Along The Way, We Saw The World by 826LA

Along The Way, We Saw The World:

A 20th Anniversary Collection Of Prose and Poetry

This book was written by the 826LA Community: students, volunteers, staff, educators, donors, and community partners.

The views expressed in this book are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of 826LA . We support student publishing and are thrilled you picked up this book.

Este libro fue escrito por la comunidad de 826LA : estudiantes, voluntarios, personal, educadores, donantes, y socios comunitarios.

Las opiniones expresadas en este libro son las de los autores y no reflejan necesariamente las de 826LA . Apoyamos la publicación de jóvenes autores y estamos felices que hayan recogido este libro.

Editor(s):

Maddie Silva Jaime Balboa

Cover Artwork & Book Design: Tzasná Pérez Espinosa

Fonts used:

Arsenica Variable Plantin MT Pro

In celebration of our 20th Anniversary, 826LA dedicates this publication to all of those who have helped make our community what it is, what it was, and what it will become.

Thank you to the students, volunteers, educators, donors, staff, community partners, and time-travelers who have filled the last 20 years with such creativity, joy, and hope.

We look forward to another 20 years in partnership!

Illustration by Loris Lora

Hummingbird, Angelica Velazquez

Sueños Entrelazados, Rosy R.

Salted Fish, Teresa Mei Chuc

Chilaquiles Verdes, Yaretzi C.

42 · Writ ing For a Friend Who Is in Their First Year in the City, Victoria Finch

44 · A Slight Change of Plans, Rozanna Baranets 46 · Calico, Mike Dunbar

49 · The La st Hu rrah of Bob’s Bodacious Carnival, Aaron J. Be ndele

52 · Blushing Bookshelf, Jaime Fox

53 · Time Capsule, Pedro R Estrada

55 · PART II: A Piece of Today

57 · Gateway 826, Aaron Bendele

58 · Forever, Nico O.

59 · What Makes Me Happy, Hadley Glennon

60 · I’m Not the Boss of Anybody But My Own Joy, Brian Sonia-Wallace

61 · L etter to a Minotaur From a 4th Grader, Brian Sonia-Wallace

62 · Me and You, Ignacio G.R.

63 · Hydrangeas for Daniela, Hailey L.R.

64 · To My World, Jesus O.

65 · Silent But Deadly, Demi Grace F.

66 · The Emerald Lie and The Yellow Brick Mirage, Salma Hafaiedh

68 · Daca Rescinded—So—Leap With Joy at the Arrival of Next Year, Berenice Limeta

69 · In The Middle of Boyle Heights, M.A. 71 · Suburban Sun, Antonio M. 72 · Recognize Who You Are, D.C.

73 · Trying On Womanhood for Size: It’s She AND They, Ariadne Makridakis Arroyo

76 · Barbie Is Fun, America Ferrara Is Real, and I Want More, Christine J. Ko, MD

79 · Dilation, Mateo Balboa Presner

81 · Untitled, Edward Landler 82 · PART III: A Step Toward Tomorrow 84 · Stuff, Sasha 85 · UNstuck, Jordan Rawlins 88 · Peyton and Ronny’s Great Match, Ronny Alexandre Rodriguez

90 · In Bloom, Jennifer Chen 93 · Beyond the Screen, Leah Hien 95 · If My Skateboard Could Fly, Robert Lugo

· A Letter To My Older Self, Yair M.

· To Be Read in the Year 2125, Trevor Crown 100 · From the Great Unknown, with Love, Aimee Lim

· Evolution, Emily Barth Isler

· A Letter To My Future Self, Samantha L.

· Enjoying Life, Kyle P.

· The Box, Diego R.

En La Vida Soy Yo, I.E.

110 · Echoes From the Future, Valery R.

113 · The More Things Change… Trevor Worthy

114 · Journey for Myself, Sam E.

115 · From Silence to Purpose, Bethel Tesfamicael

116 · Save Earth, Jackelyn A.

118 · Left Alone with Our Sunflowers, Guadalupe V.

121 · Five and a Half Hours, Sasha Kravets

126 · Smart Cookie, Byron Lane

129 · Language Fee, Lameece Issaq

132 · The Transubstantiation of a Pickleball into a Matzoball, John Giarratana

135 · Jet’s World: The Magical Mountain of Gems - Part I, Ms. Brissett-Claxton’s 1st Grade Class from 74th Street Elementary School

137 · Cookies vs. Pancakes: Bella and Stitch’s Big Adventure, Ms. Pajon’s 2nd Grade Class from Grand View Boulevard Elementary School

140 · How Stories Begin, Maddie Louise

145 · Acknowledgments

145 · About 826LA

146 · Programs

Foreword, Dave Eggers

Back in 2005, when 826LA was born, there was no thought of it lasting twenty years. It was just a neighborhood writing and tutoring center based in Venice. Two friends, Jodie Evans and Pilar Perez, thought the neighborhood would benefit from a welcoming space where local kids could get one-on-one help with their homework, and avail themselves of advanced workshops in writing and publishing. So over few warm weeks on the second floor of the SPARC space, they stripped the floors, painted the walls, and, because the building used to be a police station and jail, they disguised the barred windows with delicate curtains that caught the light.

I helped out here and there, and remembered renting a convertible one weekend so we could pick up DIY flooring from IKEA. I drove across LA with about a thousand pounds of fake-wood flooring sitting next to me in that Chevy Malibu, and we were astounded when those planks actually clicked together to make some semblance of a floor.

Starting any organization is a mix of blind hope and genuine shock when things work out. 826LA opened in 2005 and was soon full every day with local students looking to get extra help after school. It was a modest space that was light-filled and welcoming and full of happy volunteers and kids. But why did it work? Why has it expanded all over Los Angeles, and why has it grown from two staff members to 38? From 300 students served each year to 11,000? That’s harder to explain. All 826LA was and is are rooms where writing is honored, where young voices are heard, where volunteers sit shoulder-to-shoulder with students figuring out the world on paper, word by word. I guess its simplicity is central to why it works.

I’m writing this introduction as ICE agents are terrorizing Los Angeles, and as National Guard troops are being withdrawn after a judge deemed the president’s deployment of them unlawful and unconstitutional. Los Angeles, one of the most gloriously and — usually — harmoniously diverse places on the planet, is being ripped apart by an administration determined to pit every group of humans, all over the world, against each other. Because a significant portion of 826LA’s students come from families new to

the United States, families who have come here to work hard and prosper and get a taste of the American Dream, this moment in LA’s history is shattering. The American heart has been trampled, again and again, these last ten years, all driven by the hatred and xenophobia of one senile man and his cowardly enablers.

But we will make it through. Tomorrow will see thousands of protests all over the country dedicated to the idea that this is a country of ideas, not kings. And the ideas expressed in this book — the energy and hope and beauty expressed here — is what Dr. King talks about when he says “Darkness cannot drive out darkness. Only light can do that.” Consider every page a candle that will illuminate this dark historical corridor we’re passing through. We can make it light again. We’ve done it before and will do it again.

Introduction,

Maddie Silva

In honor of 826LA’s 20th Anniversary, Along The Way, We Saw The World celebrates 826LA’s past, present, and future. In the following pages, you will see work from 826LA students, volunteers, educators, community partners, staff members, and board members. In response to the prompt, coming into your own as a way of transforming the future, this collection of work represents authors devoted to their authentic selves, a hopeful future, an honest and preserved past, and all the moments of unbridled joy in between.

826LA is a transformative place. Inside our red-bricked Writing Labs, within our Time Travel Mart aisles, and through the school hallways across Los Angeles, we have spent 20 years reaching out for our community and bringing it in tight.

We are both a third space and a beyond space.

Our third space, the Mar Vista and Echo Park Writing Labs and our Writers’ Rooms across the city serve as a nexus of brainstorming, writing, revising, and life-telling. It is where students, volunteers, educators, staff, and community partners come together to indulge in the legacy of stories.

Our beyond space is duly transcendent of time and place. It is all the ways we stretch past our centers and classrooms and ripple into the lives of our future. Through voices lifted, truths uncovered, confessions made, loads lightened, darknesses held, creativity expressed, confidence built, minds changed, and opinions formed, we make up our library bookshelves, our city newspapers, our speeches before listening crowds, our protest chants, our everyday conversations, our inside jokes, our diaries found, our world’s archive.

Thank you to all the people, past and current, who have contributed to 826LA’s becoming. As you well know, and for those who are about to find out, where there is 826LA, there is magic. Where there is 826LA, there is community.

Where there is 826LA, there are stories.

Part I

A Glimpse of the Past

Echo Park Time Travel Mart, George Townley

George Townley is an illustrator and designer based in London with a passion for capturing architecture and the spirit of Los Angeles. Growing up in Northern England, surrounded by grey and dreary surroundings, George turned to art as a means of escape, finding joy and inspiration in bringing these vibrant worlds to life.

Untitled, Aubrie M .

Selected from We Are Not Tied Down By Time

In a time capsule buried deep, Lies a children’s book for us to keep

A bedtime favorite, worn and old, Its stories are timeless, yet to be told. By the beach, where waves do play

We’d read its tales at the close of the day

A small bottle of sand, A glimpse of the past

Hummingbird, Angelica Velazquez

Great mother of your nest Tightly woven Like my chest Oh, how I miss you.

Your love as vibrant as cardinals Protect your children, arsenal.

A voice as steady and low

As your wings flapped around that bow Tying the knot

Your ancestors fought

Brave hummingbird of mine I wish I could give you all the time Strength and power Increase with each hour

May you have continued your art That bloomed into our hearts

Without you, I do not exist Losing you, fills me with trist

Colors dance in your appearance Not a stutter Until your disappearance

I recall the melody that was your whisper Even when you mistook Me for my sister

The wind no longer sings with you Nor does the sun, dry the dew, Even the grass, feels so blue.

Dearest hummingbird Is something wrong?

Why have I not heard your song … it has been so long

Up and down This world took you

Now it is I who must wait to Be a hummingbird And fly like you do

When that happens The world will see You and me, Dance so free

I love and miss you abuela. You inspire me to always grow.

Growing up in Long Beach and Wilmington, California, Angelica was surrounded by Chicano culture all around. She is proud of her Mexican-American identity, loves the beach, writing in her free time, and volunteering to serve her community. She currently goes to UCLA as a third-year undergraduate International Development Studies major, with two minors in Global Health and Community Engagement and Social Change. She hopes to put them into practice to help communities like her own.

Sueños Entrelazados, Rosy

Selected from Los Hijos De Las Mariposas

I left my home, my cradle of love, my country of Eterna Primavera. Carrying in my breast a pain, a sadness that never waits. I am looking for a new dawn, in distant, unknown lands, where the sun also knows how to bloom, and the stars are never hidden. But even though I'm far away, my heart never forgets, the taste of my land “yo se yo” melody is always wevlcome.

In my chest I carry the love of my family, in every heartbeat, in every sigh. In my mind the memories of Guatemala, the beautiful country of Eterna Primavera. I remember when I went to the lakes of Atitlan and Amatitlan, the majestic mountains around the lakes. Its majestic mountains and green and towering volcanoes, its vibrant colors and its smiling people. In every corner, history and culture, a legacy thawt I carry with pride and tenderness. Even if he takes me far along the way, my heart will always be close. In every step, in every waking dream, Guatemala, my love, my strength and my flag.

Rosy R. was born in Guatemala. She has a very unique personality once you get to know her. She enjoys listening to music, watching movies, and spending time with her family. She also loves her friends, nature, and travel.

Salted Fish, Teresa Mei Chuc

The memory of my grandmother hanging fish to dry in the warm California sun shortly after we, boat refugees, arrived in this country.

Sun dried fish were one of my favorite foods to eat with plain, steaming rice. Poor people’s food.

The smell was strong and filled the air in the garden with the scent of Mother Ocean connecting us to our Vietnamese homeland.

Salted, dried sunfish and perch–my grandmother’s love keeps us alive.

Altadena Poet Laureate, Editor-in-Chief (2018-2020), Teresa Mei Chuc is the author of three books of poetry, Invisible Light (Many Voices Press, 2018), Keeper of the Winds (FootHills Publishing, 2014) and Red Thread (Fithian Press, 2012). Teresa is a public middle and high school English teacher in Los Angeles.

Chilaquiles Verdes, Yaretzi C.

Selected from Is The Oven On?

Chilaquiles Verdes has always been my favorite ever since I was about 10 years old. I don’t know if it was the feeling I got when they were made too spicy that made it my favorite food in the world, but it somehow is. My mom would make them for me when I was feeling down to cheer me up and it has always been there for me when I needed to feel warmth. Eventually I learned that recipe for myself and as soon as I learned to make it, it was my breakfast, lunch, and my dinner. I never got tired of it and I don’t think I ever will because it was there through every stage. It was there through that awkward stage in middle school. It was there when I made and lost friends. It was there when we had to quarantine, and there when we went back to school. It’s going to continue to be there when I go off to college and when I’m going through something. Being Mexican also ties into my dish because it’s such a staple dish in Mexican culture. When I get that first bite I feel as if I am in Mexico, waking up to the smell of a fresh pot of coffee and to the sound of the rooster crowing. Being with my grandpa, helping him shuck corn and feed pumpkin to his horses. The connection I have to this dish molded me to who and what I am today. Not only did I learn the dish, I was able to build a stronger connection with my mom when helping in the kitchen. Helping my mom cook food is my favorite thing as well because we always talk about life. We talk about when I’m feeling sad or when I’m feeling stuck. We talk about when I made an accomplishment or when I got a good score on an assignment I was dreading doing. Just like the chilaquiles, my mom is always going to be there for me. So when I’m feeling down or going through something I will rely on that spicy, crunchy, savory dish to help bring me back up.

INGREDIENTS

· 8-12 corn tortillas

· Vegetable oil

· Half an onion

· 2-3 jalapenos

· 3 tomatillos

· 1 garlic clove

· Handful of cilantro

· 1 tbsp Knorr Caldo de Pollo seasoning

RECIPE

(Serving Size 5)

1. Start off by taking about 8 to 12 tortillas and cutting them up into squares. After doing that, take a pan and put oil into the pan. While you wait for the oil to heat up, set up a pot with boiling water and place your Jalapenos and Tomatillos in the water. After your oil is heated up, cut about 1⁄3 of your onion and place it into the oil as well as the tortillas.

2. After your water starts boiling, turn off the heat and place your jalapenos and tomatillos into a blender. Add about 1⁄2 a cup of the same water into the blender as well. Start adding 1 garlic clove, a handful of cilantro, 1⁄3 of an onion, 1 tbsp of the Caldo de Pollo Knorr seasoning.

3. Blend it all up until it becomes a sauce. Put that to the side and focus on frying the tortillas until it is crispy. Fry tortillas for about 10 minutes or until they are as crispy as you would like. After they are as crispy as you would like, slowly incorporate the sauce and let it simmer for about 3-5 minutes. You are now ready to add your toppings and enjoy!

Optional: You can add sour cream and queso de polvo on top and avocado on the side. You can also fry up some eggs and eat with the chilaquiles.

A Meeting Over Coffee, Mateo

Acosta

She asked, Was it ever enough?

She asked about a mother, a past we do not name. I said, Some things are no longer ours to hold.

She asked, Where did you go?

I said, Away—from Salem, to LA, to something like home. She asked, Did leaving ever make it enough?

I smiled over my coffee. I told her, Leaving let me breathe.

To walk without their weight, to build something mine, to be free of a house that swallowed me whole.

She carried the weight of every dream. She thought she could fix what was broken. She thought she could be the answer.

I met myself for coffee I saw her for what she was I saw the person who survived.

I told them, Enough was never the point

Mateo Acosta is a queer artist and educator…and also the Associate Director of Community Engagement at 826LA . They proudly call Los Angeles home with their three cats, fifty houseplants, and five hundred books in their tiny one-bedroom apartment.

Pan Con Pollo, Melody U.

Selected From Is The Oven On?

Pan con Pollo is a star Salvadorian plate. A great mixture of veggies and chicken with bread in order to show the Salvadorian taste. The key to the Pan con Pollo is the sauce the chicken is drowned in. The sauce makes the veggies and bread just wet enough to hold its structure and makes each bite full of every flavor. Personally, Pan con Pollo brings me back to every birthday morning, coming down the stairs following the smell of the sauce being boiled to its point. My mother being loud in the kitchen on the phone, ordering the bolillos while boiling the chicken, and asando the tomatoes. My sisters cutting the veggies and arguing over how many bolillos will fill the whole family up. I was always filled with warm feelings and thoughts, knowing the day was about me, and my mother remembered my favorite meal. That comfort feeling knowing that day next year, I would be woken up by the same smells and noises. ‘Til it stopped.

INGREDIENTS

(Serves 2 people, 2 panes each)

· 1 pound of chicken

· 6 tomatoes

· 2 carrots

· 2 cucumbers

· 6 radishes

2 beets · 1 cabbage · 2 onions

1 red pepper · 1 tsp of salt

· 1 tsp pepper

· 4 basil leaves

· 1 hand of cilantro

· 4 rolls

RECIPE

1. Clean, chop and pat dry the chicken.

2. Set aside all veggies (beets, tomatoes, cucumbers, radish, cabbage, carrots).

3. Slice veggies, but chop cabbage and carrots together.

4. Mix the carrots and cabbage together, add mustard, mayo and pepper to make coleslaw topping.

5. The rest of the veggies are sliced and stored.

6. Boil tomatoes, onions, and pepper, add in all spices then blend.

7. Mix chicken with sauce over the fire till cooked thoroughly in a large pot. About 35 minutes.

8. Shred the chicken.

9. Grab the bread roll, slice open, stuff with shredded chicken and coleslaw, then top with sliced veggies.

10. Enjoy! :)

Mami Would Joke, Alexis Jaimes

as we collected so many beer cans from our backyard that we could build a home made out of them

I stopped laughing when I realized this house already existed & we lived in it at that moment, though, I promised te construiré un hogar de oro no aluminio aplastado para caber en las bolsas de basura

con agua limpia y arboles llena de frutas y nopales sin espinas y huajes para los vecinos y guayabas que nunca se pudren encima de los carros y el aguacate todavía creciendo donde papi lo quemó

el mismo donde soñé de mi propia casita encima de las mismas ramas donde podía ver la familia de tlacuaches escondiendo de papi armado con su botella y pistola una lanzando vidrio y otro quebrando su propia familia y después culpándolos por lo que hizo con sus propias manos los mismos que antes nos tocó tan tiernamente prometiendo al mundo hasta que dejó de creerlo

but I promise Mami again this won’t stay like this forever

Alexis Jaimes is a proud son of Mexican immigrants from Santa Ana, CA. He just published his debut chapbook, Corazón Coalesced, through Bottlecap Press, where he explores the complexities of growing up in an immigrant family, the fractures of identity, and the unyielding effort to piece together culture and self. His work has also been published by Flowersong Press, Community Milk, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Alegría Magazine, Curious Publishing, Pluto’s Zine, Our California (run by the CA Poet Laureate), and San Diego Poetry Annual, as well as showcased at the Fullerton Museum Center. Alexis serves as a bilingual elementary teacher, intertwining his passion for language and education to empower the next generation. You can purchase his chapbook at bit.ly/ CorazonChapbook and follow on IG through @letrasbyalex

Pollo Catracho, Astrid F.

