Luminous Screens and Other Portals

Luminous Screens and Other Portals

Poetry and prose by 916 Ink’s Author’s Lab High School Group

Luminous Screens and Other Portals

Poetry and prose by 916 Ink’s Author’s Lab High School Group

About 916 Ink 916 Ink is the only arts-based literacy nonprofit in the greater Sacramento region dedicated to providing creative writing workshops for youth, ages 5-25, to transform them into confident writers. We empower students to become the authors of their own lives, one published story at a time. Since 2011, we have served over 3,000 kids in the Sacramento Region, and published more than 100 publications. Our mission is to empower children and youth through creative writing. We envision a Sacramento region where every child and teen is given access to a creative writing program that leads them to believe in themselves and to understand the power of the written word. Learn more about us at www.916ink.org, or send an email to info@916ink.org to learn how to become involved.

DISCLAIMER

This is a work of fiction and poetry. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author and publisher hold exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited. Copyright 2021.

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Dear Reader, What you see is the hard work and dedication of a community of youth and adult writers working together to tell stories that inspire, entertain, and heal. At 916 Ink, we teach young people how to write, listen, and support each other in the pursuit of creating literary art.

The words in these pages are carefully chosen and crafted to reflect their unique voice.

This book is a celebration of “taking the yes,” which is a motto of 916 Ink students. “Taking the yes” means that students are unafraid to collaborate with each other and themselves. It might sound weird—how does one “collaborate” with his or her own self? By shutting down the inner critics in our head that tell us that we aren’t good enough, our stories don’t matter, or what we might say is stupid or unnecessary. Stories are how we create meaning and make sense of the world. What’s better than to teach young people how to tell stories, create meaning out of their lives, and understand the world?

Creative writing carves a path to a better life. Writers know this, but maybe the rest of the world doesn’t. A writer is someone who truly gets to live twice—once through their senses and once through the page. Everyone needs writers. Favorite television shows? Go thank a writer. News articles?

Thank a writer. Education? Writers wrote the curriculum. Business? Can’t happen without writers creating marketing tools and business plans. Writers make the world go around.

By reading this book you’ve supported the growth of a writer. Thanks. Please consider making a donation to this great cause on our website at www.916ink. org if you’d like to further our mission of populating the planet with youth who can “take the yes,” and lead a happy life.

Ink-tastically yours,

The 916 Ink staff, the Board of Dreamers, volunteers, and youth writers

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From the Wordslinger Dear Reader, This collection of short stories, poems, and fiction is certain to evoke your inner author. The imagery and imagination that is invoked from the group story “Resisting Reflection” positions this compilation of student prose in a whimsical, fantastical, and intensely contemplative light. As today might reveal, “the day had seemed, as most extraordinary days do—quite ordinary.”

But as you read on, this selection of student writing will prove to be a quite peculiar and pensive experience indeed.

The content: eclectic, ranging from horror to narrative poetry. The style: expressive, ranging from middle grade to fantasy. And laced within each genre and each style is an intentional humor, a nostalgic wit, and all the universal themes that classic literature embodies. In this way, Luminous Screens and Other Portals will enchant you.

The young women involved in this writing are curiously empathetic and transcendingly determined as authors of their own truth and conveyors of human nature. Make sure to take note of their names so you can check your local bookstore for their work in the next few years!

Nena Larieze

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Acknowledgments Nena Larieze

Wordslinger

Brenda Nguyen

Wordslinger

Cindy Domasky

Guest Editor

Casey Rafter

Eagle Eye

Katie McCleary

Founding Executive Director

Michael Spurgeon

Founding Board President

DJ Waldow

Board of Dreamers, President

Dr. Beatrice Tetteh

Board of Dreamers, Vice President

Shelley Blanton-Stroud Board of Dreamers, Secretary Kathy Flynn

Board of Dreamers, Treasurer

Chris Worden

Board of Dreamers

Daniel Kaufman

Board of Dreamers

Dr. JaNay Brown-Wood

Board of Dreamers

Lynn Lizarraga

Board of Dreamers

Michelle Warshaw

Board of Dreamers

Patrick Harbison

Board of Dreamers

Tigh Rickman

Board of Dreamers

Vince Wong

Board of Dreamers

Ian Hadley

Executive Director

Angela Tannehill

Creative Director

Allison Stelly

Director of Development

Nikki Cardoza

Director of Programming

Paulette Greenhouse

Find Your Voice Program Manager

Brenda Nguyen

Program Coordinator

Jay Oatis

Program Coordinator

Nena Larieze

Program Coordinator

Emma Hoppough

Production Coordinator

Maria Gavia

Office Manager

Christina Nelson

ReadOn! Program Manager

Tory Scott

Bookslinger

Will Evans

Outreach and Development Associate,

AmeriCorps VISTA

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Contents Group Work. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 Resisting Reflection . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2

Autumn Peterson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Introduction. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 Body. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Conclusion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15

Iris Vyalkov. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 What Needs to be Done? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Memories of Yesterday. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Where it Comes From. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20

Hazel Elliott. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Fallen Academy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 The Story of the Chair. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 A New Home . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Conquering Fear . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30

Sia Salgia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 A Sorrowful Time to be a Toothpick. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Corrupted Queen. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33

Trillian Creath. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 The Legend of the Golden Island. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 The Spark. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43

Wordslingers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 SPF 1000 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46

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Group Work

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Resisting Reflection Group Story

It started the day Otter met the otter. The day had seemed, as most extraordinary days do—quite ordinary. Mr. Otter Kelp, the magical researcher, had gotten up and eaten breakfast. He had gone back home and continued gathering data on the properties of hydra scales. He had eaten lunch, continued his research, and eaten dinner with his next-door neighbor, Clam.

However, it was when he left Clam’s house that the day had proven to be a peculiar one indeed.

“See you later, Otter Kelp,” Clam called out.

“Extraordinarily soon, I’m sure, Clam,” Otter had replied and walked toward the only lab on the island.

Otter, during his research on cursed items, discovered a golden medallion with an otter engraved in the front, but the medallion was kept in the research lab he didn’t yet have access to because he was still an apprentice.

But later that evening, after much rumination, he took his chances, broke into the lab, and stole the medallion in hopes of gaining power.

