Words Bled From Us

Poetry and prose by the young writers from George Washington Carver School of Arts and Science in conjunction with 916 Ink

Words Bled From Us Poetry and prose by the young writers from

George Washington Carver School of Arts and Science in conjunction with 916 Ink

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 4,000 kids in the Sacramento Region, and published more than 200 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, The best parts about working with an older group of Inkers is their desire to be bold in their creativity and seek challenges to hone their craft. They skillfully composed nuanced pieces about love, loss, humor, and destiny. I believe readers will especially enjoy the care put into each of their imagined characters, brought to life through realistic and powerful dialogue.

Truthfully, I admire our Inkers’ dedication to our weekly workshops after over a year of managing distance learning in high school. Seeing their names light up the screen during our sessions demonstrated not only respect for the writing community we built together but also for their authentic love of the process.

Sincerely,

Brenda Nguyen

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Acknowledgments Brenda Nguyen

Wordslinger

Eli Elster

Wordslinger

Michael Geminder

Guest Editor

Matthew Magill

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 The Singing of Blood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2

Emma Rose. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Meet-Cute. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 Water and Fire. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 When I Was a Wolf. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8

Emma Louise Smith . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 The Creek . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Ode to My Own Time. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

Finn Monley. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 The Honest Werewolf. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 The Pink Door . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16

Q.B.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 The Fragility of Reality. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20

Victoria Olivares. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 My Monster. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 The Boy Who Cried Wolf. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 Old Love. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 A Story?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 To the Boy I Used to Know. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

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vi i i W O R D S B L E D F R O M U S

Group Work

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The Singing of Blood Group Story

The wind blew cold, but it always had. Usually, I am calm and collected. But that is a hard thing to keep up when you’re being chased by a bear. This should teach me never to approach a cub.

I ran through a thicket of trees and saw a hiding spot—a small cave, just wide enough for me to fit. I could hear the animal breathing, heavy and close behind. I slathered mud on my chest and neck, just in case. I stood before the once grand beast and struggled to regain my breath, a piece of broken rib insistently pestering my lung. With the hole blocked by the bear, I decided to venture deeper into the cave. It split into a thousand different directions.

The thought of just going outside and surrendering came across my mind. I didn’t know where to go. A slight breeze came from one path. Hot air wafted from another. An instinct I could only explain as gut feeling told me to take the narrow tunnel slightly off to the left.

As I ventured into the unknown tunnel, I felt goosebumps run down my arms and greatly regretted not bringing a torch. I could hear ancient water dripping somewhere very close to me. The cave ended in some sort of underground meadow, with a hole letting sunlight in through the top. There was a small hill seemingly in the center of this massive underground system. The light coming in gave it a ghostly, heavenly look. On the shallow peak of this hill was a weeping oak worn down by endless ages past. A lady was sitting in the tree, wrapped in what looked like a cloak of feathers. She was holding a shivering, small ball of fur, half hidden by the tall flowers that surrounded the tree. I took a step forward, and the ball of fur growled. The woman looked up, and I froze in the sight of her golden eyes. She continued to stare at me, waiting to see what my next move would be. Upon closer inspection, the ball of fur turned out to be a dead rodent on a string. That’s when I heard the soft thump of someone landing on the ground behind me. Look what going near a bear had brought me!

I whipped my head around and grasped for my axe, only to remember that the bear had taken it when it found me. The blood in my veins turned to ice at the sight of the girl with snakes for hair. A man with a giant wildcat sitting

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on his shoulder landed next to her, and I got the sense that he was, in fact, the bear. Now, being the scholar that I am, I knew what should’ve come next—I prepared to become a statue.

“Say what you want; I’m very good at chasing people,” the bear man said to the gorgon. She rolled her eyes and hissed at him.

“You wanted me to find this place?” I said, my confusion level rising.

“I sent them to bring you to me,” the lady in the tree said.

“Naturally. You possess blood that can turn you into a person...like us. I was born as a gorgon, but my blood changes me into a shape-shifter. Mistress wanted to bring you here to see your potential.” The gorgon shifted around and blinked into the bear cub from before.

“Did you just say I’m a gorgon?”

“No. Your blood will change you into a magical creature,” the bear said gruffly, and I thought on it for a moment. I had always wondered where I came from, but this? What would that mean for my parent’s origins?