Selected From Is The Oven On?

This recipe is important to me, not because it is where I am from, Honduras, but because this food brought my family together. My family doesn’t care if we make this food three times for three different birthdays in a row. My family likes this recipe because it reminds them of when they were in Honduras, a country where they had to forcefully leave their family and friends.

This food might be quite simple but in my house and in my culture it is something much more than that. When I was little it was just me and my mom, and she didn’t have money to even make me this dish. She could only afford to make me tajadas. As I grew older I got to appreciate food more and those who are providing me with it. Growing up I always wanted to be able to eat on the table with my family and when I do I’m always eating pollo con tajadas.

INGREDIENTS

· 1⁄2 pound of chicken thighs per person

· 1 limon (to clean the chicken)

· Chicken thighs

· 1⁄2 cup of mustard

· 1 cup Coke

· 1⁄2 cup of mayonesa

Tajadas:

· 3⁄4 cup of oil

· 5 green plantains

· Pinch of salt

· A pinch pepper Hondureño

· 1⁄3 cup Balboa sour orange/ naranja agria

· 2 cups of flour

· 1/2 tsp of pepper

· Pinch of salt

· Oil

Sauce:

· 1 cup of mayonesa/ mayonnaise

· 1 cup of ketchup

· 1⁄2 cup of milk

RECIPE

Makes 8 servings

1. To clean the chicken, you have to get a bowl and leave the chicken in the limón juice for 30 minutes.

2. After 30 minutes, put it in a different bowl and start adding the ingredients mustard, Coke, mayonnaise, pepper, and Balboa sour orange, and leave it overnight.

3. Once the chicken has marinated overnight, you’re ready to fry. Add flour with pepper and salt to a separate bowl to dredge the chicken.

4. Then, in a frying pan, add enough oil to cover half of the chicken to fry. When the oil is at 350 degrees, cook each piece of the chicken for 20 minutes, until each piece is brown and crunchy.

5. Tajadas should be peeled and cut in a 90 degree angle, then add the salt and then add the tajadas in a different frying pan with the oil heated up at 350 degrees until it is fully cooked.

6. The sauce should be made in a bowl with mayonesa, ketchup, and milk mixed together until a liquid consistency.

The Blue Canoe, Susan Hamilburg

When I was six or seven, I hung a sign on my bedroom door that declared: KEEP OUT! THIS IS MY HOME! ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!

I made my boundaries crystal clear. Especially to my mother.

At dinnertime, I would cautiously descend to the dining room to inspect the menu. Often, I’d find my brother, Norman, sitting in despair, glaring at the detestable vegetables on his plate. If there were steak and carrots—my favorite—I’d take my seat. But if it was brussels sprouts, meatloaf, or okra and cauliflower, I’d try to escape.

My mother would sternly say, “You can’t get up from the table until you clear your plate!”

The standoff would last until she retreated to the kitchen. Then, I’d spring into action—wrapping the offensive food in a napkin. Sometimes I flushed it down the toilet; other times, I stuffed it under the sofa or hid it in my drawers.

Yes, it was always discovered.

As I grew older, my eating habits expanded, as did my love for travel. I dreamed of adventure and becoming a photographer for National Geographic. My mother, however, hated to leave her comfort zone in LA and we often fought over our goals.

When Norman, now a canoe guide in D.C., invited me to visit and spend a week camping with him, I was thrilled. I could travel alone, see my brother, paddle the Potomac, and take a million photos!

He wanted me to bring his favorite old canoe. When I stepped into the garage, I realized it needed some serious repairs. Just then, Mother appeared.

“Mother, I’m leaving tomorrow to visit Norman,” I said, excited. “It’s only a couple of weeks, and I’ll be fine!”

She looked stunned. “You can’t go. Where will you stay? How will you know where you’re going? And what will I do?”

I hesitated. “Mother, I wish you weren’t alone, but—”

“I don’t want to stay here by myself,” she interrupted.

I sighed. This was my dream trip. Still, something tugged at me. I didn’t want to invite her, but maybe…

“Mother,” I said reluctantly, “would you like to come?”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

We spent the evening fixing up the canoe, giving it a fresh coat of paint. By the end, we were covered in blue splotches. Laughing, we dubbed it The Blue Canoe.

We were off!

As we climbed into the truck for the long journey from LA to DC, I couldn’t help but think, Why did we agree to this? I’ve never done anything like this, and Mom isn’t exactly the outdoorsy type. This is going to be a disaster.

We took turns driving, with The Blue Canoe tightly lashed to the roof - at least I hoped it was tight. I put on Joni Mitchell, my favorite singer, and played “The River and Blue” on repeat. It drove me nuts that Mother didn’t recognize the songs—or seem to care. We’re so different, I thought.

That night, we stopped at the Floaters Inn by the Cossatot River. Mom went to bed early, but I stayed up, tossing rocks into the moonlit water and snapping photos.

The following days stretched on as I tried to imagine how this trip would turn out. I couldn’t help but hope that, for once, Mom and I might get along—and maybe even have some fun together.

Finally, after days of driving and fast food, we reached DC. Tired but excited, we spotted the Potomac River.

As I made a tight left turn, disaster struck—the canoe slid off the truck and straight into traffic and landed in the river! Horns blared

as we pulled over in a panic.

We couldn’t lose this canoe. Norman would be devastated! It would totally defeat the whole purpose of this trip!

We bolted, losing sight of each other in the chaos. Then, I heard Mother’s voice near the water. There she was, waving and pointing.

The canoe was floating downstream.

We sprinted to the riverbank, dove in, and swam after it. The Potomac’s calm waters worked in our favor as we dragged the canoe to shore, soaked and panting, but victorious.

Sitting on the beach, we laughed in exhaustion. Nearby, a family’s stereo played a familiar tune.

Mother tilted her head. “Is that... Joni Mitchell?” she asked tentatively.

“Yes!” I cheered. “Great job, Mom!”

She smiled and I shed a few tears, and for the first time in six days, we hugged.

Susan wrote The Blue Canoe, a story about Ruth, an anxious mother, and Maggie, her gutsy daughter, on a road trip from LA to Washington DC, for a canoe adventure on the Potomac that takes an unexpected turn. Her love of rivers began in Arkansas, where she spent four years lobbying to protect free-flowing streams. Having lived in places from Juneau, Alaska, to Paleochora, Crete, Susan explored various careers before teaching K-2 students for 25 years. A passionate 826LA volunteer for over a decade, she continues to inspire young writers with her enthusiasm and love for storytelling.

My Swiss Cactus, David Ullendorff

As a young child growing up in Munich, Germany I wore special shoes to correct a congenital deformity in my legs and slept in an iron brace that resembled the contraption that Tom Hanks wore in the movie Forrest Gump, until he famously freed himself during the “Run, Forest, run!” scene.

The device didn’t help and by the time I was eight the only remaining option was something that the Swiss surgeon my family consulted called rotation du fémur, rotation of the femur. After that the remaining cartilage would harden irreversibly into bone and I’d be handicapped for the rest of my life.

The procedure was performed in Lausanne, Switzerland. They cut a ten-inch breach in my thigh (the thick scar never disappeared), past skin, muscles, and tendons to the femur, and sawed away at the bone to weaken it. Then the surgeon inserted both hands, snapped the femur in two like a chicken bone, turned it eighteen degrees, and fused the splintered ends back together with metal brackets.

After the operation I spent four months in a full cast from my chest to my toes, legs held in place by a thick wooden dowel, my body spread out like Leonardo DaVinci’s Vitruvian Man. I needed round-the-clock care. It took two nurses to lift me so that a third could slide a bucket under my rear end, where a small hole had been cut out of the plaster so I could go to the bathroom. When I was done, they lifted me again and someone had to crawl underneath me, like they were changing the oil in their car, to wipe my rear end.

I lived in a hospital ward filled with other children, some immobilized like me, others seriously ill. We all spoke in French to one another (Lausanne is in the French-speaking part of Switzerland), often yelling across the room, and were blunt, as children tend to be, about why we were there.

I attended regular school too. Monday through Friday someone wheeled my bed to the hospital school, where I joined other children with assorted ailments and life expectancies. The classroom resembled a jungle because it was filled with potted

plants. Once in a while someone who was clearly going downhill stopped showing up. The teacher never addressed this, and we knew not to ask too many questions. Of course, most of us got better, and on our last day the teacher held a little bon voyage ceremony and gave us a parting gift: our pick of any plant in the classroom to take home with us.

When my cast finally came off, my muscles were so atrophied that I had to learn to walk again, a slow process that began in a swimming pool and then continued with a walker. It was a triumph when I finally crossed the room without holding on to anything, but it would be another year before I had the strength to break into a run.

As the end of my stay approached I had my eye on a bonsai tree for my parting gift. The refined little plant had bright green foliage that seemed to float above it like a cloud. School had always been a struggle for me, but in French, in a full body cast, flat on my back, it was all but impossible. I wasn’t fully aware of what a difficult student I must have been until my last day when I asked for the bonsai tree. To my surprise the teacher refused to give it to me. No plant for David because, she said, I didn’t deserve one. I protested bitterly in my American-accented French as my classmates watched, alarmed at the teacher’s breach of protocol. She finally relented but insisted on choosing the plant herself, not me. Reluctantly, she handed over a threeinch cactus with sharp spines that had fared dismally in the Swiss climate. I thought it was dead. Nonetheless, I took the stunted cactus home to Munich, and, as if by some miracle, over the next ten years, it grew—as I did—into a sturdy, six-foot-tall Cereus.

David Ullendorff is the co-founder of Mathnasium, an international chain of more than 1,200 math learning centers worldwide. He also serves on the Board of 826LA .

It Gets Better: A Letter To My 17-Year-Old Self,

Jaime Balboa

Hey Kiddo,

You should know they don’t erase you. And what’s more, I see you. I see you, and I want you to know that your hunches about love and life will change and grow. You do find love and friendship. You build a life for yourself. You walk away from people who confuse love with control and divinity with condemnation. You walk away from them, and it’s all good. Some of them come around; others don’t—but you get well past it all.

It gets better.

I see the practiced happiness in your teenage eyes, hiding fire, and I want you to know that fire is good. Don’t hide it. Let it burn. I see you sorting through the bad advice you were given by people who didn’t know that love is love is love is love—like a sonnet for all of time. Love is love, and love won’t be erased. You will come to learn that and live it as best you can. Take my word for it: you get to have love too, and there’s no biblical verse that can undo that. Remember, they don’t have a heaven to keep you from, nor a hell to put you in.

There’s something else I want to share with you—something I don’t think I ever said to you, at least not then, not when I was 17 years old. Here it is: I love you. Do you hear me? I love you. I love the you that you are and the you that you become. You become a dad, a husband to a husband, and you still have cats in your life. Different cats, but you love them with your whole heart, and you teach that love to your son. Did I mention? It gets better. Don’t wait. Don’t wait to say “I love you” to yourself. Let the love flow, despite the messages you’re getting to the contrary. Those messages dry up and erase themselves in the end. Love is love, kiddo. And you deserve to hear it, to feel it, to live it.

XO, Jaime

Jaime is a teacher, a poet, a father, a husband, open water swimmer, and the executive director of 826LA

The Kachow, Adriel M.

Parched or damp

Cold or sunny

You are always there

Fast as lighting

Bold as lighting

With that crimson red, you are recognizable

You may wonder what changed, what happened

Once I was a kid, now an adult

No longer with the imagination from before, neither the passion

However when I look back at you, I remember Remember your serenity, your eyes, your smile

That smile that never faded and always shone brightly

Those eyes that witnessed my growth

That lighting bolt that flashed the world

Looking back, I miss being with you, miss the innocence from the world

You may have ripped, you may have aged, but you would always be my legendary Mcqueen towel

Adriel. M is a multi-sport student athlete who aspires to become a mechanical engineer. Oftentimes hungry, Adriel will always carry snacks to share with the world. In the ideal world in Adriel’s eyes, everyone would be having food and fun through the competitiveness of sports.

The Physicality of the Unknown,

Elvis B. Rodríguez Vega

Born from the ashes of our predecessors, Screaming in fear upon entry into the vacuum that surrounds us,

Void and dark,

Yet light and loved, Formed by the will of mind, Pushed by the stream of change, Influenced by power systems we don’t understand, Unknowing, Unknowing is a mystery, Unknowing is contemplation, Unknowing is Hope,

To know not what is but could be, Unknowing is curiosity, A venture yet not known, Unknowing is all that could be and is, Unknowing is knowing,

To know that nothing is known is to know everything can be known,

Time is our biggest adversary and our closest companion, Time influences our notions,

Time is the constant march that sets us down our path, To do nothing in time is to pace forward unknowingly, Time is a constraint yet a catalyst, Inhaling the breath of creation, Exhaling the quiet of endings, Weaving the threads of tomorrows unseen, forcing change and sculpting futures from its sands, We know not what tomorrow entails, Yet we hope, Hope is immortal, Hope turns gears and guides time, Hope guides minds, Hope is change, To hope is to know,

To know nothing in this world is everything, To not expect,

To not repent,

To hope is to know that in the bleakness of the void we are the

guiding light we seek so ambitiously,

To light the way for hopelessness,

To share our flame with weary travelers, Hope is with us at the highest peak of every mountain, Hope is with us when we make our bed at the lowest of lows, We fear the unknown in a time of change not knowing what tomorrow has to offer,

We were formed in the unknown and have become the known, Being the known is to hope, Being the Known is to help those in the unknown, Being the known is to be the person needed when we ourselves were lost in the world of the unknown, Knowing comes not from our certainties, but from the embrace of the unknown,

The human condition exceeds us,

From the bashing of waves, we are slowly molded and allowed to be the truest versions of ourselves.

Hello! Elvis B. Rodríguez Vega is a 3rd-year Biology and Philosophy student at UCLA and a lifelong dreamer. Born in Culiacán, Sinaloa, Elvis has come to know the US as his home. These stanzas reflect his thoughts during times of uncertainty, exploring the potential to grow beyond mental limitations. Poetry has always been his go-to form of self-expression. When he is not writing, he loves spending time with his dog, Calcetín, reading, drawing, enjoying jasmine tea, or relaxing at the beach. Each of these passions shapes the person and writer he aspires to be and is.

Lost, Found, But Still Slightly Confused: A College Memoir, Arielle Cunanan

Present Day: 1/1/2041

Mom: “It’s New Year’s, you all know what time it is…time to dig into Arielle’s journal from her college days!”

Daughter: “Mooom, nOOOoooo this is boring. Can’t we do something else.”

Son: “Yeah!”

Mom: “Absolutely not. Now sit.” (She unfolds the letter and begins to read.) *

Entry 1: 9/20/2021

WHO AM I??? WHAT AM I EVEN DOING WITH MY LIFE??

I start college next week, and I haven’t been able to sleep in weeks. What if my roommates are awful? What if I don’t make any friends? And what am I doing with my life?? Right now, I’m premed. But it’s just because my parents want me to be. But what do I wanna be?

Present Day:

Daughter: “Sounds like you had a lot of anxiety.”

Mom: “At your age, I didn’t even know that word existed.”

Daughter: “I know. I’m smart.”

Mom: “Sure, and humble too.”

Son: (on phone)

Entry 2: I just finished my first two weeks in college. It’s been a rollercoaster. I cried for like two days straight when my family left. I also got rejected from every club I applied to. What am I doing wrong? I’m going to sign up for therapy. I feel like I’m losing my mind, thinking too much, and getting nowhere. I think people don’t like me—but also, why do I care so much? When does it get better?

Present Day:

Son: “So…when did it get better?”

Mom with a cheeky smile: “Aha! See you’re interested now!”

Son grumbles: “Whatever.”

Entry 4:

WOAH!! I joined a beginner dance team and it is SO fun. I’ve met the nicest people. We spend every day together practicing. I love waking up every day because it means I get to see them. Is this what true happiness feels like? Also, therapy update: I have anxiety. Didn’t even know that word existed until now. I’m not just going crazy!

Daughter: “Well…that was fast.”

Mom: “It was actually excruciatingly slow for the first 18 years of my life. But now I felt like I’d finally belonged. Dance taught me what passion felt like. And that made me happy.”

Entry 5:

WOW—last quarter was AMAZING! I met incredible friends, and I found dance, which has completely changed my life. I’m also taking this interesting community engagement class. The professor was talking about this analogy with babies floating down a river. The townspeople saw these babies in the river, freaked out at first, but then became experts at saving the babies. No one asked why the babies were floating down the river in the first place. I feel like I woke up from being a robot. I just do things because everyone else is doing the same thing. But I don’t want to follow the crowd anymore. I don’t know what I want to do, but I know I don’t want to be pre-med anymore. It’s interesting, I’ve never felt this excited even though I feel more lost than ever.

Son: “So, you quit pre-med because of babies?”

Daughter: “No genius, she quit because she wasn’t passionate about being pre-med. Keep up.”

Son: “So now what did you do?”

Mom: “I kept chasing that feeling of being passionate wherever it led me.”

Last Entry: Hey Arielle,

You’re about to graduate college in a week. Can you believe it? I’m so proud of everything you’ve done, but I think I’m even prouder of the person you’ve become. I know you want to control what happens next, but you can’t. Maybe it’ll all work out the way you hope. Maybe it won’t. But what I do know is that you’ve learned to have your own back. You’ve stopped worrying about creating the perfect, predictable life path. Instead, you’ve learned how to cope when life doesn’t go as expected. As you close this chapter and move to the next, trust yourself. I’m so proud of where you are, but I’m even more excited about where you’re headed.

Mom: “I charge $200 for that counseling session, thank you very much.”

Daughter: “Pfft. $200? You’d have to pay ME to sit through that again.”

Mom: “Wowwww, the disrespect. That was like top-tier life advice.”

Son: “Yeah, okay, Mom. I’m gonna go play my game now.”

Mom: “You know what, I tried…love you kids.”

Son and Daughter: “Love you too mom.”

(Arielle gently puts the letters back in the box and closes the lid.)

Arielle Cunanan is a 4th-year UCLA student who finally settled on Psychology with a minor in Spanish. While she’s still figuring out her long-term goals, her immediate plans include working at Trader Joe’s, volunteering at the Boys and Girls Club, and traveling during her gap year(s). This was her first time writing something not for school, and she found the experience “so fun.” It was modeled after her family dynamic and real journal entries from college. She hopes this piece resonates with you and serves as a reminder that it does get better.

Writing For a Friend Who Is in Their First Year in the City, Victoria

Finch

It feels impossible because you’re stretching

Because everything you left, you know deep down, you can’t go back to

What you can’t see now is that you’re blooming Slowly, in the dark, inch by inch

You turn back to see the miles you’ve moved But only much, much later

Right now, it is deep and dark and unnavigable

You waste days in bed wondering, questioning every choice you’ve made, wracked with shame, indecision, regret You can’t possibly see the greater purpose because you’re not quite ready to.