Suddenly, an evil, menacing, and magical otter emerged from the moonlit waves and, knowing the wizard’s obsession with achievement, cursed him with narcissism as a lesson. He was also terribly resentful that they shared a namesake.

“You like the name so much, maybe you can...have this curse of narcissism as well...” the magical otter sputtered. “Also, you shouldn’t move faster than you’re meant to,” the evil otter added and snickered.

The moment he was cursed, Otter Kelp’s life flashed before his eyes. As an infant, he saw his parents huddled around him, pondering his future and name. He wondered if they had foreseen this!

“Oh, it’s our magical wizard. He is going to be so amazing one day,” his mother cooed.

“Honey, what will his name be? We can’t just call him Wizard!”

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“Oh! You’re right; how about Izineus?” she suggested.

“That doesn’t really roll off the tongue though, does it?” his father countered.

“That is true,” she agreed. “Evexon?”

“That is very ordinary—everyone is naming their wizard that.” His father glanced around the room and saw a painting of their favorite animal, an otter. “We shall name him Otter, Otter Kelp.”

When Otter Kelp snapped out of the reminiscence, his short-term memory of the day had vanished. He had no recollection of where he was or why he was there.

Otter Kelp, spotting an actual otter, thought to himself, now entranced, What a pitiful creature. All it does is spend its days lazily floating on the water and knocking shells against rocks to eat.

He then walked toward his lab in a dreaming state. Thinking he found it on the shore, he placed the medallion in his robe pocket.

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Pelican’s Cove is a site of great renown among mystics for its unusually large beak-shaped opening as well as its potent reflection pool.

Otter grew up on a giant rock within the ocean, where his parents built a house. The rock was an odd one, and within it lay a deep cave where Otter now checked his reflection.

The enchantment encyclopedias described Otter’s home as “a huge stone island that looms out of the still ocean,” and there were many pages on its poetic architecture: From afar, it appears as though an enormous bird had alighted upon the water and had been frozen in time. It sits on the salty water in the same manner that a duck or swan does, with its feet below the water and its wings folded. The bird’s head is turned to its left and downward, with the beak open, as though it had seen something on its left wing and was about to say something about it. If you were to climb up the stone wing and into the beak, you would find that where the mouth would be is a deep cave, too deep to see the other end of...

Just outside the entrance of this cave was a small cottage where Otter Kelp lived, now entranced by his renowned magical research and himself.

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His bird-rock house was beautiful—not as much as himself, though; he was more beautiful than anything in this mortal, and immortal, world. He realized this now.

4 Clam knocked his signature eight times in a row on Otter’s personal lab door.

Otter appeared in the doorway in a daydreamy state.

“Please, do come in, Clam,” he gestured and didn’t make eye contact.

“Otter Kelp, what in the world? Why are you acting so strangely? Are you ill, man?”

“Whaaaat...ever do you mean, Clam? I am supremely divine,” he responded, his pitch suddenly taking on the voice of a lord in seventeenth century England.

This response rattled Clam further. Even for Otter, this self-regard was quite high. Clam shifted his approach.

“OK, what have you been up to?” Clam inquired.

“Just cutting-edge research on world-renowned topics. The Nobel Prize in Wizardry will be mine this year,” he spoke monotonously as he handed Clam an empty teacup with a medallion of some sort inside.

Something was certainly awry. Clam could see through the curse and decided to help Otter, but he was being unbearable.

4 The next day, Clam stopped by Otter’s cottage and knocked on the door again.

“Who is it?” came Otter’s voice, sounding exasperated.

“It’s me, Clam,” replied Clam.

“Oh, well, I don’t have time for boring people like you in my schedule. I’m too important to talk to common minstrels, so please leave,” replied Otter.

Clam blinked. This was clearly a curse. “Are you sure you’re feeling well?”

“I said, please leave.”

Continued on next page

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Inside his cottage, where he was eating some grilled salmon, Otter suddenly had an idea.

“Never mind, Clam. You can come in.”

As soon as the door opened, Otter pointed his staff at Clam and whispered something only he heard. A flash, and then Clam couldn’t remember anything except for the fact that he was in the presence of the great and wonderful Otter, who was renowned around the world and who deserved so much more than his tiny cottage on a rock and his label as an amateur wizard.

“Ah, Clam!” Otter called.

“Yes, Otter?”

“Tell me, who is the best person you’ve ever met?

“Well, you of course. Who else would it be, my friend?” Clam responded.

“You are great fun; I almost admire you.”

Both stood awkwardly, barely blinking, with maniacal grins slapped across their faces.

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Three Months Later...

“Everything is leading up to this day,” the enchantment encyclopedia forecast.

Otter dog-eared this page, stared at himself, saw the water ripple, and, for a split moment, had the intuition that he might not be so perfect. Months had passed since he had experienced this newfound super-confidence.

“Am I not as beautiful as I picture myself?” he asked aloud.

The trees engaged in sudden, rapid wind.

And, as if in response, the calm, inattentive ocean water shifted to vengeful.

Inconsistent waves formed and smashed against the rocks closest to him.

Then a beast flew out of the water, shaking the cave, flooding it thoroughly.

Otter was tossed back violently, in complete confusion as he stared at a beautiful, blue, sparkling beast. The beast turned her head and stared at Otter with piercing, orange-fiery eyes.

“I’ve had premonitions of you,” the dragon hissed as the water dripped from her scaly form. Otter lay soaked and speechless. The dragon continued, “If you don’t check your ego, something terrible will happen, but if you do, you’ll grow into the greatest wizard of the land...”

“But...” Otter mumbled finally. He waited patiently for an answer.

“The name’s Narwhal,” the dragon wheezed, “and I’m here to inform you that you’re being an idiot. I’m here to teach you to stop caring about yourself only and to remind you that to truly be the greatest at something, you’ll need other people and compassion.” Narwhal, pleased with her speech, slithered midair and situated herself directly about Narwhal.

“Not interested,” Otter replied and strolled inside his dwelling in great indifference.

4 Narwhal approached Otter, claws scraping against the cave’s floor.

“Don’t you dare turn from me. That medallion must be destroyed to get you out of this state.” Otter continued walking—undisturbed—down through the cave system.

