2016-17 Writers in the Schools Chapbook

Everything Everything Everything Everything Everything Everything Everything Everything is Changing

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EVERYTHING IS

CHANGING

2016–2017 WITS Student Chapbook

Writers in the Schools (WITS) is a youth program of Literary Arts, a community-based nonprofit literary organization centered in Portland, Oregon, whose mission is to support writers, engage readers, and inspire the next generation with great literature.

925 SW Washington St. Portland, OR 97205 www.literary-arts.org

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Everything is Changing

2016-2017 WITS Student Chapbook Copyright © 2017 Literary Arts, Inc. All Rights Reserved. This book may not be duplicated in any way—mechanical, photographic, electronic, or by means yet to be devised—without the written permission of the publisher, except in the case of a brief excerpt or quotations for the purpose of review.

Literary Arts Staff Andrew Proctor, executive director Maggie Allen Amanda Bullock Jae Choi Lydah DeBin Megan Gex Jennifer Gurney India Hamilton Hunt Holman Ramiza Koya Marshall Miller Susan Moore Chelsea Querner Joanna Rose Dao Strom Mel Wells Kyle White Wits Interns Alexandria Baker Kate Jayroe Board of Directors Jacqueline Willingham, chair Jill Abere Betsy Amster Mike Barr Amy Carlsen Kohnstamm Ginnie Cooper Alice Cuprill-Comas Rebecca DeCesaro Amy Donohue

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Theo Downes-Le Guin Marie Eckert Betsy Henning Karen Karbo Deidra Miner Katherine O’Neil Ramón Pagán Amy Prosenjak Jon Raymond James Reinhart Bob Speltz Amy Wayson Thomas Wood Youth Programs Advisory Council Ginnie Cooper, chair Carmen Bernier-Grand Jacque Dixon Joan Fondell Diana Gerding Andre Goodlow Jonathan Hill Susheela Jayapal Joaquín Lopez Manuel Mateo Nancy Sullivan Catherine Theriault Kristin Walrod Tracey Wyatt Sharon Wynde Chapbook Editor Mel Wells Published by Literary Arts, a 501(c)(3) in Portland, OR First Edition 2017

2016-17 WITS COMMUNITY Writers-in-Residence

Turiya Autry, Alex Behr, Cooper Lee Bombardier, Arthur Bradford, Leslee Chan, David Ciminello, Lisa Eisenberg, James Gendron, Courtenay Hameister, Jamie Houghton, Emiko Jean, Brian Kettler, Ramiza Koya, Kathleen Lane, Bettina de Leรณn Barrera, Zeloszelos Marchandt, Monty Mickelson, Amy Minato, Laura Moulton, Mark Pomeroy, Matthew Robinson, Joanna Rose

Visiting Authors

P.C. Cast, Matthew Desmond, Ed Edmo, Louise Erdrich, Michael Lewis, Colum McCann, Tracy K. Smith

Participating Teachers

Zandra Ah Choy-Agusen, Scott Blevins, Susie Brighouse, Deanna Delgado, Amanda-Jane Elliot, Kelly Gomes, Ben Grosscup, Jordan Gutlerner, Crystal Hanson, Henry Hooper, Jamie Incorvia, Doug Jenkins, Anne Meadows, Dave Mylet, Jennifer Newton, Mike Nolan, Courtney Palmer, Nathan Pier, Cesar Ramirez, Tina Roberts, Tory Rodgers, Clair Roix, Norman Stremming, Shawn Swanson, Amy Taramasso, Trisha Todd, Dana Vinger, Kim Wagner, Kristin Wallace Knight, Crystel Weber, Alethea Work

Participating Principals

Petra Callin, Carol Campbell, Peyton Chapman, Brian Chatard, Lorna Fast Buffalo Horse, Ayesha Freeman, Filip Hristic, John Koch, Molly Ouche, Juanita Valder, Curtis Wilson

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CONTENTS Introduction xi I Remember My Past • Bridget Mistkawi

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The Ornament • Sean Cunningham 15 Your Favorite Color • Kyla Becker Coffee Drive • Tenzin Palzom So Blue • Anna Wise

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Walking Down the Hall • James Cannaday Smile • Olivia Geist

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Travel Troubles • Will Benoit 28 JP Morgan • Nora Janowski

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The Longest Day • Darel Simpson

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Dear Elena Connelly • Elena Connelly Wake-Up Call • Jia Qing Li

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Soccer Mom • Bella Dominic 40 Map • Henry McCreery

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Those Shadows • Poppie Veillet

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Up and Down • Lev Eisenbach-Budner I Am • Daniyil Kashkan

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Caution: Falling Rocks • Alia Starman

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I’m Thinking of My Life • Jeremy Faulhaber Go To Your Room • Bella Johnson

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I Remember • Roxanne Talbott-Bigham Stand • Vivian Hoang

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Sisters • Katy Brown

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Mount Hood • Tony Young

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Out the Window • Willa Bixby

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The Runner and the Tiger • Carson Cohn My Hands • Moira Burkhart

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Valedictorian • Abby Carton

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25 Things About Me • Henry Slatore

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The Only One, The Only Survivor • Austin Vanderwal Under the Elms • Flora Wells

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A Rock Speeding Through Time • Jacob Shaver The Hand • Alexander Taylor Speechless • Jordan McCallister Zoo • Kayla Rae

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My Slice of Portland • Finn Riley-Belew Tapes • Ellie Starck Addict • Macy Potter

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The Eyes • Justin Hellberg

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The Day that Changed My Life • Deirdre Replinger In the Town of Carina • Carelle Namegake Wall • John Yingling

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A Fall Stroll • Claire May

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Heat • Bridget Levesque 119 Special Ring • Mia Stanley untitled • Alex Elliot

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Iron Planet • Deliang Cen

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85

127

108

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Ones of Yesterday • Haley Carlough

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To Freeze Time • Osvaldo Rios-Sabalza untitled • Haylee Hanna

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The Gift of Loving Others • Peter Predisik Darkened Days • Travis Castillo You Will Be OK • Ashley Moo

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The Tales We Tell • Madelyn Johnson Missing • Hannah Witscher

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WITS writers-in-residence 2016-17

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Index 151 Support 153

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Introduction Dear Reader, At Literary Arts, our mission is to engage readers, support writers, and inspire the next generation with great literature. These goals are exemplified in the work we do with young people. Our programs for high school age students include Writers in the Schools, Verselandia, Students to the Schnitz, and the College Essay Mentoring Project.

Writers in the Schools is the heart of Youth Programs at Literary Arts, offering students opportunities to write, publish, and perform their own creative work. In 2016-2017, 23 brilliant professional writers in multiple genres—including poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, comics, and playwriting—joined high school classes as artists in residence. Student participants explored multiple genres, learned the habits of a writer, and experienced firsthand how creative expression serves as a catalyst for self-knowledge and increased engagement in their schools and communities.

This digital chapbook is an accompaniment to the print anthology, Galaxies on the Ground, and both evoke the many worlds that coexist in our local high schools. This year’s student writing reflects the battlegrounds and shifts in our culture alongside more internal dilemmas; there are stories of young love and academic struggle, as well as insightful commentary on social issues such as racism, immigration, and LGBTQ rights. The hearts and minds of Portland’s youth are here, on the page, unfiltered and honest.