You’re in preparation

That sweaty, solitary, sad state of metamorphosis

So let me ease your mind for now

All the universe asks of you in this moment is to rest. To observe.

To experiment safely, and then maybe a bit recklessly, and then in a way that challenges you into your authority—into your purpose Even when you’re guaranteed to stumble and fail

And when you look back a year from now, the world, your world, will have inevitably changed. For better, or for worse…or for you.

That’s what you will see after a year in the city. The world changed in your favor because you stayed; you showed up.

You’ll find joy at the most unexpected moment. When you’ve lost any expectation of it.

And you’ll find strangers who become friends who make

you ask new questions about it all.

You’ll find yourself in spaces you never would have thought to find yourself in,

And in those moments, you’ll feel a kind of nebulous appreciation for this new kind of newness.

Your unpredictable, unimaginable, phoenix year.

Victoria is a transplant to LA by way of Nashville, TN who would primarily describe herself as a documentarian and teacher. You can find her at the beach with surfboard, yard sale film camera, and book in tow. She joined 826LA this year as a volunteer and hopes to work with them for many years to come.

A Slight Change of Plans,

Rozanna Baranets

I was going to be a war reporter. What could be cooler? I’d get to travel, write articles, meet interesting people doing important things, and let the world know about all the dangerous things going on around them while they were on their comfy couch. I’d wave to my mom when I was on TV and meet a handsome camera guy, then we’d be this power couple that everyone would hire because we were so awesome together. Sweet!

A few years into college, war reporter started to feel sort of… dangerous. People die doing that stuff, what was I thinking? You know what’s better? Travel writer. I could still travel, I could still write, but instead of interviewing the heads of war-torn countries, I’d talk with people who farmed salmon in Seattle or ran noodle restaurants in Hong Kong or started the world’s largest bunny museum in—wherever there are a lot of bunnies. Travel guides would pay my way because I was so awesome, and beg me for articles about whatever I wanted to talk about. Ahh, that’s better!

After college, this happened instead: local TV journalist. I moved to Japan after studying the language for six years and got hired by a Tokyo TV station who wanted bilingual employees. Man, it was hard work and man, do the Japanese work long hours! Five years of that left me wiped out and burned out. I had to say goodbye to Japan and all the delicious ramen. Plus, I missed my mom.

Do you want to know what happened after marriage (to a computer guy, not a cameraman), two children, and eleven years of being a stay-at-home mom? I metamorphosized into the thing I think I was really meant to be all along. I started working part time at my children’s middle school library, and after several years of working alongside the nicest librarian ever, I was asked to run the library myself after she retired. A librarian! Me! I told her I would never, ever be able to run the place myself. I told her it was too challenging, and that I was a better helper than leader. How do I answer when someone asks me for a book recommendation? How should I know what kids want to read!?!?

Thirteen years later, the library is now by far the happiest place on earth for me. I call it my little corner of the universe, my fiefdom.

Talking to kids about what they like to read is my favorite part of my day. I love buying the books that they suggest, I love having guest authors come and talk to my peeps, I love it when teachers need help deciding a book for their class to read. A lot of super shy kids come and hang out there too, and it’s a happy moment for me (and them) when I remember their name and start talking to them about what they like reading.

I feel like you should always be thinking about what sort of things you want to do in life. What kind of people you want to meet and what kind of positive impact you want to have on the world around you. But you know what you don’t have to do? Decide one thing and do it forever and ever. Changing and switching up your life is so exciting! A librarian is definitely not a war reporter, but I’m so glad I always kept my mind open to new things and kept trying. It’s crazy what I would have missed out on had I not.

Rozanna Baranets has been the Library Technician at South Pasadena Middle School for 13 years, but it feels more like maybe seven. She loves historical fiction but not fantasy, so she has never read Harry Potter. She is totally OK with that. She doesn’t use much Japanese anymore other than to translate the occasional manga title.

Calico,

Mike Dunbar

Jack woke in a cold sweat. The room was freezing, the air conditioner humming. “Damn Teddy,” he muttered, shivering. His best friend, snoring in the other bunk, had insisted on setting the unit to the lowest possible temperature: “We already paid for it,” Teddy had said. “Might as well use it!” Jack’s sleep had been fitful, disturbed by strange dreams of brown eyes that turned into the taillights of a car headed out of town. Eyes he could not forget. Annie’s eyes.

Jack looked out the window and saw a full moon. Its light washed the landscape in an otherworldly silver hue. The town was a cluster of shadows against the foot of a mountain. Above, written in large white rocks, was the word “CALICO.”

Jack stepped outside. On the porch, a black, scruffy dog was waiting. She had appeared out of nowhere and been following them since their arrival. He and Teddy had dubbed her “Ghost Dog.” She trotted down the steps and up the hill to the cemetery. Jack followed. At its center stood a large wooden cross. Jack sat beneath it. Ghost Dog curled up on a grave nearby. It was then Jack noticed the small cardboard box in his hands.

Jack lifted the lid. Inside was a collection of knicknacks: a tiki bar napkin with a sinking ship doodle, a penny smashed on train tracks, a postcard from Atlantic City that read “Get well soon,” a broken watch stuck at 12:03—the last time he had seen Annie. This was the detritus that had collected in the corner of where their two lives had come together all too briefly. Now it was all he had left of her. Teddy had dragged him out here to forget her, but this box was too heavy with memories to leave behind. After a while, Jack closed the lid. Back in the cabin, he put on a second sweater and attempted to sleep.

The next morning, Jack picked at his breakfast in the saloon while Teddy devoured a burrito. “We gotta hurry, or we’ll miss it,” Teddy said between bites. The saloon was empty. Everyone had gone to watch the race. Another one of Teddy’s ideas. The burro run was to be the culmination of their weekend’s festivities.

They arrived just as the race was starting.

As Jack moved through the crowd, he lost sight of Teddy. An announcer with a bullhorn explained the rules: “Alright runners! You and your burro have to make it around the town and back to this riverbed. You have a 15-foot lead rope. No riding and nothing that would harm the burro. Anything else goes. Good luck!”

Ten teams were lined up along the bank. To Jack’s surprise, Teddy was one of the runners. The race started. The runners tried to coax, command, and even carry their burros across the dry riverbed. Jack watched in amusement as Teddy tugged on his lead, unable to get his burro to move.

The race dragged on as runners dragged their burros around the course. The sun was blistering. The excitement of the crowd dissipated in the heat. Groups peeled off in silence, heading back to the coolness of the bar. Teddy’s burro still hadn’t moved. Exasperated and exhausted, Teddy plopped down in the dirt. Watching him, Jack suddenly felt the weight of the weekend. He was tired, hungry, and overheated. He wanted to leave too. Why wouldn’t the burro just budge?

Just then, Teddy glanced up at Jack. Covered in sweat and dirt, Teddy flashed him a sheepish grin and shrugged. He called, “I need a drink.”

For the first time that weekend, Jack smiled. “It’s on me.”

That night was their last in Calico. Jack and Teddy sat on the porch. “How about a fire?” Teddy suggested.

“Sounds good. I’ll need something to warm me up before heading into that freezer,” Jack chuckled, nodding at the cabin.

Jack leaned the pre-cut logs against each other like a teepee. Underneath, he stuffed scraps of old newspaper and dried pine needles. Then he walked back to the porch for his lighter. Teddy looked at him for a moment.

“Got everything you need?”

The box sat beneath a chair. Jack picked it up and nodded.

Jack lit the pyre. He watched as the box went up in flames. Teddy

came down from the porch and stood next to him. Together, they watched the fire in silence.

The next morning, they packed the truck to leave. Jack spotted Ghost Dog walking down the main street. He followed her to say a final goodbye. She led him to a metal plaque at the town entrance:

“Buried on this site, On Dec. 13, 1981, Is a time capsule, To be opened in the Year 2031, the 150th year of Calico’s birth.”

“Only a few years away,” Jack thought.

He patted Ghost Dog and walked back to the truck. Teddy was already in the driver’s seat, wearing his new cowboy hat backwards.

“Ready to go?”

Jack smiled again. Maybe they would come back to see the time capsule opened. But they never did.

Mike Dunbar is the Programs & Operations Manager at 826LA in Mar Vista. He believes the opportunity to freely explore books at a young age can spark a lifelong passion for learning, and cites as proof his own childhood of Saturday afternoons at the local library. Mike holds an MA in English Literature from Cal State Northridge, where he explored the connections between the aerospace industry he grew up around and the science fiction he loved as a kid and still loves. His favorite book about learning is Education of a Wandering Man, which he considers a love letter to reading.

The Last Hurrah of Bob’s Bodacious Carnival,

Aaron J. Bendele

For 49 years, Bob’s Bodacious Carnival provided rides, games, and amusement on the Coney Island boardwalk. But on this brisk autumn morning, a crew of burly men (and one woman) have assembled with dump trucks and backhoes outside the padlocked gates.

A middle-aged man dressed in a purple tuxedo uses pliers to clip a hand-painted sign from the gate that proclaims: “Last Day! Come say goodbye!”

It falls down, revealing another sign: “COMING SOON: Coney Island Lofts and Residences.” There’s an artist’s rendering of a faux-vintage brick building, with retail space on the ground floor and floor-to ceiling windows above.

The purple tux man unlocks the padlock and opens the left gate. When he touches the second gate, he pauses before sliding it open. He reluctantly gestures for the crew to enter. The backhoes rev their engines and roll forward, spewing exhaust smoke as they crush paper soda containers and popcorn boxes. The demolition begins.

The man stands in the midway, witnessing the crew tear down old cotton candy, hot dog on a stick, and elephant ear vendor stalls. He fidgets with his handlebar mustache as he surveys the demo. Tears slide down his ruddy cheeks. He pulls out a multi-colored silk handkerchief, dabbing at them. He’s looking at the demolition, but his gaze is much farther away.

The female construction worker approaches him, breaking his reverie. “Bobby, there’s something I need to show you.” She leads Bobby to the back of the carnival where another worker sweeps grime off of the threshold of an old Airstream camper. This was the carnival office. As they approach, the worker wipes the last bits of schmutz off of the concrete, revealing an inscription:

Bob, Monica, and Bobby 1985

When he sees the engraving, Bobby’s eyes light up for the first time that day. “I need a jackhammer!” he exclaims.

The female construction worker puts two fingers in her mouth and whistles loudly. Within minutes, a brawny man jackhammers the stone into golf ball-sized chunks. Bobby gets on his knees. “Give me a hand, will ya, Pam?”

They scatter pieces with abandon. A group of curious orangevested men encircle Bobby and Pam.

At last, Bobby’s fingers graze a rusty metal cash box. He lifts it from the dirt with a mix of reverence and elation. The palm of his hand slides over the top, then he pushes dirt away from the front latch with his fingernail. He gently blows away years of Brooklyn dirt and sand from the mechanism.

“What’s in the box?” asks Pam, wiping sweat off her brow with a mustard yellow hankie.

“Something wonderful,” whispers Bobby, to himself.

He flips open the lid. Pam leans in. There’s a faint odor. “Is that Brut?” she asks. Nestled inside are the treasures of a middle school boy: a Casio watch with a dead battery, a magic wand from the Sears catalog, and a bottle of Brut cologne. Gaffer’s tape covers the label and “Bobby’s Magic Potion” is scrawled in Magic Marker. A white envelope is tucked in the back of the box. Written on the front in Monica’s neat script is a line from her favorite movie: “Remember, no man is a failure who has friends.” There are several faded snapshots inside of Bobby growing up in the carnival, surrounded by friends, with his parents, etc…all sunny smiles and carefree days in the amusement park.

Bobby tucks the photos and envelope in his breast pocket. Casting his tearful eyes up into the Coney Island sunrise, he opens the Brut and anoints his neck.

This stirs something inside Bobby. A transformation begins. Bobby looks more youthful, and…smaller.

A man reaches out for the bottle, so Bobby passes it to him. The man dabs his neck, and then passes it on. The next guy does the same, and so on until finally Pam anoints herself.

Later on, it is dusk, and the only attraction left standing is the old Merry-Go-Round. Suddenly, the lights flicker on, and calliope music begins playing. The old horses creak under the weight of a dozen screaming boys (and one girl), as they take a final ride… rising up and down and spinning in a fabulous blur of oversized orange vests, hard hats, and giggles.

Pint-sized Bobby stands tiptoe at the controls, beaming as he catches a faint whiff of Brut in the salt air. If this is the last hurrah of Bob’s Bodacious Carnival, then he’s going to let this ride go on for just a bit longer.

Originally from Ohio and Chicago, Aaron has called Silver Lake home for almost ten years. He works as an educator. Outside of school, he has several creative projects in development, with past credits in writing, acting, and photography. He’s a recovering long-form comedy improvisor, and an unabashed lover of genre films and Skinny Pop. He loves to travel. This year, his personal goal is to give back to his community through volunteer work and advocacy.

Blushing Bookshelf, Jaime Fox

A Los Angeles transplant by way of Pittsburgh, PA, Jaime Fox has been volunteering with 826LA since 2014. Having no formal art training, Jaime is a self proclaimed “professional doodler.” Like most 80s kids/90s teens, she was raised on television and movies therefore her illustrations (and entire personality) are heavily influenced by The Simpsons, classic Looney Tunes shorts, and Disney animated films.

Time Capsule, Pedro R Estrada

Small, an unassuming box

Little wonders await inside

It’s hiding on a bookshelf

Timeless memories live inside

Take it from the bookshelf

Put it on the table

See what’s inside

One side reads, 826LA 2024, open with care

No other writing on it

I snap the lid open

And take a look inside

I see tiny items

Notes, Toys, Photos, and Art

Live inside

A letter lies on top

It reads

Dear reader,

Congratulations, You’ve Found Our Time Capsule

Part II

A Piece of Today

Gateway 826, Aaron Bendele

Forever, Nico O.

Selected from We Are Not Tied Down By Time

Beginning, middle end or whatever happens I am always me

What Makes Me Happy, Hadley Glennon

Many things make me happy. My family and close friends make me so happy that sometimes when I haven’t seen them in a while I cry. My dog makes me happy when I get back from a long trip or when I am crying he snuggles up to me and it makes me crack a smile. My favorite food, ramen, makes me smile because it reminds me of my school. I love education so I think that’s why I think of it but positively I think of all school cooking class. The season of fall makes me happy because it reminds me of Thanksgiving. I love Thanksgiving because I get to see all my family and that makes me happy. All around there are many things that make me happy. I love that.

Hadley is ten years old. She loves soccer and reading. Hadley usually can be found playing soccer, painting, or with her face in a book.

Brian Sonia-Wallace

I’m Not the Boss of Anybody But My Own Joy,

When it does not show up on time, I take it aside gently. This is a lifetime appointment, no one is getting fired. Even so, my joy is nervous. Sweaty & excitable. I remind my joy what my 20’s taught me: it doesn’t have to happen all at once. On time or not, you show up. Use sick days only for roller coasters or the ocean. I’m becoming a Karen about loving the world. I always want the manager: to spoon the manager, to lie naked in moonlight & dream up schedules, budget laughter to last all year. Another customer arrives. I squeeze joy’s hand & send them back out front. As they walk through the doorway, I shout after them something that’s important to say, even when—especially when— it’s not true: Hey! I believe in you.

Letter to a Minotaur From a 4th Grader,

Brian Sonia-Wallace

Dear Minotaur,

Is it hard to live alone in your labyrinth?

Did you know I’m half Jewish, so we’re both half something?

Red is my favorite color, too. Would you attack me on sight if we met?

I would love you anyway, you know.

Brian Sonia-Wallace has been called a “creative genius” by the LA Department of Cultural Affairs and “disappointingly normal” by the New York Times. His major work includes The Poetry of Strangers (essays), two chapbooks of poems, a dozen texts for choral songs, and writing in American Poets, Rolling Stone, and The Guardian. Brian is the fourth Poet Laureate of West Hollywood and an Academy of American Poets Fellow, as well as a Writer-in-Residence for Amtrak, Mall of America, Dollar Shave Club, the LA LGBT Center, the City of Los Angeles, and the National Parks. More at rentpoet.com & @ rentpoet.

Me and You, Ignacio G.R.

Selected from I Miss You, August

I’m like you, you’re like me. I love you and you love me. I look like you and you look like me. Today I wear the same hat as you. I love you, other twin.

Hydrangeas for Daniela,

Hailey L.R.

Through all the years, you’ve been my guide, A steady hand, always by my side; In laughter, in tears, you never stray, A constant light, each and every day Your wisdom is endless, your heart is kind, In your presence, peace I always find; When the world feels heavy, and skies are gray, You lift me up and show the way Through every storm and gentle breeze, You bring me strength, you bring me ease; And in your smile, I see the grace Of all the love we both embrace Being with you is pure delight, Your company feels so warm and right; My older sister, my trusted friend, I know with you, this bond won’t end

Hailey L.R. is someone who always finds inspiration in others, whether it’s a family member or even someone she’s never met—even if they’re fictional. She enjoys listening to all kinds of music and chatting with her friends about whatever’s on her mind. When she’s feeling down, there’s one person she always turns to for comfort: her beloved older sister.

To My World, Jesus O.

I give her some of my food, though hunger stays with me, Because her smile fills places food never could. She fills the rooms with echoes of her laughter, Where jokes bloom wildly like untamed flowers. I buy her small gifts, no reason, no special occasion, Like the unicorn necklace she kept for days, Holding it close to her heart. Not for thanks or praise, just to see her eyes light up Like the best part of me.

I stand like a wall when darkness draws near, A quiet force for her doubts and fears, I stand beside her like a guardian angel, Guarding her heart with all my might. We stumble through nonsense, we trip over fun, Hours lost to laughter until the day’s done. But when tears fall, I don’t tease, I offer comfort, soft and at ease. I offer a hand,

The kindness you need to help you stand. I don’t wear honesty like a badge to display, It’s in what I do, not just what I say. A bond unshaken, forever true, No matter what, I’ll stand with you. Loyal in silence, loyal in sound, Rooted like trees, firm in the ground. Respect isn’t spoken, it’s carried with grace. Unshaken by time, unbroken by space. She’s more than my sister; she’s part of my soul, The piece that makes my heart complete. In her eyes, I see all I hope to be, And in her heart, I find the best of me. Through every stumble, every rise, every fall, I’d give her my everything, expecting nothing at all. Because no title, no words, could ever cover how honored I am to simply be her brother. For Vanessa, my heart, my world, The piece of the puzzle that makes me whole.

Jesus has a deep passion for math and science but views writing as a necessary challenge rather than a pleasure.

Silent But Deadly, Demi

Grace F.

Selected from I Miss You, August

She may look innocent but she is deadly she looks calm but only because she has to.