Continued on next page

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“How would you find it?” Otter responded mockingly.

“Forgot about my premonitions, have you? I know everything about you. You have stolen the medallion that has cursed you and you are blinded by the truth.”

Narwhal flew up and out into the cave leading to Otter’s house. Otter used his known wizardry to stop Narwhal from completely destroying his house.

Narwhal took a deep breath. How much longer would she have to convince this narcissistic Otter?

“I am more heavenly than any being in this world, and I do not need your help...”

Narwhal was burnt from the smoke coming out of her ears. This obtuse Otter, who was not even an otter, had ignored her for far too long. Lunging at him, she pinned him down with one of her legs and brought her other to his face, and for a split second, she recognized fear in his eyes. Her sharp talons raked across his face, and blood siphoned to the surface; a stunned Otter held his hand close to his wounds.

This was going to leave a scar, one that would be there forever, obscuring his supposedly beautiful face.

“You will regret this; the truth will show itself,” one of them uttered.

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4 Epilogue: Three Years Later…

Otter Kelp sat in his laboratory once more. He couldn’t remember being cursed, but over the years, Clam (who could remember everything) had retold the story. Otter looked about the room for what seemed like the millionth time.

There were no mirrors, for he had demolished them all after hearing what he had done when cursed. The illustration of Narwhal, the dragon enchantress, had been torn from the encyclopedia, framed, and hung on the wall as a reminder of the important things in life: friendship, righteousness, and compassion. An incomplete essay on the invention of the magic wand lay on the desk. And a framed Nobel Prize in Wizardry sat undusted for some time.

His obsession with achievement no longer cursed him, and his attendance sheets for the Young Wizards of Pelican Cove he mentored were kept pristine.

The claw marks on the side of his face were as much a reminder of Narwhal.

He hadn’t seen her in years, but he could swear he had spotted the flashing blue scales or orange eyes of little baby dragons swimming in the reflection pool from which she had once soared.

Now Otter spent his evenings in a reflective state, pacing the shore, listening to the crashing waves. He didn’t stare at his reflection anymore; the scars humbled him.

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Autumn Peterson

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Introduction Autumn Peterson

William looked at the expanse of ocean before him reverently, akin to a worshipper at the feet of their all-encompassing deity. Maybe that was exactly what it was. He, a simple man who wanted no more than to play his guitar for an eternity, and the ocean, this vast existence he had no hope of knowing, no hope of understanding.

Who did he think he was, to explore those depths? Who did he think he was, a simple man, to know the wave’s secrets?

It was a place not meant for the likes of him, the country born, the nature known. William cast his thoughts back to a boy he met once when he dared to venture into the tremulous water of the city. Thomas was the boy’s name.

Wet behind the ears, bright of eyes, and with his companion Toby. They were young, children no less, left to fend for themselves in the shark-infested waters of the capital.

He prayed, he prayed to whoever who would listen, that the two boys knew how to swim. Either that, or they would sink.

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Body Autumn Peterson

Thomas woke looking straight into the eyes of a dead man.

He started a scream through clenched teeth, instinctively suppressing the noise behind his tongue. It exploded in the deep confines of his chest, setting every sense and nerve alight as his fingers made a desperate scramble to get away. The mantra he’d survived by since he was four years old pounded in his skull: act dead, act crazy, run like hell, and fight.

He forced his legs upward, peeling his damp skin off the grimy concrete and stumbling upright before being yanked down. Thomas’s head slammed into the curb, sending a paralyzing pain through his entire body. He gritted his teeth and sought for what was holding him back. The corpse. It loomed from the gutter, clawing at his arm with the grip of rigor mortis as if devouring him feet first. His scream came louder then, seeping through his conditioned restraint like steam from an engine. Jesus. He hoped someone didn’t hear that.

His worn shoes found traction, and suddenly he was running, the corpse grinding along its knees as they slammed into the wall like drunks before his legs inevitably gave way under him. The body sprawled across his chest, cold and utterly disgusting. Thomas’s chest constricted painfully from the effort of not breathing in the stench of death that oozed from them both.

Act dead.

He lay still, reading the technicolor streets, heart screaming like a freight train. His eyes scanning the starlit alleyway, brick walls and barred windows, and the slick, rain-soaked wet pavement of the cold basalt that cobbled the earth, suffocating anything that might’ve grown. It was quiet. Quiet is what got you killed.

In the sudden stillness, he dared a closer look for the body strewn across himself. Who are you? The man looked familiar, but death had a strange way of stripping people of their identities, leaving nothing but bone, meat, and skin. Thomas felt sick. The dead hand maintained its ratchet grip around his arm, plastic zip-tied with the bones sewn to the crook of Thomas’s elbow. He felt a scream build up in his throat again. A knife was driven through its skull, Continued on next page

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skewering the bone and whatever sloshed around inside. His breath hitched with his gaze sharpening on the handle. Oh god, that’s my knife.

He felt his heart stuttering, dropping to ground-zero as he desperately, with all restraint he had, willed his body to stop shaking. He wasn’t a murderer; he had a code; he didn’t do this. Why is my knife there? He mentally surged against the impenetrable haze that surrounded the past 48 hours.

He remembered waking up at home and having breakfast, going out with Toby, getting los—Oh, where’s Toby? Nowhere near him. He strained his ears to hear past the deafening quiet that constricted and choked off his every sense. Toby had been with him when they got lost. He grasped at the trailing memories that slipped through his fingertips like water. The world just couldn’t let him catch a break, huh?

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Conclusion Autumn Peterson

Phil watched the trees sway from the tops of dancing branches, feet poised, eyes narrowed. Maybe if he looked long enough, he could see his boys scattered by the wind. His children, who had flown from the nest. He could recount their names and lives like the endless tales he’d tell them at moon’s light.

Phil could fool himself into thinking he could see the twinkling lights of the city like stars in the sky, or that he could smell the salt of the ocean between the leaves. He could, it was true, but he wouldn’t. He could run after his boys, flown to the homes they made for themselves, or he could stay in his lonesome forest, waiting for them to come home.

Or...he could go.