Thank you to all of our supporters, including the 31 educators— principals, teachers, and librarians—at the 11 high schools we worked in, and the many individuals and organizations who contributed to our programs: it is because of you that these transformative residencies are possible.

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This was a year when it felt like our work together mattered more than ever. Thank you for reading.

Ramiza Koya Director of Youth Programs

I Remember My Past Bridget Mistkawi CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

I remember the muddy footprints in the kitchen and the sound of the horses talking in the back.

I remember anything, anytime, or anyone associating terrorism to the Arabs, my mother freaks out while throwing anything she has in her hands at the thing who said it.

I remember coming back from hours spent shopping with my Tata and seeing that surprised face more like how many hundreds did you spend this time in my Baba’s eyes.

I remember the Berenstain Bears on repeat every night.

I remember the big green golf course everyone would play on while I steal the cart and take my own little joy ride.

I remember my fifteenth birthday party and having more and more random people coming through my door.

I remember my brother while he threw himself and the cart through the class bathroom door, breaking it and having cuts from the glass all over myself and him.

I remember that huge snowstorm in 2008 while eating ice cream in the Pearl District with Yaya.

I remember being picked up at horse camp, getting thrown into

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the private plane and jetting off to a hospital to see the birth of my cousin Layla I remember all those vacations with my mother yelling at me to apply the sunscreen.

I remember standing up for myself like I was on the tallest mountain in the world.

I remember fighting for myself.

I remember that god-awful human taking away my innocence.

I remember my mother’s face when I came clean.

I remember him dying.

I remember the joy and the warmth around the dinner table.

I remember the muddy footprints in the kitchen from my beautiful family.

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The Ornament Sean Cunningham WILSON HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: BETTINA DE LEĂ“N BARRERA

The Ornament I am a globe An ornament Far away from here But inside me I carry An entire ocean Each thing inside me A piece Of a bigger picture I am a souvenir From the beach Next to the ocean And inside me I carry Your memories Of a place You got me from I am no special object Nor am I needed But in truth I may be More important Than you think I am not just an object I am not just a thing I am something That carries 15

Your memories Of the place I came from That you went to The place that is Just like a beach Where you had The time of your life.

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Your Favorite Color Kyla Becker LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: AMY MINATO

Dear self, I know your favorite color is yellow.

Yellow won’t always be your favorite color. You’ll learn that the world isn’t a ball of sunshine, and you won’t always have a million reasons to be happy. You won’t always be immersed in smiles and compliments, and everything soft and beautiful will slowly fade away. Coloring in the hearts of smiling flowers and the feathers of ducklings. Your radiant view of the world that reflects in your eyes every day will soon be soaked in the harsh realizations that you will soon find hiding behind every corner, following you, taunting you. You’ll soon realize that yellow is a joke. That color they taught you to love was filled with lies and impossible promises.

Black will become your favorite color. Black is the color of the world. It seems macabre, gothic, sad, but at least it has emotion. Black will always be better than grey. You’ll learn to appreciate black. I know you’ll say black isn’t a color, that’s what they teach you now. But let me tell you, black is a color.

Black will sleep next you, when you cry yourself asleep after he tells you to leave him alone. Black will tell you to not leave your room in morning, forget school and let it wrap its familiar arms intimately around you, stealing your thoughts. Black will tell you the world doesn’t want you, promising to hide the ugly reflections that stare back at you in the mirror.

Black, well, black isn’t always bad. You look pretty in black; it hides your flaws, softening your curves. You look thin in black. When you line your eyes in that black charcoal they 17

look more beautiful, more prominent. Boys will like you. You don’t even look good in yellow, it makes you look bigger, draws more attention to you. Do you want that much attention? The answer is no. All attention eventually becomes bad attention, so stay below the radar, don’t talk too much, and above all, don’t wear yellow. You’re gonna tell me you don’t care how people see you, if boys like you, if girls want to be friends with you.

Wait a couple years, when you’re sitting alone at lunch, stuffing some gross sandwich in your mouth to suffocate the tears and watching girls flutter by with cute boys by their side or a throng of giggling girls. That, that my friend, will never be you, so don’t even try.

Black doesn’t get along with other colors, it darkens them, makes them uglier and sadder and grosser. This is who you are, you will never make people happier, you are a dark cloud on a sunny day, you work better alone. You’ll always be better than grey, don’t get me started about grey.

But I should also probably talk about grey. You’ll go through stages of grey, when you don’t feel anything at all. Everything is muted, melancholy and uninteresting. At some point everything becomes grey, the sunny skies as they decay towards winter, your hair, your ashes. I want you not to think too much about grey. Grey sucks. It sucks so much that it will eat you alive.

And it’s so easy to get lost in grey. It creeps up on you, as you get sucked up into your daily routines without much thought.

You get a job, a husband, a kid, but nothing can wake you up.

You become stifled by an eternal foggy cloud of grey, cold and unfriendly. Maybe you should try making grey your favorite color. At some point we’ll always encounter it.

But hopefully there will always be a yellow side of you. Yellow is the side of you that will keep you living. Yellow is the spring sun calling to the flowers as they finally start popping from the ground in eruptions of color and fragrance. And as much as black has hurt you or grey has blinded you, you’ll find some

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yellow. Yellow is fits of laughter, the pain in your chest when you just can’t stop, you can’t breathe. Yellow will surprise you, when the other colors are suffocating you. I take everything back, don’t let yellow stop being your favorite color. Never stop loving that part of you. Wear yellow dresses in the springtime and don’t worry if people look. I know right now, yellow seems so abundant and in everything you see, but someday it won’t be.

For now cherish yellow.

Sincerely, Me

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Coffee Drive Tenzin Palzom FRANKLIN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: ALEX BEHR

As I laid my eyes on him, I knew he was an important person.

He came up to the counter and I noticed his dark black hair was held nicely in place by gel. His voice was deep as he ordered a grande sized coffee and his eyes so mesmerizing I forgot to ring his order up. He was annoyed by my staring. I could tell.

He didn’t seem to like attention that much, at least from what I gathered the last few times he visited the small cozy cafe.

“Do you want the money?’’ His voice was impatient for the need of caffeine, the antidote for zombieism.

“Oh. Of course. Your order will be up in a few minutes.”

“Alright” As more customers piled in the cafe, the man left and I didn’t see him till the next day.

“Can I just get a regular black coffee?”

I was overjoyed with the fact that he came back again.

“Sure. That would be $3.50. And what’s your name?” I asked nonchalantly but inside, my heart was racing a mile per minute.

I thought he would think I was a creeper since our cafe never really needed names on the cups like Starbucks do. The cafe was relatively small with a cozy homey feeling to it. A place where gay, bi, straight, African, Asian, and all kinds of people can come in and enjoy a hot or cold delicious coffee and little pastries.

“It’s Mike.” His voice was still as deep as yesterday. Still made my knees weak. Thank god I was behind a counter. God knows how embarrassing it would be if he saw me swoon over him.

“Alright. Your order will be up in a minute or two.”

After Mike got his coffee he went to sit on a comfy booth near the windows. I couldn’t help but steal a few glances at him.

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After a few minutes of stealing what I thought was equivalent to diamonds, I decided to go refill his coffee for free. Tell him it’s on the house.

“Why?” “Uhh...uh...” I was caught off guard. I thought he would gladly accept the free coffee. At this point now, my eyes were fluttering at a constant speed. My hands rubbing against the black apron with a little phrase Mistro etched in the middle.