The Emerald Lie and The Yellow Brick Mirage, Salma Hafaiedh

Just this morning I woke up in Oz Thankfully, away from the twisters and tornadoes of chaos

I stepped out of my house, my comfort and realized I committed murder

Like my house, it hit me

I didn’t belong here with the Munchkins

The Good Witch noticed my slippers, once silver now stained ruby red and sent me down an unfamiliar road of yellow bricks

To prove I’m useful, to prove I’m good, to kill the next witch

Should I go back to Kansas? Because the Good Witch did not care

The Scarecrow was ignorant to me The Tinman cursed me heartlessly The Cowardly Lion feared me Should I go back to Kansas now?

Despite the pain from my ankles, I made it to the Emerald City, thinking the people there would see me more than just my shoes

Then I finally took off my green-colored goggles and saw this glimmering city for what it was: cash stacked with the Wizard’s lies

So please, Wicked Witch here’s your bruised slippers You defied gravity once, we can do that together I lost Kansas

You lose your silver slippers Find a country, or better yet Let’s find home

Salma Hafaiedh is a high school student who is very funny, despite her horror in a lot of her short stories. As for poems, however, she took more of twists of classics or golden shovelings.

Daca Rescinded—So—Leap With Joy at the Arrival of Next Year,

Berenice Limeta

daca rescinded and my dreams held within leap with joy at the arrival of next year

& so i say let it be because what else can i be but a headline: daca rescinded

so there i go turning & running & turning & running because one must leap with joy at the arrival of next year

but all i want to do is cry because my future pushed itself within—within a simple headline daca rescinded

so where do i go? what becomes of me? what of me? what part of me?

when others leap with joy at the arrival of next year

but dreams advance so let hope cling to a reversal in 2017’s headline daca rescinded leap with joy at the arrival of next year

Berenice is an English major at UCLA. She is a nontraditional student and hopes to end the negative stigma surrounding community college. She believes poetry is the way to do that by writing personal experiences that reflect growth. Her favorite writers are Sylvia Plath and Joan Didion. During her free time, she goes on walks and destresses by eating chocolates.

In The Middle of Boyle Heights, M.A.

Selected from Riquezas de Mis Raíces

In the middle, I stand, between two sisters dear, In a firm household, where pains and fears adhere.

Feeling lost in the chaos, overlooked and unseen, Struggling to find my place, in between.

I watch as my older sister bears the weight,

Of responsibilities and burdens, of an unfair fate.

While my younger sister seeks refuge in dreams, I carry the silence, the unheard screams.

Our home echoes with secrets untold, Hearts wounded, stories left cold.

But in the midst of the shattered, I find strength, In the bond we share, no matter the length.

As a Hispanic girl, familia is everything we hold dear, A thread that binds through laughter and tears.

I draw from our heritage, our roots deep and strong, Finding solace in the melodies of our shared song.

As I grow I start to know what it means to be close.

It’s not just about what shows in our appearance

With families it’s about who knows you.

Though brokenness surrounds us I cling to hope

That we’ll weather through the storms and learn to cope. For in the midst of darkness a light will shine

Guiding us forward through the trials of time.

So here I am the middle child resilient and truly navigating the struggles Finding my breakthrough.

With my sisters by my side

We’ll rise above

In our firm household bound by love.

Outside of that house I feel judged

The streets may be rough

The walls may be tall

But unity and strength will conquer all. In the face of hatred, we rise above With love and understanding. We spread our wings and soar like a dove Boyle Heights, a place of resilience and pride Where struggles are faced side by side. Discrimination may lurk in the shadows of fear But we stand together, our vision clear. So let the world know, we will not be defined By the color of our skin or the labels assigned Boyle Heights shining beacon of hope Where unity and love will help us cope.

M.A. is a student at Roosevelt High School.

Suburban Sun, Antonio M.

Selected from I Miss You, August Saturday, 3pm.

Mom was crafting flavors. I was dressing dolls. One thing unique in this plentiful suburban sun is the flexibility the neighborhood offers.

Mom says we’re heading out in five minutes. I’m diligent in prepping myself. Combing, nonchalantly setting hairspray. When those fumes are fruity, and outside dad is mad with his own, diesel.

Not shabby, fixed in a jiffy.

We drove and ran, in threshold to doing our thing. Setting the tablecloth, grilling and pulling out edibles. And they just pandered toward my surroundings.

Seeing the boundaries, a daughter like me reveals she is bald, multitasking to today’s time, but she still has playtime. Timelessly getting to know others. Remotely close to getting her own upside.

Youth.

Recognize Who You Are, D.C.

Selected from Riquezas de Mis Raíces

Who am I? Who are we? I find myself asking that question all the time.

I have the skin color of a Latino but don’t speak any Spanish so does that not make me Latino?

I listen to my family all around me and they all speak Spanish and I’m the only one who doesn’t understand it, does that not make me Hispanic?

Just because I don’t speak the language of my people does not mean that I am not a part of my culture.

I can be a different color from the rest of my family and I am still a part of that culture.

It does not matter the color of my skin but the blood running through my veins.

The blood in your body makes you who you are, not the color of your skin but the blood that runs through you and your family.

I am a part of two ethnicities and I find myself asking the question of which one I’m more a part of.

I have the blood of a Latino but the skin color of a black person who doesn’t know what culture he should fully embrace.

My Latino culture is very different from my Black side of my culture. From different languages the way that we celebrate holidays or parties.

My Hispanic family throws me a big party with lots of food and loud music.

My Black family throws a little barbecue and we swim in the pool and I get lots of money.

In those situations where I am doing things differently like parties and holidays makes me think that I need to just pick a side and stick with that my whole life.

But who said you need to embrace only one side of your culture?

I have embraced both sides of my culture and turned it into my own big community with both sides of my family, Black and Hispanic. Both sides of the family joined together as one, instead of me having to choose a side of my ethnicity to identify myself as a person.

Who am I? Who are we? Who are you?

D.C. is a Student at Roosevelt High School.

Trying On Womanhood for Size:

It’s She

AND They,

Ariadne Makridakis Arroyo

Imagine you’re bagging groceries at your Ralph’s shift. The guy who hired you is on the register. The assistant store manager hovers down your neck and stares down your shirt. He’s almost so close you can feel his breath on your neck, or is that your own cycling through your surgical mask? You pick up the pace, but the line wraps around the aisle past what your vision can see. The assistant store manager opens his mouth as a family leaves with their bags of food, “If I paid your phone bill, would you be my sugar baby?” You don’t say anything and roll your eyes, hoping the mask hides the scowl that has set into your jaw like stone but also hoping that it doesn’t. The cashier laughs. You say it’s your cart hour and escape.

Now imagine you’ve got your first “real” job, the kind where you get paid holidays and health benefits. Plus, you get to sit. Gone are the days of running around the grocery store parking lot to chase down stray carts and outrun creepy bosses who like to ask you how old you are, especially the one who pretends to fall and touch your back to steady himself, claiming he’s “such a clumsy old man.” In fact, the most people ever perceive of you is from the neck up. Finally, you made it. The bare minimum.

Let’s get the timeline straight: in around a year or so, you go from woman (or object) to picture on a screen (nebulous and 2D), but, of course, it’s not so rudimentary. The world has categorized you as “she,” and you’ve inserted the “they,” an expansion. But the extension doesn’t click for everyone. Gender perception is a much more complicated process. Somewhere down the line though, you became I. And the beautiful thing about that is I keep be-coming.

Like many of my friends and members of the queer community, I started rethinking my relationship to gender during the pandemic due to isolation. I was not put in many situations or social gatherings where I performed womanhood (i.e. clubs, parties, etc). This was also when I worked at Ralph’s where I often did

physical labor usually considered masculine, including pushing, heavy lifting, and stocking shelves. At the same time I was sexually harassed daily, my queer friends championed me as “swoll.”

When I changed pronouns, questions like So, are you non-binary? or Does this mean you’re not a woman anymore? came up a lot. Truthfully, I don’t know! I still heavily relate to womanhood, as this has been my experience for most, if not all, my life, so I’m not completely divested from it. Rather, I started embracing she/they because I wanted to express how at tension I am with womanhood.

I still see a lot of beauty in femininity and the power that “She” holds in queer spaces as someone who is femme. At the same time, I also see how “woman” and all its expectations and limitations are restrictive. And I’m not in the business of being restricted. Womanhood is a part of my story, yes, but it is not all that I am, will ever be, or experience. I think she/they perfectly encompasses this tension: she is still there, and they is a pulling away from, a messy, estranged process of untethering.

I also see she/they as inherently resistive to the womanhood that patriarchy has construed to benefit certain genders over others. To me, there is a difference between the sexual violence I’ve been subjected to because of my womanhood and the womanhood I’ve embraced despite those traumatic experiences. The transition from girlhood to womanhood often signifies being experienced by a man (consensually or not). But what of my own desires and transgressions? What of girlhood in transition, uninterrupted, womanhood in excess, in monstrosity? What does womanhood mean to me in defiance of whiteness, patriarchy, and colonization? These are questions I seek to twist and turn in my mouth, especially as a writer. And if I were to rewrite my origin story, I wouldn’t be assigned female at birth. I’d come out of my mother’s womb something unrecognizable: a monstrous, formless entity capable of molding myself to size. So yes, it’s not she or they, but she AND they.

Born and raised by Greek and Guatemalan immigrants, Ariadne Makridakis Arroyo (she/they) is a Los Angeles-based writer and arts administrator who grew up in New Orleans, Louisiana. They completed their Bachelor’s degree in Critical Theory & Social Justice at Occidental College in 2020. Her work has been featured in Latin@ Literatures, Tasteful Rude, and Acentos Review, among others. They have been named the 2025 LGBTQIA+ residency fellow with The Sundress Academy for the Arts. Currently, Ariadne’s work centers queer, feminist, and Latine perspectives in a way that explores the crossroads of radical joy, sexuality, and ancestral healing.

Christine J. Ko, MD

Barbie Is Fun, America Ferrara Is Real, and I Want More,

Mattel hugely capitalized on Barbie, a breakout summer hit of 2023.1 I have always loved Barbie, and yet her perfection reflects almost nothing about my life as a Korean American girl who dreamed of being a doctor. Of course, my Asian parents were in full support of that dream, but they also off-handedly commented when I was in high school that my gender would be a problem, saying, “It’s too bad she is female because she could achieve a lot more if she were male.” I hated hearing it, but the gender barrier is real and should not be ignored.

As spoken by America Ferrera in Barbie, “It is challenging to be a woman.”2 And it helps to have dolls and escapism and silly songs. When Barbie says she wants to be the inventor, she doesn’t want to be made, but instead be the maker, I want to tell her that she was right, earlier in the movie. She had it right that Barbie has made a difference for many of the girls who played with her, like America Ferrera’s character and me. Me PLUS Barbie–that was the fun of it–she was plastic, and she could easily conquer any challenge.

When I played with Barbie, there was no gender bias. Barbie could get any job she wanted, she could be anything she wanted; there was no one to give her any subtle or overt message that her blondeness or gender were barriers. In the real world, gender bias is prevalent, through seemingly innocuous words, including being addressed as “love” or being asked to make tea or coffee.3 Even worse, one very beautiful woman was fired because her boss felt her attractiveness was a threat to his marriage, and the Iowa

1 Stewart, James B. “Mattel’s Windfall from “Barbie.”” The New York Times, 7 Sept. 2023, www. nytimes.com/2023/09/07/business/barbie-movie-mattel-windfall.html.

² Burack, Emily. “Read America Ferrera’s Powerful Monologue in Barbie.” Town & Country, 5 Aug. 2023, www.townandcountrymag.com/leisure/arts-and-culture/a44725030/america-ferrerabarbie-full-monologue-transcript/.

3 “Gender Bias in the Workplace: Women More than Twice as Likely to Be Asked to Make Tea or about Their Kids, than Men.” News.samsung.com , news.samsung.com/uk/gender-bias-in-theworkplace-women-more-than-twice-as-likely-to-be-asked-to-make-tea-or-about-their-kids-thanmen.

Supreme Court ruled in favor of the male boss’ decision. 4

In addition to gender discrimination, mothers are often bearing the brunt of childcare responsibility. 5 Hilary Clinton made mainstream the African proverb, “It takes a village to raise a child.” 6 Most of us no longer live in a village, and the US has one of the highest costs of childcare among all nations. Despite high costs, there are not even enough childcare spots. 7

I was lucky to have an excellent, local daycare, within walking distance of my workplace, when my children were babies and toddlers. I also am grateful that the cost was within my budget and that it was pre-COVID (without all the concerns for infection and potential daycare closures). Yet I know from personal experience, despite having regular steady childcare, that it is stressful to be a working parent8 and juggle the needs of the workplace and your child(ren), even more so if there are any special needs.9 A mother’s own personal needs often come in a distant last. 10

Undervaluing childcare undervalues working parents, especially mothers. System changes are necessary, as individuals can only do so much. State governments have been stepping up to extend and increase childcare funding so that all children, regardless of

4 Barnett, Rosalind C. “Being “Too Beautiful” Becomes On-Job Liability – Women’s ENews.” Women’s ENews, 31 July 2013, womensenews.org/2013/07/being-too-beautiful-becomes-jobliability/. Accessed 16 May 2025.

5 Haines, Julia. “Gender Reveals: Data Shows Disparities in Child Care Roles.” U.S. News & World Report, 16 May 2023, www.usnews.com/news/health-news/articles/2023-05-11/genderreveals-data-shows-disparities-in-child-care-roles.

6 Hillary Rodham Clinton, and Marla Frazee. It Takes a Village New York, Simon & Schuster Books For Young Readers, 2017.

7 World Economic Forum. “The European Sting Is Your Democratic, Independent and Top Quality Political Newspaper Specialized in European Union News. Unique Features: ISting & Harry StingThe European Sting - Critical News & Insights on European Politics, Economy, Foreign Affairs, Business & Technology - Europeansting.comThese Countries Have the Highest Childcare Costs in the World.” The European Sting - Critical News & Insights on European Politics, Economy, Foreign Affairs, Business & Technology - Europeansting.com, 19 July 2023, europeansting.com/2023/07/19/these-countries-have-the-highest-childcare-costs-in-the-world/. Accessed 16 May 2025.

8 Jr, Tom Huddleston. “66% of Working Parents Suffer from Burnout—Here’s How to Manage That “Spillover,” Says Stanford Sociologist.” CNBC www.cnbc.com/2023/03/03/how-workingparents-can-fight-burnout-stanford-sociologist-marianne-cooper.html.

9 Ridout, Annie. “Raising a Disabled Child Creates Employment Challenges You Might Never Have Considered.” Forbes, 30 May 2019,

10 https://www.facebook.com/parents. “No, Moms: It’s Not Selfish to Make Yourself a Priority.” Parents, 2017, www.parents.com/moms-make-yourself-a-priority-5293970. Accessed 16 May 2025.

location or socioeconomic status, have access to good care.11

Women have made great strides in the workplace.12 The US labor force is about 47% women, with about the same percentage of women in unions.13 Studies like Women in the Workplace highlight necessary changes for women to receive better support in the workplace, including tracking gender differences, holding leaders accountable, and providing healthcare and caregiving benefits.14

In Barbie, supportive relationships are key. Together, we need to call out and address system inequalities. The more we speak out as individuals and groups, the more our collective experiences will be validated and promote change.

Christine J. Ko, MD is a Public Voices Fellow with the OpEd Project and serves as a Professor at Yale University where she has been practicing dermatology and dermatopathology for over fifteen years. She is also the author of the book, How to Improve Doctor-Patient Connection: Using Psychology to Optimize Healthcare Interactions.

11 “What Happens When States No Longer Have Federal Pandemic Child Care Dollars?” Pew.org, 21 Mar. 2024, www.pewtrusts.org/en/research-and-analysis/articles/2024/03/21/what-happenswhen-states-no-longer-have-federal-pandemic-child-care-dollars.

1² Yellen, Janet. “The History of Women’s Work and Wages and How It Has Created Success for Us All.” Brookings, The Brookings Institution, May 2020,

13 “Working Women: A Snapshot | U.S. Department of Labor Blog.” Blog.dol.gov, 28 Feb. 2022, blog.dol.gov/2022/02/28/working-women-a-snapshot.

14 “Women in the Workplace 2022: The Full Report.” Lean In, 2022, leanin.org/women-in-theworkplace/2022/were-in-the-midst-of-a-great-breakup.

Dilation,

Mateo Balboa Presner

It was dark. The mud was as dark as oil, the rain falling as if a higher being were dumping water upon the surface of this world. While there wasn’t a single city or sign of urbanization anywhere, the jungle was loud. Crickets chirping, water flowing, wind blowing, boots thumping on the wet mud as John ran through the jungle. No other type of person would be able to see anything here, for the only night lights were the twin moons in the sky. He could smell his prey amidst all the other aromas of the jungle. Barely. He could make out some fruit on a tree he was approaching at around fifty miles per hour. He made it out to be a tree of sun berries. He took out his matte black tactical hunting knife and cut off a small branch of them to eat. He spit out the small seeds of each one as he ate them. A sweet sour taste greeted his tongue from the berries. After he was done, he plucked many of them from the tree, and put them in a medium sized section of his brown, old, beat up looking leather satchel. This satchel contained different rubber containers of herbal concoctions, with different purposes, and general survival items, like matches, a flare gun, and also a throwable tent. After he ate the berries, he felt rejuvenated, and his mild soreness went away. Red lightning struck a tree fifty feet to the left. When he looked back forward again, he saw the paw prints of the Webbed Bear he’d been hunting. He needed this bear dead, despite how much he admired it. He needed its fur to have a more protective and warm layer during night activities, but it had him wondering if he even needed it after all the effort he was putting in. The fur of the bear would keep him warm, and its webbed wings between its paws would almost make him able to glide like Batman. Without soaking up any rain or liquids though. The teeth of the Webbed Bear were extremely dense with collagen inside of the iron dense outer layer of them. He wanted to use some of the molars to make different concoctions for his log cabin and satchel with the collagen in the bear. He suddenly stopped running. Inches from his feet, was mud, but filled with crude oil. John let out an annoyed grunt and began climbing a tree nearby. Once he was around 30 feet up from the ground, he opened his satchel and took out two makeshift grappling hooks. He then closed the satchel and fastened it tighter to his body. Since they weren’t automatic, he had to swing one of them around like a lasso, make sure it landed on a strong part of a tree, and then swing from it. As he was swinging from tree

to tree, he could feel each individual muscle fiber stretching and contracting. From his delts and lats for throwing the hooks to the next tree, and his obliques and legs, to carry his momentum, biceps for pulling himself on the hooks, and his abdominals to maintain balance. This was life right here. The rain pouring, lightning striking, hair wet, adrenaline rushing through his body, the sweet sour taste of the berries still in his mouth, and the wind blowing against his body from mother nature and from swinging through the trees. He emptied his mind of everything but two things; his goal, and these sensations he was feeling. He could smell the scent of the Webbed bear getting ever so slightly stronger as he swung in the trees. Whenever the scent began to get weaker, he would have to backtrack, and try a slightly different direction. This angered him, because he could only suspect that as he did this, the webbed bear could be getting further and further away every time he had to change course.

