Digital Summer

digital summer

Poetry and prose by the young writers from Walnutwood High School in conjunction with 916 Ink

digital summer Poetry and prose by the young writers from Walnutwood High School 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, As a kid growing up in the Sacramento Valley, I remember the feeling of restlessness and excitement made by the warm breeze of spring making way for sweltering summer days. I remember sitting in the classroom, struggling to concentrate while I daydreamed of playing video games, being outside, or being anywhere else besides where I was. School looks different from when I was a kid, but the feeling remains the same whether staring across the classroom or away from a computer screen.

Even if the young writers of Walnutwood High School were experiencing spring fever during our program, they never showed it. During our 90 minutes together, shared through our screens, these young writers poured their energy into bringing forth the contents of their hearts and minds into the world, creating stories and poems for us to revel in and enjoy.

The writers were provided with prompts to guide their writing during each session, and each session they found ways to make them their own. They regularly took these prompts provided and, instead of following them, utilized them as imaginative springboards for their own ideas or ignored them altogether. They took the 916 Ink mantra “write what needs to be written” seriously, and they have created something beautiful in the process.

Alongside the writing, the program also invited the writers to share what they wrote during that day’s session with their peers, and their peers were invited to offer positive feedback. In the beginning of the program, many were too shy to share what they had written or give feedback, but within only a few weeks, many writers had become comfortable enough in our virtual writing space to let others hear what they had written. This is no small feat. Everyone who shared and gave feedback to their peers did so by mustering the courage to put themselves out there and be seen. And their peers responded, giving thoughtful, enthusiastic feedback, lifting one another up, and building a space where everyone knew they could be heard with respect and without judgment.

As you enjoy these poems and stories, consider the vulnerability and confidence it took for the writers to allow their work to live outside of their heads and outside of the space they had created for one another. The pieces

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vary dramatically in length, theme, tone, and subject matter, but they all share one thing in common: every piece of writing in this anthology was born through a process of writing, sharing, rewriting, and finally, letting go for the world to see. The effort these writers put in deserves praise, especially when one considers that this effort was made with warm, breezy afternoons beckoning the writers outside (or perhaps this was just the case for the Wordslingers).

Warmest regards and happy reading,

Damon Plant

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Damon Plant

Wordslinger

Jordan Dahlen

Wordslinger

Lauren Frausto

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 The Sewer Fight Chronicles featuring Fancy Monkey, Magic Kitten, Existential Crisis Cyborg, and Cannibalistic Snow Leopard: The Showdown in the Sewer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2

Aaliyah Hicks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6

Amarah Woodyard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 The Cold. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 House. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Ode to Willow. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10

Amelia Reeves . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Scars. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 To the Bookshelf. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 In the Event of School. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

Catherine Cocker. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Rain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 Flower Shop. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

Fletcher Ness. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Liquid Jake. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 Break Point. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26

Gwenifer Knobloch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Ode to My Girlfriend. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29

Michelle Cocker. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Time #2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33

Shabnum Chopan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 The Embrace of Ash. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36

Wordslinger. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 Retirement. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 Hit Movie. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39

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Group Work

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The Sewer Fight Chronicles featuring Fancy Monkey, Magic Kitten, Existential Crisis Cyborg, and Cannibalistic Snow Leopard: The Showdown in the Sewer Group Story

Early in the predawn light, a shadowy figure moves silently toward the middle of the street. Looking around to make sure no one has seen them, they lift a manhole cover with one hand, moving it aside with ease. The figure slips into the hole just as the sun is rising.

Cybo hits the sewer walkway with an echoing thud. Though from the silence, it appears as if they are alone. Cybo knows that the sewer is an unlikely place to find a parent, but they are running out of options. As Cybo walks down the surprisingly well-lit corridor, they see movement in the water up ahead.

Cybo stops to focus—it’s a monkey on top of the water, dressed with a top hat and monocle. At first sight, Cybo is perplexed by seeing such a fashionable monkey in such a dirty place. But as Cybo’s mind begins to comprehend what it is seeing, ripples in the river of poo catch Cybo’s attention. A wave of poo water rushes upward, and out from beneath the monkey a monstrous sewer gator emerges!