The wind tugged impatiently at his heart like it had been doing the past years. The inner desire in him to fly, to soar, to see the world once more. He couldn’t do that before, not with his children still at home needing love and care, but they weren’t here now. Home wasn’t as much of a place as it was a person, he knew, and his home was with his children...Maybe he was theirs.

Phil looked up at the cloudless expanse of the night sky. The stars that glowed like city light, the wind that smelled of the salty sea. His boys were scattered across the globe, wherever the wind took them, but when they came back, and they would, he’d be right there with open arms, ready to welcome them home again.

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Iris Vyalkov

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What Needs to be Done?

Iris Vyalkov

I bound my hands in wrist wraps as best as I could. The day hadn’t been the greatest, and the stress of the competition got to me. I leaned forward after finishing the wraps, elbows on my black shorts.

“You have five minutes,” I heard my coach call out.

I huffed and looked at my boxing gloves and helmet, both black, sitting on the bench in front of me. All of my training flooded into my mind. The exhaustion, the late hours my coach and I had sacrificed. I had barely passed exams on a few hours of sleep and instant noodles. Everything had led to this moment.

Should I do it? Of course, I argued with myself, otherwise you will be blamed for wasting everyone’s time and shamed for being a quitter. You need this scholarship. But what if they understand? They all know about the accident that happened last week, the days leading up to the competition. They will let you off the hook.

“And what if they don’t?” I mumbled to myself.

I hauled myself up from the bench, putting on my gloves, helmet, and mouth guard. My coach and team all looked nervous when I had stepped out from the locker room. They all seemed relieved as the atmosphere lightened. Had they thought I wouldn’t want to compete?

“I was getting a little worried,” Coach said. “Glad you made up your mind.”

I smiled as best as I could, still fighting myself over the competition, struggling to stay focused. I walked out into the arena that was filled with chatter. Several spectators took notice of me and showed me a thumbs-up. I gave them a nod and headed into the boxing ring. I ducked under the ropes and faced my opponent, who was still talking with his coach. My mind was hazy. I couldn’t think about anything but the accident. The referee stepped into the ring; the mumbling of the spectators quieted down. I took a deep breath and exhaled.

It’s showtime, I thought to myself.

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Memories of Yesterday Iris Vyalkov

Arthur drowned in recollection every time he closed his eyes. He could hear the harsh screams of soldiers as the battle erupted into chaos. They fled into the forest, the deafening rumble of their boots, desperate to escape. Another soldier he knew was running nearby, saying something he couldn’t discern.

He turned to the other soldier only to see him go into a sort of shock before falling over. Arthur could feel himself get lighter, paler, almost blacking out.

There was a break in the earth ahead that led into a creek before it rose into a slight hill. He pushed on, dodging branches and trunks, legs burning with adrenaline. He was almost there, so close, before he felt hot metal sear into his right side.

The world blurred as he stumbled, trying to keep moving, but it was no use.

The rifle slipped from his grip as he fell forward and tumbled into the creek’s bank before he landed face-first into the soggy mud. The deathly cold water seeped through the crevices of his uniform. He tried his best to turn his head so he could face up. Even with mud impairing his hearing, the vibrations of the soldiers running shook the forest floor. He dragged his hand up to his wound, trying his best to gather mud under himself to prevent more bleeding. He gazed up at the tops of the evergreens, feeling his nose sting before the tears flowed. His bloody hand dropped in the shallow parts of the creek. His hand washed, his blood carried on the tide to a place that he couldn’t imagine to be anything but freedom. The same hard-to-get freedom he was fighting for.

Arthur opened his eyes, and he was back at the field hospital, torso bandaged tight enough, fading in and out of reality as if he knew what reality was.

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Where it Comes From Iris Vyalkov

A lone pianist plays on a fallen tree and tusks of ivory

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Hazel Elliott

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Fallen Academy Hazel Elliott

The Byron Preparatory School was like every other hellish high school. There were the jocks and the cheerleaders and the weirdos. Which group did you align with? The jocks, who have more surprises than the weirdos and were in more pain than you could imagine? Were you with the cheerleaders, who bully others because their families bullied them? Or were you with the weirdos, who were about not fitting in with society?

Whether you’re in a private school or a public school, there will always be people who think they are better than others. This private school was no different. They were a school for troubled teens, and yet they weren’t as troubled as the outside world thought they were. No one in their small town thought that this could happen to them. None of them were expecting the wrath that a fellow student cursed upon them. It all started when Antoinette Ramirez transferred to Byron Preparatory School.

She did so because she had troubles like everyone else in the school. When she arrived, her first thoughts were troubled. This school was going to be fearful of her like her parents were. She arrived at Byron Prep on the first day of school. No one knew it now, but by the last day of school, some of the students would be standing. Meanwhile, some of the others would not be, including the student who brought down the school. When Toni was ready, but miserable, to leave the home she grew up in, a car came up the driveway with the headmaster of her new school.

“Hello, my name is Mr. Jackson, and no, I have no relation to Samuel L. Jackson. I am here to drive you to Byron Prep. Your name is?” the strange man with a brown, dirty Audi asked Toni.

“My name is Antoinette, but I prefer Toni. And by the way, I don’t care if you have any relation to Samuel L. Jackson or not. I need to get out of this place,” Toni said.

Before she walked away from her childhood house, Toni took one more look, remembering the peaceful nights. The peaceful nights watching movies with her parents and little brother. Having nothing to worry about. She realized once she left with Mr. Jackson, all that would change. Her life was about to get

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a lot more stressful and not involve any more movie nights. She left anyway because she needed a new start away from the curse her family name brought.

After Toni got into the passenger seat of the Audi, they sped away. They sped away from her house of childhood horrors and memories. She stared out the car window, thinking about what her new school would be like and if she could finally stay out of a stereotypical group. Mr. Jackson interrupted her thoughts.

“When we get to the school, I will show you to your room. You will meet your new roommate. Then they will show you around the school and give you your class schedule,” Mr. Jackson informed her.

“Do you know about my parents and brother?” Toni asked, concerned.

“I do,” Mr. Jackson answered her.

“Is there any chance we can keep that between us?” Toni asked, trusting.

“Sure, I can do that, but might I ask why?” Mr. Jackson questioned.

“You can ask, but I’m not going to answer,” Toni said. With that, the rest of the car ride to the school was driven in painful silence.