Mateo Balboa Presner is a sixteen-year-old junior at Venice high school in Los Angeles, California, as of 2025. He likes to workout, go to the beach, cook, spend time with his friends, sleep with his two cats (Pitch and Otis), and have a good time. This piece is an excerpt from his novelin-progress.

Untitled, Edward Landler

Here time takes you where It wants you to go when it Wants you to be there.

Part III

A Step Toward Tomorrow

Stuff, Sasha

Sasha is from Odesa, Ukraine and grew up near the sea, which is why she ended up in Los Angeles. She was raised in a family where her parents never asked her to do household chores if she was engaged in creative activities. That’s how she became a designer, and she would love to help kids find their creative paths.

UNstuck, Jordan Rawlins

Cousin J, had lost his way, the fact was he was stuck.

He wanted to be, a writer you see, but he just had no luck!

He spent every day, in sweatpants so grey, asking, ’what does it mean?’

‘How can people not see, the genius of me, that I’m something they’ve never seen!’

‘Oh the things I could make, and the records I’d break, if only someone would give me a chance!’

But he never wrote a word, so his thoughts stayed unheard, in sad and dirty sweatpants…

Each day he’d complain, and when no answer came, he’d do the same thing as before…

Wait, wait, and wait, then wait, wait, wait, for luck to walk through the door.

On his couch day and night, with TV burning bright, he waited with a broken heart…

Until one fateful day, in sweats oh so gray, his couch straight up fell apart!

With nowhere to sit, Cousin J threw a fit, and cursed his bad luck in LA!

And then he went out, to wander and pout, in sweat pants, so sweaty and grey…

He walked past a space, a curious place, one called 8-2-6 LA…

Filled with robot emotions (plus books, clocks and potions), where Time Travelers were said to play!

His curiosity piqued, inside he peaked, and saw students writing with ink…

These authors weren’t waiting, they were just creating! Cousin J didn’t know what to think!

So he opened the door, and entered the store, and the next part he couldn’t believe…

The people inside, didn’t run, didn’t hidehis sweat pants didn’t make them all leave!

No, they welcomed him in, and said ‘you should begin, leading field trips for your local schools.’

So with some hesitation, along with trepidation, he joined up with the Barnacles! But hold on, my friend, this isn’t the end, but rather a twist in the plot…

Cuz it was while helping folks, telling Barnacle jokes, that Cousin J at last got his shot!

He’d taken a chance, in dirty sweatpants, and can you believe this was when…

Cousin J found his luck, and became unstuck, and started writing words with a pen!

Instead of just waiting, he’d started donating, replacing complaining with givin’…

And ever since then, how lucky he’s been, to get to write stuff for a livin’!

So trust Cousin J, who’s me by the way, that waiting for luck ain’t the way!

Instead get off your rear, and start to volunteer -MAKE your luck at 826LA!

Jordan Rawlins is, thanks to 826, a writer who works in Film, Television, Gaming, and New Media. He has been leading field trips for 826LA for over 12 years…and hasn’t worn grey sweatpants in public the whole time.

Peyton and Ronny’s Great Match,

Ronny Alexandre Rodriguez

Selected from Sealed In Time

We are in the year 2044 at the 826LA Soccer Stadium. The match is about to start. Ronny, the greatest soccer player in the world, is nervous. He doesn’t know if he will win or lose. He is playing against the whole 826LA team by himself.

Before the match, Ronny starts practicing passes in the field with robots, when suddenly they slide tackle him because he did not pass the ball. Afterward, Ronny gets mad and starts a fight, and gets injured in the shoulder. It hurts a lot and he needs surgery.

Ronny’s best friend Peyton sees Ronny get injured because Peyton had dropped him off at practice. Peyton goes down from the bleachers, stops the fight with the robot, and he calls an ambulance.

In the hospital, the doctor says that Ronny can’t play anymore and that Peyton has to play instead because it’s very important. Peyton takes a flying bus from the hospital to the stadium. He decides to play against 826LA all by himself because, like Ronny, he is really good at soccer.

The match begins. Peyton has the ball and he is going towards the goal. The ball hits the post, and he misses. They all go to penalties. With the penalties, the 826LA team catches up 20-20, and they have one minute left on the clock.

Peyton shoots from the other side of the goal and into a fish shape. The ball starts moving like it’s underwater. The stadium looks like an ocean. The ball goes in at the last minute of the game and the score turns to 21-20.

Peyton wins for Ronny and the crowd starts screaming, “Goal!” Peyton is so loud that the whole stadium can hear. Ronny hears him from inside the hospital and screams, “Goal!” too. Peyton is proud. He visits Ronny in the hospital and they hug after the match ends 21-20.

One thing about Ronny is that he loves soccer. It is one of his favorite sports. A second thing is that Ronaldo is better than Messi. A third thing is that he loves his family.

In Bloom, Jennifer Chen

Roy began his journey to his grandfather’s home in a car ride. The landscape changed from gray skyscraper buildings to sprawling meadows of tall grass. He had visited the countryside before, but now Roy was moving to his grandfather’s home. He thought he’d miss the bustle of city life, but once he rolled down the car window and felt the gentle breeze against his face, he sighed.

He could smell fresh flowers blooming. He saw white magnolia trees heavy with thick green leaves and fragrant white blossoms waving at him, almost beckoning him to sit with them. When he arrived at his grandfather’s quaint home, Roy was in awe of the flower garden surrounding the house.

When Roy stepped out of the car, his shoes crunched on the gravel in the driveway. He had only seen blooms like these when he went to the city’s botanical garden. But here, he stood among the flowers and watched bees hover, drinking nectar and flitting around. His grandfather had white hydrangea bushes that looked like fluffy snowballs hanging in the air.

He stopped to watch an orange and black monarch butterfly rest inside a yellow hibiscus flower. His grandfather told him that hibiscus flowers only open their petals for one day so Roy knew it was a rare sight in front of him. The butterfly slowly flapped its wings. Roy held his breath and leaned closer. He didn’t want to disturb the butterfly. The monarch flew away. Roy took a deep sniff of the hibiscus and loved the sweet smell.

His grandfather, Milton, chuckled. Roy turned to find his grandfather standing on the front porch steps with his hands holding his red suspenders. Roy smiled widely at the sight of the old man. He stepped carefully through the flower beds toward the porch. Milton met him halfway. They hugged tightly. Milton gently patted his grandson’s back. He handed Roy a cold glass of lemonade. The sunshine was bright and warm so Roy drank quickly like a butterfly in a hibiscus flower.

After he was done drinking, he set the glass down and followed Milton out into the immaculate flower garden. Milton took Roy to a patch of grass and a wooden bench. There were several seed containers and an opened bag of potting mix. Milton opened an

envelope and poured out a few black daffodil seeds. They looked like small round pebbles. Milton placed some in Roy’s palm.

Milton scooped the potting mix into his hand and put it in the germination tray. He nestled the seed in with loving care. Then, he scooped dirt on top of it. Roy followed his lead. Together, they silently worked side by side. Roy loved the feel of the dirt in his hands as he placed the seedling down. It was something his grandfather had taught him at an early age. He inhaled deeply. He watched an earthworm move in the dirt where he placed a seed.

When they finished planting each daffodil seed, Roy looked at the black containers. “How long will it take for the seeds to bloom?” asked Roy. “Three years,” said Milton. Roy raised his eyebrows. It seemed impossible to wait that long for the seeds to turn into bulbs. Milton saw his grandson’s reaction and gave a hearty laugh.

“Beauty, like the birth of a pink daffodil, takes time,” said Milton. Roy was unsure he could wait three years before the daffodils were full grown.

“When the bulbs emerge, we will transfer them into larger containers and wait for them to grow big enough to stand on their own in the ground,” said Milton. “So it will be longer than three years before we see real blooms,” said Roy. He shook his head. He expected gardens to take seasons to grow, but years felt too long to wait, even if pink daffodils were pretty.

Milton clapped a hand on Roy’s shoulder. “Come see the ones I have grown already.” Roy followed Milton around the property. Roy noticed that every plot of land was at a different stage of growth. Some plants were barely poking out of the ground. Sunflowers towered over him, their green stalks proudly holding bright yellow flowers. He noticed that weeds emerged around another flower bed. Not everything was in bright bloom and maybe that was okay. Maybe just growing was all each beautiful flower needed to do.

Jennifer Chen is an award-winning freelance journalist who has written

for Today, New York Times, and Oprah Daily. She is the author of two young adult novels, Artifacts of an Ex and Hangry Hearts. Jennifer is a proud mentor for WriteGirl, a creative writing organization and a loving foster kitten mom. She lives in Los Angeles with her TV writer husband, twins, two pugs, and a cat named Gremlin. Follow her on TikTok, Threads, and Instagram at @jchenwriter.

Beyond the Screen,

Leah Hien

With an elated grin, Harold slid his VR set above his eyes, resting it on his perspired forehead. Another high score! He browsed his projected catalog, flicking his hand through the air, debating other worlds he could conquer. This one? No, he thought. Maybe this one? No, he thought. Oh! How about– “Harold!” His mother called, interjecting his chain of thought.

“Just a sec, mom!” he replied.

He bounded down the stairs, still in his Sensory Immersion Suit (SensoSuit for short), a virtual reality suit that fully immerses players by engaging all their senses in the game. His parents gifted it to him last year for Christmas, in 2064.

Harold slid into the living room, still riding the high of his win.

“What’s up, Mom?”

Mom stood arms folded in front of the patio door gazing at the backyard serenely content.

“Hi honey,” she said, turning to him, “Why don’t you step out for some fresh air and sunshine, it’s a beautiful day out.”

Harold grimaced, thinking of the virtual world he would be missing out on. “I… well…”

“It will be great!” exclaimed Mom, “You can hang out in the treehouse.”

“Okay, I suppose,” sighed Harold.

Harold went back to his room to change out of his SensoSuit, then made his way to the backyard. The sun’s beams rested on Harold’s face and a pleasantly warm sensation coursed across his skin. Harold walked over to the tree that carried the house with its leaves and branches. He climbed up the ladder, step by step, one, two, one, two. Harold hauled himself into the tree house from the last step.

Harold could not remember the last time he had been up here. Everything was untouched, just as he had left it. He walked around, looking at toys he deemed his favorite as he looked around, and wondering why he had stopped coming to play in the treehouse. There were action figures, stuffed animals, board games, footballs, and basketballs scattered all over. Just then, a gleam caught Harold’s eyes. A dusty box tucked away in the far corner to his right. What could it be? He reached it in three steps. Stooping down, he tugged the box out of its hiding spot and laid it on the ground. Kneeling over it, Harold examined it, rotating it in his hands to find an opening.

After a few moments, he found one and pushed back the lid.

Inside, Harold discovered an old gaming console, a PlayStation 5, from 2020. Beside it lay its controller, headset, and a few game disks. Harold marveled. He had never seen one of these consoles in person before. It looked so vintage to him as if it belonged in a reminiscent museum. There was also a precisely folded paper that cracked as he unfolded it. A letter! Harold’s eyes darted to the bottom of the letter, eager to discover the writer. Viktor Wynn, the reigning e-sport legend from the year 2022! How did it get here? In the letter, Viktor details how he balances his intense gaming sessions with his thrilling outdoor adventures. As Harold read on, he visualized his virtual conquests while reminiscing when he fought dragons and escaped zombies in the very treehouse where he sat. Inspired, Harold decided that he would embrace playing in both the real and virtual world, just like his hero Viktor Wynn.

Leah is a junior at UCLA studying Psychology and is an aspiring UX Researcher. When she is not immersed in her studies, she enjoys diving into video games, getting lost in books, and exploring the great outdoors.

If My Skateboard Could Fly, Robert Lugo

Selected from Sealed in Time

It’s the year 2044, and I am skateboarding up to the sky with my two kids to get pizza for them. Then we are going to fly on the skateboard. My skateboard has arms, so it can take commands. We are going to Mexico with my wife for pizza. But there’s a problem! When the kids eat the pizza on the flying skateboard, they suddenly throw up! Then they cry and want to go home.

“No problem!” Since the skateboard takes commands, I tell it to slow down, and they stop throwing up. So then my kids saw a flying cat on a cloud, and the kids adopted the cat. Now my wife, the kids, the cat, and I are all on the skateboard together, and we fly around to places like Mexico eating pizza. But there’s a problem! The skateboard suddenly runs out of energy, and we begin falling. We land in Hawaii, and there is a volcano going off.

The skateboard says, “I can fly again if you give me fruit.”

So I find a blueberry in the bushes. I pick it up and give it to the skateboard. Then we get on the skateboard just in time before the volcano goes off. My kids, wife, and cat are safe and make it home safely.

Robert is a third grade student from Logan Academy of Global Ecology. He loves gaming, skateboarding, and playing with his toys. His favorite food is pizza and his favorite time in school is recess!

A Letter To My Older Self, Yair M.

Hey older me,

I hope you’re doing great in life and I’m also hoping that we get into our dream school, which happens to be UCLA, but overall I hope we do continue caring about others and proving to people that didn’t believe in us that we could do it. As we’re getting older, school is starting to get hard but we’re pushing through it. I hope you at least had a chance to swim in CIF in a 50m free and possibly as we’re getting better, possibly a 100m fly as well. I also want to show our nephew Bryan new things in life. I bet we will have a family in the future and I’m excited to say that a lot of doors are starting to open up. I want you to know that I’m doing great at the moment and yea people may say bad stuff about us like we wouldn’t be anything in life and give us hate about our looks and body but we didn’t let that stop us like that one time I swam a 500m free. When I was swimming that 500 I was getting tired as we were hitting the 300 mark because my arms and legs were hurting but I pushed through it and finished it. One last thing is hopefully we have lots of money with a beautiful family that supports us. As new doors and opportunities are opening we will do great in life. And remember, “The World Is Yours.”

Yair M. lives in LA and he likes riding his bike around the city with friends. He is a creative and responsible person and also respectful. He is kind and likes to keep busy although he has been through a lot, he doesn’t let it get the best of him. He will always put other people before he puts himself first. He tries helping people when they are at their lowest because he knows how it feels.

To Be Read in the Year 2125, Trevor Crown

Dear Time Capsule Recipient,

What a relief that you’re reading these words! Not a relief to me, necessarily. Barring rather significant developments in medical science during the hundred years between my writing this and your reading it, I am, as they say, graveyard dead. And that’s okay! It’s not ideal, but what is? Even if my dead future self can’t feel relieved at your reading these words, my living present self feels relieved imagining it, because that would mean that we as a species have survived another century.

Or maybe you’re an extraterrestrial, or some form of artificial intelligence, not reading these words so much as downloading them to better comprehend, imitate, and decimate all remaining traces of the lifeform you’ve long since conquered. That wouldn’t be ideal either. But, I will admit, compared to the possibility of this going undiscovered in eternity, even that strikes me as a W.

I initially conceived of this time capsule as a project to work on with my son Ludwig. Perhaps at two years old, Ludwig doesn’t fully grasp the concept of a time capsule, but Barbara and I are eager for him to start exhibiting the type of poignant precociousness that so many of our friends describe in their own children, so we give him every opportunity. If he were to say, for instance, “Every container is in some sense a time capsule,” that would blow us away, not to mention do numbers on Blue Sky Social. He doesn’t talk much yet, but we would settle for, “Go in box, come out later,” an astute paraphrase.

Ludwig is named for the street where he was born, but depending on who’s asking, I’ll say it’s after Beethoven or the drumset brand. Wiggy does love music. For that reason, I’ve decided against including his maracas or vibraphone. They are his favorite toys, and so would represent him better than anything else, but isn’t that the difficulty with a time capsule? You can only include what you don’t need, so how characteristic of your life and times can it be? I have included an orange kazoo, on whose legitimacy as a musical instrument Wiggy and I respectfully disagree.

To represent myself I have included a retired pair of tight-fitting jeans. We are made to believe at a formative age that one particular style of pant is objectively best: befitting a confident, sensitive, and rebellious—though appealingly disaffected––young person. Then ten years later we are mortified to learn that all the while, under our noses, the style befitting this person (who we have suspected all along was not us) has changed gradually so that now it is the exact opposite of ours. Dressed like so many Rips Van Winkle––each of us our own sartorial time capsule––we must then begin the long and painful process of convincing ourselves that the style of pant we exalted before is objectively disgusting, even if we find it more flattering and less a costume than the newer, baggier style to which we must rabidly swear our allegiance, knowing full well that the cycle will repeat. On second thought, I am keeping the skinny jeans.

To represent Barbara I have included her second-favorite scented candle. She often chides me for my inability to “let go of clutter,” and so I know she will approve if I help her let go of her secondfavorite scented candle, whose fragrance is sandalwood, and which she received as a gift in the mail from her estranged stepmother, and intended to throw away until its scent caught her and she remembered a cologne her father had worn when she was a child, before a sudden stroke took him when she was thirteen. What am I saying? Of course I cannot include the sandalwood candle. Barbara is so good at letting go of clutter that I don’t see what of hers I can include.

Nor will I include the kazoo. I refuse. When I watch my son Ludwig toot the kazoo—his eyes afire with mischief, for he knows how I despise its choogling toot—there is an admiration intermingled with my annoyance, and underneath either of those, a dumb animal awe at the fact that he is alive, alive to rebellion, alive to noise, alive to melody and the blazing shapes it paints on the walls of our inner chambers. The kazoo stays, you celestial pillager, you abomination of technology, you thief of humanity.

Take this letter in an empty box. You can never have the kazoo.

Sincerely,

Arnold Carrigan

Trevor Crown is a fiction writer and Senior Manager of Volunteer Innovation & Assessment at 826LA. His stories have appeared in The Threepenny Review, The Southern Humanities Review, Hobart, Glimmer Train, and Two Hawks Quarterly. He holds an MFA from the University of Florida and lives in Atwater Village, Los Angeles, CA with his wife and their son. He is the second of four brothers, each of whom was born on a Wednesday.

From the Great Unknown, with Love, Aimee Lim

Dear Future Self,

By the time Ms. Lucas mails this to you, you should be 23 and, if all is going well (or maybe you finally showed some courage and/ or snapped mentally and decided to leap into the great unknown?), you should be graduating from college, maybe or maybe not as a Biology major.

I’m writing this on May 25, 2014. It’s currently 11:39 P.M. I just uploaded my Senior Prom photos on Facebook. I’m listening to “Shades of Cool” by Lana Del Rey. I’m having something of a quarter-life crisis. I’m scared to death of the future. I’m majoring in Biology but I’m really hoping I’ll work up the courage to choose something else. I’m afraid I’ll spend years of my life studying for a job I have no passion about. I’m really, really scared. I have this fantasy of becoming a successful writer. I’ve realized I’ve never really been happy, that things won’t magically turn out well for me, and I think it’s a good chance I’ll never be happy. I blame myself a lot; I sometimes think I’m too harsh but often I think I’m right. Papa was just saying today how I “try too hard to predict everything.” I hope you’re happy and know what you want now; I doubt it but doubt is a silly reason not to hope for something if you think about it. I hope you’ll prove me wrong. I wish I could say I believe in you, but I’d be lying. I don’t believe in you, but a lot of people do. Don’t tell yourself that everybody hates you. You’re wrong.

