hip2hip edition three

HIP2HIP: EDITION THREE:

poetry

Sisterhood Evelyn K, age 15 Sisterhood We are all bound together in magic The magic of learning We mesmerize with our words We entrance with our calculations Sisterhood Our ingenuity is an enchantment Our creativity is a spell Our kindness is a charm Although we are an enigma Sisterhood Our bond is fascinating But they can’t see our captivation Our attachment is bewitching Sisterhood is supernatural

the witch’s dichotomy mary b, age 16

babaylan k. aryana, age 16

flash fiction

The Real Halloween - Loren Baker, age 15 I was never scared of witches. But my grandmother was scared of sorcery because spells led to the lougawoo. She feared the lougawoo, the were-animals (yes, not just wolves) with Haitian blood and fur and fangs whose only mission is to hunt you down. It was Voudou magic that transformed them. My mother had to grow up without dressing up, without trick-or-treating,without telling those spooky stories around the bonfire, all because of the lougawoo. My grandmother loved her, so she had to protect her. She’s tried to protect me, too.

These lougawoo, to my family, are not just scary stories. They’re real.

“They’re magic.”

“They’re scary.”

“They come out at night, timoun. I’ve seen it.”

Now, I even hear about the lougawoo. I hear my grandmother’s scared cackles whenever she mentions their name. I hear how, in her home, they came out at night and haunted her. I wonder if some day they’re going to haunt me. They lurked by the river, in the village. Be careful or someone could cast a spell, and the next thing you know, you’re a snake, slithering and slithering and hunting for your next victim.

“Wait until you see the real Halloween,” she says every time October rolls around.

Of course, I always say they’re not real. They’re myths, ghosts, animals that obviously don’t and can’t exist. But I’ve never been there, so how would I know? How would I know the lougawoo didn’t roam her streets? How would I know if the bird resting on my shoulder, the squirrel running across the street, the parrot chirping in the distance, is one of them? I would realize too late if I never saw their piercing red eyes.

The Rose Canina Chloë, age 16