When they arrived at the school, it looked like a castle out of an old movie.

There were pillars holding up the roof. The door was so enormous a giant could walk through them. Unlike the rest of the black and white school, the door was bright red.

“What’s with the door?” Toni asked the headmaster.

“For the outside world, it looks like a ruined castle because of the spell the founders put on the door centuries ago,” the headmaster answered.

“Of course they did?!” Toni snickered under her breath.

“Did you say something?” the headmaster asked.

“No, nothing,” Toni told him, grateful she said what she said under her breath.

As they walked through the doors of the school, Toni almost got her head burned off by a kid throwing fireballs. As she ducked, she thought how this was Continued on next page

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going to be a lot to have to get used to. When she had a chance to look around, she noticed almost every kid in the school using some sort of elemental powers: fire, water, air, or earth. She also noticed how, unlike the outside of the school, the inside was very modern, with television screens everywhere.

Most of the students had E-pods and were listening to music in the halls.

As the headmaster guided Toni to her new dorm, all she could do was look at every new thing. Like the open dorm rooms or the pictures of the former classes on the walls. Or the different age groups of students roaming the halls of the school. Finally, when the headmaster and Toni arrived at her new room, there was already a girl—she had dirty blonde, curly hair—emptying some boxes onto her bed.

“Guinevere Dwyer, this is Antoinette Ramirez. Antoinette, this is Guinevere,” Mr. Jackson introduced the girls.

“Yeah, I told you to call me Toni. I’m Toni, and I don’t want to be here,” Toni said to Gwen.

“Headmaster, I’ve told you to call me Gwen,” Gwen told him in a kind tone, and then she turned to observe Toni, this ponytailed girl with honey brown eyes.

As Gwen shook Toni’s hand, she felt how much work she’d done over the years.

She could tell because of the old calluses she could feel.

Gwen said, “Once you’ve put your stuff away, I’ll give you a tour of the school.”

“Whatever, I don’t have much stuff,” Toni snarked and threw the duffel bag she was carrying onto her new twin-size bed.

“Did the headmaster tell you the Samuel L. joke?” Gwen asked.

“Yeah, does he tell that to everyone?” Toni asked.

“Only to the new kids,” Gwen told her.

Once both girls finished moving into their new room, Gwen took Toni’s hand and dragged her on yet another tour. First, they went to the gymnasium, where the cheerleaders were practicing using their earth elemental powers.

“So, this is the cheerleading squad, and they get the gym every other day at three. The basketball team gets it every other day at two,” Gwen told Toni.

“Wait…so does every kid at this school have elemental abilities?” asked Toni.

“Yes, but everyone’s power is consistent off the four elements, so kids with

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fire can control and generate fire. The earth kids can control plants, grass, and dirt or stone, and they can create and control lava. The water kids can change the chemical property of water, so make it boil or freeze. Finally, the air kids can glide and hover on air,” Gwen explained to Toni. “So, which are you: water, fire, earth, or air?” Gwen asked, probing for answers.

“None of your business is what it is,” Toni brushed off the question.

“OK, then let’s go get your schedule and see where your classrooms are,” Gwen suggested, trying not to take Toni’s attitude personally.

As they walked to the guidance office, Toni was thinking about how this place was more normal than she thought it would be. They had music and sports; the weird thing was, she wished it was weirder so that she wouldn’t like it so much here. She was not the only freak here.

“Let’s knock to see if Mrs. Brooks is in before we barge in uninvited,” Gwen said and then knocked on the maple door.

When Mrs. Brooks answered, Toni’s first impression was of Professor Trelawney from Harry Potter. The combination of the big round glasses hanging around her neck and the clothes she was wearing made her look homeless, but everything else about her aesthetic made her look organized.

“Oh, hello girls. How may I help you?” Mrs. Brooks asked.

“This is our new student, Toni, and we need her schedule,” Gwen told her.

“I can introduce myself, thank you,” Toni said. “I’m Toni Ramirez,” Toni snarked.

“Well then, come in,” Mrs. Brooks invited.

When the girls entered, Toni noticed how her office almost matched her outfit, with books and papers everywhere. The girls cleared all the books and papers off of two chairs in front of the guidance counselor’s desk.

“Your grade and first letter of your last name?” Mrs. Brooks asked Toni while looking through her files.

“Sophomore and R,” Toni said and then started pacing around the room waiting for her schedule.

“Could you sit down? Your pacing is making me nervous for no reason,” Gwen asked Toni kindly.

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“So what if my walking makes you anxious? It doesn’t mean anything,” Toni said, annoyed.

“So…our powers are connected to our emotions, and whenever we’re happy, sad, mad, or anxious, our powers can act out. I would like to not flood Mrs. Brooks’s office again,” Gwen informed her.

“Oh, OK, whatever,” Toni scoffed and then sat down again. “So, water, huh?”

Toni said.

“Yeah, water,” Gwen said, and then the girls sat in silence while Mrs. Brooks looked for Toni’s schedule.

“Found it!” yelled Mrs. Brooks. It startled both the girls, and Toni noticed a teapot that looked cold started to boil. Mrs. Brooks’s scream must have caused Gwen’s powers to act out.

“So…” Toni said, trying to change the mood in the room. “What wonderful classes do I have?” Toni asked, snarking at the counselor.

“You have almost all the same classes as me,” Gwen exclaimed, astonished.

“Wonderful,” Toni said as she rolled her eyes.

“Well, girls, it was wonderful seeing you two, but I have other work I need to get to,” Mrs. Brooks said. Then she ushered the girls out of her office.

“So, what now?” asked Toni with her hands in her pants pockets.

“Now, you tell me what your element is, and I can teach you the basics since you missed a year and you’re starting off as a sophomore,” Gwen tried prying.

“Nice try, sweetheart, but I’m still not going to tell you what my element is.”

Toni dodged the question.

“Then what do you want to do?” Gwen asked Toni, almost giving up on finding out her element. Although when she got a challenge, she didn’t give up until she found an answer.

“Does this amazing school have a punching bag?” asked Toni.

“It does. Why?” Gwen asked.

“Show me the way,” Toni ordered.