If you’ve matured past all this, do whatever you want.

Dear Past Self,

Thank you for your letter. It reminded me that the future can be very different from what you think.

I’m happy. Not because things magically turned out well (you were right about the ‘magically’ part), but because you’ll find the courage to choose something else. I’m going to be 30 this year (!) and if I’m being completely honest, I’m a bit scared of the future

too. Sometimes you’re scared of things because you don’t really want them, and sometimes you’re scared because you do. Thanks for choosing the scary things that you want. You might not believe in me, but I believe in you.

Aimee

P.S. Keep writing.

Aimee Lim is an author, Jeopardy! champion, and 826LA volunteer. She has a B.A. in English from the University of California, Davis as well as a Master’s in Library and Information Science from San Jose State University. Her debut novel, The Spindle of Fate, was named one of the best debut children’s books of 2024 by the American Booksellers Association’s Indies Introduce List, as well as a Good Housekeeping Best Kids’ Book Award winner.

Evolution, Emily Barth Isler

For a long time, I thought I was weaving a piece of fabric. A strand of music, a strand of reading, a strand each of being Jewish and being female, all woven together to create a piece of cloth that I would, eventually, watch take shape into some kind of usable garment. A scarf, perhaps.

Maybe a blanket I could toss over myself and show to the world, "see? I made something! I AM something!" But it's hard to make a life out of just one piece of cloth. There are seams. There are frayed edges and tears, and endings, and, thank goodness, beginnings.

I realized that my life could not be woven in just one piece of cloth. It had to become a quilt. There are patches from different phases, different experiences, different times. Each color and texture is unique. And they don't all actually go together or fit perfectly edge-to-edge, but isn't that exactly what makes it so beautiful? We cannot--should not--have to choose just one color just one texture. Who could decide?

My quilt is growing wildly, and I like it that way. There aren't clean borders or neat edges or any particular shape that I can see yet. I keep adding things on and I plan to continue until it stretches out above me, farther than I can see, to where the edges aren't visible and the borders aren't even real, until it becomes a part of the sky.

Emily Barth Isler is the award-winning author of middle grade novels AfterMath and The Color of Sound, and forthcoming picture books from Nancy Paulsen Books and Abrams Kids in 2026. As a journalist, Emily writes about sustainability and eco-friendly skincare products in publications such as Oprah Daily and Allure, as well as work advocating for gun control in America, with bylines on the topic for Publishers Weekly, Today.com, and Kveller. She holds a B.A. in Film Studies from Wesleyan University and lives in Los Angeles, California, with her husband and their two kids. www.emilybarthisler.com

A Letter To My Future Self, Samantha L.

Hello! It’s me Sam, from 2025. There is so much that I want to know about your life. Did you get into Cal Poly SLO? Did you become a marine biologist? Do you have lots of friends? Have you traveled to Montreal, New York, Japan, or Greece?

I know that I probably sound so naive to you, after all I am still young. There is so much that I haven’t learned or seen, and there are many things that I don’t understand yet. My curiosity wanders far beyond the near future, which is why I am writing to you. There is a lot that I aspire to have, and even though I have many goals for myself, I acknowledge that they may not be the same as yours.

While it might be selfish of me to hope that you accomplish all of the things that I want for myself, I mostly hope that you have accomplished what you want. I hope that you got into the college that you wanted and are living off of a career that you love. I hope that you have traveled well and have seen many things. I hope that you have met people that make you happy. I hope that you feel confidence in your mind and in your body. I hope that you have found peace. Finally I hope that in reading this you have felt happy to hear from me and that you feel reassured you have lived a life with few regrets. I’d prefer that you feel satisfied in knowing that you’ve made me proud, rather than lament that you didn’t. I understand that this might be overwhelming. However, I am writing to encourage you, and to remind you that you are strong! You are determined and hard working. No matter where you are in life, I am sure that it is where you are meant to be.

Love, Sam

Samantha is an aspiring student who loves cooking and tanning at the beach.

Enjoying Life, Kyle P.

Since the age of four, or whenever I was able to begin understanding language, older people have always told me that life moves really fast, so I should enjoy it while I can. At every corner and major milestone I faced, I would be reminded of this fact. In my English classes, we would analyze poetry and point out the profound meaning of "stop and smell the roses." Even in my spare time, when I would watch a movie, I’d hear Ferris Bueller say his iconic line: "Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it." Despite all these reminders, I still felt I took this message for granted throughout most of my youth.

You see, I unfortunately became someone who would look forward to the next big goal or accomplishment, believing that reaching those goals would be when I would finally feel the most satisfied with my life.

It started in high school, when I would dream about getting into college, thinking my life would finally be happier or somehow more complete once I reached that goal. Once I got in, I was ecstatic and beyond happy, but that happiness eventually subsided after some time in college when I realized I needed a plan for after college. Realizing I wanted to go to graduate school, college became less about living life and making memories and more about the next steps—how to get into graduate school. I felt that many of my peers experienced something similar in their third and fourth years. The collective stress of what life could be, or should be, after college only exacerbated my feelings and led to many overwhelming episodes I never used to experience.

Now, in my last year of college, I still struggle with breaking the mindset that developed in high school, but I am more aware of it and the assumptions it carries. Thus, I try to reflect more on how I spend my everyday life and reserve time for doing things I can only do now, at this age. I also try to find daily gratitude in smaller things, such as having a community on campus with people my age, all of whom are also trying to figure things out. Furthermore, I have come to really cherish and appreciate the time I am able to spend with my family and the few friends I have left from home, especially as I find myself feeling lonelier as life goes on.

That said, I think I’m really starting to understand the importance of the quotes and life advice people and all sorts of media have given me. These are not just clichés or empty words; they carry the weight of people’s regrets and experiences. They are a real collection of humanity’s lessons, almost like the older generations warning the youth to enjoy life while they can. So, as I move beyond college, I hope to continue reminding myself to enjoy the long journey that is life, rather than focusing on the milestones we place on pedestals.

Kyle P. is a fourth year college student at the University of California, Los Angeles from Placentia, CA. He is studying psychobiology and Spanish and is hoping to go into the field of medicine. Currently, he is also a volunteer with 826LA and has been helping students with their college admissions essays as well as with the TNT and Write On! programs.

The Box, Diego R.

The world is huge and never-ending. It is full of mountains that seem to reach the sky and oceans that seem to go on forever. The world is a bright place for anyone to explore. I have been everywhere and seen everything. I have been from coast to coast of the US and have even gone international. But I wasn’t always ready to go out yet.

I used to be stuck in a box. The only sights in my life were whiteboards and classrooms. Every day it was always the same people, the same background at the same time, never deviating from the same routine.

But then I went into high school where I knew no one and no one knew me. It was a fresh start where I could be anyone I wanted.

I am seeing darkness less and less. It feels like every time I am taken out of the box there is something new to explore. The number of people that I see is multiplied, the sights that I take in are fresh.

The box is gone and I haven’t been trapped in darkness for a long time. Now all I see is the same words over and over again: college. I don’t know what is going to happen next but all I know is that I am no longer in a box.

Diego is a high school senior going to college in fall. He hopes to study engineering and be able to adjust to life away from home. He is a swimmer and plans to continue with the sport. Even though he tends to be quite introverted, he vows to talk to new people and make new friends.

En La Vida Soy Yo, I.E.

Selected from Riquezas de Mis Raíces La familia es importante.

Every day I hear echale ganas mija, keep going, be responsible, ponte las pillas, be a young lady, all these things circulating in my head.

Future is all I see.

I look forward every day thinking how this can benefit me going into college knowing that I can succeed but to be the first person to finish college in my family asking myself does this live up to be a legacy, to be an example in a Hispanic household.

As the oldest in a Hispanic household we have to set an example for our siblings, be the first to graduate from college, and look for a good future as a Hispanic young lady. Be strong for your siblings.

I look at myself and ask if this is an example for future generations of Mexican Americans.

As a 5’3 curly-haired güerita, I wonder as I look at my reflection in the mirror. Do I look prettier with my hair straightened, should I do my makeup, why is my nose like that, why isn't my hair darker? Why can't I be taller? Why can't I wear certain clothes?

Then I remember why I think about this: these are my roots, the features of my ancestors, they have done so much for me. Coming from different parts of México. They have moved the sun and moon to give me all that I have now. If it wasn't for them I wouldn't have my mom or my dad and I thank them. I am so grateful for the life that I have now. I thank my parents and my

ancestors for all the hard work they put into my life. Now I will continue to cherish them and my culture.

We can all grow to be the person we want to be, we can all grow in our culture, we can explore new traditions, new clothing styles, and even more opportunities to understand ourselves. We can also grow in our identity. And I will continue to thrive in many ways. I want to live to the fullest in my culture, spicy foods sizzling in my mouth, the smell of red chilaquiles filling the air while sprinkling white queso fresco on top. I want to thrive in the many traditions we hold in our hearts, meeting up a couple days before a holiday just so we can be together knowing that day we won't see each other. I want to keep all these memories that I have from my childhood and pass them down to my children and the generations to come. I want them to keep their culture alive for many generations to come by teaching them Spanish and keeping that language alive in our family. I want the future generation to be proud of their heritage and to look back at the legacy that we left for them and they will continue that legacy. I am a proud Chicana girl who will continue to be proud of who she is.

I.E. is a student at Roosevelt High School.

Echoes From the Future, Valery

Dear little me,

Yup, we’ve grown a lot. Got all of these muscles from that hard work. I know we were so worried that we would never be an excellent swimmer like that one guy in the swim club. He was so cool and amazing, wasn’t he? Well, how about I tell you that we’re that guy now!

It’ll be a difficult and long journey. I know everyone says that to you and you’re going to get bored of hearing it, but trust me when I say this: Don’t give up. Stay resilient like Mamí and make swimming one of your main goals in life. Let it become your safe haven, just like when we are in the arms of our mom. A warm embrace, like the sun hitting your skin or whenever we’re under the blankets with the heater on. Let it become your second home, just like when we always visited that girl’s house and practically became her sister. Let it become you, just you.

What do I mean by that? Just be yourself. Be yourself and you will see the amazing memories you’ll create. And as you grow, you begin to meet your second family.

We meet an amazing coach that’s almost like a brother, we meet two amazing girls that make us laugh every second of practice, we meet a girl who’s 7 years old and acts exactly like how we did when we started our swimming journey. Basically, you make some pretty awesome friends.

But, it won’t be all sunshine and rainbows. Life will always have its ups and downs and so will swimming. Your friendship with the two girls I mentioned will change negatively. Within the friend group, lies and rumors will spread and the dynamic you three have will never be the same again. At least you still have your younger friend, who’s annoying as ever. The swim club will slowly die because our favorite coach left because of some drama. You’ll grow a bit more angry at the world, but always remember to take a deep breath.

Either way, your close friends still throw parties and many more

memories are created. You still see your best friends from time to time and even throw a quince! It’s a small one, but all of the guests are from the swim club.

Did we join a high school swim team? Heck yeah we did! And guess what? We became captain in our sophomore year too! But do be warned that we start swimming even more than what you’re used to. We grow to love the 500, which is 20 laps. I know it sounds crazy, but you’ll soon understand what I'm trying to say. We even do more relays! Now, I know what you might be thinking, didn’t we think they were boring and long? Well in reality, they aren’t. They’re really fun when you have the right kind of swimmers around you to get 1st place in a relay event. Especially when you’re screaming for the last individual in your group to finish off the event. Trust me, you’ll want to keep a cough drop in your backpack for your throat.

Do we decrease our swimming time? Definitely. Our freestyle 50s have gotten way better than before and we are still learning every day. You also meet an amazing coach named Justin, who is like a power boost for your skills. You even start to feel like you're Michael Phelps or Katie Ledecky whenever you’re sprinting.

Is it hard sometimes? To be honest, yeah. It does get hard sometimes. Your motivation will be nonexistent some days and it’ll make you feel like you’re so lazy that you feel like you’re a cat laying on top of a shelf or like a sea lion laying on its side as it relaxes with its other mates. Some days, you’ll rethink your choices and why you joined swimming when you could’ve just been one of those kids that just stayed home and did nothing.

However, you’ll always have the love for swimming and will always continue no matter what. Hard days will come and pass, but don’t let it stop you from doing what you love.

Remember to always keep your head up high and always be yourself. I love you and wish you the best memories.

Sincerely, your future self in 2025.

Valery R. is a young but driven teenage girl that is always curious about the world. She is busy with her days and is always making her friends laugh. She is dedicated to her love for swimming and dreams for a future that involves swimming. As she grows up, she will always remember about her younger self and the dreams she has accomplished so far.

The More Things Change… Trevor Worthy

“When you grow up, your heart dies.” Have you heard that quote before? It’s from an old movie, The Breakfast Club. I’m nowhere near old myself (34 years young, to be exact). But I must say, I disagree.

When I was a teenager, I thought the age of 30 was ancient. Would you believe one of my (lovely, opinionated) Thursday Night Tutoring students told me I was old at the age of 25? Here’s a secret: I still love the same things I did 20 years ago: reading, scary movies, video games, and more. Trust me, 20 years from now, your heart will only die if you let it.

Of course, I’ve had my fair share of heartache, and have had my heart broken more times than I can count. But I’ve never lost the ability to love. Regardless of what person, place, or thing is occupying my heart at the time, the feeling lets me know my heart is still there–and very much alive.

Trevor Worthy resides in Long Beach, CA by way of Prince George’s County, MD. When he is not at the Echo Park tutoring center, he is 1) working in environmental science, 2) acting on stage, or 3) somewhere pouring his heart out. Most likely, #3.

Journey for Myself, Sam E.

I want to be a constellation of thoughts. I want to travel the world. Traveling the world will unlock my potential. It will make me more complete. I want to listen. I want to learn. I want to experience. I want to evolve.

I want to be the best possible me I can be. When I am at my best, others can also flourish. Ideas met with ideas. Weaving our experiences together in order to build a better and brighter world. Whether I'm deep into the Himalayas, or drifting through the Amazon rainforest, you will always find me expanding my collection of ideas, on my journey towards finding the pieces of myself that will make me whole.

Sam is a high school student that doesn’t take things too seriously. He is always willing to try new things and finds everything funny, even when they aren’t supposed to be.

From Silence to Purpose, Bethel Tesfamicael

Growing up in Africa, I saw a lot of strength around me—people working hard to build their lives, families sticking together no matter what. But I also noticed things people didn’t talk about, like how hard life could really be and the emotional struggles that came with it. Mental health wasn’t something people talked about. It wasn’t because they didn’t care, but because there weren’t any resources or even the right words to explain what they were feeling. I didn’t fully understand it as a kid, but it left an impression on me. When my family had the chance to move to the US, I felt so lucky—but I couldn’t stop thinking about the people I left behind, especially the kids. They faced so many challenges, and I knew they carried pain that no one saw or helped them with. Living here, I started to see the differences. There are still struggles, but there are also more conversations and resources for mental health. I realized how unfair it was that so many kids back home and in other places didn’t have the same support. That thought stuck with me and made me want to help. It was like a spark that turned into a goal—I wanted to do something about it. College has helped me figure out how I can make a difference. I’ve learned about mental health disparities—how some communities, especially immigrants and people of color, don’t get the care they need. That’s when I knew for sure that I wanted to become a pediatric psychiatrist. I want to make sure kids, no matter where they come from, can get the help they need and deserve. This isn’t just about being a doctor for me. It’s about making sure people who feel invisible know they matter. Growing up taught me how important it is to speak up, especially for those who can’t. I’m still figuring things out, but I know that by following this path, I can help build a better future where no one has to face mental health struggles alone.

Bethel Tesfamicael is a third-year college student majoring in psychobiology at UCLA. Born in Eritrea and raised in both Africa and the US, she draws inspiration from her experiences to pursue a career in pediatric psychiatry. Bethel is passionate about addressing mental health disparities and creating opportunities for those who often go unheard. In her free time, she enjoys watching shows and spending time with her family.

Save Earth, Jackelyn A.

Selected from Let Me Tell You How The World Got Like This

A giant spaceship landed on a grassy field. A group of aliens called Gloopas had been invited to Earth.

“Gloop Gloop,” said one of the Gloopas. The flying machine landed in front of the Gloopas. It was the humans from Earth.

“Welcome to Earth!” said Yucare, the leader.

“Gloopa Gloop,” a Gloopa responded.

Yucare then brought the Gloopas to the capital of Earth, showing off their perfect planet. As the Gloopas explored the Earth on their own, they discovered that half the planet was destroyed. Before, humans didn't do anything about the health of the Earth. They carelessly threw their trash everywhere, destroyed millions of forests, and polluted the ocean. When scientists found out, they tried forming a group to clean the Earth.

Unfortunately, it was too late and Yucare came into power. Yucare banished anyone who tried to save the Earth and instead he hid the ugliness from visitors.

“Gloopa Gloop Gloop!?” one of the Gloopa members said. The Gloopas then confronted the leader, Yucare. Yucare was upset when they discovered this secret. “Gloop Gloopa?”

“You want to know how this happened?” the leader Yucare asked. “It’s none of your business!”

The Gloopas decided they’ll go to war if Earthlings don’t change their ways. Yucare turned redder than a tomato. The ground started to shake as Yucare turned into a giant monster.

“Gloop Gloop!?” The Gloopas formed an army to fight back.

Meanwhile, the citizens of Earth tried to escape. Yucare was quick to notice this and used his large hands to capture them, locking them away in his castle. The Gloopas tried to form a plan to save the human race.

“Gloopa Gloop Gloop!” the Gloopas leader cried out.

A group of Gloopas then drove Yucare’s spaceship into his mouth. This allowed one of the Gloopas to head where the humans were trapped. When the captured Earthlings were released, they all cheered.

“We're all so sorry!” they apologized to the Gloopas. The humans of Earth promised to respect Earth and fix their mistakes.

After the Gloopas left, the people on Earth quickly got to work and split up the tasks to bring their planet back to its former glory. Some used the leftover fragments of buildings to restore them, and others cleaned up the trash before sending it all to the sun. This didn’t end until Earth looked brand new. Some hundreds of years later, the Gloopas revisited the Earth. As the Gloopas entered Earth’s atmosphere, one of the Gloopas looked out the window. They admired how green and colorful everything looked now.

A fun fact about Jackie is that they can play the piano! She loves listening to music and she'd describe herself as kind and interesting. She hopes you like her story!

Left Alone with Our Sunflowers, Guadalupe V.