Cybo knows that their time is up and prepares for the gator’s jaws, when the monkey says, in a rather dapper accent, “Good evening. Care for a lift?”

The monkey reassures Cybo that there is nothing to fear. The sewer gator is no gator at all but instead is a baby snow leopard named Yuki. He, the monkey, is named Dave. Cybo, curious as to why such a dapper monkey is in the sewer, asks him about his intentions. Dave says that he and Yuki are in the sewer looking for Dave’s most treasured stress-relief turd, which Yuki had accidentally flushed. What Dave does not tell Cybo is that Yuki is also the last in a long line of the Royal Leopardage and that there is a mysterious, cannibalistic snow leopard named Luna who is hunting Yuki and Dave down with all her cunning and strength.

Whilst this conversation continues and the bond between Cybo and their new comrades grows ever stronger, a malicious gang of sewer rats, with tiny rat ears and vocal cords that allow them to speak and hear softer than plebian

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rats, are doing what they do best: spying on Yuki for their mysterious mistress, Luna. As the ragtag team of heroes traverses the slippery sewer slopes, Yuki transforms into a bloodhound to utilize their good sense of smell, and picks up two smells: one, the smell of fresh air, suggesting they are near the end of the sewer; the other, the smell of rat. But no ordinary rat...

Luna does not intend to let them escape. To turn the sewer into their graveyard, she sends the rats to swarm and attack them. Upon arrival, they do just that, swiping with their dirty claws. Cybo pulls the rats from Yuki’s back. Dave starts throwing random objects he finds to ward off the onslaught of smelly vermin.

All of the ruckus is interrupted by the reverberating sound of footsteps down the corridor. The battle attracted the attention of a colossal golem, made from the conglomeration of everybody’s non-flushable wipes that they flushed anyway. The golem joins in on the skirmish as a means of venting its frustration with its own existence—an existence based on the waste and irresponsibility of the classes of folks who flush their wipes down their toilets (even when they have bidets!!). The golem has no allies. The golem is the enemy of all who defecate.

After getting punked by the heroes, and especially upon smelling the approach of the Pipeclog Golem, the rats run away, tails tucked, back to Luna’s stillconcealed whereabouts.

Battling for hours against the golem and finding no success, the team is in dire need of a plan. Out of the brown, Yuki comes up with just such a thing.

She shape-shifts into another non-flushable wipe golem! A lavender-scented version! She reassures the golem, now being able to speak its language, that they—that is herself, Dave, and Cybo—do not flush non-flushable wipes down the drain. Cybo and Dave both tuck their hands in their pockets and look away, but the golem does not notice. So moved by Yuki’s beautiful, poetic Continued on next page

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explanation, the golem instead chooses to help them in their quest to find Dave’s missing stress-relief turd. The golem also agrees to help them find their way out of the sewer if they agree to spread the gospel of proper toilet hygiene when they return to the surface.

After finding Dave’s turd and being escorted out of the sewer by the lonely golem, our hero’s gaze into the horizon, all staring in a line. Their eyes well up with tears…of joy? Of fear? The sight of unfamiliar territory, a landscape none of them have ever seen before, leaves them shaken.

“We’re not in Kansas anymore,” says Cybo.

“We weren’t in Kansas to begin with,” replies Dave.

Not-Kansas, a large city with towering skyscrapers, reveals no signs of human life. No cars moving. No neighbors squabbling. A complete ghost town.

The rats return to Luna’s lair, concerned about their fate. She stares at them with her one remaining eye. “Do not let the robot find its mother. All of the scientist’s children will be torn apart if you do. Do not let the robot find its mother.”

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Aaliyah Hicks

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Untitled Aaliyah Hicks

It was a cold, dark, and windy night. Fall had just started. Leaves were on the ground. Some nights, when I couldn’t sleep because of the wind banging on the window, I would go downstairs and pour myself a glass of milk and cookies and then fall asleep right after. But this night was different. As I finished my milk and cookies and went to my room, I heard loud noises. I turned around and went back downstairs. I looked around the whole house, but I didn’t see anything. Out of nowhere, I felt some cold air going down my neck. I got so scared, so I ran upstairs as fast as I could, screaming my sister’s name.