“How do you know all of this about me?” I said. “Do you know who my parents are? Did they send you?”

“Not quite. Our blood sings, you see. And the Mistress can hear it. She heard it in you,” the gorgon said softly, and my neck started itching.

The lady descended from the tree and approached me. “I knew them long ago, but I have not seen them in years.” I could tell by the expressions on the bear man and the gorgon’s face that this was news to them.

“I’ve never seen you before, though,” I answered.

“You do not remember it, that’s all,” she said, and her voice was birdsong in my ears.

“We have something to show you,” the gorgon said. “Please follow us.” And with that, the gorgon, bear man, and I exited the meadow. I looked back and Continued on next page

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watched the bird woman melt into the shadow, golden eyes shining and then disappearing.

“I’m Kayla,” the gorgon said, “and that’s Johnny.” She pointed to the bear. I continued to follow Kayla down one of the tunnels and raised an eyebrow when I saw what lay at the end. We walked into a meadow similar to the one we left, but this one had a village with dozens of little wood houses, each adorned with my family crest, with a statue of two people embracing each other in the middle. I was very confused.

“Is that them?” I asked.

“Yeah, they helped to found our clan. They gave their lives to save us,” Kayla responded.

“They gave up their child amid battle. We believe you are that child. Somehow you survived the fighting. When they were looking for their dead, they found you,” said Johnny.

“You parents possessed the power to heal the wounded. We would like to see if that power lies within you.”

“But I don’t know how to heal people,” I replied. “How can we test my abilities?”

Kayla pulled out a small blade and pulled it across her hand. “Try this,” she said as the blood dripped from her hand.

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked.

“Just focus,” Johnny said. “Picture the cut closing; focus on bending the injury to your will.”

I cupped my hands over her injured one and pictured the cut closing, the blood ceasing its cascade. Then I opened my hands and saw that the cut was gone.

“I think he’s the one,” Kayla said, smiling up at Johnny.

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Emma Rose

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Meet-Cute Emma Rose

Goosebumps run down my arms and I pull my coat closer, though it doesn’t warm me. I hustle down the street, wishing this feeling would go away, but I know no matter how tight my coat is or how hot the fire is, I can’t be warmed.

I keep running down the street until I bump into a guy...I start to fall backward when a hand grabs my wrist and another hand wraps around my back.

“I’m so sorry, I—” I look up and my breath stops short: short dark hair, fair complexion, and ocean-blue eyes stop me from continuing my apology.

I stumble to stand upright and sputter out the words, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

A smile brightens his face, and he says, “Don’t apologize, if you hadn’t bumped into me, I probably would have bumped into you.”

Confused, I ask, “And why do you think that?”

“Because some people are just destined to meet.”

“You think we were destined to meet?” I ask, my breath slowing in anticipation.

“I think I want to get to know you better.”

I smile and pull out my phone. I hand it to him and watch as he puts in his number.

“Promise you’ll call?” he asks after he hands my phone back to me.

“I promise,” I say, not taking my eyes away from his.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you around…”

“Ali,” I say. “My name is Ali.” He smiles and says, “See you around, Ali.” With that, he walks past me and around a corner. As I start to walk toward my house again, I realize something: I’m not cold anymore.

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Water and Fire Emma Rose

I swirl my hand and watch as the cold water twirls around it. I angle my fingers toward the bowl, and the water rushes to it.

“That was good; you’re getting better control,” a soft voice says as a hand is placed on my shoulder.

I turn to see my mom and smile up at her. “Thanks, how’s Nathan doing with his fire?”

Her face falls but she quickly replaces the look of worry with a forced smile.

“He could use your help.”

I start walking toward the stairs, when I hear a crash. I start running, taking the stairs two at a time, and by the time I get to my brother’s room, I can smell the smoke. I shove open the door and do a double take when I see the floor covered in fire and my brother at the center of it trying to lower the flames. I start moving my hands, pulling water from the air around me and using it to dampen the worst of the flames. After the fire is gone, I walk over to Nathan and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s OK, you’ll get the hang of it.”

He shrugs my hand off and says, “Easy for you to say. I’m the older one here; why are you having an easier time than me?”

“I wish I knew.”