The girls went from the counselor’s office all the way across campus to the dirt brown punching bag, hanging off a tree.

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“Stand behind it,” Toni ordered.

“Why?” Gwen asked.

“Just do it,” Toni said.

Gwen obeyed and stood behind the old punching bag and braced it for whatever might happen to the bag and her. Toni took off her red and black flannel shirt and wrapped it around her waist. Now, all that she wore was a white tank top with jeans and a flannel around her waist. Toni separated her legs and put her fists up by her face.

Whack, the bag said, and Gwen fell down behind it.

“What was that?” Gwen asked.

“Oops, I forgot how strong my punches were. Sorry,” Toni said as she reached for Gwen’s hand to help her up. As she gripped Gwen’s hand, she felt how Gwen had never worked a day in her life.

“This time, separate your legs and put your weight on the bag toward me, bracing for my hit,” Toni instructed Gwen, and she did so.

Whack, whack! This time Toni didn’t have to help Gwen up, and she could keep punching. She dodged and weaved for hours like the bag was an invisible enemy.

“Are we done yet?” Gwen asked hours later.

Sweaty and panting, Toni said, “Are you tired?”

“No, hungry, and if we head back now, you’ll have time to take a shower and get to dinner on time.”

“OK then,” Toni agreed and put her flannel back on, and the girls walked back to their dorm room.

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The Story of the Chair Hazel Elliott

Everyone has their own chair, a metaphorical chair where you go to let the world around you melt into nothingness. I’m going to tell you about my chair, my safe space.

My space is my room, a place that smells like a fruit bowl, tastes like candy, and sounds like peace and the music I get to control.

A space that feels like nothing could go wrong with the world. The comfort of my bed that feels like a cloud. This chair or space is where my imagination takes flight and I get to write it down so that, one day, someone can hear my dreams.

This space is perfect for no distraction, because I have a warning sign on my door. If they open it, it’s the death of their favorite character, and it gives me control when I have none. This space is meaningful to me because it’s where my thoughts and feelings can be free and unafraid of harmful judgment from the world.

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A New Home Hazel Elliott

Her eyes discover a new land, a new place to call home. Somewhere she can have adventures and discover who she is. Her ears hear beautiful noises of a new beginning, a place to be free. Her tongue tastes moisture of the new air without any of the poison of society. Her hands feel the touch of soft flowers and wet leaves. Her feet feel adventures she will have and the trouble she might have to face. She smells fruit she’ll be able to enjoy in peace. She’ll be able to discover a new home, free.

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Conquering Fear Hazel Elliott

Here’s the thing about fear, it’s always there, fear of the unknown, fear of facing it alone, fear that those closest to us are the monsters, fear that as soon as you slay one, there is another monster waiting to take its place, fear that there’s one more boogeyman waiting at the end of the dark hall.

Fear that one day the boogeyman will win.

Fear that one day fear would win.

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Sia Salgia

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A Sorrowful Time to be a Toothpick Sia Salgia

Cassidy I was eating cheese on a toothpick until I accidently snapped it. I threw it away and got another one and speared another cube of cheese.

Toothpick Uh, OUCH, that actually hurt. How would you feel if I snapped your spine and threw you away in the dumpster like you’re nothing? And the trash can, the smelly, greasy trash can, she couldn’t at least give me a funeral or a vigil? I could see all the corpses of my comrades, which is NOT a lovely sight.

Trash Can Again? I’ve already interred like 50 dead toothpicks; ugh, can’t she at least switch it up a little? Maybe she could throw in those umbrella toothpicks for a change. Like, just let me pretend that I’m vacationing in the Bahamas.

Cheese Seriously, the toothpick is talking all about how badly it’s been treated. Well, I’m sorry, do you have to get chomped up, then dissolved by stomach acid?

No, you get to be recycled as a piece of paper or something.

Toothpick

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Corrupted Queen Sia Salgia

The waves grasped at her legs, cold and desperate, as if they were crying for a friend, which she knew wasn’t true. They drew the breath from her lungs, pushing her deeper. They wore down her body, sanding it repeatedly. Though her memory was foggy, she remembered one thing: it was her sister who had tried to kill her.

Her sodden dress trailed behind her, sand dragging on the cement. The guards opened the castle door and nodded their heads. She marched right into the throne room. Her older sister was laughing with a noblewoman, probably at the expense of someone else. Her sister’s head snapped up and a look of shock quickly passed her face before contorting into a sweet smile.

“My dear sister!” her sister’s shrill voice rang.

“Don’t play those games with me, Cressida.”

“How dare you address me like that? It’s Your Majesty!” Cressida shrieked.

“You know as well as I that father revoked your birthright and made it so I would be rightful queen.” She paused. “You also know as well as I that you were the one who tried to drown me.”

The guards started to come toward her, but Cressida halted the guards and sauntered over to her sister.

“Aurelia, dear,” she whispered, her long, sharp nail pushing Aurelia’s chin up.

“Father is dead, so there’s no point trying to start a battle that already has been won, especially when no one can vouch for your accusation.”

Aurelia grinned. “No person can vouch for me, but the will can!”

Cressida’s eyes widened, then contorted into a mask of pure fury. “GET HER OUT OF MY SIGHT,” she shouted to her guards. The guards, showing no emotion to the events, grabbed her arms and led her to the place not many survive: the dungeons.

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Trillian Creath

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The Legend of the Golden Island Trillian Creath

Nobody knows where the Golden Island is, but most agree that it’s on a planet somewhere in distant space. Perhaps there are other landmasses on that planet, or it’s entirely covered in water except for the one island.

Nobody knows, not even the Golden Island’s inhabitants. But there is one thing that is known: this mystical place is where the story I am about to tell you takes place.

On one specific day, many centuries ago, if you were to see the Golden Island, it would seem perfect. The sky was a clear, cloudless blue, and the sun shone brightly. There was a slight breeze, so it wasn’t too hot. If you were to walk toward the lush, green forest that blanketed the western part of the island, it would be quiet and beautiful. Large watchtowers, built so well that no human could have done it, would be seen around the forest, rising through the treetops. And in between two of those watchtowers, an enormous whiteblue shape, slightly taller than the trees surrounding it, would be seen sitting as still as a stone. But if you were to get close to it, you would realize it was covered in beautiful white scales with enormous wings folded close to it and formidable-looking horns on its head: a dragon.

