the moment and I respect that.

I have seen a few fights already on the streets. Last week a couple people got into an altercation at a store. I couldn’t understand what started the fight. Only that two dudes were pretty pissed at each other. As I watched them fight, it was nothing like a taekwondo tournament. This was street fighting. No rules, no referees, just fists flying. In the academy we are taught only to use the martial art as a last resort. As self-defense. Whatever led to this fight there was no self-control. No respect. No discipline. Not knowing what started the fight, I can only say that I saw two guys scared to fight, not using self-defense, disrespectful, and I thought to myself, “Wow, it looks kinda dumb.” People gathered around to watch and cheer. There would be no helping the other guy up if he were knocked out. Only disrespect.

I am grateful for the time spent at the academy learning self-control, discipline, integrity, indomitable

spirit, and respect, because it has shaped who I am today.

I feel like I can handle the outside pressures of life a little better than someone that didn’t go through all that training. I work out, eat better, have good self-control.

I try to treat everyone with respect and work out my problems first before fighting. Martial arts are a fine art that are not for everybody, but I am grateful for the time it helped define me as a person.

Chase Cornell Grant High School

Matt Smith

The Meg

It is dark as ink and silent. You are sitting in your worn chair, watching for hours, swiveling slightly sideto-side to stay awake. You are on a high-tech submarine fifty miles from home base, which is an underwater science lab in the Mariana Trench. You are lost in your own thoughts, as you often are since you haven’t been above water for five months. A distinct thud on your ship startles you from the haze. Your submarine is so deep that there is no life, which leaves you questioning, what could it be? Before you can get up to check, you hear a blaring, unexpected alert that your oxygen is out and you have ten minutes to get back to the surface. You train for this alert, but nobody expects to experience it, like the inflatable slides on airplanes in case of a water landing. You quickly realize it’s not a mistake and why your oxygen is gone. An inch of icy water is biting at your feet from a leak. You rush to put on a wetsuit with oxygen, to leave the leaking submarine.

Swimming blindly in the rush to stay alive, you realize that thud must have something to do with what is happening to the submarine. You send out a distress call, and the base relays they will be at your location in ten minutes. Despite being in the frigid water and heavy suit, you start to sweat, and the hair on the back of your neck stands up. Both slowly and all at once, you realize that something is behind you. You want to close your eyes

and hide, but instead you turn and there is a megalodon. Your brain knows this doesn’t make any sense since you learned in elementary school that they are extinct. However, your lifetime obsession with dinosaurs and marine life knows the beast in front of you is definitely a megalodon. You’re terrified and giddy. This is the find of your life, so you livestream to the base. You know this will make you go down in the record books, but you still wish you were in your childhood bed, clutching your stuffed shark instead, because you are probably going to die for this huge breakthrough.

Back at the base there is complete frenzy. Everyone is running to their stations, commanding boats to be dropped in the water for a rescue mission. The normal order has turned into wild panic. The facility founder, Harold Beasley, is on base, by some miracle. He dulls the roar, telling everyone to be quiet. There isn’t a standard protocol for a megalodon. The consensus was to save the megalodon and the man. To everyone’s surprise, Harold says, “kill the megalodon and bring it back to base.” There is another outcry. Everyone is a marine biologist and wants to study and track the unbelievable megalodon. Harold makes it clear that if they don’t kill the megalodon, they will be fired.

The intercom crackles to life with a message to the outbound boats heading to the scene, “Kill the megalodon at first sight.” Among the outrage, the commander says the same as Harold, “If you don’t, you are fired.”

Meanwhile, you are struggling in the deep, dark water looking at a beast that is seventy feet long and has a glistening jaw as big as your whole body. You see the light on the submarine fade away in the distance. You feel oddly calm as the megalodon starts to charge, but suddenly it stops and swims away, leaving you confused

and grateful. Right when the megalodon is out of sight, a ship comes to pick you up. No one wants to say it, but they are wondering how you are alive. You tell them that the beast simply swam away, ready to prove it through your GoPro footage. As you race to show them, you discover the footage is corrupted. Now there is no proof of the megalodon and no way to prove what you saw was real. You get back to the ship and get fired out of suspicion of lying about the beast. Even you start to wonder if your mind was playing tricks on you.

For thirty years, you live a quiet life as a fisherman in the same waters, but really, you’ve dedicated your life to searching for the great beast. The megalodon was never seen again, leaving you questioning each day if what you saw was real. One bright fall day as you search the same area, repeating your daily routine, your heart rate quickens because you see it. There is no mistaking the size and awe of the beast. Excitement rages through you. As it swims near, you film the entire thing, ready to validate the past thirty years. Your footage is so clear— it seems to recognize you, comes right for you, its jaws open, and it eats you.

Lynn Ledgerwood

Roosevelt High School Meg Griffitts

Council of Powers

“All in favor,” I glanced around the room at the other members of the council. Delta Katherine, Delta Lucas, and I had our hands raised. Beta Zephyr, Delta Ryan, and Delta Lyra did not. I sighed.

“Since we’re split, we’ll have to take this to the youth council; any objections?”

“None here,” Beta Zephyr shrugged, “we’ll review the youth council’s vote tomorrow.”

“Meeting adjourned.” I stood from my chair, “I’ll take the issue to the youth council.” I made my way to the door as the other council members collected their things. As I opened the door, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to look at the owner, “Zephyr…” I whispered as my voice caught in my throat.

“Sister, we need to talk,” Zephyr said nonchalantly. I nodded and slung my bag strap over my shoulder.

We’ve never been that close before, what does he want? “How about the gardens then, that should be a quiet place and the youth council office is on the way,” I offered.

“Sure.” He walked to the closet and grabbed my pale blue blazer, “I’ll carry this for you. Lead the way.”

I turned swiftly toward the hallway and left the council room and the Deltas behind. I walked in front of my brother to the youth council office and opened the foggy crystal door.

“Good morning, Laura, how are you today?” I turned

my attention to the secretary.

“I’m doing great, Sabine. Can you make sure Rose gets this?” I passed her the rough manila envelope from the council meeting. “It’s imperative that it’s done right away.” Sabine took the pale orange envelope from my hand and put it in my daughter’s mailbox.

“Of course, Ms. Dephine, Rose will get it when she comes in,” I nodded and left the room almost bumping into Zephyr in the hallway.

“Sorry about the wait, Zeph. We should go now.” He held out his elbow and I hesitate before taking it. “I assume you wanted to talk about the meeting?” I asked quietly while walking toward the gardens.

“Yes, Laura, you can’t really be alright with this,” he said as we walk into the courtyard. “I mean, you just proposed to give your freedom away—tell me what’s on your mind.” We stopped at a bench and I sat beside him and stared at a yellow butterfly fluttering around a cluster of sunset orange tulips.

“The Shadow Kingdom won’t give up, Zeph. We’re outnumbered: our kingdom is smaller and our resources are depleting faster than theirs.” I paused before turning to look at him, “He sent me an offer, Zephyr.”

I felt his grip on my arm tighten.

“What kind of offer,” he said as his arm wrapped around my waist pulling me close, “would make you give up your freedom to a tyrant like him?” I buried my head into the crook of his neck.

“He promised to back down from the war and return the land that was stolen from us if—”

I slowly pulled away from his touch.

“If I give him—”

I took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of pine. I steadied myself.

“What he wants, he will let us live like we used to.”

A tear threatened to spill down my cheek. Zephyr brushed my sleek, platinum-blond hair out of my face, “You don’t have to do this, Laura, we can negotiate with him.”

The tear slipped down my face. “No we can’t, Zeph, it has to be me. He threatened our family, I can’t lose my daughter... or you.” I tried to regain my composure, but it was too late. My voice wavered. “We both—know he is more than capable of murder.”

He pulled me into his arms, kissed the top of my head, and whispered in my ear, “Sister, I would never let anyone hurt you.” He held me against his chest. “No one will ever hurt you. We’ll find a way around this. I promise.”

I wrapped my arms around his waist and cried into his chest, “Thank you… brother.”

He held me until I stopped crying. Then he pulled away and brushed a few stray tears off my cheek. He stood up and offered me his hand, “Come, I’ll escort you back to your room.”

I took his hand gratefully and he pulled me to my feet. After walking beside him for a few minutes, I felt lightheaded. “Brother—I need a moment.” He stopped and waited for me.

“Take all the time you need, Laura.”

I nodded and started to cough. He quickly walked over to me and lifted me off my feet as my legs gave out. “Laura!” Zephyr cried out. That was the last thing I felt before my eyes closed, and I slipped into unconsciousness.

I could hear voices nearing as I slowly woke up, their tones seemed concerned and shaky. I opened my eyes to find the head doctor and Zephyr talking anxiously at the foot of the bed. I sat up slowly and almost immediately

became dizzy. I groaned, “Zeph—what’s going on?” I rubbed my eyes and laid back down.

Zephyr approached me cautiously and sat down next to me. “Laura, how much do you remember?” He looked at me with eyes full of worry.

“I-I remember the council meeting—and the beginning of our courtyard conversation.” I answered hesitantly, “but I can’t recall what happened after that. How did I get here?” I looked around my bedroom. My gaze landed on my bedside table. There were stacks of letters and six or seven vases with flowers, some beginning to wilt, and others looking almost dead. I turned my gaze to Zephyr. Does he look slightly older or is it just me? My voice caught in my throat.

“How long has it been?”

Zephyr took my small, unblemished hand in his large, rough ones. “Laura, it’s been four months since we last talked.”

I stared at him in shock, barely registering his thumb rubbing small circles on the back of my hand. I blinked and looked at the pile of rough parchment, most were from lower-class society members. A few were scrolls—a typical message from the higher class. But one of the scrolls was bound with a black ribbon and sealed with a blood-red symbol. I shuddered. That one was from the Shadow Kingdom.

Samantha

Woodburn Wellness, Business, and Sports School Jennifer Perrine

War Isn’t the Answer

It’s like a cold jump inside your heart every time they go off, Like a lightning bolt giving you a sudden shock Scared hoping and praying

As we imagine the sounds of fireworks going off As the Russians are coming in for the attack As we hear them getting closer

Frightened thinking of what to do We pray with our faith to God Praying to help our country to build a life in our home

Hoping peace and harmony will soon come

As more bombing goes on The worse everything gets

But we as a family will keep hoping and praying for the best to come We all are human and make mistakes But some don’t realize war isn’t the way to fix things

Phillip Ramsey Franklin High School

Mark Pomeroy

My Name is Steven Brewer

I was given a typewriter because my mom thinks I need to express more emotion. To be honest, I don’t think I do, but I’ll give it a go. My name is Steven Brewer. It is May 14th, 2017. I live in Brownsburg, Indiana. I am sixteen years old. I have brown hair, green eyes, and I am 5’11’’. I wear polos that my mom buys me. I work at the Starbucks in the Brownsburg Village Center. I go to Brownsburg High School and get fine grades. I live in a three-bedroom house with my mother, stepfather, and sister. I live a nice normal life, but I am gay.

My family doesn’t care, but it was awkward telling them, regardless. They asked a bunch of questions and said to not tell my sister because she was too young to understand and a nine-year-old shouldn’t have to worry about her gay brother, so I’m not allowed to talk about being gay in front of Heather. My stepfather, Rick said he didn’t have to worry about me getting a girl pregnant, and told me not to get AIDS, or as he called it, the gay cancer. He’s old fashion liked that. My mom told Rick off for that but giggled a bit. She was also relieved because she didn’t have to worry about losing me to another woman and that I could always be her little sunshine. I always was her favorite, at least that’s what I told myself.

To be honest, none of that bothers me. Most would

say that is homophobic, but I still don’t care, because well, none of that affects me. The only thing that bothers me is when the kids at my school do it. They never bully me because no one knows I’m gay—besides my family and my one and only friend Brett. Brett doesn’t care either, and he didn’t ask any questions because he has a gay aunt who moved to Seattle in 2011. Brett is also kinda happy that I’m gay, so now I can be his wingman and he doesn’t have to worry about me liking the same girls he does. In the end, it’s a win-win for me and him.

The kids at my school bully this one kid named Isaac. He gets called slurs that I don’t want to repeat, and he gets pushed a lot because he is gay, and also a rumor went around that he went to the mental ward, but I don’t care because that isn’t my business. He is 6’1’’, dyed black hair, pale, really skinny, and I don’t know what color his eyes are because I never talk to him, talking to him would be an instant reason to be thought of as being gay. If the school thinks you’re gay there is no way of getting out of it. The main problem is I like him, at least I think, I mean I’ve never talked to him, but he looks good.

At work it’s normal. On my shift, I see the same three other people. Samantha who is blonde, blue-eyed, and a twenty-two-year-old girl who is stuck in this town. She said she is staying here because she loves her family and her boyfriend, but really, it’s because she wasn’t accepted to any college. We also have Vanessa. She is a tall brunette who Brett likes, but she is eighteen and Brett is sixteen. He keeps asking me to help him hook up with her, but I never talk to my coworkers outside of work, and plus Vanessa is leaving for college, so we are hiring right now, and Brett doesn’t have a chance.

My shift manager Kim also works with us. She is a divorcee and went to college for business, but now she is a shift manager at Starbucks, I don’t think she will be promoted anytime soon.

As you can see, my life is boring, but I want to be a writer. Writing is my escape, where I can write anything I want, it’s all I want to do. I have nothing to write about at the moment. When I have nothing to write about, I write about my day-to-day, so if you’re reading this, then I guess something interesting happened. Maybe I made friends with my coworkers, maybe Brett got a date, maybe Heather found out I was gay. I am not sure, I guess we will find out later.

Today the unthinkable happened. We got a new coworker: Isaac. The gay one, the emo one, the cute one. Maybe I’ll become friends with him? I am not sure; I typically don’t talk to anyone unless they talk to me first, and then I won’t make an effort to talk to them because it’s scary and they’ll probably just leave me. My mom says I should make more friends because lately, Brett has been getting on her nerves. I understand why he gets on my nerves, too, but I don’t care. My mom says it’s because I am such an agreeable person. She’s probably right—she always is. I’ll just leave it alone like I normally do.

Today Isaac talked to me. He asked what music I listen to. I don’t think he knows we go to the same school. I don’t blame him. In terms of popularity, he’s probably more popular, not for a good reason, though. But me and Brett are unknown. I didn’t say much besides, here’s my playlist, and gave him my phone to look through. He said I had a nice indie playlist. I don’t even know what indie is, but I guess I’m indie. And he asked me for my number so I could send him

my playlist. I gave it to him, sent the playlist link, and he said he would listen to it. We also shared names. I almost forgot to give him mine, but now we both are talking to each other.

At night or when we are both not busy, we text. We text a lot, and after five days of talking on the phone and at work, he asked me to hang out at Arbuckle Acres Park. I am going to go and have fun and maybe I’ll tell him I’m gay. Also, he hasn’t noticed me at school yet or he doesn’t want to socially kill me or make me known. He is really cool. After talking to him, I’ve learned he has blue eyes, he likes punk music, he is sixteen, and his birthday is April twentieth. On paper his birthday is 4/20, so he thinks that’s really funny.

Before I went to the park, Brett messaged me asking me to come over and play some games with him. I wanted to, but I wanted to hang out with Isaac more. I explained to him what I was doing, and he was a little upset. I told him we would hang out tomorrow, but he said that it didn’t change the fact that I was ditching him for another guy. He was really upset. I tried to explain it to him again, but before I got another word out, he had already hung up.

At the park, it was cool, not the cold where you have to wear heavy jackets, but a cool place where the breeze comes and goes. The park is very peaceful—I love spring. Isaac and I didn’t want to sit down because the ground was still slightly wet, so we stood on a bridge over a creek. On the bridge, we talked about normal stuff like music, work, and then school. He asked if I went to Brownsburg High School, I told him I did, and he told me he thought so. I mean, it’s the only high school, where else would I go? He asked if I was one of the homophobic kids at the school. He didn’t ask if I

knew he was gay, because everyone does. I wanted to tell him I was gay, but the only thing that came out was, “No, I love gay people!”

And I said that out loud. People walking by looked at us. All he did was laugh. I didn’t notice until he told me, but my face turned red—really red. He couldn’t stop laughing. I didn’t know what was funny. I was really embarrassed, but he finally said that it was okay and that from the way I said it, it sounded like I was gay. Part of me wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t.

On my walk home I called Brett to see if he still wanted to hang out. Brett was still upset and didn’t say it, but you could tell by the tone of his voice. Brett said he was busy, but I didn’t believe him, so I just continued going home. After I ended the call, Isaac messaged me. He said he was happy that we went to the park and enjoyed it and that it made him happy that there are some good people here. I wanted to still tell him I’m gay. I was scared still, but I had to do it. I answered his text saying, “I enjoyed it, too, and I am gay, but I was scared to tell you.” He didn’t care. He was relieved that I was gay and that he could relate to someone. I went home happy.