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When I Was a Wolf Emma Rose

Green blurs around me as I push off of the leafy floor, soaring over a fallen log. I continue to run until I reach a clearing, wide and open, filled with other wolves from my pack. I slow my pace and walk over to join a larger group gathered under an oak tree. I talk with them, watching as the younger wolves wrestle with each other, rolling over one another and batting playfully at the others’ ears.

“Ever thought of having some of our own?” my mate Aztec asks as he walks over and presses his nose to mine.

“Maybe, have you?” I ask, smiling up at him.

“Maybe,” he says, smiling back.

We lie down in the cold grass and watch the little wolves continue to wrestle.

As night creeps along the sky, more and more wolves retreat to their den, first the little ones, then most of the older ones, until only a handful are left sitting under the moonlight.

I look up and see the full moon in the middle of the sky. I turn to tell Aztec, but when I turn my head, I see that he is asleep.

I slowly get up, careful not to wake him up, and take off for the woods.

I reach the edge of the clearing and take off running. I start slow but quickly gain speed. Soon I am sprinting through the woods. Most everything is hiding in the darkness, but what I can see is blurred by my running. I listen to the wind weave through the trees and the occasional bird call out. I feel the breeze ruffle my fur and the solid ground beneath my paws. I push up from the ground and tuck my back legs in as I arch over a small stream. I land on the other side and take off sprinting again. Side by side with the shadows, feeling the darkness creep in, I run.

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Emma Louise Smith

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The Creek Emma Louise Smith

It was a rainy day, which wasn’t odd in my town. We didn’t get a lot of natural heat, and the clouds always seemed melancholy above our heads. We had our fair share of frozen-road slush, and you definitely couldn’t survive with only one pair of boots.

I usually walked downstream of the same creek to get to school, jumping in the shallows and marking everywhere with my initials. But today, the creek was higher than usual. The deepest parts—which could only hit my chest— now rose high enough for two of me.

And standing on the edge of the water, a picture of beauty, was a horse. It was wild, rare indeed, and had a shimmering coat. It seemed like the creature had waded through a swamp: it was wrapped in weeds. But its eyes, an unnatural blue-green, were somehow serene.

I walked toward the beast, and it watched my movements carefully. That’s when I had noticed the old saddle, marred by time and sludge. I cleaned the poor thing off and wrung my hands together. Riding it for just a second wouldn’t hurt, right? It was calm, and it seemed like the creature wanted to be ridden.

I hoisted myself up, and in a moment, we were dashing forward. The weeds wrapped around me as we sank, and when my head hit the water, I knew it wasn’t a horse after all. A kelpie, from the old stories, and I had gotten on its back.

Now, when you came in here, I had been down here for a week. It took you your own week to wake up, so that makes it two weeks at the bottom of this new stream. And if they didn’t find me, they are certainly not going to find you. Get ready; we may as well be down here an eternity before they find our bones.

But at least now we have each other’s company. In our quiet, rushing death.

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Ode to My Own Time Emma Louise Smith

I feel as if I am floating in a warm pond.

The waves softly crashing into my sides, rocking me into the night.

It holds me suspended, and for those hours I could live forever.

I am on a vast and endless stage.

My audience watches as I tell the stories from my heart.

And for a few crawling hours, I could live in other worlds forever.

I am back during the events of the day.

Whispering things that I should have said into the darkness.

For a few hours, I relive others, and could be there forever.

Watching the shadows dance around.

Waving my arms in the air as if commanding a ship or band.

I could teach the light forever, even in a few hours.

But I could barely tell that I sank into sleep.

Until I wake up, and yet again I am surrounded.

Why must there be other people? Why can I not be nocturnal as my soul wishes?

If only I could stay in my bed, talking and thinking for hours on end.

If only I could do such a thing forever.

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Finn Monley

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The Honest Werewolf Finn Monley

I walked into my room. I was tired, annoyed, and damp from when I had spilled water on myself earlier. I had just gotten back from my late soccer practice.

I closed the door to my room and leaned my head against it. I sighed. Then I heard something coming from behind me. A sound I had never heard before, like of a low growling.

I turned around slowly. Something was off about the room. The door to the closet was cracked open just enough to see everything inside very dimly. I just shrugged and sat down on my bed. I pulled out my laptop and started watching YouTube. Then I heard it again. I put on a confused look and turned toward the closet again. Two gleaming eyes stared back at me. I’ll just be honest when I say I didn’t care. I was too tired.