All signs of apprehension. “No special reason. The cafe is very generous. We like to sometimes be nice and just give out coffee for free.” I was very scared Mike would catch on my stupid fake excuse.

As soon as he heard that I saw his bleak expression turn into a dashing smile that revealed a full set of white teeth, which made my cheeks turn bright red.

After that he asked me for my name and we chatted about all kind of things, from talking about the new president to just simply learning new things about each other. I found that he loves the color red, the color of my hair as he specifically told me. As you can probably figure what happened then, my cheeks turned bright as a baboon’s butt and eyes dilated to the point if people saw me they would of probably thought I was high from drugs.

This went on for a year. Him flirting at me and treating me like a spoiled princess. My friends loved to call it “courting” which I thought was comedy gold.

We had our first kiss at the end of our second date. He taken me out on his beautiful boat named Bessy. Of course I teased him for it. We watched the fireworks, drank champagne, and slow danced to the song on the radio. It was the perfect date, way better than our first one. God I was nervous and underdressed for the fancy restaurant that Mike took me to. Anyways, after the last slow beat of the song, his hands at my waist, mine on his shoulder, Mike’s face started to draw closer to mine. When

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our lips finally met, his smooth, plump ones against mine, I wished time would stop but alas you know how the saying goes, time never stopped for nobody. Eventually we parted our lips and took big gulps of air; the one thing that seconds ago felt like something I didn’t need as long as I stayed glued to him.

On our six-month anniversary, I got a call just about an hour before my date with Mike. I debated on whether I should answer the phone or not because at that time I was very busy.

I was packing an overnight bag because I was going spend the night at his house. Thank god I answered because as soon as I found out the reason behind the call, I ran outside to my car and drove to the hospital where the love of my life was fighting to live. My hands on the wheels were trembling and I knew I needed to gain control of myself and be calm so I kept telling myself, “Mike needs me. Be calm.”

“Mike needs me. Be calm.”

“Mike needs me. Be calm.”

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So Blue Anna Wise LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: LISA EISENBERG

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Walking Down the Hall James Cannaday MADISON HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: AMY MINATO

I saw her walking down the hall Yeah I saw her walking down the hall Oh pretty lady, won’t you give me a call She’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen Yeah She’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen Man she’s so pretty, it’s like she’s a dream I went to her and asked for her cell Yeah I went to her and asked for her cell But she told me there ain’t a chance in hell What she said made my throat go dry Yeah What she said made my throat go dry Damn that hurt, and I just wanna cry I should have known from the start Yeah I should have known from the start That she would put a dagger, straight into my heart I saw her walking down the hall Yeah I saw her walking down the hall Oh pretty lady I shouldn’t have seen you at all I said oh pretty lady I shouldn’t have seen you at all.

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Smile Olivia Geist GRANT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: ARTHUR BRADFORD

Before the accident my teeth were perfectly normal. In fact, they were better than normal. They were beautiful, pearly white and perfectly straight. Although I was careful to not blind people with my teeth, I was always smiling. I loved to smile.

I loved the way it made me feel, giving me a jolt of happiness when I needed it most and the way it made other people feel. I loved that even the tiniest bit of a smile could make someone laugh out loud. I loved to smile because smiling brought me joy, and it brought other people joy, and that made me happier than eating an ice cream sundae on a scalding hot summer day.

But my days of a perfect smile are all in the past.

The day of the accident was the day my small town got a horrible amount of snow. I woke up and peeked out of the window to see a bleak white tundra stretching as far as the eye could see. School was cancelled, the stores closed, even my parents couldn’t go to work.

Lots of kids were going ice skating, as the big pond by the mall was frozen to its core. I got there before the big crowds, and hastily laced up my ice skates before my fingers froze. There were only a few other people on the rink, and I smiled at them as I stumbled onto the slippery ice.

I soon found out that I was a little rusty at ice skating. I clung onto the sides with my mitten-covered hands and moved slowly around the perimeter of the rink.

And then I heard the crack. Suddenly, little tremors started to echo around me. They were small at first, like the snaps and pops of a bowl of Rice Krispies, but they soon started to get bigger and louder. Everyone started to frantically skate toward the shore, 25

picking up their children and skating as fast as they could.

I started to move, too, but my shaky legs slipped out from under me and I faceplanted onto the cold, hard ice.

The last thing my blurry vision saw before someone picked me up was two white, oval looking things laying on the melting ice next to a splatter of blood.

After the accident, there was only an ominous hole where my two front teeth should have been. I got braces a few months afterwards, too. Not that braces are bad or anything, it was just a little offputting to see a strand of metal drooping through the place where my two front teeth should have been.

I kept to myself mostly. And I hated smiling. I felt like it was no longer my job to make people happy, or bring joy to people’s lives. It was instead my job to stay out of the way. So I was dead quiet. And I never smiled. Most of the time I was able to hold back my laughter, but sometimes I had to bite my cheeks really hard to make sure I didn’t. Sometimes that made me cry. I spent more time crying than I did laughing, I guess.

One Wednesday afternoon was especially hard. Everyone seemed to be laughing about something, and I longed to open my mouth—if you could even call it a mouth.

Fourth period did not ease my pain. My cheeks were slightly swollen and if I brushed my tongue against them, I could feel deep teeth marks. We were watching this funny video. It wasn’t the funniest video in the world, but there were murmurs of giggles and snorts every few seconds. People seemed so smitten with their laughs, like they just knew they belonged. I wanted to feel that. I wanted to belong somewhere. I rarely felt like I belonged anymore.

I started out quietly, and that’s all I meant to do. I opened my mouth a sliver and chuckled quickly. When no one noticed, I laughed a little louder, and my bands started to tug on the brackets they were attached to. The speaker said something else funny and a ripple of laughter started to trickle around

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the room. When it got to me, I smiled. No one noticed. So I giggled a little. And then I opened my mouth wider, and full-out laughed. Still, no one really noticed. So I let myself laugh harder.

My shoulders started to shake and sounds started to come out. Weird hiccups and snorts. I was laughing so loud I was sure everyone in the room could hear me. I was wiggling in my seat like I was having a seizure, which I knew looked strange. Yet, no one seemed to care that much. I got a few weird looks from people sitting near me, but I didn’t really notice them. I was too busy laughing. I even kept laughing after one of my bands snapped off and flew across the room.

I didn’t care because for the first time in a long time, I was happy. I looked around me and saw that I didn’t have to make other people feel happy to feel happy, I only had to make sure I was. And even though I had a strange mouth, it didn’t have to define who I was.

So I laughed.

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Travel Troubles Will Benoit GRESHAM HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: COURTENAY HAMEISTER

I’m sure that most of us have had a horrible encounter with the TSA while traveling at some point in our lives. Well, I’ve been so fortunate as to have had multiple very uncomfortable encounters with the TSA in my short lifetime. I travel a lot, and almost every time I travel I manage to get “randomly selected” for a “non-invasive” pat-down. I’m fairly certain I’ve gotten the full possible enemy-of-the-state experience!

For me, though, there’s one certain experience that stuck out.

A few months ago, in March, I flew to New York City for an audition at the Mannes School of Music. Being in NYC for the first time in thirteen years was amazing, and the audition went really well. What didn’t go very well, though, was my security check on the way home.

It all started when I *sigh* forgot to take my laptop out of my backpack when I put it in the x-ray machine. Amateur mistake, I know, but a costly one in the end. I go through the body scanner, anxiously waiting for them to inevitably pull my bag out of the scanner.