At home, it didn’t last for long. Rick came into my room and told me to make dinner because my mom left to go out with her friends. Every time my mom leaves for dinner, she makes leftovers, but Rick can’t get up and cook it himself. He makes me make it for the whole house. I don’t mind, but he can be annoying sometimes. Every time he criticizes the food when I heat it up, saying it’s too cold or it’s too mushy. He is always in that mood, but as I said, I really don’t care.

Today I am going over to Brett’s. Brett’s house is calm, his mom left when he was three, so it’s always just

him, his dad, and his dad’s new girlfriend for the month. I like his dad. Sometimes I wish he was mine. Brett’s dad Kyle is letting me stay the night since it’s Friday and we are gonna play video games all night to make it up to Brett. At Brett’s, Isaac keeps messaging me. I don’t mind, but Brett is visibly annoyed. I want to stop looking at my phone, but I can’t help myself. Normally I am never on my phone, but when I get a notification now, I can’t help but look.

It’s been three months since me and Isaac first hung out at the park. Today I was woken up by a text from Isaac, he said he wanted to meet at the park where we first met. I am excited to see him because I realized that I liked him. At the same time, I am anxious. Is it something important? Did he realize that he liked me and doesn’t feel the same? I am dying with anticipation. On my way to the park, I couldn’t help but to think of all of the different outcomes. What if he is annoyed by me and wants to tell me nicely that I should get lost? Normally I don’t let people make me think this much, but Isaac is a different case. Is Isaac thinking as much as me? I don’t know.

I got to the park five minutes early and Isaac was already there. I was sweating badly. All these thoughts were in my head: whether he likes me or hates me. Isaac told me he wasn’t gonna hide anything, and said he liked me and that he wanted to be more than friends. I was flustered, I didn’t know what to say, he was flustered too. I blurted out that I like him, it was loud, but this time no one stared. So I guess now we are boyfriends? I asked if we were and he said if I wanted to be, so I blurted out yes again. We hung out at the park for three hours after that. Then we went our separate ways home. I am still flustered thinking about him, I think he is too.

I don’t think I need to write down my thoughts anymore, I am happy.

Sebastian/Gracie Fultz

McDaniel

High

School Bruce Poinsette

The Three Social Injustices of High School in the U.S.

Being in high school is hard enough as it is, dealing with racism, homophobia and gender is another thing.

Gender

America has gone toe to toe against the gender binary throughout the decades. What’s that like? Let’s take a closer look.

In 1970, the Women’s Strike for Equality took place, marking fifty years since the Nineteenth Amendment gave white women the right to vote. The actual gender equality movement supposedly started in 1848.

Meanwhile in the 1980s the word transsexuality was more broadly known, when their rights and liberation had been awaited since the word ‘transgender’ was first brought up in the ’60s.

In America’s history we have participated in installing and finding ways to silence certain gender binaries or enforcing gender roles in our society. We are still fighting gender boxes, given a piece from the Texas tribune (Texas Schools Rethink Gender-Based Dress Code Policies After Discrimination Claims Raise New Legal Issue), which gives the fact that in early December of 2021, people finally got schools to

reevaluate not cutting boys’ hair once it reached longer than policy.

Just in the first week of the year, we have passed 2021’s record of anti-trans bills put out on the board (NBC News).

At least seven states have proposed anti-trans bills in the first week of 2022 including: Arizona, Alabama, Indiana, Kentucky, Oklahoma, New Hampshire, and South Dakota (NBC News).

In 2021, bills prohibiting healthcare for trans youth were brought forth in more than twenty states. Two states signed into law: Tennessee and Arkansas (American Civil Liberties Union). More than thirty states are to install restrictions on trans athletes.

Nine states took the legislation into law (Human Rights Campaign).

What’s it like to be surrounded by this stuff while teaching, though?

I asked Sarabeth Leitch, a teacher here in Oregon, about it. She said, “I love being in a community where people can express their gender the way they see fit and that allows me to express it the way I want as well.”

I discussed my conversation with her with Jackson, and then asked them about their teachers. “My teacher spoke about how if a guy wears nail polish it is a sin, so I don’t think he would have a similar opinion to gender identity,” said Jackson.

Race/Ethnicity

Asmo Kirkland, a freshman in Pennsylvania, said, “I feel safer because I’m in a city, but I don’t feel entirely safe because there is still stuff that happens here. I feel that my state is better, but that’s just a personal view. I think that Texas would be the worst state to live in with a different race. Definitely being Black, queer, a woman, and nonbinary, makes it a lot harder to have a conversation, let alone be socially accepted. I live in a predominately Black area, but I have more problems because of my queer side. I don’t know if am being friended to be a queer friend or as a Black friend as an excuse for my white friends to do racist shit and get away with it. I feel sometimes that being a darkerskin Black person because most people in my class are lightskin, I’ve seen my teachers help other students, but when it comes to me I feel out of place or not accepted. Like my English teacher doesn’t respect my opinions at all. I think I would be too baffled to react, I’d get really curious about it, does this person not like me because my sexuality or because of my ethnicity?” Being judged for being queer would be on a lesser stair, but that’s because there is a lot of internalized homophobia in the Black community. At least from personal experience, that young boys are literally told that something is gay as an insult immediately at birth. We’re forcing this young boy to not be gay; they are afraid of him being gay. You can’t be respected if you are showing any signs of being a queer person. Black women are literally ripped or forced into femininity by being degraded or shamed for their body, and most these girls have turned into tomboys.

Sexual Orientation

In just the first week of 2022, multiple non-LGBTQ+ policies in many states went out.

“Worst year in recent history for LGBTQ state legislative attacks,” said Gillian Bransletter, a trans advocate. Cole Macnab said, “The East Coast is very similar to us. I think the South would be worse, ’cause like I’d go out of Portland and it’s very different. Oklahoma, no one never treats me differently, but when I’m around my straight friends, they say things that are kinda interesting, but not directed at me (interesting, homophobic). It depends where you are in places. There are homophobic places, just in places like conservative states, it’s kinda just more accepted. If it’s someone I know, then I will bring it up and confront it, but if it’s a stranger on the street, I don’t wanna put myself in danger. Yeah, I stress about it, but I was stressed out to come [out] to my friend, even though I know they wouldn’t care. I just assume the worst, even though I know it will go fine with my close family –I’m still scared of it. I was called gay in sixth grade, just because of my voice. It makes me really insecure about my voice, and so I’m forced into some of those stereotypes. It can be bad sometimes, but it’s also who you have to be because you’re like hiding from yourself and that’s not healthy. I’d think I’d have more: society attacks women naturally already, so adding queerness adds more targets. But when discussed, it’s more of a middle, there are pros and cons to both. How can you give that to someone who has struggled in similar ways to you? Like, it just doesn’t make sense. It’s like, just why? Like you’re part of the community; it’s stupid. Online I see it a lot, and it’s just gross.

When They Collide

Meanwhile, in the Midwest, in Kentucky: Dior, a junior in high school, expressed his opinion on how it’s been in different places of the country.

“I’ve grown up in the Midwest, but vs. the Pacific Northwest, I have felt the safest and the most unsafe in the South.”

When speaking about comparisons of different areas of the U.S., Jackson said, “I feel the East Coast is a good medium on how it is for gender and sexual orientation.”

We three discussed this and how right-wing states and left-wing states are in comparison to each other. Dior and Jackson established with me that Texas was the worst state to be in in regards to gender identity, and Alabama was the worst place regarding sexual orientation.

Two Coin

We have many analogies we use for different concepts, but one of the ones we use is the “two sides of a coin” analogy.

Soler Jackson’s junior life and identity in Baltimore, Maryland tends to be this analogy.

“If I hang with white people who are LGBTQ+, I know I’m accepted for being LGBTQ+, but I don’t know if I’m accepted for being Black. Meanwhile, being with Black people, I know I am accepted for being Black, but not LGBTQ+.”

One would argue we can clearly categorize a hate crime when slurs or mean words are used, but when they are not and someone is attacked, do they put those people under the hate crimes statistics of “race/ethnicity/ ancestry” or “sexual orientation and gender identity”?

Something that adds to this “two coin” theory is the fact that Black transgender people are targeted by the highest percent of hate crimes regarding gender identity (Department of Justice). We cannot tell if it is racism, homophobia, or genderphobia, when someone attacks, kills, etc. any person of color who is a part of the LGBTQ+ community.

Jackson feels that wherever they go, there tends to be a debate about which part of them will be judged on their skin or identity. Baltimore has its own problems, being that lots of Christian schools tend to be quite judgmental on gender identity or sexual identity (Baltimore Sun). From the Department of Justice: as of 2020, Maryland had 67. 5% of hate crimes based off race/ethnicity/ancestry and 17.5% for sexual orientation, which came in second.

Jackson usually keeps to themselves because they don’t want to fight with the two sides of the coin.

Ending

The amount of backfire students get on their gender identity, sexual orientation, or race and ethnicity is insanely wrong and unjust. A student should have the ability to learn in any state without worrying about people harming, harassing, bullying, etc. them regarding

Beatrice Musette Grant High School Matt Smith

Rebirth

rebirth, saved from the depths of my low fresh eyes search for new high i see the truth in bright lies i won’t read dirty rehearsed lines i take back what was just mine before look now deep into my eyes no spots no veins clear as if i was born yesterday clean

Ethan Meditz Grant High School Matt Smith

Snowy Mess

I scoot on up to the ski lift, as does my friend Simon, which leaves Jake to ride by himself. I look back when we take off and laugh because of how depressed he looks. The snow is as white as a fresh piece of paper, and the sun hardly shows, which leaves it more difficult to see. As we all get off and skid to a stop, we decide what way to go. We go left because we usually tend to go right and that’s starting to become a bit boring. We head down to about halfway, till we all stop at a skinny pathway through the thick forest. “This path does not seem to be on the map,” Simon says. I think we all thought it was a bad idea, but it’s something new to do, so we went down it.

We slowly head down the narrow pathway. There is hardly any hill, so we can’t go fast even if we wanted to. After a few minutes finally the path becomes wider and steeper, making us all a little more cheerful. There are plenty of twists and turns, and we’re unsure what it’s going to be like after any corner. We all get to a part where there’s a jump, and one by one we jump it.

We all make it over each jump, and I think about how this is one of the more fun runs we have done.

“Over here!” Jake shouts. We head over to him to see a bigger jump. He asks if we want to do it, reluctantly I agree, but Simon is not as comfortable with jumps. After a bit of negotiating, he agrees. Jake, who spotted

out the jump, goes first: he does a 180 spin and lands going backward. Then I go, I don’t do any type of tricks, and after a long few seconds in the air, I land perfectly fine. Jake and I celebrate and tell Simon, who is still at the top, to come down. He finally goes down the jump and does a 360, but as he lands, he loses his balance, falls over, and slides down the hill to the side of the path.

Shocked, I immediately go after him because it seems like he could be hurt, but I hear Jake sigh. I go slowly to the edge of the cliff to try and find him, not even looking at how steep it is. As I get to the bottom and find him, Jake, still at the top of the hill, says he’s going to find help, then leaves. “There he is,” I say in relief.

“I’m ok,” Simon says, laying in the snow.

I help him up and we try to figure out a way up the hill. We try walking, carrying each other, crawling— nothing will even get us halfway up. We decide to just walk for at least twenty minutes, then it starts to get dark. Cold, scared, we begin to walk faster and faster till we see smoke.

We get closer to the smoke; it seems to be a campfire, I think. As we walk up to it, there are three older men talking and sharing stories with each other. Simon, terrified, nudges me to go talk to them and ask for help. With no other choice, I go up to them and state our problem. At the time I expected many different results, but the men are very generous and give us a ride back to the resort on their skimobile. Simon, Jake, and I all meet up and begin to laugh, because laughing is the best medicine, as we head back to see our worried parents.

Olivia Oliver McDaniel High School Bruce Poinsette

Quaranteen

World War 2, the moon landing, the Vietnam War and its protests, and 9/11 are all generation-defining events. As Gen Z grows and matures into full-fledged teenagers, the question becomes: what will be ours? In March of 2020, a clear answer emerged from the city of Wuhan, China.

The first case of coronavirus, or COVID-19, was reported on December 31st, 2019 in Wuhan. But the real drama started January 21st, 2020, when the first case of COVID-19 was reported on United States soil in Washington state. Most of the people around me brushed it off like it was nothing. I remember telling my friend that I was kind of nervous about the whole thing, what if it’s a lot bigger than we think it is? She told me it was probably just some sort of flu or pneumonia— nothing to actually worry about. But I did worry. At least within the craziness of it all, teenagers still had school, some sort of constant. But of course, that didn’t last very long.

Beginning as early as March 12th, 2020, the first state—Ohio—announced that it would be closing all its schools. The governor of Ohio, Mike Dewine, Tweeted, “We have a responsibility to save lives. We could have waited to close schools, but based on advice from health experts, this is the time to do it.” Just one day later, fifteen other states followed the same idea. Kate Brown,

the governor of Oregon, announced in late March 12th that all K-12 schools would close from March 16th to the end of March.

Friday, March 13th rolled around the next day, and the middle school I was in then was lively and joyful. I mean, who wouldn’t be when you just found out you’re getting an extended spring break? The work that day was easy and quick, the conversation light.

“It felt very temporary, and like I thought it was going to be kinda like a little break,” explained teenager Lucy Kniser about how it felt when her school shut down. But as this “break” kept getting extended further and further in time, that temporary feeling was fading from our minds. Governor Brown declared a lockdown—people had to stay home, away from others. Days grew slow, and the loneliness was like a kick to the stomach, harder and more painful each day. It felt like the movie Groundhog Day, and it chose the most boring, uneventful, mundane, dull day of all time to repeat. “Every day just felt boring, each day replaying time and again on a loop, slowly it became quite vacant… unbearable even,” teenager Mai Nguyen said.

Just like that, the world that most teenagers thought they knew was ripped from them, and a poor replacement put in its place. It wasn’t an easy or a fun time. Struggle after struggle presented itself.

Mental health was a big one for many teenagers. Anxiety and depression were like huge giants that cast large shadows over you, their mouths filled with razor sharp teeth grinning at their next meal. “Being at home, with little purpose, was not very fun,” expressed Anika Schramm. “During Covid, I definitely would say it got really extreme to the point where, like, I wouldn’t go out of the house because I was just so afraid of, like,

everything,” said Emilia DeLaRosa on her social anxiety during quarantine. The definition of anxiety is, “a feeling of worry, nervousness, or unease, typically about an imminent event or something with an uncertain outcome.” So, yeah, it’s pretty clear as to why so many teenagers developed anxiety and depression during their time in quarantine.

The world was at a place where it felt like anything could happen. Halfway through 2020 we had already dealt with a potential World War 3, a worldwide pandemic, Kobe Bryant’s death, and murder hornets, so why not add in a zombie apocalypse while we’re at it? The point is, everything around us was a big unknown, and it felt like there was nothing we could do about it. Only stay home, holed up in the same spot we had been for months.

Another struggle thrown at teenagers was staying motivated within the lack of structure. Schools across the country were shut down to prevent the spread of COVID-19. Normally from 8:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., teenagers are at school, five days a week, nine months out of the year. In a way it becomes a second home. It’s a teenager’s whole social realm. We see our friends, teachers, and even if we don’t talk to everyone, we see people! The simple “Hello,” or “Can I borrow a pencil,” is small, but a meaningful part of the human experience. The closure of schools changed that. Of course there was the option of seeing friends still. But for some it felt like a constant tug of war on whether to hang out with friends and risk being exposed or stay home and keep your family safe. I felt as if experience after experience of my teenage years was flying past me. I wanted to keep myself and my family safe from this killing machine, but I also wanted to live and make memories.

So, with in-person school being shut down, online school became the new normal. 9:15 a.m., Monday through Friday, students across the country logged into their Chromebooks, entered Zoom, and attempted to focus and engage with class and their teacher through a screen. Many teens didn’t even attend their online classes. “There was no social aspect of it, it was very dull,” teenager Emerson Oliver said, describing her experience during online school. The desire and inspiration to work hard at school wasn’t there. How do you stay motivated when there is nothing to be motivated for? When there are a million distractions waiting at your beck and call? A feeling of “what’s the point?” probably crossed everyone’s mind during quarantine, especially for teenagers during online school.

But behind every rainstorm is a rainbow. Being able to build off and thrive (at least a little) in bad situations is an important life skill. So, while many people in fifty years’ time will probably only look back on the bad things that happened during quarantine, I think it’s valuable to look back on the positives too, no matter how small.