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Amarah Woodyard

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The Cold Amarah Woodyard

Coldness is sticking your head out the window on the freeway while your best friend drives.

It’s diving headfirst into a lake and feeling the cold rush of the water over your sun-blistered skin.

It’s trying to shotgun a Mountain Dew because you think it’s funny, and then it all comes out of your nose and burns, but like in the cold way.

Personally, I feel like coldness is a really wonderful thing, and that is probably just due to my bias against summer, but the point still stands.

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House Amarah Woodyard

You don’t belong to anyone, not even Mother Earth.

You sit here, rotting in a clearing that formally was filled with life.

Why did your owners leave you, still fresh, in your prime?

Family portraits still hang on the walls, dishes still in the sink, filling this old home with a familiar stench of defeat.

Rotting wood and peeling walls, as nature retakes over this ancient place, filling the walls with bugs and the rooms with emptiness, never to be loved in again.

But to me, nothing is more enchanting than your decrepit standing.

Your molding staircases and broken windows bring me joy.

Never again to be enjoyed like you were intended to by your builders. Desolate and dirty.

Now just a hollow shell of who you were someday meant to be.

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Ode to Willow Amarah Woodyard

She sleeps in my arms or at the foot of my bed biting my toes while I slumber She falls in the bathtub or runs down the hall filling my home with joy and sound Willow the river cat who could leave such a cat at a river?

She is so good a supermodel among house cats With her speckled orange and gray face and stout fuzzy body she would be the ideal cat if she wasn’t just so mean to everyone But alas, she is, and it still adds to her spirit she is a wild animal that cannot be controlled and every time she scratches you, take it as not a sign of resentment but a sign of love Willow the river cat turned house cat, what beauties does your cat brain possess?

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Amelia Reeves

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Scars Amelia Reeves

A lot of times, when people think of scars, they think of times of pain and sadness. But many of the scars I have are from happy memories. Going to the river with friends, running along the bank and tripping, or going on a bike ride in the middle of summer and falling. They tell a story, hold a memory, and yes, they hurt. Whether it was in the moment with a scrape or the next day with a bruise. But I never noticed it. I was too happy.

To the Bookshelf Amelia Reeves

Which has sat in my room for years.

Always, never leaving, A constant companion.

To the picture books, to the notebooks, to the textbooks, to the novels.

To the hot afternoons where there was nothing more to do than sit and read with a fan pointed in my face while the blazing sun beat through my window.

To the rainy nights spent in bed, curled in blankets, reading into the unspeakable hours of the morning.

To the tales of people, animals, aliens, and magic.

To the tales of adventure, romance, sadness, and joy.

To the bookshelf, Overlooked, Forgotten, Which contains multitudes.

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In the Event of School Amelia Reeves

Stay near your friends.

Involve yourself in an “important conversation” with said friends, lest you be bombarded with questions by someone you don’t want to talk to.

Walk quickly to your next class; you don’t want to be late or caught in the back of the line with the rambunctious kids.

Stay out of large clumps of people. You don’t want to get trampled.

Study the people in each class: who you should stay away from, who you could maybe trust.

Avoid group projects at all costs.

Do not eat in the cafeteria during lunch. It’s loud and smells bad. Instead, eat outside or in a teacher’s classroom, preferably with someone to talk to.

When you are done, go to the library; peruse the shelves. Maybe check out a book or two.

Make sure you turn your books in on time. You do not want to be approached by the librarian on the subject of an overdue book. Trust me.

If you get the opportunity to avoid playing kickball during PE, take it. Kickball is a nightmare among sports.

Remember your homework at all costs.

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Catherine Cocker

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Rain Catherine Cocker

I’m sitting at my desk in my room, studying for a test. A groan of frustration passes my lips as I turn the page. I look up from my schoolbooks and glance out the window. Heavy-laden clouds have shrouded the sky as they allow their contents to cascade down from them. If I look hard enough, I can see the raindrops race each other in their descent from the heavens and then bounce upward once they hit the pavement.

The rain has always made me jealous. It knows exactly what is expected of it and doesn’t have to deal with self-doubt, doesn’t need to study for a test. It doesn’t have to stress about what people think, and it doesn’t feel the need to change itself based on others’ opinions. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be as carefree as the rain.