They call me over to the search table. I sort of slowly shuffle over there. My stress levels are skyrocketing.

I get over to the table, and I’m met by this huge African American dude in a TSA outfit. I’m immediately intimidated by him. He gives me the whole rundown, telling me that they just had to search my bag and test it. This news helps my stress levels a bit. There’s nothing in my bag that would set it off, I figured.

Wrong. Apparently my bag tested positive for “explosive material.” Well, that shoots my stress levels straight through the ceiling of the airport.

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The test results end up landing me the most thorough patdown of my life. There wasn’t a single part of my outside body that went unchecked. Of course, me not being, y’know, a freakin terrorist, he didn’t find anything in the pat-down. I figure I’m done, right? Well, not exactly. They had to test my bag again, just to be safe. I think you all know where this is going.

The damn bag somehow tests positive for explosives. Again.

The look on the TSA dude’s face turn from a slightly amused grin to deathly serious. He comes back over to me and tells me to follow him. I literally felt the color flush out of my face.

The TSA dude leads me into a side room. It was obviously meant for storage, but for this purpose, it became an interrogation room. He asks me some generic questions like “How old are you?” and “What did you do during your trip?”

I told him that I was in NYC for an audition and his face brightens up a little.

“You were in New York City? That’s what it was! The machine can be set off by dust and debris,” he says.

After a pat-down that was somehow even more thorough than the one preceding it, he lets me go. I was so damn relieved.

He cracked a quip about not hijacking any planes or he might lose his job. It was nice to see a TSA officer joking around. I made my flight, luckily. The whole experience may have been slightly traumatizing, but hey, at least it’s a damn good story.

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JP Morgan Nora Janowski GRANT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: ARTHUR BRADFORD

They sauntered side by side, unalarming and undetectable to the dress shoes, sneakers, and heels shuffling between them and their target. The taller man on the right stepped heavily on one side due to a hefty backpack slung over the right shoulder of his quilted jacket, like an army hero returning from the war. The outermost pocket of the navy blue Jansport carried a pair of knit gloves to account for sweaty fingerprints left behind. They were nestled against a travel-size pink canister of mace given to him by his oblivious but kindhearted mother. He squished down his homemade black ski mask with one shaky hand, trying hard not to disturb the loaded Smith & Wesson that lay dubiously underneath. He had done things like this before but still got the shakes every time. He was young to be experienced but the well-worn leather handle of the switchblade in his jeans pocket proved otherwise.

His partner carried a bag as well. A black synch backpack about the size of a cereal box swished side-to-side and swept across her clammy lower back. The rhythm reminded her of the soft patting of her brother’s hand on the table as he stared at the pile of bills and pretended to tend to them. She felt the cold weight of an unfired Glock pistol in her left-hand pocket and the soft squish of her feet on the soles of her sneakers as they made their way to the Chase on the corner of Hawthorne and Cesar E. Chavez. It took all the strength she had in her stocky five-foot-two frame to keep her eyes from darting nervously and exposing her intentions, flickering from face to face through the crowd in search of a glimmer of suspicion in their expressions.

Without warning a meaty hand fell upon his shoulder and 30

sent a tsunami of fear rippling down his spine. Both him and his partner were paralyzed in fear.

His knuckles turned pale as his grip around the switchblade tightened. Her heartbeat accelerated and thumped in concert with the quick rumbling of the cars passing by.

The two of them stood there, eyes wide, feet glued to the unforgiving concrete, too frightened to turn around and too young to be held responsible.

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The Longest Day Darel Simpson ROOSEVELT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: MATTHEW ROBINSON

It took hours for James to understand how much time and patience it took to fish. He always got upset when his grandpa fished without him. His grandpa used to go fishing a lot without him and he would always get mad.

His grandpa finally took him fishing and James was excited and happy. It had been about an hour or so then James asked his grandpa “When do we catch the fish? This is taking too long.”

His grandpa had replied calmly, “It can take a while for the fish to bite.”

James couldn’t understand why the fish weren’t biting. “How long does it usually take before the fish come?”

“It can take a while, but the fish will come sooner or later.”

James and his grandpa took a break to eat chips and other goodies they had brought.

A light breeze had passed and another hour had flown by like the wind. The sun was beating down on the water causing a bright beam of light to shoot right into James’ eyes. James set down the fishing pole to go drink some water.

“This is peaceful and relaxing,” said James.

His grandpa had smiled, and he said, “When I was your age I always went fishing with my grandpa. I always enjoyed it.”

“Grandpa, I think I have something!” James was filled with happiness.

His grandpa ran over to where James was and he gave him instructions.

“Make sure you keep the pole straight up, make sure you to have firm grip and whatever you do don’t let go of the pole.”

After ten minutes of struggling and fighting, the fish gave 32

in after a hard fought battle. James hoisted the fish in the air and he was speechless. “I am very proud of you James.�

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Dear Elena Connelly Elena Connelly CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: ALEX BEHR

Dear Elena Connelly entering sixth grade without a clue whatsoever about anything, You are scared. Not probably scared, but 100% afraid of everyone and everything. I would know—we’re the same person.

I know exactly how you’re feeling right now-the middle school guide they just handed you means nothing. You don’t care where the bathrooms are, you want to know which ones are the most crowded. You want to know which people are going to end up being your lifelong friends, why your locker just won’t open even though you’ve given yourself a blister trying, and just how to find room 228. You want the information only an older sibling could tell you—the one you never had. Well, today is your lucky day! I have written you a handy guide to everything you want to know about middle school and sent it to you from the future.

You can thank yourself later.

Part I: The Plain and Brutal Truth You don’t deserve lies. Nobody does, for that matter, so let’s just cut to the chase and get the moral of the story over with: middle school sucks. It’s full of soggy PBJs, immature boys making dumb jokes, gum under your desk, and popularity (see Part 3 for more information on that subject). Here’s the thing though: That was my moral, my story, but it doesn’t have to be yours. You can turn your experience from a tornado of death into an adventure you don’t regret. It’ll be difficult. Insanely difficult. In fact, anyone who’s reading this right now who’s

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been through middle school is laughing at me right now. They’ll say there’s nothing you can do to have a good time. Ok, I’ll admit, the whole adventure-you-don’t-regret thing was a bit over the top, but I’m positive you can do better than I did. All you have to do is ignore the bitches, learn to chill, and love yourself. As hard as that sounds, it’s possible, and I can help you get through it. You can do it!

Part II: The Ultimate Tour + Tips and Trades for Navigating a Labyrinth Elementary school was pretty swell, right? There was just one classroom to find, and your lockers weren’t locked. Middle school’s a jump up. There are three floors of what feels like endless classrooms and most of the lockers are so old, the locks are sticky. Luckily, I’m an expert on both of these problems.

Don’t follow the advice of others who have told you their “tricks.”

They lie! Trust in me, and you’ll be a pro middle-schooler in no time.

Let’s talk the lock. It sticks. It clicks. It NEVER SEEMS TO OPEN. Here’s a little secret: the combo is wrong. Don’t rely on the numbers written on your “trusty” little paper that tells you your combo. Be flexible and try some new combinations. Chill out: don’t be so tense about it. You’ll figure it out with some trial and error and help from peers.