While the long and empty periods of time to kill weren’t always enjoyable, it presented teenagers with the opportunity to focus more on themselves. When you’re a teen in school, you’re surrounded by trends and certain styles, all pushing you down and trying to conform you. But being away from those things allowed teens to explore themselves more and find out what they like, not the masses. “I got to be more explorative with my looks and interests,” teenager Violet Buswell says. She tried new looks, like bleaching her hair, and developed her music taste as well. “I got to be my own

person,” echoes Odessa Berry, who similarly explains how being away from school helped her connect more with herself. Being able to explore ourselves at a time in our lives when we are figuring out what we like and who we are was so valuable.

As mentioned above, quarantine brought on a lot of free time—like a lot. So why not use it to try and experience new things? Many teenagers did just that. Teenagers tried a wide list of things, like exercising, practicing sports, instruments, experimenting with style and makeup, hiking, kayaking, sewing, martial arts, ukulele, tennis, etc. School, homework, and sports usually take up so much of the day for kids at this age. Sometimes I’ll get home from school, do homework until 10:00 p.m., then at that point I’m so exhausted, I just go straight to bed, then repeat the next day. So doing these activities are usually out of the question unless it’s in the summer. All the time to ourselves was a blessing in disguise as we got to try new things and take advantage of a difficult situation.

Flash forward about one year and nine months later. The sky’s a little bluer, the air’s a little sweeter, and everything feels almost as normal as it can get. In-person school was finally back. Teenagers exit exile island, a place of isolation, and pile back into brick-and-mortar schools. Slowly, but surely things fall back into the “old” way of life. “Hellos,” are heard in person—not over a screen. After school activities resume. And friends hang out without the nagging fear of being infected. Covid wasn’t gone. But the need to be quarantined was. So as teenagers settle back into life, they might think back on what they learned during their time in quarantine and how everything they went through affected them.

I think a valuable lesson learned through quarantine was to be grateful. We were living through a time where it felt as if anything could have happened. News stories cycled through my feed of death and terrible losses. I still remember sitting alone in my living room one day, the summer of 2020. The sun poured in through the windows. With nothing better to do, I turned the news on the TV, mindlessly watching it. A story came on about three siblings who had lost both of their parents to COVID-19. They had lost the two people who they loved most in the world just like that. It crushed me. My parents were still alive and well, but who knows? Tomorrow they could be infected, and then what? “Spend your time wisely, because everything can be gone without notice,” said teenager Zoe Stenstrom. Every day in quarantine we learned not to take things for granted. Be grateful for the little things. You never know what hand you’ll be dealt next in life. Just pick up the next card and keep playing. Be grateful you’re still in the game.

Cut to January 6th, 2022—halfway through the in-person school year from being in quarantine. The news arrives in an email. “The rapid rise in COVID-19 cases driven by the omicron variant has caused dramatic absences of students and staff at McDaniel High School. As of this evening, almost two dozen staff have reported the need to be absent tomorrow. We have reached the need to close the McDaniel campus for inperson instruction starting Friday, January 7. We plan on using tomorrow, Friday, as a day to allow our educators to plan transition to temporary distance learning next week.”

Here we go again. I felt as if I had been transported back to March 13th, 2020, right when quarantine was

first beginning. Except this time, I know how things play out. Stress and nerves overpower my body. My face became a stone statue, the sculptor deciding to form it into a look of worry and frustration. It’s only for a week. But that’s how this whole mess started the first time too. I can’t help but think, will this be the rest of our lives, quarantine after quarantine? I don’t want it to be, and I know no one else wants it to be. But we’ve done this before. That rough time helped us grow into the people we are right now. Some of us may have had to grow up a little faster than we expected because of this virus. We have had to become more mature, not only because of COVID-19, but also just from the responsibilities that come from being a teenager in general. It’s a unique position we’re in. All we can do now is be strong and preserve. We can remember what we learned the first time and keep moving forward.

Hanako Duff Grant High School

Matt Smith

The Other World

Let me tell you a little bit about my unusual life. I’m a pretty normal fifteen-year-old girl, who has some friends to hang out with, some money to buy whatever, some homework to do over the weekend. That’s nothing special, but something that is special is that I have another me. In the place I go, there’s another me, there’s another you, and there’s even another her. Some might say it’s the same world as this one, some might disagree with that. For me, I don’t think about the scientific stuff or try make sure everything makes sense. I simply want to enjoy this experience, and I am not going to tell it to other people and ruin this secret little place. I like to visit there quite some time, just when I’m bored. It’s a fun place to go, and it’s easy: all we have to do is get the mirror and go through it.

See? This mirror looks just like any other mirror, and it can be used like any other mirror. I actually do use it to check my outfits every day. When I don’t use it as a mirror, I use it as a portal. I set it on the wall, and without any abracadabra or open sesame, I can walk in. Now come on, anyone can go through this.

Here we are, the other world. In the other world, everything is flipped from our world. My theory on why this happens is this: you know when you look into the mirror, you see all the furniture and the doors on the opposite sides? And how all the letters are mirrored?

That’s what it’s like, but with everything, including people’s personalities. That’s the cool part about them. Look at that, that’s me being friends with literally everyone in the school and having so much money I could buy anything and everything I want.

“Oh my gosh, guys, we should go swim in the pool we have!” Of course she owns a pool. How can you be rich without having a pool?

“Yesss, we would love to go to your house. Let’s go to that new fancy cafe after swimming too.” Ugh why couldn’t that be this-me, right?

“Sounds cool, but not for too long. I have tons of homework to do.” Oh yeah, I forgot that—me has a lot of homework. I’m a very busy woman over here. I don’t envy that.

Same as myself, all the people I know are opposite, too. My vicious chihuahua has turned into such a sweet and smart dog, and my least favorite teacher now acts just like my English teacher (wink). I sometimes wish I could interact with them, but it’s a parallel universe, it was never meant to be intersected with my world so they can’t see or touch me. The only pro about being invisible is that I can swim in their pool.

So this is how my day is like. It’s a good spice in my bland life. Maybe some people from that world are here to see what this side is like, too. Just because we don’t see them, doesn’t mean they’re not here. We’ll never know.

Aiden Padilla

Grant

High School

Matt Smith

Pleroma

“It’s the Holo-whores.”

“Wait wait-wait h-h-hold on a second—”

“You aren’t paying for the stupid little, uh, Gadget! Gadget—you aren’t paying for it, you’re paying for them. They’re the best in the business, so they get the new gadget. It hasn’t been out long, a-and it looks like garbage but they—”

“I’m gonna stop you there, ok? Let me do you a favor. I see you’ve got the ball rollin’, but, uhh, you can stop, ok? I’m gonna let you in on a little secret. Advice, if you will. Just one man to another: you’re paying me. Well not really, but to keep it simple, you are paying me. In turn, I defend you. One of the benefits of this payment is something called ‘client-attorney privilege,’ meaning

I can’t tell anyone what you’re telling me. It’s our little secret. Now when I say never repeat what you just said to me, I mean it. Don’t you ever tell anyone that.” Matthew said to the wrinkled man. The wrinkled man looked up at him, and his eyes had gone from a look of curiosity about these newfound prostitutes, to one of fear and paranoia.

Two nights ago, this wrinkled man went out to do something that was quite legal, of course it was extremely frowned upon, yes, but legal, nonetheless. There was this new technology where a device strapped to the jaw of the user projected lights onto their face,

to make them look like someone else. The technology wasn’t perfect, but that was kind of the point. Passing as someone else in a very convincing way is dangerous, this was more of a Halloween-marketed device, anyway. The sex industry utilized it brilliantly. You could have sex with anyone. It was a putrid idea. It was smart on their part, but most definitely an idea born on a foundation of lonerism. It would become a problem with people who had awful social skills and were extremely introverted, but capitalism has always feasted on the vulnerable.

“Alright, well,” Matthew Goldberg wanted to capture the man’s attention once more after the lecture, “prostitute or not, you’ve committed aggravated assault and battery—you face a maximum of twenty-five years in prison, alright? This client-attorney privilege goes both ways, by the way. Having said that, I can pull some strings. I know people. I can get this down to a misdemeanor. That’s a lot. The strings I’ll be pulling just barely help me. It’ll be a struggle, of course. And don’t think I’m doing this for you. Don’t. I don’t care about you. I’m sorry; I’m not really, but this will look good for me. Getting a man who brutally beat up a prostitute to only go on parole? That’s a feat.” The wrinkled man could do nothing but look in horror.

“Now they have pressed charges, they are an extremely wealthy company. You apparently ‘harmed one of their best.’” As Matthew went on and on to this man about the vile crimes he committed, Matthew was recounting what he did in life to turn up as a public defender in a random court in a dying city. Matthew did not want to defend this man who had viciously beat up a random prostitute. Matthew did not care for the prostitute, or the man he was defending. He just wanted

the money. His end goal, though, was to become the best lawyer the West Coast had ever seen. He would do whatever it takes to achieve this goal. Whatever it takes.

“I’m impressed. Last week you were assigned this case, and though you are a public defender, it seems as if you’ve pulled it off. Some crazy guy beats up a prostitute and you bring the felony down to a misdemeanor. Well, if he can do his parole properly. Which, between you and me, I don’t think he will. But the fact that you could do it is impressive. Merits aside, there was someone scouting there. It seems a very wealthy firm wants you. I’ll send all the info to you later, of course— all the little details. And you’re a lawyer, so I imagine I won’t have to tell you this, but, read the fine print.” The judge looked up at Matthew, who had a look of utter annoyance draped over his face. “The firm, as you might know, kind of works for whoever runs the city. Now I’m not gonna say it out loud, but you know exactly who I’m talking about. The politicians in this city are doing their share, and I mean: their share. This isn’t really something you back out of, though. The fine print is, uh, guidelines, if you will.” The judge let out a sigh and leaned back in her chair. She looked around at her chambers, a slight fog shot from her desk so that her computer monitor could be projected in front of her. The judge looked back at Matthew and let out a chuckle, “I imagine, by the look of you, you know what decisions you’ll be making.” Matthew looked the judge in the eye. He held a pack of ice to his left eye, which had been swollen shut. His lip was busted and tender, he tried his best not to, but he constantly drooled. Matthew could do nothing but nod.

Joanna Karam Gresham High School Elisabeth Geier

Oh Love, Oh the Time

It’s four o’clock after a long day of school. I just picked him up and am settling down on the bed. He lays his head up and starts his homework, signaling for me to join. I do. His comforting smell winds me, his warmth soothes my cold arms with a sweet sigh. His eyes focus on his laptop. I can’t resist but to stare and observe, adoring every little movement he made, every sniffle of perfection. His fingers typing, arms moving, yet stable for me to hold. As if my brain had butterflies with beautiful uplifting thoughts of wonder and lust. My heart is slit out of my chest and stolen in this moment; forever will he have that power over me. I want him to hold me so close to cover every inch of my body with his warmth, a blanket of love. Why is it so much to ask for us to hold so close and long I can feel our souls intertwine? Because in this moment, or thinking back to it even, that’s all I want.

Then the butterflies go home, the lust goes away, heart is still stolen, yet it’s like I came back to reality. A high coming down. Like I zoomed out of the lustful thoughts and feelings back into reality. My eyes still can’t resist but to be on him, heart still stolen. His eyes still on the laptop, light sniffle and heart still stolen. His hands stop typing, heart still stolen. His eyes are on mine now.

“I love you.”

A sweet kiss hello became a sweet kiss goodbye, I took him home because time does just fly, and he took my heart and mind with him, and I think I took his too. Goodbye.

MCL Grant High School

Matt Smith

A New Day

Once a day, Max lost her memory.

It happened every day at exactly midnight, without fail. Almost everything was wiped from her brain, and she was left with no memory of her life before. There was only a short list of things she could remember: her name, her age (fifteen), the fact that she lost her memory once a day, and the knowledge level of what her grade in school would be if she was able to actually attend school. She had no idea when it started or why it was happening, but it had become a part of her daily routine: wake up, get ready for the day, wander around for a while, find somewhere to “sleep,” then wake up in a new place and repeat.

On one occasion, Max woke up abruptly, splashing around and gasping for air as she tried to drag herself out of the river she had landed in. Amid the wild swells of currents and the crashing waves, she heard a voice, but she couldn’t understand what it was saying. A hand reached towards her. She grabbed onto it. Another hand wrapped around her wrist and hauled her out of the water.

She landed on the shore, coughing up water and brushing her hair out of her eyes as well as she could with it being stuck to her face and neck with river water. The river continued to roar behind her. Her ears were plugged, so she couldn’t hear well, but after a moment, she heard a muffled voice talking to her. She turned her

head up to see who was speaking.

Standing over her, a very worried expression on her face, was a girl who seemed to be around the same age as Max. She had shoulder length, strawberry-blonde hair, which was just as soaking wet as Max’s. Max held up her pointer finger, signaling for the other person to wait a second, then shook the water out of her ears.

“Are you okay?” the person said, helping Max sit up. Max wrung out her blue hair—when did I dye my hair blue?—which didn’t take much work because it was quite short. She nodded with a smile, “Yeah, I’m good.” She stood up and wiped her hands off on her pants, which, luckily, were brown, so the mud didn’t show up too much. Her shirt, on the other hand, was very far from its original, dark-green color. “Where am I?”

“You’re in Fogland, on Pluto.” She laughed. “Get it? Because it’s always foggy? We’re not even allowed to drive here because so many people get in crashes. Did you know that over 38,000 vehicles crash every year because of fog? But even though that sounds like a lot, the number one cause of car crashes is actually distracted driving. But that isn’t very surprising, because so many people are distracted while driving. Anyway, no one drives here. Oh, and you’re in Fogland.”

Max nodded slowly, trying to process the load of information that was just dumped on her. “Okay… I’m Max.”

The stranger looked at her with a sort of nervous anticipation in her eyes. “Nice to meet you, um, do you know who I am?”

Max tilted her head to the side. Was she supposed to know? “No, sorry.”

The other girl’s face fell, and she nodded, eyes downcast. “I’m Luna. Like, because of the moon.”

“Cool.” They stood in awkward silence for a moment. “Anyway, can you tell me more about Fogland?”

Luna’s face lit up. “Yes! I can!” Luna started walking into the woods next to the river, and Max followed her. “We have the best entertainment of any town on Pluto! We have tons of movie theaters and amusement parks and shops and arcades. The arcades are your favorite. And we have a bunch of restaurants, too, that are always delicious. What’s your favorite food?”

“Um, I don’t know.” Max stopped walking and grabbed Luna’s arm to stop her as well. “Wait, how do you know if arcades are my favorite?”

Luna shrugged, eyes darting around nervously. “Lucky guess?” She shook her arm out of Max’s grasp and kept walking. Max had to jog to keep up. “Anyway, we also have other places to visit here like community gardens and museums and things like that. I love the lavender garden. It’s so beautiful.”

Luna went on like that for hours, leading Max through the town, including a stop at the arcade—Luna ended up being right: the arcade was Max’s favorite. Max was happy to just listen, but after a while, her stomach began to growl.

Max interrupted Luna’s spiel. “Hey, I’m getting kind of hungry. Can we stop at one of those amazing restaurants you were talking about?”

Luna nodded enthusiastically and linked her right arm in Max’s left arm, then pulled Max down the street to a diner. They stepped inside just as it began pouring rain. Luna then sat Max down at a table towards the back and ran to the front, shouting, “Be right back!” over her shoulder.

Max looked around the diner while she waited

for Luna. It was very fifties-esque, right down to the uniforms the waiters were wearing. As she observed her surroundings, her eyes landed on a spilled sugar dish on the next table over. She had a strange feeling that she had seen it before.

Luna interrupted Max’s thoughts by skipping back to the table (with a waiter trailing behind her, struggling to catch up) and collapsing into the chair across from Max, two menus spilling from her arms onto the table. “Whatcha looking at?” She followed Max’s gaze to the next table over, where the spilled sugar dish was. “Oh, yeah. Someone ran into that yesterday and knocked it over. Steve’s the only one who works here, so he probably just hasn’t had a chance to clean it yet.”

Before Max could respond, the waiter caught up to Luna. “You got inside just in time, didn’t you?” the waiter said to them as he set down their water glasses and shook his hair out of his face. His nametag read “STEVE” in bold letters with hearts and smiley face stickers around it.

Luna nodded and hummed her agreement as she handed Max a menu. They spent a few more hours there, trying everything on the menu and hanging out with Steve, all while Luna told Max more stories about Fogland. They stayed even after the diner closed, helping Steve clean everything and lock up the doors and windows. (Max only hesitated slightly when she swept the pile of spilled sugar into the trash. She still hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that it was familiar.)