I called out to it, “Is this some sort of prank?” I heard a sigh come from inside the closet. The door opened, and a full-fledged werewolf stepped out. I quickly scrambled to the other side of my bed and pressed myself against the wall.

“Here I am! You happy?” the beast said.

“W-what?” I squeaked out.

“It’s almost like you didn’t even notice me when you walked in here,” said the thing.

“Y-yes, that is true. Now get out of my house, you cosplayer!” I was convinced this was someone in a costume.

“Nah bro, I’m the real thing. And I am just gonna be straight up with you: I am gonna eat you right now.”

“If you are really a real werewolf, I need to see your teeth,” I said cynically. The creature opened its mouth so far that I could almost see its previous victims in the stomach. “Oh crap,” I said.

“Oh, good—now you believe me!” The werewolf sat down on my bed. “So, basically I am going to chew you up and ingest you,” it said. I was confused as to why a werewolf was casually sitting on my bed and talking to me.

“Well…” I paused. I was frantically planning an escape.

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“You know, if you try to escape, I will grab you with my razor-sharp claws,” the werewolf said. It put its hand in a high five symbol and five-foot-long talons were pulled out. “They are retractable,” it said. “Pretty cool, right! Well, I guess not, when you are getting your insides ripped out.”

I slumped over in defeat. “Just eat me already,” I mumbled.

“Gladly!” said the werewolf.

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The Pink Door Finn Monley

The door was pink. A bright pink. It hurt my eyes to look at it. But I didn’t want to look away. I looked across my room to the window, and it was still raining outside. “Nothing else to do,” I said.

I had returned home from school about an hour prior and had once again spilled water on myself on the way home. I must have some sort of condition, because this happens to me every day. It didn’t really matter in the end, though, since it was pouring water from the heavens above anyway. It had been for the past three days. Good thing I didn’t live in a place where it snowed.

I moved a little closer to the pink door. It was maybe three or four feet high.

Three feet wide. The door handle beckoned me to turn it. I could feel a strange vibe coming from inside. I decided I might as well open the door now and not wait any longer, drowning in tension. It was surprisingly heavy, but I managed to pry it open. I almost fell into the abyss that was on the other side. “Frick…”

I mumbled.

I stuck my head into it and peered around each corner of the door. Nothing but blue sky and fluffy clouds from every direction, including down. I suddenly felt a pull on my leg. I looked down to see what it was but wasn’t able. The force that was grabbing onto my ankle yanked me out into the void. I screamed the hardest I have ever screamed. I couldn’t tell which way I was going; it was all the same. I passed out.

I awoke in a daze. Everything was fuzzy around me. “C’mon kid, wake up!” I could hear an odd, high voice say. I lazily grumbled to myself, not knowing what was going on and having most of the oxygen in my body depleted.

“This kid is out!” I heard another voice say. This one sounded drunk. Another voice spoke directly into my ear. “WAKE UP, YOU KID!” This one was nasally and gruff. My vision unblurred, and I managed to see a colorful, cartoonish building. “Now he is looking at the club,” the first voice said. I turned my head over to see Mackey Mouse himself holding a bunch of medical gear.

“Garsh, Mackey, he is looking at you now!” said Gofy, the second voice.

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“Just put him out of his misery before he accidentally infringes copyright laws!” yelled Ronald. I passed out again.

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O.B.

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The Fragility of Reality Q.B.

Chapter One I remember the day my mother told me I would be destined to be forever in the middle of happiness and unsatisfied. That, even as I had my first injection of testosterone at thirteen and watched my body transform to match my insides, there’d always be one part of me that never matched up.

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It was summer, breezy but hot; I was about ten at the time, slowly discovering the truths of the world but not fully understanding. It was a pool party, and as I stared at the depths of King’s pool, a heavy weight settled around my chest. I stretched my arms, wiggled them, but the weight remained. Everyone else but my mother was oblivious to my discomfort, splashing in the pool, screaming, giggling, slurping on ice cream.

She tapped my shoulder, and I flinched. Her dark hazel eyes stared into mine, and I shifted my feet. “What is it, hon?” she asked, leaning close.