One last thing: whatever you do, do NOT listen to your sister’s stupid AG Middle School Survival book. It’s so over the top with crazy ideas, it’s just ridiculous! For example, it recommends doodling your combo in flowery letters in a journal. You’ll memorize your combo so fast, it will become muscle memory. Also, if you follow that book’s advice, you’ll be teased. The people who wrote that book expected middle school to be all roses and rainbows. They even suggest putting a MAILBOX on your lockers so your friends can leave you “sweet” notes! Ha, right!

Next up, classes. Stop freaking out and running all over the

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place, because you’ll actually be a lot more successful if you just breathe, stop, and actually read the numbers above the doors.

Hint: they’re in numerical order. Also, teachers aren’t mean and strict. You can come late and they’ll bathe you with sympathy.

I’m serious!

If you want some final words on how to stay alive for the first month or so, here’s my (slightly ironic) tip: [purposely left blank].

I’m not going to tell you how to survive. That’s up to you! My tip is to not worry about knowing everything. So in that case, I’m going to end this section and wish you good luck.

Part III: Social Survival (a.k.a. the bottomless pit of doom) Just accept it: you’re never going to find the perfect friend group! There’s no such thing as that. I will tell you a few people to avoid and a few to talk to, though. This may save you some adjusting time.

Here are some GOOD people (you should talk to them! And possibly become friends with them!) Except here’s one catch: I’ve changed their names. So you’ll have to go based on these descriptions and your instinct.

Poppy: Poppy is a great person. She’s really nice and I didn’t meet her until eighth grade. Thanks to me, though, you might possibly get two more years with her than I did! Poppy has short brown hair, plays clarinet, and sits with Alethea at lunch. She also does parkour.

Alethea: Even though sometimes it seems like Alethea is a forced friend because she’s your neighbor, she’s actually a pretty neat person to have on your good side. Plus, she’s just awesome.

Her hair is blonde, and it changes from short to long back to short again. Alethea likes cats and reading. She also loves drawing, which you’ll enjoy doing with her.

Diamond: Diamond was my first friend. She’s sensitive and kind, and has long blonde hair. Her clothes are cute, but not revealing. Also, she has pet bunnies! Can you really say no to fluffy little balls of joy?

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Archer: Archer and his friends are pretty good when you just NEED to obsess over the latest Minecraft update or play a good round of cards. Archer especially is great since he plays French horn and adores cats. Don’t be afraid of having guy friends.

They really are annoying, but no one else you’ll meet will be able to appreciate your strange and awkward humor as much as other weird, clumsy people.

Now let’s talk about who to avoid. These people can be classified into two basic groups: popular peeps and bullies. The first one is the biggest no-no. Popularity is and endless pit of doom, with a side of torturous pain. Plus, these people tend to be the bullies, which is another thing to obviously stay away from. In general, stick with the people who don’t mind you being yourself. Don’t be yourself around anyone else, though.

They’ll just laugh.

Part IV: You, you, and even more you I know you want to know how you’ll end up. What clothes am I wearing now? What type of jewelry do I like? Whoa, there. Calm your questions. I’ll answer some burning ones in an organized fashion.

Let’s talk middle school. This is my past and your future.

You’ll start out with a cute and comfortable phase: running shoes, shirts with anime turtles saying inspirational quotes, and pink cardigans. That’s understandable. You could care less about clothes right now.

In seventh grade, you’ll go through a fuzzy time: fuzzy Uggs, fuzzy sweaters, and fuzzy gloves. Your color choices will switch more to neutrals. You’ll also dig large necklaces and long scarves.

Lastly, eighth grade. This is where you really go crazy with clothing; it’s whatever you feel like. One day, you may go for a tie layered with a green vest and a chunky bracelet. The next, it might be a leather jacket and cowboy boots. You’ll be really happy this way.

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Now, finally. The moment you’ve been waiting for. Me! You in the ninth grade. Right now my hair is short, and I don’t mean bob short. I’m talking about above-my-ears short. I never wear skirts. Loose jeans, sneakers, and baggy shorts fill my wardrobe.

I prefer it this way. You do what you want to do, though.

I honestly could go on and on, since there’s so much that’s happened in three years. The thing is, though, part of life is the mystery of tomorrow. I don’t want to tell you how to breathe.

You need to decide for yourself whether the dress is blue or black or white and gold. Although there are some huge events that will happen, I don’t need you worrying about them. I want you to be able to think about the present, the now. So think about the now. Appreciate the life you have, and don’t let yourself be dragged through the same routine every day. Treat life like it’s newspaper: don’t always focus on the headlines. There are smaller articles that matter too.

I hope this letter left you with knowledge and a touch of wonder.

Sincerely, Elena Connelly in 9th grade

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Wake-Up Call Jia Qing Li CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

Beep. Beep. Beep! It was 6:25. I groaned tiredly and rolled out of bed. I peeked out the window; the sky was still dark but some rays of sunlight managed to pierce through the dense clouds. I blinked twice and left to get dressed and complete my morning schedule. It was 7:10, time to for me to leave the house. I opened the door and a fresh breeze welcomed me coolly. The sky was a bit lighter now, winds blowing north to south, red maple leaves dancing all around me.

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Soccer Mom Bella Dominic LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: BRIAN KETTLER

MOM: soccer mom KID: shy, timid, awkward, clumsy, scared, reluctant

(both get into the car after KID’s soccer game) MOM

What was that crap? That was NOT soccer. You headed the ball with your nose, not your head, your slide tackle was just you slipping on the wet grass, and as for your control, well, there wasn’t any. You looked like a sheep that got lost from its herd and decided to drop to the ground and give up right then and there: it’s over, it’s done, death is the only option now. Are you a sheep or are you a— (to other driver) HEY DUMBASS, THE BLINKERS ON THE CAR AREN’T JUST FOR DECORATION! SIGNAL NEXT TIME!!!

KID

(awkwardly sits there, his arm stiff from the newly added cast) But mom… my arm is broken.”

MOM

Blah blah blah, all I’m hearing are excuses for why you played like weights were tied to your cleats and because you’re so damn scrawny and weak you couldn’t run. So what if your arm is broken? I want to see fouls, yellow—no, red cards. You own this game. I raised a winner not a whiner.

KID

Mom… I need to tell you something.

MOM

It better be an excuse for your careless effort.

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KID

I don’t— MOM

Wait a second, sweetie, (to other driver) THE SPEED LIMIT IS A SUGGESTION, NOT A LAW, LIVE A LITTLE! YOU FOSSIL! KID

I don’t want to play soccer anymore. (beat) MOM

You WHAT?!

KID

I— I just— I don’t know, I just don’t think soccer’s my thing.

MOM

And why would you think that?

KID

Weeeeellllll… I trip over the ball at least five times every game, I always score the ball into our own goal, everyone on the team bullies me because the ball is bigger than my head, whenever I’m on defense I curl up into a ball out of pure fear, and last game I fell into the flagpole.

MOM

I don’t know what you’re talking about. You have a gift, you were meant to play soccer. That flagpole incident was just a little slip up.

KID

No, mom, I fell into it on purpose. I thought maybe if I got hurt you wouldn’t make me play this stupid game anymore.

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MOM

Woah woah woah! Did I just hear you call the game of gods, stupid?!

KID

Mom— MOM

No no no, I get it. You don’t appreciate me or my values. Soccer runs in our blood; it’s your calling.

KID

No mom, it’s your calling. I want to play the piano, make music, jazz it up a little bit.