As they left, Max checked the clock: 11:56. She sighed. Luna looked at her with concern.

“What’s wrong, Max?” she asked, putting a comforting arm around Max’s shoulders.

“My memory’s gonna be gone at midnight. I’m not gonna remember you,” she said bluntly. She didn’t know how else she was supposed to explain it all in four minutes.

Steve and Luna exchanged a look. Steve wrapped his arm around Max’s other side and squeezed her. Max leaned into the double-sided hug, sighing again, and wishing she could stay there forever.

She almost missed Luna quietly saying, “We know, Max.”

Max furrowed her eyebrows. “What?”

“We know,” Steve repeated.

“We’ve been with you every day,” Luna said, smiling at Max.

“And we’ll be with you every day until we die,” Steve finished.

Max closed her eyes and smiled, feeling safer than she could ever remember feeling. It really didn’t mean much, considering she couldn’t remember past that morning, but she knew that she felt very loved as her memory faded to the sounds of Luna and Steve—her friends—recounting when they had dyed her hair blue the day before.

Daniela Hernandez

Woodburn High School Jennifer

Perrine

Nightmare

I struggle to remember

My memory is on blank

I can’t remember anything

That day was the start of a nightmare

I don’t remember my family

I don’t remember who I am

It’s hard to forget who you are

Being alone and forgetting everything is a nightmare

Only remembering smoke and people yelling

Remembering is hard but forgetting is impossible

Remembering is a nightmare

Pippin Houser

Roosevelt

High

School Meg Griffitts

Scary Story

There is an abandoned hospital in the hills that is forgotten about. Occasionally a group of kids would go there to look around, but it was a dead atmosphere. You could feel the coldness flowing from the walls and the floors into your body. Being inside of that hospital was like being stuck in time. The only feeling that can relate to leaving the hospital is going into a movie theater and then leaving it when it’s dark outside.

Teenagers were the only ones who enjoyed the privacy of the hospital. Being inside the hospital was like a shield from the rest of the world—there was no one there to tell you “no.” Although it was a weird and scary place, the people who went to the hospital always had a good experience, and a creepy story to brag about to their friends after. Usually, the stories were about hearing a weird noise or seeing the doors open on their own. This time it was different.

This specific group of seventeen-year-olds had claimed the abandoned hospital as their spot. They didn’t post about it on social media because they didn’t want other people to find it. They had never seen someone there at the same time as them. So to them, it was completely unknown to anyone else, and it was all theirs. Their group of friends was perfect. It was six people, and an even split of boys and girls. All their personalities clashed, but somehow also meshed

perfectly. When they were all together, they felt like they could do anything. Although being at that hospital should be creepy, they were together, which always lightened the mood. They were rarely ever creeped out by the hospital.

Around twelve in the afternoon they had all carpooled to the hospital. They entered their usual way by going through a window on the side. They only did this because the front doors had big metal chains tied to the doors, making it impossible to enter through the front. As they entered the building, everything felt normal. It felt colder than usual, but they all ignored it because it was winter. They went up the stairs and down the hall to the room that they had customized the most. They had come to their own conclusion that it was the laundry room. The room was filled with old run-down washing and drying machines. They were filled with cobwebs, dust, and trash. While they were all sitting down on the carpet and couch that they had bought from a thrift store specifically for the hospital, they heard a loud bang. Not a gunshot bang, but a big pile of wood falling.

Their heads all turned in the same direction at the same time. They laughed it off, assuming it was just a rat or the building deteriorating on its own. Soon followed a loud scream and running footsteps. Everyone froze. They had no idea what to do. Three of them hid, and the other three went to look out the door. They saw a woman clearly in pain running straight at them.

The woman was in a flowy, lilac-purple dress and had ropes tied to her arms and legs. All they could see was a pure face of panic on this woman. Still not knowing what to do, the friends stayed frozen. The woman finally got to the three standing outside the door and

seemed to calm down. All she could say, though, was “Leave.” The three teens asked if she needed help but all she would say was “Leave.” They listened to her advice and planned on leaving as soon as possible. Everyone who hid got up and huddled together, trying to be as far as possible from the woman.

At this point everyone was standing in the hallway about to climb out of the window. Suddenly something started running down the hallway. It was tall, almost up to the ceiling. It was wearing a cloak covering everything except for its face. Its eyes were bright green, and its face was close to white. Their first instinct was to run this time. Everyone ran toward the window, and one at a time pulled themselves up and out to get to the car. The woman followed them, looking just as scared.

While half of the group was successfully outside, the creature had caught up to them and was angry. No one could tell if this thing was a person or an animal. The best guess was a very mutilated person. This looked like every part of this thing was made from a different person. Everyone had gotten out the window at this point, except for the woman. It was too late, though. The teenagers tried pulling her up in time, but the creature had gotten to her first. The woman was being pulled up by the teens and being pulled down by the creature. The creature had a dozen hands coming out of it to pull this woman down. The hands were all different too. It looked like they had all been surgically added on this creature, poorly. You could see where the scars were on the hands where it was attached.

The woman had lost the fight and was dragged away. She didn’t even scream for help—she had lost all hope. The teens piled into the car and drove away. They never

went back to the hospital and decided not to tell anyone about what they saw.

Kelan Egusa

Grant

High School

Matt Smith

Sunken

Part 1

You wake up to the sound of alarms. People are shouting all around. Someone stops by your room and shouts, “Hurry up! Get to your station!” You can hear the alarm through the hallways. What now? You think to myself as you get out of bed. You throw on your uniform and jog to your station. There’re red lights everywhere. After a second, you realize what’s happening.

“It couldn’t be!” you think to yourself. But all the charts lined up. It was really happening. You knew it was a risk when you signed the papers, but you didn’t think it would actually happen. There was a really low chance. They said it would be almost impossible, though they could’ve lied if it meant getting more people to sign up.

You put on your headset and hear the base commander shouting, “Code five, danger level seven, Get to your stations and prepare for defensive operations!”

Just as he says that, you feel something hit the base, and you can hear metal creaking throughout the halls. Then suddenly, everything starts falling. You look for something to hold onto, but before you can make it anywhere, everything goes black.

When you wake up, it’s dark except for the faint glow of emergency lights. The emergency power system powered on. This is bad. All your screens and charts are offline, and you try to check the cameras, but they won’t

connect.

You get up and leave your station. You feel lightheaded, but catch yourself before you collapse. You walk down the hall, leaning against the wall. The cool, steel walls feel nice on your head. The base is eerily silent, and you can still hear metal creaking. Something isn’t right, but before you finish your thought, you look up, it’s the control center. In a moment of relief, you run for a couple feet, but you fall over the second you lose your balance. You get up, and you make it far enough so that the door is only a couple feet away. You take the final couple steps and press the button to open the door, but it doesn’t budge. You hear the click of the release and remember learning in base camp that the click is the result of a jammed door or a faulty release system. As you reach for the emergency manual release, something hits the base. The shock knocks you over, but you can’t give up. You reach up for the manual release, but you don’t have the energy. You shout out for anyone inside, but there’s no response. You bang on the door a couple times. Still nothing.

“Damn it.” You say to yourself. You get up and turn the manual release lever. You hear the click, yet the door won’t open. You throw yourself against the door a couple times before it finally swings open. You collapse onto the floor and look up. It’s empty. It’s not supposed to be empty.

Where is everyone? How long were you out? Nothing is making sense. You can still hear the quiet alarm blaring throughout the hallways, it doesn’t feel right. Nothing does, in fact. You make your way over to the door. The brain fog is clearing out, and you can walk without using the wall—just not very well. You make your way down to the power room. “Weird,” you say to yourself.

Still full power. Why would we be on the emergency reserves? You switch on the breaker, and all the lights turn on. The alarm slows down, until it stops. You make your way back out into the hallway, in hopes that maybe someone came to check why the power was on, but there is no one to be found. You still don’t know what happened. It’s not like people can just disappear, and the cabin door was still sealed shut. There’s a lot to do, but first, you must find out what happened here, and if there’s anyone left. As you walk down the hall, you notice a door you hadn’t seen before, although you did see it before, it just seems different. That’s right! It was open before. Someone or something is in there, and you must take a chance to see who or what it is. But as you contemplate, whatever is inside beats you to the decision. The door swings open, and you look around for anything you could use as a weapon. You pick up a pipe and quietly step towards the door. The slam of the door resonates through the base, and you hear it getting closer to the door. Your heart is pounding. You can’t even hear your own thoughts, yet it feels so quiet. A guy walks out of the door, and before you can do anything, he turns his head to see you ready to ambush him and screams louder than you could imagine. Certainly filled the silence. Amid the panic and unbearably loud screams, you drop your pipe to cover your ears. Once things calm down, you ask him, “Who are you?”

Eloisa Ribbing Parkrose High School Emilly Prado Cycles

A collection of short anecdotes by Eloisa

I remember being six years old and washing my hands. I had just learned what germs are, and I was terrified if I touched anything that could spread germs, I would die. Anytime I would touch my nose, mouth—any part of my face really—I needed to wash my hands. If I didn’t, I would die. Winter came around, my hands were chapped. I would wash my hands probably ten times an hour. My teachers set up a special pink washcloth to dry my raw, chapped, bleeding hands. I don’t remember when I stopped compulsively washing my hands, but I remember the feeling. The feeling of an urgent need to do something, it never really went away. Just showed up in different ways.

I remember being ten years old and lying awake. I had just learned that kids my age needed ten hours of sleep to be healthy and happy, and hey, didn’t that sound great? I made it a goal to get ten hours of sleep. I would worry that if I didn’t get enough sleep every night, I would be tired every day, and if I was tired every day, I would not be productive, and if I was not productive, I would die. That’s pretty much the spiral that would circle my mind as I lay staring at my ceiling. I remember the night before the dance audition. It was important. It would determine my place in the Nutcracker later that fall. It kept me up

for hours, worrying about how the more I worried, the less sleep I was getting. Finally I fell asleep, but still I remember the feeling of being paralyzed. It was the same cycle as before, just a different fear.

I remember being thirteen years old and writing lists. I had just watched a bunch of morning routine videos. It was the height of quarantine, and the internet was filled with videos of people “living their best productive, adventurous lives,” and I was stuck in my room doing online school. Every night before bed I would make my list for the next day. It wasn’t just a to-do list, it was also a reminder that I needed to live my best life. Or else. Needed to live in the perfect balance of productivity and fun. If I didn’t, I would be wasting my life. If I didn’t complete everything on my list, I would be unproductive and if I didn’t do fun, spontaneous things, I would be wasting my life, and then, I would die. The more I thought about this, the more stressed I would get, so I would distract myself with my phone or something. But if I was on my phone, I was being lazy and ruining my whole life. It was the same cycle as before, just a different fear.

I remember being fifteen years old, looking back at all these memories from my life, and realizing how stupid these fears seem now. Of course I wouldn’t die if I touched my face and didn’t wash my hands. I know that now. I’ve come to realize, however, I can’t control this. Now at fifteen years old, I still have these anxieties, and I will when I’m old and grey, but I do know that everything will pass. The cycle will slowly come to a stop. I don’t have to wash my hands whenever I touch something, and I now really enjoy staying up late. And just like those fears, this essay is over.

Monica Perez-Igl Grant High School Matt Smith

Divided

It’s the year 3000 on the North Coast of the earth. Earth has developed to new levels. All-electric transportation, teleportation, and flying cars are the norm. In The World, there are four coasts: West, South, North, and East. The coasts are each known for their wealth. The North is wealthier than the South, and the East and the West are the poorest, but they all are poor compared to the North.

The North Coast is surrounded by steel walls around the whole border to keep the impact of the impending asteroid at bay. No people from other coasts dare to enter. The North’s government says these people’s lives are already doomed, so anyone selfish enough to try to enter will be trapped there and doomed as well. But the other coasts are not without their problems. Their supplies are low, and many people live on the streets without ways of getting money. The North Coast is plentiful, with unlimited food grown in huge gardens. The area they occupied had gold mines in the hills, mined monthly, making them very rich. They have buildings that reach the sky and bridges that connect them. Their technology is so advanced that the other coasts couldn’t even imagine.

Stella is a fourteen-year-old girl, from the North Coast, with platinum-blonde hair, almost white, and red eyes, the color of the setting sun. Every North-Coast-born

resident is born with white-blond hair, which cannot be altered with any form of hair dye, and red eyes because of the particular supplements they can create with the lush gardens surrounding the enclosure. The government wants to be able to tell who is from the North so that no others can intrude. But Stella is different from many of the residents of the North Coast. She doesn’t believe in being dishonest. The other coasts don’t know that the asteroid isn’t real. It’s a hoax. The government of the North made it up to keep different coasts from wanting to enter, and from having to share the wealth. She’s top of her class in high school and wants to become a space atmospheric and space scientist. She believes that the mistreatment of the other coasts is unfair, and the North has enough to share.

She started her daily walk to the North Coast Library (the grandest library in the area). Her favorite section was the space and science section. Every day she picked a book from the wide selection and buried herself in the literature. This time, the usual silence was broken by the rustling of pages and the sound of a stack of books falling over. Stella stood up and looked around. She saw a figure hidden in the shadow of the bookcase.

“Who are you?” Stella asked.

“I’m Luke. Where am I?” The boy said, looking down at his shoes.

“What do you mean? You’re in the library,” Stella said lightly. How could someone not be able to tell they’re in the library?

“I mean, what coast am I on? I’ve never seen anything like this in the West.” A tall, skinny boy with brown hair stepped out of the shadow. His face was smeared with dirt, the same as his clothes which consisted of tarnished jeans and a ripped red shirt. Stella lurched

back, accidentally knocking into a pile of books. She had learned about and read about people from other coasts but never in her life seen one.

Stella collected herself, “You’re on the North coast. How did you get in?” she said breathlessly. Something seemed to light up in Luke’s eyes. A wide smile spread across his face, and he started getting closer to her. Stella flinched and stepped back behind a case of planet memoirs.

“Oh, I’m sorry, but it worked. My portal worked,” he said, jumping around.

“What do you mean portal? That’s impossible,” Stella said, stepping towards him.

“Last year I was walking around the edge of the wall. A piece of what looked like transportation technology was flung over the edge. I took it back to my house and studied it. It was very advanced, and everyone has always said that the North is even poorer than us.” He suddenly stopped and looked up at her almost shyly.

“What? Then what did you do?”

“Then I realized, if there is this in here, it must not be as poor as I think, and my family needs help. Our entire town needs help. We never have enough food, and I needed to find a way to help. So, I refurbished this and made this portal.” Luke finished with a breath sitting down on one of the cozy benches. Stella started to think this could be a way to help. Even if it wasn’t the whole world, she could still help this one boy’s family.

“Do you think your portal could continue to work?” Stella asked, walking over to sit with him.

“I mean, yeah, I think it would,” he said with open eyes.

“I have plenty of food here. I could bring you food for your family whenever you’re low,” Stella said with

kindness in her eyes. Luke looked up at her, a girl who looked so different from him, from an area that is so different from his, was willing to help him.

“That would be amazing. Thank you so much.”

And it began. Every day for the coming years, Stella brought food and other supplies to Luke in the library, they became unlikely friends, and they both learned not to judge people you don’t know.

Ivette Hernandez Parkrose High School Emilly Prado

Suspended

One day in kindergarten, I walked into class and sat down at my assigned seat. After that, I got my sketch book out and started drawing. I was feeling nervous because I didn’t really have any friends in my classroom. Soon after, someone sat down next to me. I didn’t really pay attention to who it was. I noticed he had curly hair and the same last name as me, because all people with the last name Hernandez sat at the same table. But as long as he didn’t talk to me, I was fine with it. He started to speak to me, and I responded to him. When class started, I stopped, but he kept trying to talk to me while the teacher was talking. I didn’t want him to get in trouble, so I kindly told him to stop talking. He did for a while, but then stated to say my name over and over again.

“Ivette.”

“Ivette.”

“Ivette.”

“Ivette,” while I was trying to take notes on something the teacher was saying.

“What?” I said, trying to stay calm. He responded, “Hi”

I was starting to get a little annoyed, but I tried to ignore him and his comments. It went on like that for about 20-30 minutes, till I got really annoyed.

“Ivette… Ivette… Ivette… IIvveeettteee…”

“What?” I said loud and angrily.

The teacher heard me and said, “Ivette, pay attention to the white board and stop distracting Alex. I can hear you talking to him.”