I touched my chest, the weight growing heavier. I sighed, stared at the pool, and imagined ripping off my shirt to reveal a bare chest. “I don’t...like my chest,” I whispered, trembling. “I want it to be bare, like Daddy’s.”

Her eyes were empathetic, but there was something else my ten-year-old self couldn’t place. “Listen...there is a way to achieve that, but...it’s dangerous.”

“Why?” I whispered.

Her eyes narrowed. “There’s a price.”

In my mind, the sky darkened. The loud laughter of the children dissipated, and I could only stare into my mother’s hazel eyes. I was able to place the emotion behind them then: fear.

Somehow, my ten-year-old self understood that the weight would never go away, and I would be stuck between happy and unsatisfied.

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I glance at my boyfriend, Dan. His eyes are a forest green, and his blonde, tousled hair glitters from the sunlight reflecting off the San Francisco Bay. My heart is a drum, and I can only repeat my mother’s answer in my head, my body trembling. My binder presses on my chest, which is even heavier now. The gentle lapping of the waves does nothing to calm me.

“What do you want most in the world?” he repeats, voice soft, his fingers tracing circles on my hand.

Such a seemingly simple question. I could lie, make something up; but is it really fair to the boy who has shared everything with me? One of the few I feel comfortable speaking to?

I stutter. I can see the glimmering reflection of someone I once knew, a trans guy friend of mine in the bay. He is bare-chested, but a furry tail waves behind.

As I take another breath, he’s gone, just like he was when he appeared at school with a tail.

Daniel’s eyes don’t leave my face. I take another breath. “Top surgery...” The answer should be harmless, but it’s not.

He grips my hand, leans close to me. “That’s dangerous, dude. You know what happens to people who do that...they come back strange, and poof, they’re gone. They disappear.”

“They don’t disappear; not all of them. That game show...I’ve seen them on it.” I spit.

His eyes flicker, eyebrows knitting. I begin to shake again; he grips my hand harder. Dan rolls his tongue, speaks. “What happened to that trans guy you knew?”

I’m trembling harder. “I never watched the show. I just heard about it.

Sometimes I can hear the show on my mom’s TV, and I’ve heard their names....”

Daniel sighs. “Just be careful.”

I nod, pulling him close to me and never letting go.

Continued on next page

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k

My hands shake, dropping the letter.

The doorbell screeched through the house and made me jump. I sighed, stood up, and shot an apologetic glance at my two friends...at my two friends who had opted to shove popcorn in their faces rather than study, like we had planned to do. The door creaked as I opened it, its old rusty hinges slowly decaying.

I stilled, my hand still clutching the doorknob, shaking. “Kyle...what?”

Their face was streaked with tears, and their body shook furiously; I thought that they might fall over. Clutched in their hand was a cream-colored envelope.

I gulped, a bead of sweat racing down my forehead. “Come in?”

They didn’t move, their blue eyes staring into mine. My hands shook harder, and I shoved them into my dark blue jeans. Kyle’s eyes flickered, their hand extending to give me the envelope. It slipped from their fingers, and my shaky hands hardly caught it.

My stomach twisted into knots as I fumbled with the envelope, my eyes glossing over the trans flag with a medical staff in the middle. My heart pounded in my ears as I read the letter. “How...who did you tell?’”

Kyle shrugged, biting their lip. They were frighteningly still, face blank, devoid of the tears I had witnessed seconds before. “Doesn’t matter, Jay. They’ll come for me—” I reached out and gripped their hand. “You don’t have to do the surgery, Kyle— stay with me—I’ll protect you.” My heartbeat was slowly becoming louder, and my hands shook in Kyle’s; theirs didn’t.

They shook their head, and I gripped their hands tighter. “Please?’’ I whispered.

“I just thought you should know.” They squeezed my hands. I didn’t let go.

They yanked away, descending the stairs to my house. Their shoulders were hunched in grim acceptance.

That was the last time I saw them.

And now, the same exact letter they had given me was on the cement porch step in front of me.

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This was not real. It was a nightmare. My heart wasn’t the only thing I could hear, my legs were not sticks, and I was not sinking to the gritty ground. My breath wasn’t coming in gasps, and my hands weren’t tearing the letter to shreds.

“Just thought you should know.”