I giggle when I realize that I actually have an opportunity to be like the rain—even if it’s only for a few blissful moments.

I lean down to take off my mismatched socks, leaving my feet chilled at the lack of warmth. I run quietly, my bare feet making a pitter-patter sound that echoes through the sparsely furnished house as I make my way to my front door. I step outside, and immediately nature’s perfume of rain surrounds me like a cloak. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, reveling in the scent that I only get to enjoy a handful of times a year.

The rain drowns out all other sounds. An occasional car can be heard as they rush down a nearby street, gushing through puddles and causing the water to spray out.

I sit down on the freezing pavement of the driveway and wrap my arms tightly around my legs, goosebumps already forming. My shirt is already clinging to my torso as a torrent of raindrops free-fall from the sky, strands of wet hair clinging to my cheeks. Even though I’ve only been outside for barely two minutes, my body starts shivering sporadically and my teeth make their protests known, causing me to clench my jaw.

I smile slightly, taking in the freeing feeling of being outside, and tilt my face up and close my eyes, welcoming each drop as it lands on my skin. I sigh in

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contentment, causing a puff of air to appear in front of me, and it vanishes as quickly as it came.

Oh, to be as free as the rain.

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Flower Shop Catherine Cocker

Villain had just finished stacking the bags of mixed potting soil in the back room when they heard the staticky sound of the manager’s voice on their earpiece.

“Skyler, once you’re finished with the soil, come up front. I need help with some customers.”

Villain groaned and arched their back, trying to alleviate the pain from lifting and placing the bags on the wooden crates.

They wiped a dirty hand across their face and plastered a smile on as they pressed a small button on their headset that allowed them to talk. “Will do! I just finished, so I’ll be right over!”

Internally, Villain was screaming. They had a lunch break that was coming up in five minutes, and they knew that their manager was well aware of this but had decided to ignore it.

Villain had I love my job, I love my job, I really freaking love my job on repeat in their head as they made their way past the nursery and approached the front checkout area. They could see there was a small group of people standing around, with only the manager and one other employee to help them.

Sighing, Villain put on their “work face” and greeted an older woman.

“Hello! What can I do for you today? We have a lovely deal going on today for gardening supplies! Buy one, get one half off!” Villain rattled off.

The woman just smiled and shook her head. “Actually, I was hoping for some aster flowers. Do you know if you sell any here?”

Villain saw someone else enter the group out of the corner of their eye as they racked their brain, trying to remember where they had seen the tiny, star-shaped flowers. “It should be toward the back, two rows to the left, right next to the prairie cinquefoil. You can’t miss it!”

Villain turned around to help the next person and felt like they were standing next to a skyscraper with how tall the customer was. They were

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used to the feeling since they were quite short themselves, although Villain would never admit this out loud.

Villain was just about to ask what they could do for them when the words froze in their mouth.

Standing right in front of them, with a smile Villain could recognize anywhere, was Hero.

Villain couldn’t believe the audacity that Hero had to show up at the flower shop that they worked at and that they had the audacity to be in line, waiting for Villain’s help.

“Hi! Um, are you OK?” Hero asked, concerned as to why the employee in front of them was just staring at them with their mouth hanging open.

Villain quickly shut their mouth, making a soft clop sound. They realized that Hero must not have recognized them and frantically tried to think of how to keep it that way.

“Yes! Yes, I’m OK! So sorry, what can I do for you today?” Villain answered. “We have a deal going on today for gardening supplies: buy one, get one half off!”

Hero’s smile slowly faded, and they tilted their head to one side, squinting their eyes slightly. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

Villain’s eyes widened slightly in panic, and they shook their head. “No! I’m Skyler; I don’t believe we’ve met before!”

Stupid stupid stupid. What were you thinking, giving them your real name??

Villain looked around and saw a pot of Amaryllis. They grabbed the flowers and offered them to Hero.

“What do you think about these? They are called Amaryllis, and are very easy to care for! They prefer full sunlight and soil that drains well, and their subtle colors do wonders to cheer up a room!” Villain knew that they were full-on rambling at this point but couldn’t seem to stop.