I was so annoyed and upset but didn’t say anything except, “ok, Miss.” After that, I decided that I was going to stay quiet for the rest of the class time. It was so hard to do because he kept bothering me, and when I tried to ask the teacher if I could move, she told me to stop the “side conversation.” I think she was getting annoyed thinking that we weren’t being respectful to her, even when there were others having side conversations since the beginning of class and while she was teaching, but she had said nothing to them. I tried asking to move seats because at the beginning of the school year she had told us if someone was bothering us, or if we knew we were going to be distracted by our friends, we could move. Keep in mind I had no friends in my class, so I had no one to talk to. So that wasn’t a problem for me. I made it to the end of class.

After Mrs. X’s class, we’re supposed to be heading to lunch. I was happy because after lunch we had recess. I loved recess because I got to see my cousin that was in the same grade but in a different class than me. I was sitting at my desk, next to annoying Alex, waiting for my table to be called on. When our table was called to line up, I had to stand next to him. I was so upset, but I tried my best to calm down. We walked out to the hallway once everyone was quiet. He started to bother me again.

Then I said, “This is the last time I am going to ask you to stop.” I remember I said it like I was on the edge of having a breakdown because I didn’t know what to do.

The kids in front of me heard what was going on and offered to let me go in front of them, but the teacher

noticed and said, “Ivette, no cutting in front of people, go back to where you were.”

I felt like the whole world was against me at this point. Time to skip to lunch, I thought to myself. (He kept bugging me.)

We were in line walking to lunch in the hallway, and unfortunately, we had to walk next to each other in line. Alex wouldn’t stop bothering me. So once again I tried to move, but the teacher wouldn’t let me and told me to get back to where I was. I went back to my spot. He still wouldn’t stop, and he kept bothering me even after I asked him to stop several times. So, I snapped. I turned around and slapped him right across the face. There was a loud echo that went through the hallway. A shocked look on this kid’s face. Like he was innocent. Like I was the crazy one. I heard my teacher’s voice and I felt chills all over my body. She told me to come to the front of the line. During lunch I felt like there was something against my chest, worry circling my brain.

After lunch I saw the counselor heading towards me. I felt like my body was slowly melting because of how hot my face felt. Then the counselor told me she came to take me to the to the principal’s office. I think she noticed from my face that I wasn’t feeling good. So, she gave me a few minutes to cool off and she also tried to talk to me to help me relax and calm down. When we reached the principal’s office, I walked in and told them what happened—how the kid was bothering me and the teacher did nothing about it even after I told her several times. I remember the lady in the office telling me that both of us deserved a punishment. Alex got a referral, and I was left with the option of suspension or a referral. I wanted to cry my eyes out and I felt that I didn’t deserve a suspension. Maybe a referral, but not a

suspension. If our teacher separated us in the beginning, maybe we wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. I got away with a referral and my mother yelling at me, but nothing major.

Aki Franklin

McDaniel High School Dey Rivers

The Trip of a Lifetime

Rest easy, Grandpa. Cherish all the moments with your loved ones, because things happen.

Back in Louisiana my grandparents have a farm of about 2.3 acres, which is a lot compared to what we have at my home. I like going to my grandparents’ house over the summer because there are tons of things to do with the nice weather there. So, once again I went back for the summer and had tons of fun. One thing I did was feed chickens—something I normally wouldn’t do, but I decided to do it this time. I asked my grandma where the chicken food was, and she said, “it’s in the barn I will help you get some.” After feeding the chickens we went inside and heard a siren type of sound, but we couldn’t figure out what it was. After we heard the sound for a little longer, my grandma told me that there was a tornado warning for where we lived, and it was headed our way. My heart dropped. We ran around the house getting valuable items because we didn’t know if we were going to make it. Once we got all our stuff, we got into the car and headed to the safest place we could possibly go. My grandma was calling my grandpa to meet us at the American Red Cross, and to make sure to stay safe.

We heard on the radio that the storm was coming closer and closer at ninety miles per hour. My heart was racing, and within a minute of hearing that on the

radio, our car flipped. I woke up in the hospital and tried getting up but couldn’t. This had to be a dream, but I knew it wasn’t. I slowly watched a body come closer to me. It was hard for me to see, but as they continued to come closer, I saw my grandma. I was in shock, but that was maybe one of the greatest feelings in the world. She said, “oh my gosh, I’m so glad you’re okay. I was getting worried.” I started getting this thought in my head about where Grandpa was, but I couldn’t ask that because I knew what the answer was gonna be. My grandma told me that I was heading home, my flight was at seven, and I would be getting discharged from the hospital at five. When five came around, the doctor told me that I would need to use crutches for about two weeks due to my injury. My grandma wasn’t ready for me to leave, but I needed to get home. I will never forget that summer.

Gracie Grant High School

Matt Smith

2120

I shoot up from a park bench and whip my head around. Everything is coming back to me. I have done it! I am the first successful person to time travel. Sure it was an accident, and sure I have no idea where I am or how to get back, but that will all be resolved, hopefully. I roll off the bench and decide to look for answers. I walk around and am greeted pleasantly by the lights of a thousand signs—they are projecting ads into the sky. It almost reminds me of Times Square. Besides, the buildings are much taller, and there is a screen that touches the bottom and reaches the top, with things playing on the buildings. Then I see a lamppost, and things are plastered all over the post. I walk to it, hoping to get more information, but instead I see papers saying “Missing” littered everywhere. How can there be so many people gone? How does that even happen? I wonder to myself. I keep examining them and reading over them.

I feel someone speed walking towards me, and before I know it, I’m on the ground. “Oh! I’m so very sorry. Just trying to rush to a meeting,” a girl replies.

I start to ask her some questions as to where I am when she disappears. I jump back up and see her on the other side of the street. Well, there goes that chance, I think to myself.

As I look around and take in my surroundings, I try to grab a person. They give me a deserved weird look and

are about to say something, before I cut them off. “Hi, do you know what year it is?” Now instead their looks are placed with confusion, annoyance, and judgment.

“Are you kidding? You don’t know what year it is?” My eyes plead for their help. “It’s 2120.” I gasp, and that earns another look of confusion before the person mutters something under their breath. The lady begins to walk away, and I stay where I am.

I walk up the busy streets before my eyes land on the biggest building I can see. It has to be 400 stories at least. There are huge letters on the front of it that read out “Demo Technologies.” I walk towards the building and push the doors open. Right when I walk in, I’m greeted with what is the most beautiful building I’ve ever seen. There are marble floors, a huge ceiling, and a reception desk that is also made of marble. You can see staircases and elevators. I walk to the receptionist, but before I can say something, she responds with an “Oh my gosh, I love your outfit, it’s so retro.” I look down, having completely forgot what I was wearing. I see a dark blue suit jacket with a black tank top, jeans, and some Nikes. I try to say thank you, but she starts speaking, “Are you here for the internship walk through?”

Thinking quickly, I respond with a yes. “What’s your name?” I peek over the desk and see some name tags.

“Kelly, Kelly Gray.” I say quite proud of myself for getting past the security. She hands me the badge before pointing me the way I go.

“Take the left at the elevators, then press the fiftieth floor and you should be at the walkthrough area.” I quickly walk to the elevators. Once I get in the elevator, I decide against going to where I need to. As I browse through the floors to choose from on the screen, I see

“147” and the description of the floor. “Newly Formed Technology.” I press the keypad, and the elevator quickly starts its descent upwards. Within a minute it reaches the floor. When I walk out, I am unpleasantly greeted with hallways sprouting out in every direction. I decide to turn left, and as I walk, I see a glass wall separating me from scientists wearing long, white trench coats. Then I see something: people lining up to be injected with some chips. I closely examine these people, believing somewhere I’ve seen them, then it comes to me! The missing posters. I see a girl going to sit down on a bench before a doctor aggressively grabs her arm and injects her. Once she’s injected, I hear her say in a panicked tone, “what happened! Where am I?” I continue to watch, and one after another, people are injected. A voice on the radio says, “unsuccessful,” then they are dropped through the floor. My eyes start to gloss over. I keep walking until someone yanks my arm. “What are you doing?” A security guard yells abruptly.

“Um… Uh.” I stutter out.

“I am a worker here.” I say, trying to come up with an excuse.

“Nice try. Follow me. And get back in line,” he says as he drops my arm and starts walking over to the line. I run, turning random corners; he chases after me and is clearly faster. I sprint, trying to get some distance between us, but am unsuccessful. I turn on the last corner before tripping over my foot, and as I fall, my surroundings change. I am back in my world. I am in the park.

Bonnie Laborico

Parkrose

High School Emilly Prado

Meeting My New Dad When I Was Little

My current dad first came into my life when I was one. I didn’t even know much about him because I was so young. My mom is happy that she found the person she was meant to have. My current dad is the most nicest dad ever, but he sometimes gets mad if we don’t do what we are told. He is mostly the cook in my family—he is basically a chef, since he knows how to cook almost everything in the world. My dad went to culinary school.

I’m adopted, not like full-on to where I’m not my mom’s kid, I just wasn’t my dad’s kid. He wanted to go to court to get me and my sisters’ last names changed, which took a lot of money. But I wanted to become his kid, since my biological dad isn’t in my life because of everything he did to my mom. I am happy to be his child. I could never ask for a better dad—he’s nice and super kind. We have a lot of things that we need, and because he knows how girls are, he buys it for us. We used to live in a tiny house with all our family, plus my little dog. My little brother wasn’t born until 2015, so he only got to see our old house since 2019, before we moved in with my grandma. Living with my grandma is okay. My big sister that I used to get along with, and I, share a room, and we fight a lot. She doesn’t really like having me as a sister—even though I did nothing to her, she thinks I’m a bad sister. My mom and dad love having me as a kid. They love when I check in on the family

because I have a kind heart, and they love that about me.

Elsa Warner

Grant High School

Matt Smith

Jack, Henry and I

Ever since Dad’s accident, Henry and I have avoided working on Jack, and in turn, have drifted apart ourselves. We’ve both been busy with work and school, and our lives are on seemingly different paths across the world from each other. Jack has grown rusty and dust-covered in the closet of our childhood home. It sits between the Lincoln Logs we spent hours building structures with on Saturday mornings and an old, outdoor suit that is about ten sizes too small for either of us. Mom has decided to downsize, so Henry and I are heading to stay with her and help for the weekend.

Henry comes to pick me up at 4:00 a.m. so that we can get to Mom’s with enough time to help. As we fly into the town that we grew up in, I see the areas I once knew as home from high above—vast in the suburbs, but densely populated once you reach the middle. The closer we get to home, the brighter and more frequent the twinkling lights get.

We make good time on the rest of the house, and now just the bedrooms are left. We decide to leave them for tomorrow. That night, Mom finally breaks the news to Henry and me that once we leave, she’s getting rid of Jack. I look over at Henry and am transported to another time. I see a little Henry standing next to me, dressed in our old clothes. I am little again, also dressed in one of my old outfits. He is looking in the distance, and when I

glanced in the direction he was looking, I saw Jack. Next to Jack, I see dad, smiling and waving. He was being pulled towards a car—a police car. “No!” I scream. “You can’t take him!” I look harder and realize that Mom is in the passenger seat. I scream louder this time, “He’s ours; I love him! He’s all we have left of Dad!”

Henry startles me by screaming, “Mom, don’t do this! You can’t!” A tear trickles down his face.

I step towards him and whisper, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry we don’t talk anymore. I’m sorry I abandoned you after dad left. I’m just really sorry.”

He pulls me into a hug and whispers back, “It’s not your fault.” When I fade back into myself at Mom’s house, I find myself still in Henry’s arms. I see Mom in the doorway.

“You can’t take him,” I whisper. “Please,” I say more as a question than as a statement.

Mom looks at me with tears in her eyes, “I have to; he’s the reason you boys don’t spend time together anymore.”

“He’s not, Mom, we did that all on our own,” says Henry.

“We stopped talking as much because of me,” I say. “Henry reminds me so much of Dad, that it is hard. Once I started healing, it just felt too late.”

“It’s never too late,” Henry whispers to me. “I miss you.”

Dashiell Grant High School

Matt Smith

You Can’t Run From Death

When we got home, I took a dust bath and went to bed. It was hard to sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about the wing. And what an A.R.K. was.

The next morning, I woke up in a pool of my own sweat, and I was shivering. Was I sick? No, I didn’t feel sick, I felt scared. I hopped out of my hammock and checked the time. 11:00 p.m.! How had it gotten so late? I looked around to find an empty docking station. Where was Ben?

“Ben! Ben! Ben!”

“Up here.”

I look up to find Ben in the attic.

“How did you-”

“Do you know today’s date?”

“Yah it’s, um, January 5th. Why do you ask?” My voice trailed off as a realization flowed over me. Like someone had punched me in the gut, I keeled over and threw up. Where did the days go? Where did the time go?

“I thought we had more time.”

“It’s okay Jack.”

“This can’t be happening!”

“Jack, come here.”

I climbed up to Ben and started to cry. The salty tears burned as they flowed down my face, like a dam had broken inside my soul. Today was the day: the end of the world. I dried my eyes and climbed to the roof.

Ben followed close behind. The time was 11:55, and for the first time in 370 days, it wasn’t hot. A slight breeze floated by, dancing in my hair. I sat on the roof next to Ben, my legs dangling off the water drain. The time was 11:59.

“Hey, Ben.”

“Yes, Jack?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?

“Being my friend.”

Before he could answer, the sky filled with a bright cyan and blue light, and then we saw it. I could not explain what I was seeing. The number of colors and sounds would put a god’s rave to shame. I grasped Ben and then… nothing. I was gone—unable to speak, unable to feel, unable to breathe. I could only see. It was a bright light. A memory. A memory of when I was assembling Ben. I watched myself piecing him together and putting in his life brand. A life brand embedded with the three letters that I saw burn: A.R.K.

Kaylee Rios

McDaniel High School Dey Rivers

Unconscious

Dedicated to every person who has been abused in any way or taken advantage of by someone they relied on or trusted. It hurts when you feel like you can’t talk about it to anyone, or you tell your story, and no one believes you.

Breathe! She ordered her lungs. She could feel herself slipping into darkness as her throat closed. Sliding to the floor, she curled in on herself. Her body screamed in excruciating pain, radiating from her chest out to her fingertips, begging for oxygen.

Please! She screamed for only her mind to hear. No one was around that would’ve cared, even if she had yelled for them. The people who cared—or said they cared, at least—had left her here, with him. Even after she’d told them what he’d done to her.

She refused to think his name or focus on the fact that the pounding on the bathroom door had stopped. The only thing she could hear now was the beating of her heart—three times as fast as it should be—and her breathing—too shallow.

She refused to remember the feeling of his unwanted touches, in places she hadn’t even explored, and the bruises he had left. He had broken her in so many ways, she knew she’d never feel whole again.

Her body, unconscious on the bathroom floor, shook, but she couldn’t feel it. She stared at her anxiety, taking

on the shape of the person she feared the most. Why? Why did you have to choose me?!

His response was the same as it had been the day she’d asked him. It replayed in her mind.

Because I love you.

She wanted to stay in her head forever, but she felt her body pulling her back to the surface. No. Stop breathing. Please! I can’t do this anymore!

She pleaded with her body, knowing she would have to get up and keep moving forward, no matter what.

Owen Kilber Grant High School Matt Smith

Like a Stone in a Lake

I wake up staring at the stained, muted ceiling. Rather, I open my eyes—how can I sleep after I am waiting for my book to be released? I can’t know what’s going to happen, but this cruddy apartment becoming permanent is one option I dread. The boxy television that doesn’t work, a gas stove that feels like it’s going to explode when I turn the dial, and the bus that goes by too fast, shuddering—these are not things I need in my life. I need an editor in my life, and judging by the phone ringing, that’s about to be proven right or wrong.

I pick up and hear, “Hey…”, Oh *%$! I think, and somehow feel. I know that tone. My book flopped, and I already know. I don’t need to hear any more. I hang up and flop on my bed.

“Ow.” That’s all I can say.

I wake up staring at the stained, muted ceiling. All I want to do is sleep, never write another word. I better, though, if I want my resume to get me a job. It’s a good thing I don’t have much to write. Or much to choose. They say to look at the silver lining, but it must be lead, because all it does is weigh me down. I try to look on the bright side, but I don’t have time to look at a solar eclipse.

A bus driver job catches my eye. They seem desperate enough for someone like me. I put in an application on the off chance I get accepted. Looking online is risky

because people are still talking about the flop that is my book. I decide I can’t look anymore, shutting the crusty lid of my laptop. I hear a ping just before it’s shut. I’ve been accepted as a bus driver, and I start tomorrow. Seeing as it’s 11:59 p.m. now, I climb on my mattress-shaped rock. I fall asleep faster than I intend to, not setting an alarm. My eyes snap open, seeing the clock reading 5:30 a.m. I slide out of bed and into some shoes.