Do I tell Dan? Or do I not tell anyone, keep myself hidden away?

No—this is not happening; this is not real. This shaking figure on the ground was not me.

“Who did you tell?”

The name on my tongue is gone as soon as it appears. But it doesn’t matter, because I didn’t tell anyone, and this is not happening to me. The day with Da— “No!” I clutch my arms—no, the figure on the ground clutches their arms.

“They’ll come for me.”

The figure on the ground shakes their head.

They’ll come.

It’s all a bad dream— They’ll come.

k

I twirl my empty Starbucks coffee cup in my hands, eyeing the pink-haired girl who sits across from me, leaning back in her wooden chair. The clacking sound of keyboards sets me on edge. Cocking my eyebrow, and willing my rapid heartbeat to stop, I speak.

“I...that seat’s taken.’’

The girl glances around the room, her pink hair swishing in her face. “I don’t see anyone.”

I gulp, clutching the coffee cup. “He’s—my boyfriend—he’s coming any minute.

He said he’d be here at 9:50...” I stop, the cup bending in my hand. I meet the girl’s auburn eyes, a slight glint in them. “Sorry...I’m just…”

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The girl chuckles, rolling up the sleeve of her black sweater and checking her watch. “It’s past that.” She leans forward. “Besides, your boyfriend can wait.”

My stomach sinks to the ground. Lies in a bloody heap. The shakiness in my limbs that has plagued me from morning increases. “What...do you want?”

The girl cocks her head, and I gulp. “What do you want most in the world?”

My cup clatters to the ground. How does she know? I haven’t told anyone except for—that was someone else, some other world. Avoiding the girl’s gaze, I pick up the cup, gripping the table as I sit up.

“You seem nervous.” She reaches her hand out, her pink nails glinting, and lays her hand on mine.

“I—” I pull my hand away, my heart in my ears. I draw out my phone, which shakes and clatters onto the table. I snatch it, stumbling out of my chair.

“Leave me alone,” I hiss.

The chair falls, banging onto the hardwood. Wincing, I back away, tripping on my feet. My breathing comes in gasps. Nearly running, I push the door open, turning my head for one last look.

She smiles. “What do you want most in the world?”

The door slams shut.

k

“What do you want most in the world?”

I lean against the wall of the alley, shaking. I could not breathe fully, so I had to pull into the alley. In the distance, I can still see the green of the Starbucks sign.

“What do you want most in the world?”

I hold my breath and release it. How could she have known?

Known what?

The letter received.

I shake my head. That didn’t happen. I take another breath.

Dan. I peer around the corner. He had never come. My breathing quickens. I shrink

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against the wall. He would calm me down; he would tell me why he left me with the pink-haired girl and her smile. I breathe in, focusing on the scent of the sea.

They’ll come. I thought you should know. Letter. Dear Jay, we have accepted you for a procedure. Dan and the Bay. “No!” I whisper.

You have to remember sometime.

I shake my head. There was nothing to remember. There was only Dan and my need for him. I push off the wall, hunching and shuffling out of the alley, breaking into a fast walk. Heading to his house.

k

I flinch as I careen around the crowds of San Francisco, my elbows bumping into strangers. My lungs feel as if they are collapsing into themselves, my breath not sinking as far as it should, nor catching as much air as I need.

The tall buildings blur as I nearly run.

“The Red Rose will reveal all your dreams! Your hopes and desires!”

I freeze.

Your dreams.

Slowly, I turn toward the person who is shouting, flinching as a stranger shoves past me. My eyes focus. I wrap my arms around myself. The person is standing in front of a small shop, a red rose painted on its window. The person themself is dressed in all red; even their hair is dyed scarlet.

My stomach knots. I start to back away. Something isn’t right.

Your dreams.

The person turns toward me, their red cloak rustling. My heart thrashes. They grin, digging into their pocket and pulling out a card. It is painted the colors of the trans flag. A silver medical staff shines in the middle.

Your dreams.

I don’t breathe.

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The man grins wider, their bloodred teeth shining in the sunlight. “We can help you.”

Your dreams.

I stumble backward, my heart in my throat and threatening to spill onto the street. “What do you people want?” I whisper, eyes darting. “I...”

Your dreams.