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Hero’s face hardened, and they narrowed their eyes at Villain.

“Villain,” they vehemently whispered. Hero roughly grabbed Villain by their arm and dragged them toward the back of the shop.

“I swear this isn’t what it looks like! Actually, I don’t know what this looks like, but whatever it is that you think is happening, it isn’t! Hero, please, you need to believe me!”

Villain was struggling to keep up with Hero’s long strides by the time they reached the nursery in the back of the shop. Hero shoved Villain in a tight area surrounded by tall sunflowers on either side, keeping them away from prying eyes.

“Villain, I don’t know what kind of sick plot you have going on here, but you need to stop. There are good people in this shop, and think of the workers’ livelihood!”

“I am thinking of the workers’ livelihood!” Villain muttered under their breath.

“What’s that even supposed to mean?”

“It means I work here, you idiot!” Villain shouted in a whisper.

“You…Is this where you work?” Hero was absolutely dumbfounded.

“Is this where I—yes, this is where I work! What kind of question is that!?

What else did you expect me to do? You always stop my plans before I can get any money from them. And you know where that leaves me? With no money, that’s where that leaves me.”

Villain glared up at Hero, hating how short they were. They detested looking up at people when they were yelling at them.

Just then, the woman that Villain had helped earlier walked up to them.

“Thank you so much for helping me find these beautiful flowers!” she said.

“Are there any tips I should know to keep them alive?”

Without missing a beat, Villain smiled and told the woman, “Of course! Any time! Those flowers tend to do really well in full sunlight, just make sure that you cut the plant back after they flower. Also, during the winter months, be sure to keep them in a greenhouse, and make sure to keep the soil moist, but not sodden! If you overwater it in the winter, it will cause rot to form in the roots...”

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Villain trailed off when they noticed the funny look Hero was giving them.

“Thank you so much! I’ll leave you two alone now,” the woman responded with a conspiratorial wink.

“No, we aren’t—this isn’t—look at what you’ve done, Hero!” Villain glared up at Hero. “You’re stopping me from working, and you’re making the customers think that we—that you and I—you’re being such a nuisance!”

Hero glanced around them, smirked, and took a step closer to the flustered Villain. “As I seem to recall, you are currently helping me, a loyal consumer, decide which sunflower looks best.”

A deep blush rose to Villain’s face, and they looked down, incredibly interested in their shoes.

Hero put a finger under their chin and lifted their head upward so that they have no choice but to glance at Hero, who was looking rather intently into Villain’s eyes, as if seeing them for the first time. Then Hero’s gaze was pulled down to something on Villain’s cheek.

Hero chuckled slightly and stroked the back of their hand against the other’s cheek, brushing the dried dirt off of Villain’s face.

“There, that’s better.”

Villain was frozen in shock before slipping out between Hero and the sunflowers.

Hero caught Villain’s wrist in their hand and twirled them around, getting a growl of annoyance from Villain. “Look, do you wanna buy some flowers or not?”

“What would you recommend?” Hero grinned.

Once again, without missing a beat, Villain rattled off so many different types of flowers it made Hero’s head spin.

“Dahlias like morning sun in particular and are quite easy to care for and will have more blooms if they get six to eight hours of sunlight. Camellias are more difficult to grow; they like partial shade and require acidic soil.

But they’ll bloom for you in between the months of fall and spring.” Villain smirked at the awestruck look on Hero’s face. “But for some reason, you seem like a sunflower kind of person. They are very easy to care for but need full Continued on next page

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sunlight, with only enough water to keep the top six inches wet.”

“How…how do you know so much about flowers?” Hero asked, their mind still reeling with all the information that was just thrown at them.

“I was always fascinated with them as a kid. Watching them grow from just a seed was always amazing to me.” Villain shrugged their shoulders and grabbed a can and started watering some plants around them. “They’re the reason I applied for this job, anyway. There’s something about being surrounded by things that are always growing, living, thriving, that makes me want to live with them. I know it sounds silly, but—dude, stop looking at me like that, it’s weird.”

“I’m not looking at you in a way! I’m just looking at you!” Hero exclaimed.

Villain laughed, “Yeah, you were looking at me like I was some puppy or something. All I know is that it was weird, and you need to knock it off!”