I get to the office where I was told to go, and a woman with black and gray hair, of medium stature, with the blankest eyes I’ve seen, other than mine, is there. She gives me the rundown in a “I need vacation” tone. I look at my bus and miss my apartment immediately. It’s sticky (presumably held together that way), dirty, and unfortunately, mine to drive. I get in and start the engine. Everything shutters, especially me. I look at my route map and drive away. After a couple stops, a strange person steps on. This figure, I notice, has gray and brown hair, and eyes that make me cold, not with fear, but regret.

“It’s too soon for shattered dreams.”

“What?” I respond.

“You think your reputation is shattered, when you don’t have one to shatter,” he says.

“What are you talking about?” I breathe, maybe too loud.

“Don’t play the fool with me, or yourself,” he snaps. “You made something, put no effort in it, then threw your hands up in defeat when it failed.”

“H-How do you know?” I stutter, my foot slipping off the gas.

“The internet!” He exclaims, laughing heartily.

I don’t respond and start the bus again, going to the next route. How many know about my book? This is going to be hell. I drove waiting, but this hell didn’t

come. When my shift finishes, I get off the bus and wonder why I’m not red in the face. It hits me—why I didn’t get ridiculed. I forgot the number one rule of the internet: trends die fast. In the apartment, I’m back to writing, despite everything. I choose to write about my experiences after my last book. I skip through time like a stone on a lake, dipping in and out. When I come to, I have a draft. I know that I’m not near done with this book. Looking at the time, I do realize something I am done with. My job. I didn’t go to work on the second day. If that doesn’t get me fired, I don’t think anything can. I call my editor and spew my problems at him.

“Send me this draft, I know it’ll be better.”

I respond, “Sure.”

“And Owen,” he says, “Good luck.”

I get it ready and send it. I know I can’t publish it even after I finish. I need my job back, and I need to finish this book. I decided to wait for the book to come back. It comes back after a week. I’m out of money, but the book is ready.

I arrive at the office I went to last time. “I need my job back.”

“No.” the manager says.

“Yes, I’ll do anything. Except any request that involves mental or bodily harm, including, but not limited to, piercing, slashing, bullet wounds, torture, or blackmail.”

“How about a race?” She says, “Your route in one hour.”

“Okay.”

I hop in the bus and take off. I pick up and drop off people left and right, but it slows me down. At least I’m doing my job. They seem grateful. My route is supposed to take four hours, and thirty minutes have passed. At forty minutes, I reach the end of the route. Turning

around, I rocket back to the office. I make it at the one hour and ten-minute mark.

“You fail,” the manager says.

“Did I?” I say, producing the tips I got for fast service. “Impossible! What are you, a generic villain character?” I say slyly, staring at the camera—I mean to my side. I touch my bus before I leave, and then walk off.

Back at the apartment, my friend already went over and edited my book. I call up a publishing company, and they accept my offer. With another book finished, I stare at the crusty ceiling once more. I wonder if my book will be found, and if it will be liked. I tried my best, and it’s already published, but I am still tense. I know one thing for sure: always consult your editor. And maybe, just maybe, throw your bus driver a tip. Well, did my book succeed? You already know the answer. Thanks for reading, too…

Aniyah Burns Parkrose High School Emilly Prado Better Year Than 2020

On March 13th, 2020, we got an announcement. “Hello staff and students, it’s Friday! We won’t be returning to school on Monday for a two-week break due to COVID arriving in Oregon.” All I heard was my classmates cheering and laughing. At this time, I was already thinking of what to do during my free break I thought would last two weeks. I was wrong.

June 16th, 2020: the last day of school. I never thought I would spend it over a screen, in my room, on my bed. This year we didn’t even have Zoom calls, we just had Google Classroom and fifty assignments per week. Teachers would assign work we didn’t even know how to do, with no explanation, like it didn’t matter if we failed. I’m not going to lie, I stopped caring about my grades and assignments for a while, because why should I have cared? It’s not like I was really learning or getting help. But hey, I had more months of free time to do nothing, sleep in every day, and be able to go to someone’s house any day of the week I wanted to.

August 26th 2020: I thought it would be over by now! I thought we would have a normal year again! Another year of no help, not seeing my friends, and nothing to do with my life. Wow, I’m angry. I wanted my eighth-grade year to be normal—to go back to being normal.

“I’m stupid for thinking this would end so quickly. It’s been six months! My eighth-grade year on Zoom! At this

point, I don’t even wanna go,” I said to my mom.

“I know, honey, I know,’’ my mom said. She doesn’t know: she doesn’t understand what I’m going through. I’m not going to school anymore. Say goodbye to Howard, Aniyah.

September 16th, 2020: the first day of school. On Zoom. Zoom! First class: Humanities. Now why did I get all dressed up to sit in my room and look at a bunch of black screens? That’s right, no one had their cameras on, just me. It was so awkward. It’s like no one wanted to talk or just do school in general. I know I didn’t want to. The next classes were the same, the rest of the year was the same. Every time I thought it would get better, it got worse. Nobody would talk, no cameras were on (counting mine), nobody would even text in the chat. At this point, I felt bad for the teachers, and imagining how they felt makes me sad. Being a teacher was literally their career—the thing they wanted to do in life. Then a sickness whooshes through, and now all they’re doing is teaching to black screens: black screens not even talking or engaged in the conversation, just black screens.

March 13th, 2021: exactly a year now. Everything is so different: I’ve changed so much and it’s taking a bad toll on my mental health. 10:00 am. School starts at 9:45, and sadly, this is how everyday goes. I stay up until 4:00 in the morning, then I’m not fully out of my bed until noon. I’ve been like this for seven months. At this point, I don’t think my sleep schedule is ever changing. I’ve been really sad lately; I’ve been having bad thoughts and crying almost every day. I miss my friends so much. No one texts me anymore. I guess I don’t text them first, but I have no motivation to. I have no motivation to do anything, anymore. Everything is shut down, and all I’ll do is sit in my house. Sleep might as well be my best

friend.

May 20th, 2021: they’re allowing us back in school, but just for homework? What’s the point of letting us back in school just to do homework the last month of school? I don’t get it, but hey, it’s better than nothing, right? I’m almost kind of nervous to go back—seeing all of my friends, well, some of them, because half of them aren’t coming back. I also only get to stay in my homeroom, so that’s kind of a bummer considering I only get to see like nine of my friends, but like I said, it’s some type of interaction. It’s going to be so boring, but my mom is forcing me, considering how sad I’ve been. She says I need “to be the social butterfly I am.” I was a social butterfly. I don’t know what I am now.

July 6th, 2021: oh gosh, it’s getting bad. Did I tell you that we had a drive-thru-eighth-grade graduation? Yeah, that was horrible and made me really sad. I’m not even in school anymore. The lonely part still stands for me, because after this year, me and my friends barely have talked. It’s getting bad. I thought it would get better, but it’s just getting worse. My thoughts, my motivations, my attitude: everything about me has changed. I need to tell someone about it before it’s too late. Before I’m far too gone.

August 24th, 2021: in person school again! I never thought this would happen. I wonder how they’ll do it? I wonder if we’ll alternate days or something? It’s finally getting better. Places are starting to open, I’m in therapy and starting to feel better, and now in-person school is back. We start on September 14th, and I’m nervous. Not just because I get to see everyone’s faces again, but I’m in a new school, and I don’t know where to go. I’ll figure it out eventually. I really am starting to feel better. My depression is getting better, so I started journaling.

It helps a lot. I write everything that I feel and what is stressing me out at that moment. It really is a reliever. I still feel a little lonely, but with in-person school coming up in like twenty days, I’ll definitely feel less lonely soon. I’m so excited. I get to have my high school experience in person. Stay calm, stay calm. Nope, can’t—I have to go shopping!

November 29th, 2021: it’s finally happened. I’m having normal high school experiences. Boys being boys, girls being—girls. Me finally getting used to the old me again, with just a few new adjustments, like my sleep schedule; it still didn’t go back to normal. But hey, I went from staying up until 4:00 to 2:00. That’s an adjustment, so I’ll take it! I can’t seem to find it as easy to wake up in the mornings, but who can? The person I was in July would’ve never thought we would be here again. Well, here we are, living normally. Well, it’s not really normal anymore: we have to wear masks everywhere still, and if you have COVID, you need to be quarantined for ten days. As long as I stay in in-person school, I’m fine. Speaking of in-person school, omg the classes are harder. I actually have to try in them now. It’s surprisingly a big adjustment, but I am getting used to it. I’m almost a straight-A student. Things could be better (like COVID being completely gone), but I’m grateful. Grateful for a better year than 2020.

January 12th, 2022: I just got an email. We’re going back to online school. All I can feel is what I felt back in 2020. Sleeping in until 12:00 p.m. and missing my morning classes, the depression, me feeling like I’m repeating everything I do, every day. They said we’re going back in two weeks. That’s what they said in 2020. What if we don’t go back for another year and a half? I will lose my mind. What if this ruins my chances of going

to a good college—because I know my GPA will drop if I do anymore online school. Right before finals, too? Finals! Finals the week I go back to in-person school? Great, everything’s going downhill. I thought it was getting better. I thought this year would be normal. I thought I would have my life back. I can’t do this again. I won’t do this again.

Olivia Stefanisko

Grant

High School Matt Smith

The Home in Mary’s TV

Charles City, Iowa, October 1, 1932. Mary sat on her family’s couch, staring at the miraculous vision in front of her. She couldn’t believe her eyes: she was looking at a TV—a TV. A TV in her house. She didn’t think her family would ever have one, not really. Only her friend Lucy had one, and she told her it cost $200, but her father had managed to save up enough money and bought it as the family’s Christmas present. Sure, at the time Mary wanted a bike, but with a TV in her house, Mary saw no need for a silly bike now. This was what the future home in America was going to look like, she just knew it. Mary marveled as the figures danced miraculously across the TV. Gracefully, they glided to a choreographed dance with delicate music floating in the background. When the music ended, Mary had to stop herself from clapping—it was like she was there. A man in a tuxedo walked across the stage.

“Good evening,” he said in a soft voice. “I welcome everyone here tonight and those lucky enough to be watching from home of course, as this is our first televised performance. I really do hope you liked our opening waltz. It shows the talents of our young dancers here in The Home.” There was applause. The Home. Mary thought she had never heard of a city called “The Home.” He continued, “Now, our next piece is very different from our waltz, but no matter, if you’d like to

join, just walk on in.”

Walk in? Was he going mad?

“That’s right, all our viewers from home, come and join us. You’ll love it here. We have beautiful gardens, delicious food, and of course, dances. Just join us.” For some reason, Mary really couldn’t help but feel like joining. Listening to it felt like a place she wanted to go. No, needed to go. “That’s right, ladies and gentlemen watching at home, come and join us?” He smiled.

“But how?” Mary asked the TV.

“You want to know how? Sure thing, it’s easy. Just walk up to your TV and reach your hand to the screen. You’ll get here.” There was a small amount of laughter from the crowd. Was he serious? All she had to do was walk to the TV, put her hand on the screen, and join the people at The Home.

“Come on, everyone, I swear you won’t regret it,” he winked. “You too, Mary.” Mary. He said her name. How did he know her name? How did he know she was watching? This wasn’t normal. No, not normal at all. “Don’t worry, it will be fun, Mary.” There it was again: her name. She stepped toward the TV. Carefully, she set her hand on the screen.

A wave of self-consciousness washed over her. Where was she—a void? A desert of some type? Then very suddenly, there was light. She struggled to open her eyes without the sharp pain of bright daylight seeping through. No, she was wrong, it wasn’t the sun. She focused her eyes. It was a pink lantern. There were more, many more. She felt the ground and stood up. She was in a white gazebo surrounded by lanterns and flowers in what seemed to be a sort of park.

“Hello, can anyone tell me where I am?” Mary called into the moonlight.

“Hello, Mary.” A calm voice came from behind her. A woman was there in a green dress with butterfly-cut sleeves and silver buttons trailing from the left side of her waist to her ankle.

“How do you know my name?” Mary asked, shocked by the sudden materialization of this woman.

“Everyone here knows each other’s name Mary.” Almost by proving it, she said her name again.

“Where is here?’’

“You don’t remember?” She chuckled. “Why, you’re at The Home of course.’’

“You mean the man on the TV was right?”

“Well of course, don’t be silly Mary, Mr. Snow never lies. Now it’s time to go.” She turned away, started to walk out of the gazebo, and Mary hurried behind her.

“Where are we going?” She continued walking across the park.

“To the dance.”

“The dance? But I thought it was over?”

“No, it’s only just begun.”

“But, I don’t know how to dance.”

“You’ll be fine. Everyone in The Home knows how to dance.”

“How?’’

“You just will, Mary,’’ she said, exasperated. “Now here we are.” Mary looked away from the woman in green and saw people dressed in bright colors. Lanterns and flowers decorated the tables. They were filled with incredible amounts of food. Over the crowd, she could hear lively music playing and see people dancing. Never in Mary’s life had she seen so much: so many flowers, food, bright colors, or even happiness. Before she could get swept away any further, she noticed the woman in the green dress was walking away.

“Wait, where are you going?” Mary called.

“My task is over, you’ve arrived at the dance, what more must I do?” She asked.

“How am I supposed to go home?”

“Why would you want to leave? We have everything you could ever want here.” Her voice stiffened.

“Well, I have school and my family at home,” Mary said defensively.

“Don’t call it home—you are at The Home.” Her voice a sharp whisper.

“But, I can’t stay here.”

“But it’s a paradise here! Why would you want to leave?!” Heads turned their way, and the music came to a stop. The dancers froze.

A voice came from behind her, “Is there a problem, Mary?” It was Mr. Snow looking and sounding exactly as he did on the TV.

“Mary wants to leave,” the woman in the green dress answered.

“I see.’’ he said.

“I just want to see my family back home,” Mary piped in.

“Of course you do, family is important, that’s why we are all friends and family in The Home.” His voice sounded understanding.

“But I have to see my family.”

“You just don’t get it do you, Mary?” He sighed. “Oh well, I’m afraid your time at The Home is over.”

“Does this mean I can go back to Iowa?’’

“No,” he replied sharply.

“Then where am I going to go?”

He didn’t answer—no one did. That was the last thing Mary could remember.

Ezra

Parkrose High School Emilly Prado

Brave

It was a dark and stormy night. I know, it’s very cliche! Perfect weather for the middle of May. I thought to myself: this is probably foreshadowing my appointment. I thought I had a cavity, because my jaw had really hurt and my teeth were really sensitive. I laid in bed cracking my fingers. The sound echoed in my dark, empty room. The sound of rain always soothed me. I loved watching the raindrops pool. That’s when it hit me. The burning sting in my jaw felt like someone had poked me with a hot needle. I let out a shriek and clamped my teeth together. The pain lingered, and the taste of blood lurked. I looked at my window, my eyes blurry. I watched the rain flow down my window as the blood streamed out of my mouth, pooling on my sheets spit and blood dripping ever so slowly, just as the rain drops did.

I woke up to the sounds of my sibling. Great, more to stress about. I slung my lifeless body out of my bed. I’ll admit I’m not a morning person. I checked my phone to see my girlfriend was blowing me up. She spammed me to wake me up. I muted my phone after responding by telling her my dream and that I slept well. I stepped on my scale. I was down to 140 pounds. I was so happy, I’m pretty sure I woke up my whole household the same crude way my sibling did. I took a deep breath, letting the cold air flow thru me and hopped in the shower. The shock of the cold water felt like being zapped, by the

way the energy flowed through my body. It sure woke me right up. Blood was still on my face. I was confident that I just didn’t brush my teeth well, so that’s why I bled. Somehow I was able to convince myself it was nothing. Light beamed in my eyes. I turned away fast, almost slipping, and I heard my mom yell, “Ezra time to go!”

“Shoot!” I screamed, running up the stairs. I got shoes and ran back. We started to drive to the dentist. It was just a regular checkup—nothing special—or so I thought. We got there and I took a deep breath. I always loved the way the air smelled. This facility always brought a smile to my face. On the inside I was scared my smile was a façade, in a way. I sat there, my hands shaking and my face tremoring. I really always hated the dentist and doctors, but I knew I could overcome it. My siblings went into the room one by one, and they came out smiling and happy, cheering about how they brush their teeth so well. I heard a loud thud and heard, “Next!”

I walked into the room, shaking. I looked at my feet and tried not to look at the tools. They sat me down. We got checked in, and she led me into my room. She pretty much put something in my mouth as soon as I stepped in there, gagging me immediately. Drool pooled out of my mouth. She ran back and said, “I’ll go get these developed, you just sit tight. I suggest you stay in the chair.” So my first idea was to get up and grab my phone! Smart, I know, but don’t judge. I started texting my friends and girlfriend about how boring it was. “I really feel like I’m going to die.”