MOM

The piano is for losers, and no one likes jazz anymore, (to other driver) AND NO ONE LIKES SOMEONE WHO SITS ON THEIR GODDAMN HORN; JUST SHUT UP ALREADY!!!

KID

MOM! The piano is beautiful. It’s art. Whenever I hear it, my heart melts.

MOM

Oh my god… I’ve raised a wuss. My son is weak.

KID

Love you, too...

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Map Henry McCreery CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: ALEX BEHR

I have always been fascinated by maps. The ability to see everything in scale, to see it all with a god’s-eye view. A book is made infinitely better to me if it has a map, or something similar to show the location of things. I like games much more when you can go everywhere you can see, and plot these travels on a map.

I assume that much of this stems from the enormous world map in my room. I received it as a sort of consolation for having to leave our old house.

When we first viewed our new house, my room was painted orangish-pink, and, as I remember, it just had a huge pile of stuff taking up the entire back half of the room. On the bottom of the pile there was a large chair, and on the arm of that chair as a half-full glass of water. I was about to drink some, but my dad told me not to. I know that this was affected by the hyperbolization of childhood memory, and I have no idea where all of these details come from, but this is the way I remember it. It’s just how my mind works.

When we moved in, we painted the room light blue, put in the furniture, then went out, bought the map, and put it up. It now takes up the entire west wall of my room.

The map in question is five feet tall, seven feet wide, and incredibly detailed. The main body is a large world map, and the corners are filled with a temperature map, a humidity map, and maps of the north and south poles. As far as I know, the main map is a Winkel-Tripel projection, though it might also be a Robinson, as National Geographic adopted the Winkel-Tripel over the Robinson in 1998. In my room, whenever I am bored, 43

I just go look at my map for a while. Because of this, the colors of the different countries have affected my synesthesia. To me, Russia, Australia, and the U.K. will always be a dull russet-red color, and the U.S., Ireland, India, Germany, and Brazil are green. Poland and Saudi Arabia are a bright teal. France and Argentina are dark, almost purple blue. Mexico and China are a dull yellow, Canada and Spain a brownish-orange.

Due to this, I always associate tundra and snow-covered fields with the russet-red of Russia, and images of India with the color green. I associate crowded, densely populated cities with the color of China, and stinky cheeses and baguettes with blue. On the aforementioned map, I have added several madeup nations, all of which are now just sharpie outlines in the middle of the ocean. This map has inspired me in ways I cannot comprehend, and it continues to do that every day.

Whenever a member of my family goes out of the country, I track them on this map. When my dad went to Ethiopia for two weeks to visit our cousins, I followed him via the map. When he went to Japan on a teaching trip, I followed him. My cousins, who travel around the world with the Catholic Relief Services, have their own thumbtack. You can still see the marks it has left in Romania, Guatemala, Ethiopia, Baltimore, and now Nairobi, Kenya. They still have a house in Eugene that they visit every summer, leaving it rented out for the other three seasons. The map helps me visualize these places, and gives me a sense of scale, helping me comprehend the enormous distances between me and them.

When we went to Italy over the 2015-16 winter break, I plotted the trip out the moment we got back. Mapping trips is probably a coping mechanism, but by now it’s more habit than resource, seeing as I would be “coping� with the most interesting parts of my life to date.

On a related note, I involuntarily associate specific cities and places with colors, too. Most of this is from my experiences in

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or of viewing those cities or places, as the connections were strongest right after being in or seeing that place, but the map comes into account, too. New York City is the grey of concrete and steel, with a brick-red as well; Portland the greyish blue of a rain-laden thundercloud. Florence is the color of a candle flame at night. Eugene is green and yellow, the colors of oak leaves in the sun and the Ducks logo; San Francisco either orange, dark blue, or the yellow-tan of sandstone. Central Oregon is the orangish-brown of the dust there and the dark green of pine needles still on the trees.

Now, because synesthesia in some form only affects one in 300 people (according to the internet), when I say that I associate these places with these colors, it just means that when I think of these places, the color comes into my mind. It is never in the forefront of my mind, but will still be there, like when you are imagining something in your mind but can still see the real world. However unlike the real world, it will go away when I think about it. It also affects smells, tastes, even how things feel.

Any of these can be connected, not just colors and something else. I have no idea how much of an influence that this has had on me, but I am glad for it, even if it can be annoying.

Despite all of the effects that this map has had on me, the most profound has always been how I plan for the future. I can point to a place on the map and say “I’m going to go there!�

Often, when I was younger, I would simply find a place and imagine what it was like. I would plan out my trip, how long I would stay, which cities I would go to. The trips would be to the bazaars in the great, dusty Arab port city of Karachi, Pakistan; to the snow-covered temples on the summits of mountains of Mendoza, Argentina; to the ancient wise men near Kalgoorlie in the Australian boonies; the grey skies, green-topped cliffs, and castles of Wick in Scotland. Even though I knew that I would likely never be able to go to these places, it was a good way to escape the boredom generated by not having a good book.

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Looking back on it, I realize that I was trying to create stories out of places on the map. I knew that these places were probably nothing like the places that I had heard of in my books, but I wanted them to be that way, so they were.

I would design countries, too, if I couldn’t find a real place that was similar enough to what I wanted. If I was bored, I would draw the country on a separate piece of paper, then draw the country on the map in the right scale. I can’t find the original papers, but I can still see the sharpie outlines on the map. There’s a small Atlantic Ireland-esque nation halfway in between Newfoundland and France, and a small Pacific country the size of NYC in between Washington and Japan. There are undoubtedly others as well, but those marks have rubbed off by now, because even the magic of Sharpies cannot withstand the power of time.

This map is still in my room today. (Seeing as it is affixed to the wall with a satanically powerful glue, it would be less trouble to simply paint over it.) I hope to always have a large map of some sort in my room or house, preferably a copy of this one, though it is no longer in production, which saddens me. I would hate to see what havoc a map with a different color scheme could wreak on my brain. Even if I no longer pay the same level of attention to the map as I used to, I hope it will always remind me of everybody’s capacity for imagination (my own in particular) and to always plan for the future, even if it seems completely unachievable. If someone has a goal that they genuinely want to achieve, even if they cannot possibly achieve it, that person will be more motivated. This has definitely helped me in the past, and I hope it will continue to do so in the future. In the meantime, I’ll just keep on plotting.

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Those Shadows Poppie Veillet LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: AMY MINATO

You lie in bed, quiet music playing in your head.

Then tingles crawl up your spine, like spiders slinking up your back, tickling your neck. Goosebumps of dread.

Mind wanders far from simple melodies.

To the unseen eyes.

The shadows watch you.

They are seeping into you through your eyes, open or shut.

They attach themselves to your mind.

Twisted things appear broken and vengeful.

You’re the object they despise.

Alone, paralyzed.

Oh these shadows, they know how to tantalize.

Feeding the despair, you can’t help but stare into the darkness Waiting for them, for them to, for them to to to… Are they even there?

No, no! They can’t be. They can’t be.

You tell yourself to sleep.

You turn your back and close your eyes.

They slither, wading towards their prize.

Demons, only as real as you make them.

Ha, you have no idea.

Those shadows slide and haunt your brain til dawn.

No sleep tonight, just dread. Those shadows.

They wait to come again tomorrow Night When it’s dark.

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Up and Down Lev Eisenbach-Budner CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

“I’m up… and Grandpa’s down?” my little sister proudly stated.