“All right, fine! From now on, I will be having a staring competition with these flowers.” Hero stared wide-eyed at a pot of flowers on the table opposite to the one Villain was at.

Villain glanced over to Hero and started laughing.

“What? What’s so funny?” Hero was chuckling, confused why they were laughing.

“Hero, oh my god, those aren’t flowers, that’s a tomato plant!” Villain was laughing so hard they had to hold onto the table to stop themselves from falling to the ground.

Hero shook their head in embarrassment. “That would end up being a tomato plant.”

Just then, Villain heard the staticky sound of their manager’s voice crackle in their earpiece. “Skyler, where did you go?? We have customers over here that need help, and you’re nowhere to be seen.”

Villain rolled their eyes at Hero and pressed the button to respond. “Yeah, yeah, sorry! I was just finishing up helping a customer find something. I’ll be right there!”

“Everything all right?” Hero asked with a smile still on their face.

“Oh yeah, everything’s fine! Boss is just upset that I left him alone and now

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he actually has to do his job.” Villain heaved a sigh.

“Listen, it was really great talking with you, but I have to get back to work.

I’ll see you soon, yeah?” Villain asked Hero as they made their way back to the front of the shop.

“Yes, of course! I’ll see you around,” Hero called out after them.

After Villain left, Hero stood there smiling to themselves like an idiot before turning back to the sunflower area. With a huge grin, they picked up a pot and made their way to the checkout section.

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Fletcher Ness

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Liquid Jake Fletcher Ness

Headlights are so much...brighter when you get hit by them going 120 miles per hour...Makes you think about life: how much you have when you lose it, how much you could’ve fixed. Oh! I forgot to introduce myself to you! My name is Jake—Liquid Jake. Yes, my first name is Liquid (and currently I’m dead! Well...not really. I’m more on the border of death and life. I’m a ghost!

But...I can’t go through walls...or fly...and I can touch things, and people can see me...but I’m dead! I swear!)

Break Point Fletcher Ness

All my life I have been on the ground, running or scared of something. My back has always been toward danger, but some things change; people change; this time, it wasn’t for the better. It was New Year’s of 3041? Yeah, that sounds about right. I was enjoying life with my family...or, I think it was with my family.

Maybe it was with my friends? My memory is foggy and distant. It’s been so long. I remember hearing a siren, like a bomb siren. Police and people running... gunshots and military and then screeching. A screech that didn’t fear death or pain or anything. And a different scream...the screams of hundreds, maybe even thousands, of innocent people, women and children. And then, silence... but that silence spoke millions of things: the end of humankind and the beginning of something else...something monstrous.

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Gwenifer Knobloch

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Untitled Gwenifer Knobloch

I have a scar from running into a pole and slashing open my eyebrow when I was in fifth grade. I’ve fallen and scraped myself many times, but usually my physical scars fade. What hasn’t left me and what will probably never go away are my emotional scars. I had someone hurt me badly, a whole group of people hurt me very badly, and it’s left me afraid, paranoid, and traumatized.

I’ll never forget what they did, and there is a scar, but at least the wound is no longer open. It’s healing, at the very least.

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Ode to My Girlfriend Gwenifer Knobloch

Every day when I check my phone I look for a message from you And if I see one, my heart flutters My eyes light up like the stars of the sky When I think of you, I get so happy, sometimes I Even start to cry Tears of joy Because I’m talking to the one I don’t annoy I dream of us living together In a wonderful place where we would be happy forever And every day I would see you My precious love The one that fits me just like a glove My favorite girl in the whole wide world You are the cutest thing to ever exist The only one I’d ever want to kiss

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Michelle Cocker

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Untitled Michelle Cocker

The space I have always longed to write in would be a special place for me.

It would be a safe place. A place that would be safe for me to share my ideas and think out loud with no one to judge me. I could write with people who understand me. The way I think, the way I write. Everyone would know each other. No one would be alone. Everyone would know each other and know they are with friends. The room would have many floor-to-ceiling windows.

The walls would be soft, calming colors. There would be beanbag chairs, school desks, and couches. It would be the perfect place for anyone to be creative. It would help me focus, and if I ever got distracted, I could go outside and maybe even get new ideas for the story I could be working on.