Selected from Let Me Tell You How The World Got Like This

Dear whomever finds this letter,

My name is Katie. I once lived with my mom and younger sister, Lilly, at an apartment complex where my mom was never around. She’d be out living her life, leaving us in the dust with no parent figure. I quickly learned how to be on my own and how to care for Lilly because at the end of the day, I would be the one she’d look up to while growing up. Me and her were six years apart. I always tried my best to take advantage of any opportunities that I could in school for money or to just learn new things that could help me finish school early and get a degree in law so I could fight for the rights of children with parents like mine. I never hated my parents for treating us badly, nor do I hold any resentment towards them. I miss them dearly and wish that they could have been here for me when I needed them the most, to save me and my little sister from all of this disaster and danger. Lilly and I loved to care for plants, especially flowers like sunflowers which were our favorite flower to exist.

I'm currently writing this sitting far away, hidden. I'm in my biodome, under a hill that was once an apartment, the apartment that I once lived in with my family that was demolished. No workers built it up again so I snuck in and made myself a hideout, knowing that one day the world would end and I would have to save myself from disaster. The biodome was built off of pieces of bricks and wood that were left behind. I made sure to bring in some plants and sunflowers so that I could grow more. Now I live among all my sunflowers. It's not that big considering that it's just me. There is just one small window that lets me see if someone is coming. It is located near the door that was just built off one piece of wood. You have to push the piece of wood to the side to enter. From the outside it looks like a big pie of leftover material that was left when the building was demolished. I had to make sure it would blend in because the government wanted everything to be gone. No hideouts, no anything left behind.

In the years following 2024, the economy collapsed in a terrible

way. Homelessness rose drastically from starvation and executions. My dad, although he was with us at the start, dove into a deep gambling addiction and lost all of the savings we had. My mom took action at the start until she gave up and left it all up to me.

I worked the jobs I would get at school, which would be picking up cans, cleaning the school sites, helping out children get from school to home. The costs of our daily needs kept rising by the minute. I worked overtime to keep my sister fed and alive with a roof over our head.

In 2025, when the new president came into office, all of the hope there was to save our economy was taken away. Climate change messed us up. All the ignorant people led us to live our lives this way. Every piece of land near the ocean started going underwater and the wars against other countries deprived us of peace. The population drastically declined. Now I'm left as the last human on Earth. When the president came into office everyone had their natural born rights but then in a couple weeks rights were being ripped from people left and right, no matter how bad things got.

Keeping to yourself was the best option. You'd survive that way because you wouldn't be on the government's radar and getting into trouble was not the best idea because you would be punished harshly for the smallest thing you could have done, even if you didn't think it was bad. One day Lilly threw a piece of trash at a bin but missed and left it on the ground. Even though before then everyone did it, the police showed up putting her roughly in handcuffs, throwing her into the back of a cop car, and zooming off. I never got to say goodbye to her.

All throughout the world the economic system got worse and worse. People lost their jobs, homes, education, and money. Everything we once knew was disappearing, including how there weren't any vehicles available. The earth got overpopulated, which was another main reason for increased deaths. There wasn't a return or reset button to change the way we did things on Earth. Everyone thought every time we messed up that it wouldn't affect us as much as it truly did now.

Whoever finds this letter, please remember to water our sunflowers and care for them.

Gudalupe is a fifteen-year-old girl who attends Animo Venice as a 10th grader. She is from Mar Vista and has her own business selling eternal roses. During her free time she loves to draw or paint, also making her roses for fun or for orders she has.

Five and a Half Hours, Sasha Kravets

Selected from Tides of Change

A coffin can generally hold around 820 liters of air, 164 of those being oxygen, depending on the size of the coffin and the person inside.

As I lie here, one thought races through my mind: I must let them know I’m alive. I won’t be saved by the bell, that’s for sure. Dr. Johann Gottfried Taberger won’t be able to save me this time from our shared taphophobia.

My fists and knees hit the silk-covered wood. What a beautiful piece of work. Someone made this with care. It was picked out by a family for a dead person to be put to rest inside of it. A dead person.

The layers of fabric and wood block my screams. As my screams continue, they are masked by nails being hammered into the wood of my prison. One after another, BANG. LET. BANG. ME. BANG. OUT! BANG!

Screaming and thrashing do nothing. A slight breeze still enters the confinements of the coffin through little gaps in the wood, and it feels as though there is still a chance! Until the coffin begins to be lowered down. And down. And down. Foot-by-foot. One, two, then three, and four. Suddenly a rush as though an elevator in freefall and a hard bump at six. Dropped as if five is no longer an important number.

Screams continue to flow from my chest. Do they not hear, or do they choose not to hear? I can’t die in a coffin. This is the worst death. Am I dreaming? Is this a nightmare? If it was a nightmare, I wouldn’t hit my head trying to sit up. The screaming continues as I add additional noise with my knees, fists, and whatever shoes I’m wearing. Thrashing in pitch darkness. How ridiculous this feels. This feels like a nightmare on an LSD trip. I know it’s not a nightmare when I feel blood on my knees.

Silence. My heart is beating out of my chest. The fabric of a layer

of the skirt clings to my sweat-dampened skin and bloody knees. The silk fabric I’m lying on is dampened by sweat and most likely also has blood stains. When I get out of here, they’ll feel horrible for this. No. Not when. If.

After a long moment of silence in my pit, patiently and anxiously waiting, I hear something hitting my coffin. A slight sound, as if something like raw cookie dough was dropped on my coffin. Dough? No, why would there be dough at a funeral? Are they dropping… DIRT?! After one small drop of dirt comes more. And more. And more still. Louder and in larger amounts. Heaps of dirt, one after the other. And it doesn’t stop. My heart is racing, beating out of my chest as if also trying to escape. But it won’t. It feels like the coffin is closing in on me. Claustrophobia hits me again. Sitting in a box is one thing, but being closed into it with packed dirt is another. And back to thrashing, kicking, and screaming I go.

Ten, maybe 15, minutes pass as my screaming subsides. My throat is scratchy with a metallic feeling creeping on my tongue. Time doesn’t exist inside a box, and typically, they don’t give dead people a watch. I attempt to relax my body. I was going to die eventually. “Eventually” just came earlier than I expected. 820 liters of air, five and a half hours of life left. What if it’s less? It’s probably less. Will I know when I die? I don’t want to suffocate. Hyperventilation only adds more carbon to my decreasing supply of air, so I stop that. Carbon dioxide will have time to fill up our limited shared space.

Fear keeps bouncing around my mind. What an interesting word, fear. It holds so much weight for people. As a noun, fear describes an unpleasant emotion caused by the belief that someone or something is dangerous, likely to cause pain, or a threat. But so often it means more than that. Everyone is constantly afraid. Afraid of animals and nature, of other people for being different, of imaginary situations conjured up in their minds. Afraid of the unknown of the future, of confrontations, of consequences, and ultimately of the end. Are these things inherently believed to cause pain or a threat? No, but people like to believe they do.

After an unknown amount of contemplation, my blood dries, and my sweat becomes nothing but a thin layer of stickiness on every inch of my body. Suddenly, everything becomes uncomfortable.

The coffin wood is hard and digs into my back, the fabric surrounding its walls sticks to my nails, leaving thin strings and the feeling of fake silk, the fabric of the dress itches the back of my neck. Why would dead people need comfort? I can’t even cut off the tag or add a cushion. A dead person wouldn’t complain though. A dead person wouldn’t.

Like a rotisserie chicken, I turn and turn and turn in an attempt to find a comfortable spot. Maybe I can take a nap and wake up on the other side of the funeral, where all the people are mourning. In reality, they simply have an excuse to perform some crappy act, go to a reception to eat and drink for free, and wear some fancy dress they bought. What are they thinking of me? What are they pretending to think of me? They’re probably making speeches about me and even though they haven’t talked to me for years. They’re probably talking about how much they miss me and what a shame I’m gone. A bunch of fakes.

You know, if I sleep, I breathe less and have more time to live. More time to contemplate my soon-to-cease existence later. My eyes shut, but sleep doesn’t find me. Maybe being on death’s doorstep, literally, scares off the sandman.

Instead, I stare into nothing. How long have I been inside? An hour? Two? Will I pass out when the air runs out? Or am I dreaming right now? My perception of time most likely doesn’t align with reality. I don’t even know how much CO2 I’m releasing. I haven’t read that far into taphephobia and I don’t know the speed of death in my current circumstances.

It’s quite boring inside. Nothing to look at, play with, or distract myself with before my ultimate demise. A blank slate of existence. A place where life meets death face-to-face. My mouth tastes metallic, my tongue sticky as though I haven’t drunk water all day. The earthy smell of the coffin slightly annoys my nose but at least I’m surrounded by nature somewhat. Despite the confusion I’m starting to feel, the slowness of my breath as if there isn’t much air to breathe, and my body automatically starting to shut down, it is eerily quiet. But not really. All of the sound has so far come from me after the full burial. I’m completely isolated, but when I listen there are weird sounds all around me. Some kind of rushing, pumping, almost a sort of buzzing of sounds. Ignoring them is my best option for now. It’s probably something in the earth.

The earth. The earth that makes it warmer and warmer in the coffin. I am no longer getting cold sweats, but now it feels like July in Bridgetown Pike: humid and hot, almost boiling in the air. The warm, damp, suffocating earth that houses so much life. Bugs, insects, invertebrates. Can worms get in? What if bugs get inside my coffin? They’ll eat me alive! And I can’t even defend myself. Ew ew ew ew ew!!! I’m going to be full of maggots and rotting from the inside out! A high-pitched scream rushes out of me once again as my hands rush over my body and coffin. I move as much as physically possible, contorting my body to check every corner. Nothing. But an unsettling feeling stays. They’re definitely crawling on my body, waiting for a way in, for me to drop my guard, to die so they can eat away at my flesh. I close my eyes. I need to sleep and forget I’m even here. Die a peaceful death! But how terrifying it is to die!

Tears stream down my cheeks as I uncomfortably turn on my side. At least I can pity myself inside of this thing without judgement. I close my eyes and the black space becomes darker. Those random shapes appear, colors and patterns I can’t focus on. At least it’s something to look at. Slowly… my mind… slows… down… and sleep… finds me…

When I open my eyes my view hasn’t changed. I’m not even sure I have opened them. Still black. Still the casket. But I don’t feel as awake as I should. Sure there is grogginess, the after-nap taste invades my mouth, and my eyes are unable to fully open with nothing to focus on. But there is something else. As if I am in a room full of gas and getting dizzy, but this time there is no smell of mercaptan. My lungs can’t take in as much air as they could before. I’m finally at the end. Or am I? How long before I pass out? And after that how long before I die? Will I know?

Fear grips my heart again. Death is near. My aching body starts to turn around in the casket, hands searching for something. It feels as though I’m no longer in charge of it. What are you looking for? An escape? You won’t find it.

What a weird fear it is, the fear of death. You know you’re near it, feel it in your bones, your chest, your mind. You can’t always place a finger on the feeling but you know you’ve reached the end. If the afterlife exists, do we get to see what led us to our demise? Or is that a mystery left to a higher power? What even happens after

death? Do you know? I’ve always wondered if the birds that lie dead on the side of the road felt it in their wings, their talons, their beaks. Did the crow and pigeon know that wheels would roll over their fragile bodies? Or perhaps the teeth of an unnamed predator would lodge into their necks.

A small hummingbird doesn’t know it is going to drop dead from several days of rain and slightly cold weather in sunny Los Angeles, but on a random Tuesday its body can be found dead on a cold concrete sidewalk. Its eyes have a sparkle for only a few days, creating the illusion of still being alive. Then they lose the slight shine several days later, in the process also losing whatever depths of a soul or fear you could have caught a glimpse of. Both of those now becoming a distant memory.

People don’t fear death. They say they do, but they don’t. It's inevitable, like aging. It happens to everyone. We fear the unknown. We fear what might come in the future and after. We fear not being important, not being of value, not leaving a legacy. Sure, some people will say they don’t care, that they want to die. They no longer care for their life and when they do die, they were already dead. We lie to ourselves every day, building social constructs, standards, expectations, and systems that harm us. But we need that, need it to keep our fear of the unknown away, to push it deep down. It’s all a cover up, a distraction. We lie to ourselves every day. People, governments, and nations can discriminate and spew hate at any community all they want, but we forget that we’re all equal when we die. No one wants to admit it. Am I afraid of death or am I afraid of the unknown? I will never find out.

I had hoped to get more out of life. What was the hope? Acceptance.

Hello! In the spirit of the story, Sasha planned to write this bio from the first-person point of view, but was unable to. Sasha would say she’s a pretty good writer and a pretty chill person. As a little spoiler, she does have a fascination with death and everything to do with dying, and much of her writing is inspired by that, especially this story. The chosen topic was heavily researched, but calculations for additional details were not made. Don’t try this at home!

Smart Cookie, Byron Lane

The old woman’s eyelids burst open. Her legs twitch under the bedsheets and she tucks her chin to her chest until the young girl comes into view.

"You're awake!" the girl says from the rusty, squeaky metal folding chair just inside the door to Room 104 of Divine Cove Nursing Home.

“Are you an angel?” the old woman asks with quiet, dry breath.

"Pretty much," the girl says. She shimmies to the edge of her chair and jumps down. She takes two steps toward the bed. She reaches up with her little hands and grabs hold of the taupe plastic railing.

"Beautiful," the old woman says, looking closely at the girl, her vibrant hair, her smart outfit, and pointing to the girl's painted fingernails. "Like rubies and emeralds."

The girl smiles and begins to float–up, up, up–delighted.

“Is it my time?" the old woman asks. "Have you come for me?"

"You have to pay. Either now or later."

"I'm scared," the old woman says, bunching handfuls of the bedsheet in her fists.

"It's easy. Do you know what you really want?"

"I want my–" the old woman starts, stammers, sobs. Finally, she blurts, “I want my son!” She begins to cry.

The girl looks to the window, then brightens. She comes down from her tippy toes and walks to a stained, fraying cord attached to the room's tattered blinds. She pulls the cord until sunshine slices through the space and lands directly above the woman's heart.

“My son,” the old woman says, tears racing again down her face, buffered by rising cheeks, parting lips, a smile. The old woman closes her eyes. “My son,” she repeats. “I love you. I’m so sorry.

You deserved a better mother.”

The girl walks back to the woman's bedside. "Don't worry," she says. "People are like cookies. Parents, too. Sometimes they're hard or soft. Or sweet or nuts. Or exciting or boring. Or cool or gross. Cookies gonna cookie. Humans gonna human. It's a meme."

“You forgive me?” the old woman asks, her eyes squeezed tightly.

The girl shrugs. "Sure."

“Oh, thank you!" the woman cries out. “I’m ready, my love! I’m ready!”

The old woman’s closed eyelids jerk frantically, like what’s beneath them is boiling. Then, her smile freezes, her legs no longer twitch, she releases the bedsheet from her fists, her eyes go still under their lids.

The young girl raises her hand, floats it over the bed, reaching, reaching, reaching to touch the old woman as—

“JILLIAN!” the girl’s mother shouts from the doorway. “I told you not to wake anyone!"

The girl’s fingertips retreat. “She was awake. She said I’m an angel.”

“Now I know you're fibbing. You're no angel. Come on. Let's go. We're late." The mother storms away and in her wake, the young girl looks down, looks at herself.

Earlier this morning, her mother said her wrinkled uniform looked “ridiculous.” Earlier this morning, her mother called her hair “a rat’s nest.” Earlier this morning, her mother said, “Don't ever use my nail polish again.”

The girl looks up to the old woman, now more pale, more still, more peaceful than even a few seconds ago. "Some of us recognize a good cookie," the girl whispers. "Some of us don't."

The young girl steps quietly toward the doorway but stops. She turns back. "The classiest cookie we have is a Thin Mint. I think

those might be just right for you. You want a couple boxes?"

She looks back to the old woman as the sunshine vanishes from her body, like it scooped up part of her and took it behind a cloud.

"Okay," the girl says. "Maybe I can send a couple boxes to your son."

The girl smiles, turns to the door, and steps into the threshold. She lifts her chin and shakes her head as if to settle her angelic hair. She shakes her hands, as if to ready her beautiful, angelic, jeweled fingertips. She flings her arms high over her head as if they're big, strong, angel's wings. She jumps forward and vanishes into the light.

Byron Lane is an author, playwright, and screenwriter. His debut novel, A Star is Bored, is hailed by The New York Times Book Review as "wildly funny,” inspired by his time as assistant to actress Carrie Fisher. He also wrote the novel Big Gay Wedding , the series Last Will & Testicle, the acclaimed play Tilda Swinton Answers an Ad On Craigslist, and the award-winning feature film Herpes Boy, starring Octavia Spencer. He’s a former journalist and winner of two regional Emmy Awards. He lives in the Los Angeles area with his husband, New York Times bestselling author Steven Rowley.

Language Fee, Lameece Issaq

A while back, my partner and I were visiting Greece, specifically a not-often discussed town in the north called Thessaloniki, an Aegean seaside gem where cafes collect around ancient Byzantine and Roman ruins. Thessaloniki is probably best known for its inventive and terrific food scene. And my partner is known (at least to me) for his inventive and terrific eating habits. This man loves to try wild stuff. And since the dollar goes a long way in Greece, we had some serious meals that might have cost us three times the amount back stateside. Four times in Los Angeles.

We happened upon this place, Halaro, pronounced Khalaro. We are seated among several large gatherings of families--it’s a local spot. Our waiter, a long-legged, cranky old Greek with a yellow smile and nicotine stained voice tosses some menus our way. They are in Greek. We gently asked for menus in English. In English.

Now, most folks we came across in Thessaloniki spoke English–and rather well. I always feel guilty speaking English in nonEnglish speaking countries, like who am I marching in here with my American dollars expecting you to know my language? But most are gracious and seem to enjoy the opportunity to practice the language of the worst colonizers in history.

But this guy, this intimidating, wrinkled string bean of a man–a man who seemed to take cigarette breaks between cigarette breaks, a man who started waiting tables around the time his people took Troy–was decidedly not enjoying the opportunity. If you could roll your eyes with your whole body–that is what he did. But he complied. And we ordered with aplomb–a beef tongue appetizer, a pork chop, a greek salad, an eggplant something, a basket of bread, some wine, some honey-drenched dessert. We eat, we relish, we finish. The check gets dropped. It is, of course, in Greek. We count up the items just to make sure. I whip out my phone and snap a photo with my Google Translate app which does this nifty thing of translating and placing English words right on top of the Greek words. The check looks good…the bread, the pork chop, eggplant, wine…but then–one line—where it says language, 13 euro. Language 13 euro? Um…what? We are being charged for speaking in English! For walking into this little taverna on a neighborhood corner and foisting our language upon

the local population, who we have made to labor for the benefit of our understanding. Dang. Talk about boundaries. We have been charged a language fee.

I have been thinking a lot lately about what could be like if we instituted a world-wide language fee, specifically levied on those who use language in unkind and destructive ways.

Maybe there’s a Mean Words Translation App you could hover over offending language–the gossip and unkindness–and it would locate the offenders and fine them immediately. “Look at her, she’s so ugly!” Language fee. “Oh, I really don’t like those types of people.” Language fee. “Lies lies lies blah blah blah.” Language fee, language fee, language fee. 13 Euro. 13 thousand. 13 million. Transfer all that fresh cash to the poets, the storytellers, the explorers of words and worlds. Bankrupt the meanness out of our language.