Since my grandpa’s death a few weeks before, my sister’s little mind had been pondering what “passed on” meant, and this seems to be her conclusion, her answer.

“That’s true!” I said, “Grandpa is under the ground, and you, are above the ground.”

But I knew she meant more than just in the literal sense.

This was the simply explained version of her more complicated understanding of what “dead” means. All of us older kids and grownups were (and are) still trying to understand for ourselves what death really means. My sister just explained it to me, in its simplest form. We are up, and Grandpa is down.

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I Am...

Daniyil Kashkan FRANKLIN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: DAVID CIMINELLO

I am…

Let’s see…

The first month of the summer!

The warmest…

And coolest!

Month…

Of the year!

Yeah…

With outskirts of spring, Remaining here and there, I signal the beginning…

Of the best time of the year!

Out there…

People may ask – What’s so special about me?

Well… I simply say, When I arrive, I let happiness, just tag along…

With me…

And I want the happiness, to reach out to everyone else…

Because, What is better…

Than seeing a happy smile, On somebody’s face?

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So, am I joy?

Pfft, of course not!

I’m me.

I am Daniyil.

Kashkan.

Almost forgot that one X D

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Caution: Falling Rocks Alia Starman ROOSEVELT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: MATTHEW ROBINSON

Hugo really didn’t ask for a glowing space rock, but apparently fate decided to poop on his head like an angry seagull. If he had known that one meteor shower would take him down a path where he would be using wet wipes to shower, he would have left the glowing stone on the side of the road where he found it.

Just a week before, Hugo was flying down the rural highway, looking out for dead animals. Roadkill collector wasn’t a pretty job, but it paid something like fifteen bucks an hour and Hugo needed the money. Hugo could live at home; his Aunt Daisy had made it clear he was always welcome. Hugo loved her to death—she would always be his first real home. He still called her at least twice a week, so Daisy could tell him all about her week in the adoption center she works at. She would share a crazy story about the foster kids going in and out, but always tell him none of them snagged her heart to take them home like her sweet little Hugo had.

However, Hugo always had wanted to be able to support himself, to be free. Well, not quite free, his rent had taken quite the toll on his bank account this month. Hugo had began to shake in fear of his living expenses when a flaming streak of light flashed through his peripherals. He looked up just in time to see it rush down to the ground, stop, float a bit, then gently lower itself down the last couple feet.

Hugo slammed on the brakes, stopping a nice safe distance away from the meteor. When the smoking, mustardy yellowbrown rock didn’t make any threatening moves, Hugo pulled over and hopped out of the truck. Cautiously, he approached what he noticed now was a lemon yellow, roughly oval object 51

small enough to fit in one hand. He squatted down next to it and was about to reach out and touch it when it spoke.

“Hey man! Nice to meet you, I’m new around these parts actually, where the heck am I? Um, you okay dude? You look like you’ve seen an alien drop down in front of you, what’s the matter?”

Hugo pinched himself, hard. Did a talking rock just ask him if he was okay?

“Yep, I did. I also can read your thoughts, isn’t that just granite?” said the rock, turning bright green.

“Do you mean great?” Hugo said aloud.

“What? Did you say something? I don’t have ears you know, you’ll have to think it,” the stone replied. “I mean think it publicly, too, I don’t wanna be intrusive and learn all of your juicy secrets just yet.”

“Oh, thanks for that,” Hugo thought as publicly as he could. “I was hoping when strange talking rocks fell from the sky, they’ed at least be polite.”

“Yea, no problem dude. So… you’ve got like three more hours on your shift, do you mind taking me with you?”

“No problem, I’ll just wait. How did you know about my shift?”

“I may have been a little untruthful about not wanting to learn your secrets, but I won’t be a blabbermouth, I don’t even have a mouth to blab with!” the rock stammered, flushing bright pink.

“Fine, whatever, you probably already know my name but, hello, I’m Hugo, nice to meet you...”

“Ari. My earth name is actually a code number, but Ari is cool.”

“What do you mean ‘earth name’ you just dropped out of the sky!”

“That’s because I materialized there, you lump of andesite, now no more questions let’s get a move on!” Ari said, a grey tint washing over the pink.

Hugo knew Ari must be hiding something, but right now he really didn’t want any more weird things to think about. He decided to ask Ari later, picked him up, and got back into his

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roadkill truck. Hugo looked around one last time at the road until finally driving away. What he didn’t notice were the two sets of eyes, a new tracking device, and a pen furiously scribbling on a notepad. l Hugo had almost convinced himself that the last day and a half was a dream. Sunday morning went as per usual, his alarm going off at 1 pm, Hugo reaching out to hit the snooze button with a strange sense of déjà vu.

“Hey man, you up yet? Rocks don’t sleep, I’ve been sitting here all night plus half the day bored to tephrite,” the rock said.

“I’m pretty sure you mean tears, but I’ll take your word,” Hugo said, shutting off his alarm.

Ari had made himself at home, cozied up to his alarm clock on Hugo’s bedside table. As Hugo opened his eyes to look over at Ari, he caught sight of something circled on his calendar.

“Whoa dude, watch your blood pressure, you can probably get dizzy from getting up so fast.”

“Well, I am so late, I cannot believe I forgot about this,” Hugo said as he rushed about the room in a mad panic. “It’s once a month too, I’m such a bad adoptive son.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“I’m supposed to be going to see my auntie today,” came a muffled reply from the inside of a hoodie, “and I’m almost an hour late leaving! This is all your fault by the way.”

“No way, how is that fair at all!” Ari argued as Hugo brushed his teeth at lightning speed.

Somehow, both the boy and rock got out the door by 1:47, and were standing on Aunt Daisy’s doorstep at 2:26. Hugo allowed Ari to ring the doorbell before putting him deep into his hoodie pocket.

“Hugo!, honey bunches, how glad I am to see you. I can’t believe it’s been a month since I saw you last,” Aunt Daisy exclaimed.

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As she welcomed Hugo inside, he immediately noticed something amiss. His school pictures that hung along the hallway were crooked and one, his third-grade year, was upside down. He looked back to Daisy for an explanation, but she had already made it to the kitchen. He followed uneasily, and sat down at the kitchen table.

Ari didn’t see what Hugo was so worried about. They were now sitting in Daisy’s kitchen, having a lovely chat about the cutest little girl she had ever seen. Ari had learned enough to understand the situation from Hugo’s mind, and thought that the stress from being late would have melted away by now, but it only seemed to get worse.

“Maybe you should stay here a night, hon, so you don’t have to drive back when it gets dark,” Daisy was saying.

“No, no its totally okay, I really need to get back to my place and all—” Hugo worriedly said, nervously sipping at the plastic Power Rangers cup she had given him.

“Nonsense, nonsense, you will be just fine here, hon, just stay in your old room. There are people who would like to see you--I mean I would love to see you longer.”

“What the heck is going on here? Is your aunt usually like this?” Ari asked.

“No!” Hugo thought back, “She’s acting strange; we need to get out of here.” But, they didn’t have much choice. Hugo stood up and was intercepted by Daisy, who clamped onto his arm with inhuman strength and un-motherly force.

“Hey, Auntie. HEY! What are you doing!!” Hugo protested.

Daisy dragged Hugo, and with him Ari, into the first room, turned to leave, and quickly shut the door behind her.