Teria was supremely bored. Sitting here, watching over the elven kingdom of Vaeharia was a dreadful job. It was not that she didn’t like being Vaeharia’s guardian dragon, no. She did not want any harm to befall the elves. It was the times when there seemed to be no attackers that she didn’t like. She had to sit and wait and sit and wait some more until someone turned up. And unfortunately, this was one of the boring “sit-and-wait” periods. She was so lost in thoughts of Why doesn’t someone arrive? that she didn’t notice the young elf standing in front of her until the elf hurled a rock at her. The small pebble bounced off Teria’s back, catching her attention.

“Pay attention!” the elf called up. “I need to get into Vaeharia!”

Teria sighed. She knew this particular elf girl quite well.

“Mira, what are you doing here? I was under the impression you’d gone to Parael with Delphina to get information on that Clio girl.”

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Mira shrugged. “Clio must’ve gone back to her mother’s fortress. We didn’t find anything that could lead us anywhere. Delphina stayed in Parael to get something for that raven of hers. Anyway, there’s a council meeting today, and my dad wants me to attend.”

Mira’s father, the elf king, would of course want his daughter to go to a council meeting. Despite only being the age of seven, Mira was naturally gifted and was already somewhat better at fighting than most of the elves in the Vaeharian army. Considering the fact that there were already fewer elves in the army than normal, the king wanted to gather every last warrior.

In Teria’s opinion, attending a meeting with a bunch of stuffy old elves who would almost certainly be going on about how they were outnumbered and were facing a formidable enemy and would probably lose soon or all die was probably more fun than sitting in front of a gate.

Sensing some of Teria’s thoughts, Mira said, “Dad says that he’ll have the meeting in that watchtower—” she pointed to the watchtower on Teria’s right, “—so that you can join in. Something about how you need to be aware of the plans.”

Teria let Mira through the gate to Vaeharia. About an hour later, the council, the king, and Mira gathered in the large watchtower. As always, Teria was sitting in her usual spot, but it was nice to have something to do.

“The Druidess is going to defeat us, Your Majesty! It is unavoidable!” one of the old council members said once the meeting had started.

“Cheerful way to start this meeting,” Mira said. “I think we have a chance of winning. The Druidess Ayila uses wildlife to attack us. We have an actual, civilized, highly trained army.”

Another council member raised his hand. “No offense meant, Princess, but some of the Druidess’s creatures are extremely dangerous, and her daughter has a dragon. What’s more, she’s allied with the Mistress of Fire, meaning she has fire magic on her side.”

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“Well, we also have a dragon!” Mira shot back.

Teria shook her head. Did Mira honestly think she would fight for them? As a guardian dragon, she defended, protected, shielded. She did not attack first.

It simply wasn’t in her nature. Mira should know that. So why did she seem to think that Teria would do anything except protect the gates of Vaeharia?

She opened her mouth to voice these thoughts when, out of nowhere, a great silver-gray creature swooped down out of the sky. A dark-haired girl in armor, maybe eighteen years old, sat on a saddle that was fastened to the dragon’s back via an assortment of leather straps.

The girl laughed, but it was a freezing, icy laugh, the sort that someone might give when about to visit revenge on someone. “Gorod!” she called, and her dragon responded. He exhaled blue flames as he soared over the watchtower that the council was in, setting it ablaze.

“You!” spluttered Mira, rendered semi-incoherent by the girl’s unexpected arrival. “Clio!”

The girl on the dragon smiled. “Yeah, little girl, it’s me.”

Clio wheeled Gorod around for another pass over the already partially destroyed watchtower. The king and the council elves were hurrying down the tower stairs, but Mira refused to run. She raised her hand, and in it appeared a bow carved of some odd purple wood with small flecks of gold in it, shaped like little tongues of flame. The ends were carved like little dragon heads holding the bowstring in their open mouths. A quiver, also purple with golden flame designs, appeared on her back, already full of arrows.

Clio’s eyes widened as Mira nocked an arrow and the large amethyst in the bow sparkled in the light from the blue flames that were still devouring the watchtower. The rest seemed to pass in slow motion. Mira released the arrow.

It flew toward not Clio but Gorod. The enormous gray dragon tried to fly away, but somehow the arrow changed course, following him. It continued like this for a short while, the arrow never losing altitude. And then the arrow put on a sudden burst of speed. Gorod was unable to outrun it. The arrow pierced him in the left wing, and with a sickening CRUNCH noise, the dragon and Clio crashed to the ground.

“Mira!” Teria yelled, realizing that the flames were dangerously close to the elf princess. “Get out of the tower!”

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Mira didn’t argue. Her bow, quiver, and arrows dissolved into nothing, and she ran down the stairs as fast as she could. Once Teria was certain she was well out of harm’s way, she turned to the burning tower, took a deep breath, and breathed frost over it. After a few other tries, the flames were no more, but the watchtower and the tops of some trees nearby were covered in frost and ice, icicles hanging from some branches.

It took several hours for the elves to clear up the debris of the destroyed watchtower. The king was quite shaken when Mira related the story of Clio’s and Gorod’s surprise attack. However, when Mira explained that Gorod had fallen out of the sky and crash-landed in the rather mountainous terrain with Clio still on his back, the king decided that there was no way the two could have possibly survived.

“So, I believe we can count that as another small victory,” he said, smiling slightly.

4 Meanwhile, on the other side of the Golden Island, a tall fortress stood among the mountains of the east. Guarding the drawbridge were two phoenixes who looked almost to have been encased in rock. Their feathers were jet-black instead of the fiery red and gold they were supposed to be, but small cracklike lines of flame still showed on the black.

A very bedraggled Clio, cut and scraped but definitely still alive, stepped up to the drawbridge phoenixes.

“I must speak with my mother,” she panted. “It’s extremely urgent.”

The phoenix on the left, who seemed blacker than his comrade, held out a leg.

Clio sighed. This was urgent. Why didn’t they understand? She didn’t have time for this. But of course, she had to comply. She unclasped the necklace she always wore and handed it to the left phoenix. He examined it carefully, then touched it with a wing. The necklace stretched into a silver sword, with the word Falx carved on the blade. The phoenix then handed Clio back her sword, which turned into a necklace as soon as her fingers touched it. She put it back around her neck, and both phoenix guards lowered the castle drawbridge.