Language, after all, is the portal to reality. Words aren’t things we form in our mouths or with our pens to just toss out into the world without consequence. Words cast spells. Words are potions that when consumed, change us. Can transform a saint into a villain and a villain to a victim. Can create collective visions for liberation and justice and uplift entire communities. Words are powerful, powerful agents and I often wonder if we are responsible enough, as a human race, to have free speech. Speech is not really free. It costs us constantly.

Back at the restaurant Halaro in Thessaloniki, Greece, we pull our exasperated waiter aside and point to our check, and I say to him, slightly impressed, “language 13 Euro?” For the first time, he cracks a smile and says tongue. “You ordered the beef tongue, yes?” Glassa, the Greek word for tongue and language. Yes, yes we did order the beef tongue, because, as previously mentioned, my partner likes to try wild stuff.

He handed us our leftovers, and we stood there, holding our tongues. But let’s not hold ours for long. Let’s release them to speak gorgeous magic into the world and create new improved, fee-less universes, where the kind word is the only word.

Lameece Issaq is an actor, writer and co-founder of the Obie Awardwinning company Noor Theatre. Her play Food and Fadwa premiered at New York Theatre Workshop (NYTW) in a production she coproduced and starred in, and in which Variety magazine praised her performance as “stunning.” She co-wrote the feature film Abe, directed by Fernando Grostein Andrade, which premiered at the 2019 Sundance Film Festival. She recently starred in her solo play, A Good Day to Me Not to You, which premiered off-Broadway at the Connelly Theater in 2023, and was developed at Williamstown Theater, NYTW, Cape Cod Theatre Project and Theatre Aspen’s Solo Flights Festival. www.lameeceissaq.com

The Transubstantiation of a Pickleball into a Matzoball,

John Giarratana

Just down the street from 826LA Mar Vista at Culver West Alexander Park, a community is brining. Close your eyes. Do you hear it?

Reverby Japanese layered with wispy synths & chimes coat the misty evening West LA air.

“0 - 0 - 2”

POP!

“That was out.”

“Nah come on that was line.”

These are the sounds emanating from our pickleball-terraformedwith-duct-tape-paddleball courts.

Playing now we have:

Latina trans woman/Singaporean quinquagenarian vs.

Saudi Arabian Expat/San Fernando Valley Jew

Their identities are ignored on the court but embraced on the sideline.

Open your eyes now and look through the gates. I know it may be hard to see the ball, the floodlights are obfuscated by a very trimmable tree; but don’t worry, you will get used to it.

Once I lost a point here and in a moment of sublime stupidity, I chucked my paddle onto the roof of the park administration building behind us. A few days later, a soon-to-be freshman at Cal Poly Pomona found it while retrieving a dodgeball for a local day

camp. Capitalizing on the free paddle, he felt it time to learn to play pickleball. 2 weeks later, playing with a replacement paddle, I found myself losing to some arrogant snot-nosed teen. As if it were some old-world fable, I was losing to a foe wielding my very own paddle!

Several weeks later, as the fall arrived and students were called to class, Michael, that very teen, solemnly bid us farewell. We wished him the best with his studies, encouraged him to take his pickleball court confidence to conversing with girls, and thanked him for whooping us into better players. He took my paddle with him.

Some of us drive down Wade St. Some of us walk. But we all convene here because the court is here. Without it, this variety of west-side picklers might not have ever been jarred.

But now we come here because We are here.

Public spaces like Culver West Alexander Park are essential to fostering belonging in a city like Los Angeles. And we know this–it’s not rocket science! Yet I worry that those in power, perhaps the same who play our game on country club courts, do not deem these spaces necessary or worth the cost.

This worry doesn’t keep me up at night. I know that Angelenos will always find a way to be together. Even if every court in Los Angeles is bulldozed and converted into vacant office space, we will create a place for ourselves.

I can see it now.

Shannon, Alyson, Old Ironsides, Kyle, Julia, Luke, Mohammed, and The Iron Maiden– we are all there in the back kitchen of a deli playing some doubles.

Shannon serves cross-kitchen to Kyle. Kyle returns it with tremendous force. Alyson is at the net ready to neutralize the returning threat, but…oh no…she miscalculated the topspin and the ball soars off her paddle.

It ricochets off the back of a busboy, skids along the grease soaked griddle, clonks off a coffee pot, and plops in a customer's soup. The holey ball sinks to the bottom of the bowl and arises as matzo.

The customer spoons from the chicken soup soaked mealy ball and swallows.

Play continues.

“1 - 0 - 2”

POP! POP! POP!

John Giarratana is a writer and game producer based out of Palms. He loves his girlfriend Liza, their cats Miso & Soybean, and eating popcorn (once he grabbed a bucket out of the trash at the Century City AMC and used it to get a free refill).

If you want to read or play more of his work, check out https://substack.com/@johngmusings and https://studioleftovers.itch.io/stickball.

Jet’s World: The Magical Mountain of Gems - Part I,

Ms. Brissett-Claxton's 1st Grade Class from 74th Street Elementary School

Once upon a time, there was a stone who wore a rainbow dress with rainbow high heels. The stone had arms, legs, and hair that was long enough to reach the ground. The stone’s name was Jet. Jet felt happy because she had never lost a game of rock, paper, scissors.

On that day, Jet was playing rock, paper, scissors with her friend Christina. She was playing rock when a portal appeared. This portal was light blue like the sky. The shape of the portal was a circle as big as the Read Aloud counter in Ms. Brissett-Claxton’s classroom, or about the size of a seven-year-old kid.

When Jet got close to the portal, she heard a “shhhhhhh” sound like the ocean and she smelled a hot dog. Little waves moved through the portal like fish swimming through water. Jet shouted, “BRUH.” She started wondering if she would see a dolphin in there…

Jet decided to go through the portal and it started to open slowly. It took 100 hours to open! Because it was taking so long, she decided to sleep outside until it opened. When she could finally go through, she started to feel slime. As the slime cleared, she realized she had stepped into a brand new world. Someone new was there to greet her…

Their name was Bite. They wore nothing. They felt lonely because everybody was scared of him. Their big dream was to have a friend. -Daniel S.

Their name was Beny and the Sun. They wore a worker shirt. They felt excited because they wanted to welcome new people or animals and objects. Their big dream was to see some friends and very best friends. They were in something that holds a billion milkways. This new place made them feel excited and happy.

-Lewis A.

Jet’s World: The Magical Mountain of Gems is an excerpt from Do You See What I See? written by the 1st and 2nd grade students at 74th Street Elementary School. The beginning of the story was written by an entire class. Daniel and Lewis’ pieces are snippets of their individual continuations of the story.

Cookies vs. Pancakes: Bella and Stitch’s Big Adventure,

Ms. Pajon’s 2nd Grade Class from Grand View Boulevard Elementary School

Once upon a time, there was a cat named Bella who LOVED pancakes. She had a pancake necklace, pancake shoes, a rainbow dress with gold and silver pancake hearts on it, and a pancake top hat. She lived with a family in a house, but what she really wanted was a house of her own made only of pancakes. Luckily, Bella had a special power where whatever she thought of appeared. She started thinking about her dream pancake house. It had a diamond pancake in her bedroom, a maple syrup pool, a pancake table, a pancake kitchen, a golden pancake bed, 24,000 yearsworth of butter, and lights made of strawberries.

All of a sudden, she heard something outside her window. It sounded like rain. When she opened her eyes, it was raining giant cookies! Up in the sky, she saw a panda flying on a cookie dragon!

“I DO NOT LIKE PANCAKES!” he yelled. “I LIKE COOKIES MORE!”

“Well, I like pancakes more!” Bella screamed back.

The panda, named Stitch, landed next to Bella with a THUMPMIAM. He got off the cookie dragon. He said, “You’ll never stop me!”

Then, he transformed into a human-sized gingerbread cookie. The dragon breathed cookie dough which turned into thirty live cookies.

“OMG!” Bella whisper-shouted. She imagined 20 of her own pancake friends, each the size of a house.

“I’m going to throw you in a cookie dimension!” Stitch warned her.

“Well, I’m going to throw you in the pancake dimension,” Bella replied.

All of a sudden, a giant dimension opened up beneath both of them and swallowed them up! They landed in the chicken nugget dimension.

There were chicken nugget trees, chicken nugget clouds, and out from the clouds came ketchup pouring down.

“What in the world?” Bella wondered.

Stitch turned to her and asked, “What if we worked together to get out of here?”

Cookies vs. Pancakes: Bella and Stitch’s Big Adventure was written on a Field Trip to 826LA Mar Vista. Illustrations were created by 826LA volunteer Nathan Koketsu.

How Stories Begin, Maddie Louise

“Say that again?” I ask, leaning over the rug where twenty squirrely second graders sit.

The little boy looks back at me with steady, amber eyes. “He is part lizard, part horse, and part demon.”

The kids around him nod, confirming he has gotten it right.

“Okay. Part lizard, part horse, part demon,” I repeat.

“And everyone picks on him,” the little boy adds.

“How come?”

“Because he looks funny.”

“How sad. Does anyone treat him kindly?”

“No,” the little boy says. “No one knows how.”

When I get home, I forget I now live in a stage room: mayonnaisewhite couch, slender teak bookcase, wobbly desk without drawers because I couldn't figure out how to put them in.

It’s all perfectly placed how I like, but hollow.

I check my phone again to see if Tasha has called to say she’s changed her mind about the whole leaving-me thing, but my screen is just a slew of missed texts from my sister.

I should text my sister back. She’s probably freaking out, not having heard from me in days. I know it’ll make me feel better to talk to her, but I just can’t keep my eyes open as of late. I fall asleep while the sun is still up. I fade quickly into a familiar dream where I live the rest of my days in a pillow fort, lit by the dim, warm glow of a light I’ve managed to leave on somewhere.

Every morning, lunch boxes swinging, a new class comes to write stories. Today so far, this third grade class and I have crash-landed on Mars when we’ve come upon a portal to the future.

“In the future, there are no more buildings…” a little girl with rainbow sneakers describes.

“No more buildings,” I echo.

“No more schools.”

“No more games.”

“It’s just people working for the king.”

“Just people working for the king? Nothing else?”

“Yes,” the whole class agrees. “Nothing else.”

I wince, adding it to the story, and hope it isn’t some kind of premonition.

We continue until the story is done and the students walk out with a book to call their own. At the door, I wave goodbye with that funny feeling I get at the end of every workshop: the bubbling warmth of a sweet time, and the freezing ache of a time forever gone. That morning with that class and that story will never happen again.

When I return to the empty writing lab, it’s quiet.

It was filled up, and then it wasn’t, like some kind of magic trick.

At home, I pace. My chest is sore from the labor of breathing. I’ve spent the last hour panicked.

Panicked at the sterility of my home, at the heartache it’s left me, at the chaos outside, at the people working for the king, at the world where there are no more games, at the lizard-horse-demon that looks funny, at all the people who don’t know how to treat him kindly, at the warmth that was there and now isn’t, at the loss that always seems to stay, at the millions of devilish tricks being played on me and my students and everyone, everywhere.

The only thing that keeps me from imploding is a knock at my door.

On the other side, my sister’s concerned green eyes flood my own. “I haven’t heard from you in ages,” she snaps, letting herself in.

I’m torn down with relief to see her, but I say, “You don’t have to worry about me.”

She rolls her eyes. “As if I have a choice.”

She hugs me and huffs out a big sigh, exasperated, but I smile, because all I hear is someone else, just for the moment, breathing for me.

“What do we need in order to build the time machine?” I ask the new class of fourth graders the next day.

“Time,” a little girl with beaded bracelets up her arms says.

“Thyme, like the herb?”

“No. Like time on a clock.” She says it decisively as though she has plucked a piece of time off the world’s existence herself, and there it is pinched between her fingers to show me.

The rest of the class nods in agreement, just as assured.

I laugh. “Of course we need time for a time machine.”

The kids laugh too, which makes me laugh more, which makes them laugh more until we’re all just a sea of smiles and bobbing shoulders and crinkled eyes, sharing our own piece of time.

“Where are we going in this time machine?” I ask.

“To another world!”

“One no one’s been to before!”

“With jello tacos.”

“And strawberry rain!”

“And ducks with mohawks.”

“And superheroes saving the moon from being stolen.”

“And lava-proof umbrellas.”

“And people who live in pop-up books.”

“And cars that run on bananas.”

“And sharks protecting worms.”

“And worms protecting sharks.”

The more they build, the more their world unfolds. It goes and goes and goes, and I’m surprised by that funny feeling again, the one that usually comes when the class leaves, except this time it’s more warmth than ice. Soft and patient and sure of itself, like the glow of a light left on somewhere.

The burgeoning authors tell me all the wonderful places we’re headed, and I’m reminded that this is no trick after all. It’s just magic.

Maddie Louise is an educator and a writer. More of her work can be found at maddielouise.com.

*Acknowledgments

826LA would like to thank to following for their support in making this chapbook possible:

Apatow-Mann Family Foundation

LA County Arts & Culture

Department of Cultural Affairs

The Vera Campbell Foundation

Universal Studios/ Discover a Star Foundation

826LA’s Youth Advisory Board

About 826LA

Vision: 826LA envisions a Los Angeles where every child has access to quality writing education and is empowered to express themselves creatively through writing. We envision a Los Angeles where every teacher is supported in their writing-based educational objectives.

Mission: 826LA is dedicated to unlocking and cultivating the creative power of writing for students ages 6 to 18, and to helping teachers inspire their students to write. How we advance our mission: A nonprofit organization, our services are structured around our understanding that great leaps in learning can happen with one-on-one attention, and that strong writing skills are fundamental to future success. With this in mind, we provide after-school tutoring in all subjects, evening and weekend workshops, in-school programs, field trips, college access, help for English language learners, and assistance with student publications. All of our programs are challenging and enjoyable, and ultimately strengthen each student’s ability to express ideas effectively, creatively, confidently, and in their own voice.

Core Values: 826LA values joy in the service of achieving educational goals. Our community norms value diversity, equity, inclusion, and access. We therefore prioritize partnerships with Title 1 Schools, engagement with historically marginalized populations, and training and deploying community-based volunteers in support of our mission. As a teaching approach, we value creativity, authenticity, empathy, and lively, rigorous, and studentcentered writing education. As an educational enrichment organization, we value supporting teachers, principals, and other school staff in the pursuit of excellence.

Programs

After-School Writing Programs

Mondays through Thursdays, students attend 826LA for after-school writing programs. Students participate in community building activities, work on homework or reading with trained tutors, and of course, write! Students submit their writing for inclusion in chapbooks, which 826LA publishes twice a year. To celebrate students’ hard work, 826LA unveils these chapbooks at book release parties, where students read their work to thunderous applause from their volunteers, families, and peers.

Field Trips

D u ring the week, 826LA invites teachers and their students to our writing labs to participate in a morning of collaboration, creativity, and writing. Whether Storytelling & Bookmaking, Well-Wishing & Poetry, Choose Your Own Adventure, or Memoir, field trips at 826LA support teacher curriculum and student learning by offering a safe space for students to be their most imaginative and to work on their writing skills. In a few short hours, students brainstorm, write, edit their work, and leave with something tangible—a bound book—as well as a renewed confidence in their ability to tell their stories.

In-Schools Programs & Writers’ Room s

B ecause not all students can come to us, 826LA brings specially trained volunteer tutors into classrooms throughout Los Angeles. There, volunteers provide oneon-one or small group assistance with writing projects. 826LA works with teachers to craft all projects, which are designed to engage students while targeting curricular needs. In addition to visiting twenty schools in the Los Angeles Unified School District each year, 826LA has additional sites within Manual Arts High School, Roosevelt High School, and Venice High School called The 826LA Writers’ Rooms.

Workshops

826LA’s workshops bring students together with artists, writers, and professionals for creative collaboration. Whether the subject is journalism or preparing for the zombie apocalypse, our workshops foster student creativity while strengthening writing skills. This program includes two long running partnerships with Paramount Pictures and the Hammer Museum.

Advisory Board

J.J. Abrams

Judd Apatow

Miguel Arteta

Mac Barnett

Steve Barr

Joshuah Bearman

Father Gregory Boyle, S.J.

Amy Brooks

Stefan Bucher

Kathleen Caliento

Monique Demery

Mark Flanagan

Ben Goldhirsh

Rebecca Goldman

Ellen Goldsmith-Vein

DeAnna Gravillis

Terri Hernandez Rosales

Christine Jaroush

Spike Jonze

Miranda July

Catherine Keener

Keith Knight

Al Madrigal

R. Scott Mitchell

Lani Monos

B.J. Novak

Miwa Okumura

Amber Paasch

Jane Patterson

Keri Putnam

Sylvie Rabineau

Sonja Rasula

Will Reiser

Luis Rodriguez

Tara Roth

Brad Simpson

J. Ryan Stradal

Natalie Tran

Sarah Vowell

Sally Willcox

Julie Wiskirchen

Staff

Jaime Balboa, Executive Director

Diego Quevedo, Chief of Staff

Shani Foster, Director of Education

Christie Thomas, Director of Development

Pedro Estrada, Programs and Operations Manager, Echo Park

Mike Dunbar, Programs and Operations Manager, Mar Vista

Mateo Acosta, Associate Director of Community Engagement

Carinne Mangold, Story and Operations Manager, Time Travel Marts

Alma Carillo, Senior Manager of Strategic Partnerships and Communications

Trevor Crown, Senior Manager of Volunteer Innovation and Assessment

Ariadne Makridakis Arroyo, Senior Volunteer Coordinator

Katie Feige, Institutional Giving Manager

Maddie Silva, Manager of Special Initiatives

Arisdeysi Cruz, Tutoring Program Coordinator

Marco Beltran, Writers’ Room Program Coordinator

Wendy Beltran, Writers’ Room Program Coordinator

Cole Montgomery, Senior Development Coordinator

Ariana Ponce Olivares, Senior Civic Engagement Coordinator

Wilson Swain, Creative Engagement Specialist

Julia Malinow, In-Schools and Tutoring Program Coordinator

Caz Shen, Store Associate

Board

Karen Van Kirk, Board President

Sarah Varet, Board Vice President

David Ulldendorff, Board Treasurer

Cisca Brouwer, Development Committee Chair

Ben Au

Jeff Boos

Scott Boxenbaum

Iman Farrior

Joe Ferencz

Scott A. Ginsburg

Susan Ko

Hon. Holly A. Thomas

Dave Eggers, Emeritus

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Shop the Time Travel Mart!

Visit our Time Travel Mart storefronts in Echo Park and Mar Vista where you can shop for all your time traveling gears and gadgets. From Mammoth Chunks to Robot Milk to original student-authored books, we pride ourselves on being the only Los Angeles purveyor of quality goods from the past, present, and future. The proceeds from the store help to keep all programs free for our students. You can also visit the stores online at timetravelmart.com.

1714 Sunset Blvd. Los Angeles, CA 90026

12515 Venice Blvd. Los Angeles, CA 90066