She responded with just, “yeah.” I sent a couple dumb things to try and lighten her mood. I asked if everything was okay, and I got no response. She was off, and I wanted to know more. I tried getting in contact and then the dentist came back. Her happy demeanor faded.

I stared blankly. At this point, something was off. Her voice shook, “We need more photos.” She took me to the X-Ray room. She shoved something deep into the back of my mouth and it gagged me hard. I tried not to panic. I could barely breathe. She took it out. I pulled up my mask and started panting. She walked off before I even got my teeth cleaned.

It felt like hours passed, but really it’s probably been ten whole minutes. I sat there bored out of my mind. I felt like I was dying. Well to be honest it wasn’t bad, and I was fine, not close to dying, but I have to add that drama. As this story has been much too lighthearted.

The dentist walked into the room. I could tell he was uneasy. His eyes stared daggers. He looked at me and broke the news. He looked down. “It seems you have something rare: it looks like a mass has developed in your jaw. It looks like it’s been there for a year or so.” My heart stopped. I felt the blood rush to my head. I could barely stand. I act professional.

“What is the mass most likely?”

He responded, “We can’t tell you; we have no information.” My face went blank. My mom goes into the room and gets the same speech, but they add, “We have an expert he can go to. To find the mass may require surgery. Whatever it could be, it may require extensive work.” I couldn’t say anything, I felt like crying and my heart sank. I sat in the lobby waiting for my siblings. My mom tried setting up an appointment with an expert. I checked my phone and saw a text from my now exgirlfriend. My heart jumped with joy when I opened the message.

My eyes went wide when I saw what she said. She talked about her feelings and how she hated her life and was sick of it all. She talked about ending her life and

how she was going to do it tonight, then she said, “I don’t wanna hurt more than I have, so I need to say my final goodbye to you.” Then she blocked me. That was the last I ever heard from her. I could barely move. I was shocked. I pulled up Google. My heart raced, and sweat pooled on my chair. I slowly typed, “What is a growth in your jaw?” Well, Doctor Google did not have my back—different types of tumors, cyst, and fatal things. My stress levels shot up tenfold. I started to shake. I felt my life crumbling right before my eyes. I left the dentist, got in the car, and my mom called my dad, and told me everything would be okay. Everything is fine, and it isn’t anything. A month later, I found out that she did it. My heart was gone. I felt like it was my fault, and I could tell no one.

I went to the expert, and they told me it was too developed, and I needed more than his help to fix it. The pain in my jaw only got worse. I felt myself stop enjoying things. I started experiencing extreme stress that I still deal with today. I became depressed and started trying things to get rid of that sadness: everything but therapy, I must add. Nothing worked. Six months after my diagnosis, I went into surgery. Just a biopsy. We hoped it was a cyst, but the signs showed it wasn’t. When they opened my jaw, there was nothing. I had something called a bone cyst—the best-case scenario. We went into surgery not knowing anything. The fact that I had pain was strange. I later found out it’s because my jaw was killing my teeth from its roots. My fear of doctors is at this point nonexistent. That’s the up, the down is that I thought I had cancer for months. Guess life isn’t a fairytale. I learned from that experience that it only takes one second for everything to be flipped upside down. So this is my happily ever after.

Callan Fenger Grant High School

Matt Smith

To the Ends of Space

Chapter 1

The sun peeked through the window, causing a glare on Asher’s laptop screen. He was laying on his bed, watching an ancient Halo 2 playthrough. Asher liked art, videogames, and tennis. Something Asher did not like much: outer space. Now, this wouldn’t be a problem for most kids, who don’t actually end up going to space, anyway. But, Asher’s parents’ dream is for him to go to an astronomy school. That was his parents’ dream long ago, but they never made it to an aerospace, astronomy, or astrophysics school. That’s another thing Asher hates about space—there’re too many words to describe it. So, instead of following his dream of being an artist, he is supposed to spend all his time in math and science classes.

The next day, Asher was in his art class. He was joking with his friends about how annoying his parents are.

“Did you hear about that new telescope NASA is developing?” A friend asked.

“Yeah, Truth Telescope, the one that can see farther than any one previously developed,” Asher sighed, “trust me, I know.”

“Apparently the first time they use it, they are having students come and check it out if they want.”

“Oh,” Asher muttered, “my parents are going to make me go, and that will look good on an application to

astronomy school.”

“Damn, do they still think you actually wanna do that?” Asher’s friend asked.

“Yeah. I kinda wish space didn’t exist at all, just so that there would be nothing for them to bug me about.”

Chapter 2

Over the next weeks, Asher enjoyed his time playing tennis and perfecting his art style. NASA has almost finished the telescope, and just as he predicted, his parents were making him go check it out. The day finally came around, and Asher and some classmates loaded up on a bus in the late evening to get to the NASA building. Everyone was excited and giddy, except Asher, of course. “Do you think we’ll see aliens?” someone asked. “Or a brand-new planet!” someone else said.

Asher rolled his eyes. Yay, more black abyss and tiny dots, he leaned against the cold window. The bus pulled up and sighed. The students filed out and gazed up at the tall concrete building. The night sky reflected off the dark windows, and a large American flag flapped in the breeze. A woman in a light blue jumper came out to greet them.

“Welcome to NASA!” She said eagerly, “My name is Claudia!”

They all followed her down a white corridor, reminiscent of a hospital’s. They stuffed into a small elevator. Ugh, Asher thought, wishing he were anywhere else. They stepped out of the elevator and into a huge, shiny, dome. It smelled like plaster. In the center of the dome, was the Truth Telescope: the biggest telescope to ever exist. A small staircase led up to the viewing room. Some engineers waited there.

“Are you all ready?” One exclaimed.

“Yeah!” They cheered.

“Woo,” Asher muttered, dully.

The engineers talked for a while about NASA, the telescope, and how amazing their jobs were. Asher’s eyes wandered down the metal plates and bolts of the telescope. Finally, they were ready to power it up. A few engineers pulled levers and flipped switches. The telescope groaned and shifted upward. The metal plates on the ceiling pulled apart to make an opening for it. They started off on a low setting. Eventually.

“Okay, it’s time to turn it all the way up. We will see farther than we have ever seen,” Claudia exclaimed. She entered something onto the telescope’s touchscreen control panel. The machine made a whirring sound, and an engineer peered through the viewing lens. Everyone watched, giddily. Concern and frustration crept across the engineer’s face. He pulled a lever to turn the telescope.

“I—don’t understand,” He muttered breathlessly, putting a hand through his sweaty hair. Someone else stepped up and looked through, “What the—”

Commotion set in and engineers started bustling about and whispering. The students are pushed backward.

“What’s going on?” A teacher asks.

“You should get going,” Claudia says, “We’ll have you back when we figure this out.”

“Figure what out!?”

Chapter 3

It’s been months since the NASA trip. Asher sat in front of the TV with his parents at dusk. Suddenly, the show was interrupted.

“Breaking news. NASA engineers have been working on Truth Telescope for months now, and they have come

across the shocking appearance that space,” she stared blankly, “space doesn’t seem to exist. Every renowned engineer across the planet has checked out the Truth Telescope, and it’s not broken. On its highest setting, the telescope shows us just blank, white. We have a theory that we are being messed with and space is—a simulation. Thank you.”

Asher stared at the screen with his parents. Their show continued, but it might as well have been on mute. He got up and ran barefoot into the dark night, staring into the stars.

“Space is a simulation?” His voice cracked. He kicked grass, “Space is a simulation!?”

At that moment, the beautiful night sky began to fade. It faded until all that was left was the whitest abyss anyone has ever seen.

Chapter 4

Chaos broke out in the next week as people realized what was happening. Governments tried to point blame. Conspiracies formed. Scientists tried to figure out what was going on. And Asher and his family huddle in front of the TV. His parents had barely spoken a word since that night. They were watching the NASA channel, which had a plea.

“We have decided that the only option is to send someone up there to see what is really going on,” says a newswoman. “But we have lost many of our engineers and astronauts in the past weeks. We need all our people down here analyzing data. So, we need one of you, faithful citizens, to be the one who goes up there. It is all set up, just come to our building, quick.” The woman looked lost.

The family is silent, until.

“You have to do it,” Asher’s father said.

“Yes,” his mother turned to him, “You can save the world, son,” She held his hands, “And, you could get into any astronomy school.”

“Ugh. This is all you can think about,” Asher sighed, pulling his hands away. He planted his food on the carpet. But then, he remembered something. Months ago, he had wished space didn’t exist—was this all his fault? He sighed, “Fine, I’ll do it. Maybe I can fix what I’ve–what’s happened.”

They rushed to NASA through the sickly, white corridors and small elevator. The rest of the day was a blur to Asher. He was eventually strapped into the cockpit of the latest “SpaceY” rocket. A long window stretched across the front. The blinking lights and tiny switches below it gave him a headache.

“We’ll talk to you the entire time through this radio,” someone said, “just tell us what you see and make sure all the sensors are on.”

“Ok,” said Asher blankly.

Asher was quickly launched into the abyss—the launch countdown was discarded years ago. He squeezed his eyes shut for a few minutes. The engineers talked to him, but he couldn’t listen. Eventually, the blue sky disappeared, and he was in the white. The radio stopped.

“Hello?” Asher said. “Can you hear me? Hello?” Panic set in and he yelled for what felt like hours. He unbuckled and looked out the back window to Earth. It was beautiful. He felt hot tears in his eyes.

“I just wish—” Asher whispered, “You had let me do my own thing.” He pulled out a small sketchbook and pencil he always kept with him, and gazed at his planet. He captured all its clouds, curves, and swirls in this one last drawing, then, he turned around.

“Hello, abyss,” he said, accepting his fate.

chloe h Grant High School Matt Smith

His Cologne

Part 1

The smell of cologne drifts by. I look up from my book I am reading. The wind blows my hair in front of my eyes, along with the grass below me, it ripples like water. I see a tall, brunette guy with a few tattoos on his arm. His hair is longish, he definitely has to move it out of his eyes every once in a while. The t-shirt he is wearing looks worn and thin, and his pants are dark denim Levi’s with a phone connected to wired headphones in his back pocket. This is the last thing I remember.

I remember the smell. The smell of the trees, the grass, the ink of the pen, the quilted blanket, the daisies around my neck. I remember the way the grass waved when the wind blew and the birds chirping overhead on the wire. I remember the smell of the paper freshly turned to a new page. I remember the feeling of the dented lines creating an outline of a face. I remember the sound of the pages of my book turning by themselves due to the wind, I remember the silence of the earth when the wind stopped. I remember feeling the breathing over me, I remember being shook awake.

“C’mon wake up… wake up.”

And then I drift off again. I wake up in a house I don’t recognize. The hallways are long, with old dark floors. It smells of cologne. I look down and am in the same black t-shirt. I make my way to the kitchen. It’s clean and

simple with black and white checkered floors that smell of linoleum. The walls are white with wooden shelves held up by black pipes. All the glasses are in order, and there are small plants mixed in on the shelves. I hear footsteps coming from the hallway.

“Oh my god—you are ok,” says a voice. Confusion rushes through me, through my blood. “What happened? Where am I?” I mutter.

“I’m Elliot, and you are?”

“Um, Stella, why and how am I here?”

“You were in an accident,” he says casually.

“A what?”

“An accident.” he repeats with his deep British accent. “What kind of accident? I don’t have any bruises, and I’m not sore. Why am I here, shouldn’t I be at the hospital?”

“Shhh. Don’t stress, you’re safe here. No one can find you,” he says, walking towards me. The smell of the cologne wafts by me again—it feels as if it is taking over me. I’m no longer confused, and I almost have full trust in him. I have known this man? Elliot? For no longer than twenty-four hours, I think, and I feel I could tell him anything.

“Can I call my family, please?”

“No, my dear,” he replies.

“It wasn’t a question: I am going to call my family,” I say, sternly.

“You can’t. There is no cell service here.”

“No service where?”

“Here.”

I feel my eyes shutter heavily, and then I feel the coolness of the floor on my face. I wake up back in the park, and I see Elliot walking again. Was I dreaming? I try to get up, but I am trapped. I try to run, and I am

stopped by a glass wall. My head hurts, and I sit back down in confusion. I have been feeling this a lot recently. I look down, and it feels like I am in a virtual reality world: things are moving below me, and it feels as if the grass is sinking me into it. Then I feel the cold floor again on my face. I open my eyes, and I am back in the kitchen. It’s darker and scarier now—the plants look dead and there are no windows. I make my way back to the room, and on the way down the hall, I hear Elliot’s voice seeping from under the crack between the door and floor.

“Yeah, I got her, she’s dumb. The cologne is working. It is making her trust me; the smell is taking over her. With the speed that this is working, we will definitely have brainwashed her in the next few weeks. Perfect test object.”

Joey

MacDonald Grant High School Matt Smith

Achelous

My back aches. As I carry my bag, my feet burn from the climate-controlled boots, and the sharp wind stings the insides of my nose. It’s day five on planet Achelous, and I am just about ready to drop dead. I look to my right and stare at Moory. “When are we gonna reach campgrounds?” I shout out through the turbulent wind.

“When we get there.”

I roll my eyes. As if I would have expected any less, sand and debris picked up from the violent winds, flew against my face, making rain like pitter patters as the larger pieces hit up against my faceguard. As I trudge through the sand ridden dunes, I try to ignore the earpiercing screams travelling from beneath the ground. The Screamragglers: a type of carnivorous mutant that resides in colonies 1000 ft below the surface. Their screams have been said to be so loud, that if you were to stand next to one, your eardrums would explode, along with your brains. These creatures are what we fear, what we fight, what we train for. The journey is far, but it should only take us an hour or two until we reach the city of light, or so I thought.

“I see it. Oh my god!” Moory fell to her knees as she stared into the distant blue glow. Looking at each other with pure joy and relief, we took off running, not stopping until we reached the safety of our camp.

Moments away from the gates, a rumbling began.

Following the quake, the sand under out feet began to rise—we knew what this meant. Moory turned to me with unimaginable fear in her eyes, “Screamers! Run!” I ran faster than I ever had before; the feeling of cracking earth beneath my feet only made me go faster. We approached the gates, but it was too late, there behind us was a screamraggler, charging at full speed, with no intention of slowing down. As quickly as we could, we reached for our bags, pulling out our protective gear before putting it over our heads to block any noises. Moory pulled out her stun ray and handed me her spare. We braced for the end.

“If we die,” I began to shout, “just know that I never hated you.” We began shooting aimlessly, hoping to hit it from a distance. In just a few seconds it stood before us, opened and opened its mouth. I closed my eyes and grabbed Moory’s hand, squeezing it tight. A burning sensation spread like wildfire throughout my whole body and then, nothing.

Crystal M Garcia Gomez

Woodburn Wellness, Business, and Sports School Jennifer Perrine

Unexpected

I have so many goals in life, and being able to prove people wrong is one. I have faced many obstacles, and I have achieved one of my goals: playing a whole game, scoring goals, creating plays, making assistance, and getting named MVP of the game. Soccer has taken so much effort in my life, so much energy, and so many tears.

I have been stepped on and pushed by trying to move forward; it sucks to think that for so many years. Yes, I did move teams and practice every day, but never understood what exactly the problem was with me showing my dedication. There was something pulling me back. I moved to a different team—a team where we would win. They gave opportunities to everyone and didn’t give up on them. This team made me feel welcome—they took the time to see how good I was, and the time to practice with me. I went to my first practice, and as soon as everyone started talking to me, it hit me that I belonged on that team. The assistant coach talked to me about practicing every day with him to improve, so I agreed. I would practice every single day with him an hour before practice. It kinda got me way too tired, and I wouldn’t want to wake up because my legs were dead. I made so many friends along the way. Trust me, it was the best thing ever, every practice would hurt, but also, they were fun. Shocked to notice the amount of improvement

in every single game, and of course, I had my ups and downs which sucked, but life isn’t easy. I started playing in middle school soccer, and I got chosen as a starter, which was awesome. I was one of the best players there.

Soon enough, I hit high school. I was crazy nervous, but my coaches told me that I was good enough to the point where I would even be the starter on the team, so I tried out and I made it to the varsity team. My freshman year, soccer wasn’t the best for me. I did struggle a lot; the coaches weren’t fair to me which broke me down. So lost, I wanted to drop soccer. I didn’t get any playing time, and they would put excuses over excuses. Soon enough, playoff came, and so I gave soccer another chance. Well, it got worse: there was a game that I didn’t play and of course, I cried, but my parents told me to never give up whenever they give me chance to take it. We successfully made it to the last round; we were winning, and I saw more chances of me not playing. Soon enough half time came, and so I got called and I played one of my best games, and we ended up winning.