The crowds passing by don’t notice me. I back away farther. They wouldn’t try anything in public, would they? My eyes sweep the street once again. But if the crowds don’t notice…

“To grant you what you desire,” they say, spinning the card in their hand.

Your dreams.

I shake, taking another step backward. “I-I don’t want any ‘desires’ granted—I don’t have any.” That night didn’t happen. I didn’t receive a letter.

The person shrugs, still grinning. “We are Legion. You know where to find us.”

The person spins the card one more time, tosses it at me, and opens the door to the shop. “Remember, we are Legion.” The door slams shut.

Your dreams.

I freeze. Shake. Rip the cards to shreds and fight the tide of memories, focused on one word.

Dan. I turn around.

And run.

k

I skid to a halt, gasping. Breathing heavily still, I bend forward and put my hands on my knees. A sharp pain shoots up my rib. I frown, tug on my binder.

Heart rate slowing, I straighten.

Dan’s house is small, square, and painted a bright blue. I smile.

Another shot of pain. Clutching my side, I make my way to Dan’s white door.

I rap on the door, sweat dripping onto my eyebrows.

No answer. No padding feet on wood heading to the door.

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My stomach clenches, my smile disappearing. I ring the small yellow doorbell.

“Just be careful,” Dan sighed.

“Where were you?” I whisper, my stomach tightening. “Did I drag you into this? By...” I put my hand on the doorknob, breathe.

I didn’t drag him into anything, because I didn’t tell anyone anything. My binder presses on my chest.

I nodded, pulling him close to me and never letting go.

My shaky hands turn the knob. It gives.

“Dan?” I whisper.

The hallway is empty, the wooden floors and the white walls shining as if new.

Never letting go.

“Dan? Where are you? Why didn’t you come to the coffee shop?” I yell, stepping inside. My voice cracks. I lean against the wall. I can’t breathe.

In and out.

In and out.

I push off the wall, freezing. Something wet is on my hands. Shaking, I bring my hands up to my face. It is coated in white paint.

I can’t breathe. “Dan—Dan? No—no,” I gasp.

Just be careful.

“Why weren’t you...?” I whisper, treading lightly down the wall. “Why didn’t you run when I—” When I what? Nothing happened.

Never letting you go.

I turn into another hallway, one that leads to Dan’s bedroom. I press my hands into my face. “I let you go. Dan...I’m so sorry. I didn’t know they would do this—just to get to me. You should have run after the sea.”

As I expected, his room is cleaned out, a plain white mattress in the middle of the room. But that doesn’t stop my stomach from knotting tighter.

There’s a price.

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“Is this part of the price, Mom! An additional fee?” I slap the wall, my hand burning. “Is it because I didn’t go soon enough to them? So they took him.” I sink to the floor, gripping my arms. “But. I didn’t tell anyone, because nothing happened...” I rub my face. “I’m sorry, Dan.” Just be careful.

The boy who has shared everything with me.

The one I feel comfortable talking to.

“I’ll figure out a way to get you back,” I mutter, standing up. My head pounds.

Tracing circles on my hand. Forest green.

I run my hands over my binder. “I’ll do the surgery for you.”

Just be careful.

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Victoria Olivares

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My Monster Victoria Olivares

Anxiety: I live with it, and it lives with me. It traps me in a little box and won’t let me breathe. That’s when I remind myself to be strong, and then I’ll be set free.

The Boy Who Cried Wolf Victoria Olivares

You told me you loved me, then denied it. So many times. I heard you try to hate me the day you decided to leave; I didn’t believe you. I didn’t care. I had enough of you too. I was finally free.

Old Love Victoria Olivares

“To be young and in love,” they say. All I see is kids getting married, thinking it’s love, then months later getting divorced. “To be old and in love,” I say to those whose love isn’t superficial.

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A Story?

Victoria Olivares

You want a story? Go write yourself a story. Nothing in life comes just because you want it; work for it. Write your own story; you don’t need to know mine.

There are thousands of biographies; why do you want mine? I’ll be gone before you know it and forgotten just as fast.

To the Boy I Used to Know Victoria Olivares

I loved you infinitely. I wrote poems about you, none I could ever share. People claim to know you more than I, but I know your past. We may be different people now, and that might be a good thing, but I knew you, and that they could never take from 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

The Sacramento Office of Arts and Culture, with support from the City of Sacramento.