The windows would overlook a beach. You would be able to look outside through the floor-to-ceiling windows and see the waves crashing against the sand and breaking against the rocks scattered throughout the sand.

In that room, I would be surrounded by people who I understand.

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Time #2 Michelle Cocker

What happens when you are with someone and time just flies by?

You never know how long you have been with that someone until you look at the time.

What happens when all of that goes away? When that someone that you are with…goes away as well?

All of a sudden, you feel time dragging on.

Time never changes, time never moves.

Time just stands still, like it is waiting for something to happen. Something exciting. Something new.

What happens when you feel stuck? Like time, you are waiting for something new, something exciting, something different to happen.

What happens when you just want to feel time move again?

When you look at the time and realize that you have been talking with someone for hours, and yet it has only felt like minutes.

How do you find that someone who makes time fly again?

How do you know what will help make time become unstuck?

I wish I knew what to do to help time move and fly by.

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Shabnum Chopan

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The Embrace of Ash Shabnum Chopan

The flames continue their game of tag, racing toward me, determined to engulf their remaining target.

Arms stretch through the fire, surrounding me in a circle of death.

My lungs burn.

I’m feeling dizzy.

My vision is getting cloudy.

I drag myself a few more feet before collapsing.

My arms feel like weights as I take off my useless oxygen mask.

How foolish, to believe I’d be making it out alive.

My breaths are slow and heavy.

I feel myself losing consciousness.

I see the brilliant flames one last time before everything goes black.

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Wordslingers

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Retirement Damon Plant

I haven’t found the meadow in the woods yet or hauled the shipping containers to the site haven’t insulated them or cut out window holes I haven’t hammered the nails into the goatherd’s pen haven’t let them loose on the Himalayan Blackberry or scattered acorns in their clearing The air carries pine to my nostrils warm wet air I trade back When the wind picks up, the trees sing Rustling their leaves, dancing their way into the

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Hit Movie Damon Plant

A familiar scent filled the room, but not the usual scent of popcorn and sweaty bodies. She could smell springtime carried past marsh grass on a delta breeze. It wasn’t the darkness that stood her hairs up as she walked down the aisle, closing in on the wall at the end. It was how warm the theater felt on her skin, like soft kisses coupled with the dissonance of feeling her fingers threaded through a bed of curls while they were running along the theater’s leather seats.

The aisle descended and her footsteps slowed as her heart began pounding.

Facing the huge wall of darkness, her other senses exploded in the absence of her sight. She stretched her hand along smooth skin in the emptiness, reaching for the screen. Her eyes burst with pain as the darkness gave way to a roaring wall of light.

She stumbled backward with her eyes closed, tripping at first, then turning away and putting distance between herself and her assailant. She opened her eyes, keeping them away from the light until it didn’t burn to look toward it.

When she did look, her racing heart plunged into her stomach, horrified by the face she saw on the screen.

A beautiful face. A handsome face. Their face. Their round lips smiling, their curls bouncing on their own accord. It must be a dream. They had no smiles left for her after what she had done. Throbbing pain pulled its way up from her knees, all the way into her chest. She dropped and began crawling away from the screen toward the double doors.

The lights flashed and illuminated the theater. She stared resolutely at the floor in front of her, terrified that it was identical to the hardwood in their apartment before she had kicked them out, terrified of what the rest of the theater must look like.

The doors wouldn’t budge when she tried to beat them open. She beat the doors with her fists as they rattled like the metal screen door she had waited to watch them walk through every night. The air had become so thick, she could taste the hot September fog of their little room in her mouth and nose.

She beat the doors until her fists dripped with sweat before giving up and

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slipping into a heap on the ground. She held her breath and closed her eyes, but the speakers started playing her favorite song that they would sing for her. She couldn’t scream loud enough to deafen herself to it. When it did finally end, she sat up and opened her eyes. The screen had split into a mosaic made up of her happy memories with them. Memories she had tried to forget, memories that up until now she had ignored but no longer could. She was trapped by them, consumed by them; tears of grief and ecstasy rolled down her cheeks as she rose up in the darkness of her room, woken up by a dog barking beyond her window.

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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