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Clio headed for the throne room. She knew the way by heart, having had to go there many times. Eventually, she reached it. It was an enormous room, with wooden pillars that were real, living trees holding up the ceiling. The throne room felt more like somewhere outside than somewhere inside because of all the animals and plants growing around the room. There was even a small pond in one corner with a few swans and a duck swimming around in it.

At the other end, a woman sat on a throne of woven branches. It looked as though she’d forced a tree to grow in a certain shape so that she could sit on it which, in fact, she had.

A blonde girl with large, feathery, red-and-black wings was standing next to the throne, speaking with the Druidess. She stopped talking when Clio entered.

“Clio, what has happened?” the Druidess Ayila demanded, standing up from her tree-throne.

Clio explained about the council meeting, how she’d tried to burn the watchtower, and how Mira had hit Gorod in the wing with an arrow. Dragons couldn’t feel it when their wing membranes were pierced, nor could they die if they were shot like Gorod had been. So he was still alive, but his bones were probably broken from the fall, and he was unable to fly.

“So, I need help,” Clio finished. “Please, Mother, send some of your creatures to bring him here so that I can tend to his wounds.”

Ayila nodded. “Very well, Clio.” She pulled out a small slab of stone carved with odd symbols from the folds of her dress, then turned to a nearby elephant.

The runes glowed with a faint green light as she began to speak to the elephant, giving it instructions. Once it and several other elephants had left, the Druidess turned to the blonde girl.

“Please repeat what you have told me, Drishti, so that Clio may know of the advantage we have gained over the elves.”

Drishti nodded and held up a small plant. It seemed entirely unremarkable, just another stem with green leaves and small, bell-shaped, white blossoms.

“I found this earlier today,” she said proudly.

“So, you found a plant. Great job,” Clio said sarcastically. She wasn’t sure what was so great about these tiny flowers.

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Drishti shook her head. “No, Clio.” She spoke as though explaining this to a very small child who didn’t understand anything. “If you take the petals of these flowers, mix them into water, then dip your weapon in the water, it makes the weapon harder to break, sharper, and extremely resistant to chipping and scratching. I found that out by accident when these flower petals fell in a lake and I dropped my sword in the lake, and—” Clio cut her off. “OK, I get it. You found a magic plant.”

Drishti probably would have argued if not for the fact that the Druidess interrupted her. “Drishti, it has now occurred to me that you might not be telling the truth about the abilities of this plant you say you have found. I demand proof that it does as you say.”

Oh, no. Clio liked Drishti. But if she was lying to Ayila about her plant…Clio really didn’t want to think about what might happen.

She distinctly remembered the last time the Druidess Ayila had found out that someone was lying. To say the least, it was not a pleasant memory.

For some reason, Drishti didn’t seem utterly terrified.

“Can I borrow your sword, Clio?” she asked, holding out a hand. Clio nodded and unclasped her necklace again. It turned back into a sword once Drishti took hold of it.

After Drishti pulled the flowers off the stem and threw them into the little pond in the corner of the room, she threw Clio’s sword in. Clio knew it would be OK, but as she saw the metal sink into the water, she couldn’t suppress the tiniest of urges to dive in there and get her sword back.

A few seconds later, Drishti reached her hand in and pulled Falx out. She looked around the room, then rushed to the other side and picked up a large rock the size of Clio’s hand.

“Um—” began Clio, but Drishti had whacked the sword down on the rock. To Clio’s utter amazement, the rock cracked cleanly down the middle, and not a scratch was on her blade.

The Druidess took on the voice she used when issuing orders. “Drishti, get every weapon we own and throw them in that pond. Clio, take one of those horses to Karah and tell her to prepare for battle. I want to be able to attack Parael as soon as possible.”

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“Parael, Druidess?” Drishti asked, and Clio agreed. Why the wizard country?

Why not Vaeharia? Wasn’t this mostly a war against the elves?

Ayila gave both girls a look that quite plainly said, “Don’t question my orders,” and they decided it would be best to just get on with their tasks if they wanted to remain alive.

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The Spark Trillian Creath

Eternal darkness. Nothing there, just black upon black upon black.

No, wait. What could that be?

Light. One tiny, flickering light, the only something within the nothing.

Suddenly: “I can’t.”

The words echo around the nothingness.

The light dims.

“No, it’s ‘yet.’”

Again, the voice reverberates.

“I can’t yet.”

The tiny glow brightens steadily.

Where might this nothing and this light be?

Why, in you, of course. In all of us.

Around us.

Pulsating through the universe.

A dance of thought and flame, flame and thought.

What could it be, you ask?

Joy. Positivity.

Self-confidence.

The spark of a heart, mind, soul, aflame with inspiration.

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Wordslingers

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SPF 1000 Nena Larieze

I am from finger traps from the corner store that seek to entangle you in a small town, from off-brand bug spray and tea sweeter than it should have been.

I hail from the depth of rain puddles and mosquito-ridden swamp land, from the shark bite and lightning strike capital of the world.

I hang on like Spanish moss that accentuates the cypress. I am from the land of one season.

I am from illegal bonfires during high tide, from sunburns and freckled shoulders.

I’m from Hail Mary highways and rosary retreats and not enough money for the collection basket.

I derive from the grit it took my mother to attempt to hitchhike to Woodstock at fourteen, and from the nerve it took my father to be 101st Airborne in the mountains of Germany, despite his crippling fear of heights.

Lost in storage cells are all my school crafts that were auctioned off to the highest bidder.

Pictures are scattered like my family; some are close to me and others may never be recovered.

But in the event of a hurricane, what’s left of my keepsake box is kept like a shrine, pristine and close by, so that I never forget what I overcame.

I am from the live oak I scaled at nine, and my father who couldn’t reach me.

I am from the courage it took to find the ground beneath me.

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THIS BOOK WAS PRODUCED IN PARTNERSHIP WITH

WITH MAJOR SUPPORT FROM

AND FUNDED IN PART BY

The Albert and Elaine Borchard Foundation