Skipping to my junior year. Well, junior year I will say that I felt like I “carried the team,” of course, me and other powerful girls, but I played so many games without getting a sub and we would win which was exciting. Almost finishing the season, I successfully made it to playoffs and our first round was so scary it ended in penalty kicks. After many heart attacks, we passed to the next round, and the next one, and the next one until we landed in the second to last round. We looked at the results in our bracket and so we all saw we were playing against the first-place team. I’m not gonna lie; we were terrified, but we knew that we were the better team. So the game day came and I remember warming up and not connecting any passes, trying so hard, didn’t see myself

having a good game. The coaches called all of us over to talk about the starting line up and my name was their left-wing, which give me the power to believe that I could still play a really good game. We started to play and all I remember is trying to get the ball and it was going well and as soon as the ball was on the right side of the field in our favor, one of our teammates made a pass to Maranda and Maranda passed it to me. I was dribbling the ball and the first thing I thought of doing was shooting it, but I saw a bigger chance to pass it to Elizabeth and make it in and so I passed it and goalllllllllll. Elizabeth Valdez scored the goal for the win.

The game kept on going and all I had in mind was that I needed to keep playing good, or that I needed to help the team score to not lose or tie the game. I tried to take away the ball when I needed to and also when I felt like it was too risky. I also saw how many people were watching, and I would see all of the photographers taking pictures and recording our game. I felt so nervous to make a mistake because if I did I would feel like people could just talk about how bad I made a mistake. People in the game would tell me that I looked so confident that it looked like I knew what I was doing, but in reality, I was just following my gut. I had all my trust in my legs, in my arms, and my body. I remember that all the times that Gladstone would kick the ball out I would take my time and all I would hear would be me breathing in and out. As soon as I heard the ref blow the whistle, I looked up and I thanked God for having the privilege to play the game, to be playing for more than sixty minutes, having my name in the website, having people talk to me about the amazing impact I had, and most importantly, being able to make the incredible pass to Elizabeth. I felt like if I could do this, then I was able to do anything I wanted

to do in life. The sky is the limit!

WRITERS IN RESIDENCE 2021-22

ALEX BEHR has an MFA in creative writing from Portland State and has taught fiction at the college level. She has led fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction WITS residencies since 2014. She’s currently facilitating creative labs called “Eno/Ono” through Corporeal Writing. She’s the author of Planet Grim: Stories (7.13 Books), and her interviews, essays, short fiction, book reviews, and poetry have appeared in Salon, Tin House, The Rumpus, Vol 1 Brooklyn, Propeller, Gravity of the Thing, Oregon Humanities, Cleaver, and elsewhere. In various cities, she shared excerpts from her dire teen journals in the comedy show Mortified and was in rock bands for more than 20 years.

BRIAN BENSON is the author of Going Somewhere (Plume, 2014), and co-author, with Richard Brown, of This Is Not For You: An Activist’s Journey of Resistance and Resilience (OSU Press, March 2021). In addition to his work with Literary Arts, Brian teaches

at the Attic Institute and facilitates free Write Around Portland workshops in schools, treatment centers, and affordable housing. His short nonfiction has been published in Entropy, The Sun, and Off Assignment. He is at work on his third book, a novel.

ERICA BERRY was most recently the 2019-2020 Writer-inResidence and Teaching Fellow with the National Writers Series in Traverse City, MI. She has also taught writing workshops with the New York Times Student Journeys, the Sitka Center for Art and Ecology, the Craigardan Residency and Education Center in New York, and the Anna Tasca Lanza Cooking School in Sicily. Her writing has been supported by the Minnesota State Arts Board, the Bread Loaf Writers Conference, Tin House, and the Institute for Journalism and Natural Resources, and been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and named notable in 2019 Best American Essays. Her essays are published or forthcoming with The Yale Review, The New York Times Magazine, Literary Hub, Gulf Coast, Gastronomica, Colorado Review, Guernica, The Atlantic, and others.

MONIKA CASSEL is a bilingual poet and translator. Her chapbook Grammar of Passage (flipped eye publishing 2021) won the Venture

Poetry Award. Her poems have appeared in The Laurel Review, Phoebe Journal, and Construction Magazine, and her translations from German have appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Guernica, Poetry, and Asymptote, among others. In 2020 she received a writing grant from the Regional Arts and Culture Council. She is a degree candidate in poetry at Warren Wilson College’s MFA program; previously, she was a founding faculty member and Chair of Creative Writing and Literature at New Mexico School for the Arts in Santa Fe, where she developed the school’s creative writing program with the support of the Lannan Foundation.

DAVID CIMINELLO is a Portland-based writer and educator. His fiction has appeared in the Lambda Literary Award-winning anthology Portland Queer: Tales of the Rose City; Underwater New York; Lumina; Nailed Magazine, and in the podcast series Storytellers

Telling Stories. As a professional screenwriter, David has developed projects with Aaron Spelling Productions, All Girl Productions, Sony Pictures, HBO, and Twentieth Century Fox. His original screenplay, Bruno, appears on DVD as The Dress Code.

KATIE BORAK is alive in Portland, OR. They make short queer blackout poems from pulp novels and long stories about icebergs, fanaticism, subverting the patriarchy, and the sea. Find Katie coediting Kithe Journal, teaching at Portland Community College, or working in Literary Arts’ WITS program. Visit them at www. katieborak.com.

ED EDMO is a Shoshone-Bannock poet, playwright, performer, traditional storyteller, tour guide, and lecturer on Northwest tribal culture. Ed offers guided tours to the She Who Watches petroglyphs on the Columbia Gorge, as well as to the Warm Springs Indian Reservation in central Oregon’s high-desert country. He conducts workshops, traditional storytelling performances, dramatic monologues, and lectures on issues such as cultural understanding and awareness, drug and alcohol abuse, and mental health. Ed is a published short story writer, poet, and playwright, and serves as a consultant to the Smithsonian Museum of the American Indian.

VANESSA FRIEDMAN (she/her) is a queer dyke writer, editor, and teacher living in Portland, OR. She received her MFA in creative

nonfiction from Sarah Lawrence College, and she is a Tin House Summer Workshop alum and a Hedgebrook Spring Retreat alum.

Vanessa is the community editor at Autostraddle; her work has been published in Autostraddle, Nylon, Catapult, Alma, Shape, among others, and her essay, “If I’m Lonely,” will be included in the as yet-untitled anthology based on Helen Gurley Brown’s 1962 classic, Sex and the Single Girl, forthcoming from Harper Perennial in 2022.

Vanessa is currently at work on her first novel. You can find her online at vanessapamela.com.

ELISABETH GEIER is a writer, editor, teacher, and enthusiast whose short stories and essays have appeared in publications such as Porter House Review, Okey-Panky, Bright Wall/Dark Room, Nanofiction, and The Toast. She’s taught writing and literature in public high schools, community colleges, youth correctional facilities, affordable housing communities, and elsewhere. Elisabeth has an MFA in Fiction from the University of Montana and lives in Portland with several pets. Read more at elisabethgeier. com.

MEG E. GRIFFITTS (she/they) is a queer writer, educator, and the author of the forthcoming collection Hallucinating a Homestead, which was chosen by Traci Brimhall as the 2020 Two Sylvias Press Chapbook Prize winner. Her work has appeared in The Missouri Review, Homology Lit, Black Warrior Review, and others. Her poem “When the Doctor Doesn’t Believe Your Pain” was a finalist in Inverted Syntax’s 2020 Sublingua Contest chosen by Dr. Khadijah Queen. She lives in Portland with her partner and many animals on Cowlitz Land. Find more of her work at megegriffitts.com.

APRIL JOSEPH is a poet, book coach, and educator. At Literary Arts, she is the Writers in the Schools Specialist and works with the Youth Programs team to support writers and students. Collaborative, student-centered, process-oriented learning inspires her to teach artistic expression to transform lives, to be free. She earned her MFA in Writing and Poetics from Naropa University and her BA in Literatures of the World from the University of California, San Diego. Her poetics center around healing ancestry and have appeared in literary journals and anthologies (*apo-press, Bombay Gin, Morning/Mourning, and TAYO).

AMY MINATO is the author of a memoir Siesta Lane, (Skyhorse Press, 2009) and two poetry collections: Hermit Thrush (Inkwater Press, 2016) and The Wider Lens (Ice River Press, 2004). Amy has been a recipient of both a Literary Arts Fellowship for her poetry and a Walden Residency for her prose. She teaches writing through Literary Arts, Multnomah Art Center, Fishtrap, and at Breitenbush Retreat Center, as well as a community service course in sustainable living at Portland State University. She holds both an MFA in Creative Writing and an MS in Environmental Studies from the University of Oregon.

DAMIEN MILES-PAULSON teaches slow dancing, writes, and still dreams of an overseas basketball career. He is a founding member of the now disbanded experimental German noise band, Flu Shot. His stories, poems, and sounds can be found at The Whole Beast Rag, The Washington Square Review, theNewerYork, Alice Blue Review, Marco Polo Arts Mag, Everyday Genius, Past-Ten, Axolotl, and The Alarmist. He now walks the world with an MFA in Creative Writing from UCR in hand.

LAURA MOULTON teaches in the Northwest Writing Institute at Lewis & Clark College and leads residences in high schools for Literary Arts. Over the years, she has taught writing in public schools, prisons, and teen shelters. Moulton is the founder of Street Books, Portland’s bicycle-powered street library.

JENNIFER PERRINE is the author of four award-winning books of poetry: Again, The Body Is No Machine, In the Human Zoo, and No Confession, No Mass. Their recent poems, stories, and essays appear in New Letters, The Seventh Wave Magazine, JuxtaProse, The Rumpus, Buckman Journal, and The Gay & Lesbian Review. Perrine lives in Portland, Oregon, where they co-host the Incite: Queer Writers Read series, teach creative writing to youth and adults, and serve as a diversity, equity, inclusion, and justice (DEIJ) consultant.

BRUCE POINSETTE is a writer and community organizer whose work is primarily based in the Portland Metro Area. A former reporter for the Skanner News Group, his work has also appeared in the The Oregonian, Street Roots, Around the O, and We Out Here Magazine, as well as projects such as the Mercatus Collective and the Urban League of Portland’s State of Black Oregon 2015. In

addition to his professional writing work, Poinsette also serves as the Media Action Team Leader for Respond to Racism LO, a grassroots anti-racism organization in his hometown of Lake Oswego, Oregon.

MARK POMEROY’S first novel, The Brightwood Stillness, was published by Oregon State University Press in 2014. He has received an Oregon Literary Fellowship for fiction, and his short stories, poems, and essays have appeared in Open Spaces, The Wordstock 10, Portland Magazine, The Oregonian, NW Book Lovers, and What Teaching Means: Stories from America’s Classrooms. He holds an MA in English Education from Teachers College, Columbia University, where he was a Fellow in Teaching.

EMILLY PRADO is a writer, community organizer, and the prose instructor at the Independent Publishing Resource Center in Portland, Oregon. When not writing or teaching, Emilly moonlights as DJ Mami Miami with Noche Libre, the Latinx DJ collective she co-founded in 2017. Her debut essay collection, Funeral for Flaca, was selected as a #YosiBookClub summer reading pick and has been called, “Utterly vulnerable, bold, and unique,”

by Ms. Magazine. Funeral for Flaca is out now with Future Tense Books.

DEY RIVERS is a mixed-media visual artist, poet, and storyteller based in Portland, Oregon on Cowlitz and Clackamas Native lands. After earning a degree in Fine Art in Pennsylvania, they returned to the west coast as a teaching artist with local nonprofits and museums. Dey is one of the featured writers in Oregon Writers of Color 2020 Spring Showcase through Ooligan Press. Their current creative writing examines relationships, nature, culture, and history from a Black, neuro-diverse, queer perspective.

MATT SMITH grew up in Iowa and Arizona. He earned his BA in English Literature from Arizona State University. He spent the subsequent four years after college in South Korea as an ESL teacher. His short fiction work centers on the intersections of race and identity. He is currently working on a collection of short stories focused on what it means to be multi-racial in America.

Matt was a 2017-18 WITS apprentice.

CJ WIGGAN is a Nebraskan writer and illustrator creating emotional artwork about gender, relationships, magic, nature,

and hair. CJ relocated shortly after earning a double BA in English and Art from Black Hills State University in Spearfish, SD and now works in youth art programming in Portland. Some of CJ’s art can be found in Theories of HER: An Experimental Anthology, JUR(Y): The Journal of Undergraduate Research and Creative Activity, and a little bit on this locked tumblr page: https://chanelheart. tumblr.com.

BY SCHOOL

Franklin High School Ramsey, Phillip 24

Grant High School Cornell, Chase 16 Dashiell 86 Duff, Hanako 47 Egusa, Kelan 64 Fenger, Callan 107 Gracie 79 h, chloe 113 Kilber, Owen 90 MacDonald, Joey 116 MCL 54 Meditz, Ethan 38 Musette, Beatrice 37 Padilla, Aiden 49 Perez-Igl, Monica 69 Stefanisko, Olivia 99 Warner, Elsa 84

Gresham High School Karam, Joanna 52

McDaniel High School Franklin, Aki 77 Fultz, Sebastian/Gracie 31 Oliver, Olivia 40 Rios, Kaylee 88

INDEX

Parkrose High School Burns, Aniyah 94 Devita, Vincent 13 Ezra 103 Hernandez, Ivette 73 Laborico, Bonnie 82 Ribbing, Eloisa 67

Roosevelt High School Houser, Pippin 60 Ledgerwood, Lynn 19

Woodburn Wellness, Business, and Sports School Garcia Gomez, Crystal M 118 Hernandez, Daniela 59 Samantha 23

BY WRITER-IN-RESIDENCE

Bruce Poinsette

Fultz, Sebastian/Gracie 31 Oliver, Olivia 40

Dey Rivers Franklin, Aki 77 Rios, Kaylee 88

Elisabeth Geier Karam, Joanna 52

Emilly Prado Burns, Aniyah 94 Devita, Vincent 13 Ezra 103 Hernandez, Ivette 73 Laborico, Bonnie 82 Ribbing, Eloisa 67

Jennifer Perrine Garcia Gomez, Crystal M 118 Hernandez, Daniela 59 Samantha 23

Mark Pomeroy Ramsey, Phillip 24

Matt Smith Cornell, Chase 16 Dashiell 86 Duff, Hanako 47 Egusa, Kelan 64 Fenger, Callan 107 Gracie 79 h, chloe 113 Kilber, Owen 90 MacDonald, Joey 116

MCL 54 Meditz, Ethan 38 Musette, Beatrice 37 Padilla, Aiden 49 Perez-Igl, Monica 69 Stefanisko, Olivia 99 Warner, Elsa 84 Meg E. Griffitts Houser, Pippin 60 Ledgerwood, Lynn 19

YOUTH PROGRAMS SUPPORT 2021-22

Thank you to our generous donors who gave $500 or more to support Youth Programs between June 1, 2021-May 31, 2022

Anonymous Karin Barber

Mayno Blanding

Broadway Books

The CommuniCare students of Roosevelt High School

Julie Frantz Harvest Foundation

Maurice & Dori King

Kristi Wallace Knight & Eric Wallace

Paula Kurshner Lyceum Agency

Phillip Margolin & Melanie Nelson

Lora Meyer

John Miller

Deidra Miner

Katherine O’Neil & Toby Graff

Nielsen Family Fund of The Oregon Community Foundation

NM Bodecker Foundation

Jan & Steve Oliva

Wendy Beth Oliver

Reser Family Foundation

Ann M Stinson

Donald & Roslyn Sutherland

Cliff & Patty White Sue Wright

Lisa Wyatt Tim Zeigler

Plus many more generous donors, including 479 Portland Arts & Lectures subscribers who raised over $63,000 to Send Students to the Schnitz. Thank you for your support!

2021-22 WITS STUDENT CHAPBOOK

The Writers in the Schools Student Chapbook is a collection of work created in WITS residencies in public high schools in Portland, east Multnomah County, and Woodburn, Oregon. In the 2021–22 school year, over 850 students participated in creative writing residencies, crafting short stories, flash fiction, memoirs, poetry, and zines. Keep Moving Forward is a glimpse into the minds of students as they faced yet another year of turmoil and returned to classrooms for the first time since early 2020. They write of curiosity, heartache, fury, hauntings, and hopes, in this world and many others. As always, thank you to the students who courageously shared their words with us. Your voices matter.