“That was odd; she’s acting quite strange,” Ari thought, before he realized that Hugo had gone completely still. He took a quick peek into Hugo’s brain and froze too.

“Hello, Hugo Gardener, welcome Lab Space Matter Specimen 002ARI, we have been waiting,” said a scarily skinny man in a oversized lab coat.

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Ari recognized him immediately. His face was used for scowling, his nose for sniffing in disdain and his eyes glared as if a dog had just peed on his shoe: Dr. Ernie Couch, rhymes with pooch. However, he was not the one that made Ari shiver in fear.

Hugo was looking straight at the woman at the doctor’s side.

Too late, Ari realized what was happening. Her eyes glared right into Hugo’s like laser pointers, and suddenly all the worry and fear in Hugo’s mind washed away. On a last hope, Ari reached out and hung onto the last bit of negative emotion in Hugo’s mind. (Seagulls, really? They are that spooky?)

“Buddy? Can you hear me?”

“Sshhhh Ari, be quiet, it’s really nice now. I think I should just go to sleep..” Hugo said, of course very sleepily.

“NO, NO, NO dude, you really need to snap out of it!, She’s gonna mind control you, man, come back to me, dude! She’s gonna say it’s all cool and dandy without fear but you really need to be afraid of her!”

“Oh, I don’t control minds, hon, I simply suggest what they should do, and promise their hearts desire. You, of all beings, should know this very well,” she said. ”If you ever want to get your pet back you better cooperate. You know what we want.”

If Ari had a spine, he was sure that all the shivers down it would have shattered it long ago. He knew this voice, and he knew how she controlled people. He also knew he was in deep, deep doodoo. “You shut your mouth and get your stinky butt outta my main man’s mind.”

“Oh, you know it doesn’t work that way. But, since you do seem to care about him a whole lot, I will take an even exchange.”

“Hey, Hugo, it would be really nice if you could WAKE UP.” “Hey,” he said, a little less sleepily. “Give me a break, I was just manhandled by my auntie. She has some major muscle.”

“That’s true, you’re gonna have some bruises.”

“Wait, Ari, can she hear us?“ “Umm, I don’t think so, why?”

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“Do you think you can make me teleport with you outta here, like you appeared when we met?”

“Maybe. But dude, it might kill you! Humans are much harder to put back together than space rocks. You’ll have to put 100% of your trust in me.”

“Just do it, Ari. I trust you, okay? Get her out of my mind!”

“Oh boy, I’m really not looking forward to this but if you wish...”

Dr. Couch and the woman suddenly noticed something in the boy’s hoodie pocket. Glowing, then his form fading. It was their turn to realize too late what was happening. l POP! Then they were falling. Not too far, only a foot or two off the ground, but Hugo felt another bruise already forming on his tailbone.

“Hey dude, you good?”

“Well, in a span of forty-eight hours, I adopted a space rock, my aunt got possessed, and then I just had my mind almost possessed by a weasel man and a scary lady. How am I supposed to feel?”

“No, I mean, well yeah that’s pretty sucktastic, but I was wondering if you and your atoms are ok.”

Hugo looked down and counted his limbs. All four, excluding his head, because since he was still alive, he thought it was safe to assume still had that.

“I seem fine.” Ari was quiet.

“Well, um, anyway, where are we?”

“I dunno, I don’t have eyes.”

“Oh shut up.” Hugo looked around the landscape. Then did a double take. Then a triple take. “Tell me if I’m wrong, but are we in a field of lawn ornaments?” It stretched out for miles and miles, just piles of gnomes, pinwheels, pink plastic flamingoes, and those half-buried hippo things.

“I guess that’s what you would call them, yeah, this is my linking place.”

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“This is weird, Ari. Why are we here?”

“Since teleportation takes a little bit because you’re so heavy.

Think of it as a loading screen.” l Dr. Couch paced across the lab floor, every so often looking up at a large screen of a map.

“You know,” the woman drawled, “I think my offer was completely valid.”

“Oh, shut up,” the doctor said. “I of course knew that that little piece of space scum would never give up his heart. He killed the boy by teleporting; no regular human can survive that. Hearts are so precious to those stupid aliens they never let them go. You, of course, wouldn’t understand; you’re one of ‘em,” he continued, his tone accusing.

“But, Doctor, what if they were partners?” she protested.

“Then they could teleport and—” “Enough of that. You know that couldn’t happen, a real partnership hasn’t happened in years. Let’s just wait and see where that little bugger ends up.” l Hugo felt like he had been walking for hours. Ever since they arrived, Ari had been quieter, more reserved. He had said that he wanted to show Hugo something, but wouldn’t tell him what.

It made Hugo nervous, worried even, at what had shaken him so bad. Her words to Ari kept echoing through Hugo’s mind: You know what we want. An even exchange.

“You’re thinking about what she said to me, huh,” Ari finally spoke.

“Yes, it’s pretty ominous; what do they want? What exchange?”

Hugo asked, not even questioning how Ari knew. He guessed they had just bonded.

“It’s about my heart,” Ari said. “That’s what I wanted to show you. I owe you an explanation.”

Suddenly, Hugo found himself at the entrance of a shed. It

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wasn’t the most impressive building he had seen, but it felt like home, reminding him of Daisy’s hugs and his favorite books.

“Go on, dude, you’re making me nervous. I mean if you don’t want to you don’t have to, it’s okay if you don’t wanna go—” Hugo pushed open the door, cutting Ari off mid-ramble. In the center of the small room stood a stone birdbath, complete with the chiseled ivy creeping up the base. A cloud of mist swirled within the birdbath instead of water, concealing whatever it contained. “So your heart is in the birdbath?”

“Yes,” Ari said, suddenly deadly calm. “But it’ll be easier to explain if I just show you.”

The mist in the bath started to swirl and rise. Hugo gasped as images poured into his mind.

Ari was falling, landing on earth, but this time it wasn’t Hugo who found him. He saw bleached white walls of a laboratory, the snarling face of a familiar doctor. Ari was weak, his form was, after all, a rock. He saw another like him be brought in, a perfect distraction. She could speak, and quickly grasped the situation. The doctor paid little attention to him, and when he was left unchecked on the doctor’s new assistant’s orders, he escaped. He felt sorry, terribly sorry for leaving her there, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Ari was falling again, but this time, Hugo recognized his own face smile down at him, his hand stretched out to pick Ari up. As his hand reached out, the mist evaporated and Hugo was jolted back to reality. A fuzzy object lay in the center of the birdbath. Hugo rubbed his eyes.

“Your heart is a harmonica?”

“Yes, what about it? Have you got a problem with that?” Ari said, defending the instrument in the birdbath.

“No, no, it’s just, what happens if I play it?”

“You’ll probably get a share of my powers. You can teleport with it.”

“Really!” Hugo said, but caught himself. “But what happens to you if I take it?”

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“Nothing, unless it gets stolen. That’s why I kept it locked up here. But Hugo, I want you to take it. If we ever get separated I want you to be able to fend for yourself.”

“I’m not really fending for myself if it’s your power though.”

Hugo said.

“Don’t make me regret my decision, just pick it up and let’s go, loading is almost done.”

“Okay, okay, jeez, no need to rush me,” Hugo said. As his fingers closed around the harmonica, it felt as if he had opened an oven. Hot air warmed his face and ruffled his hair as he walked out of the shed, began to glow, then disappeared with a quiet pop. l Hugo reappeared on the roof of his apartment building. The problem was someone was waiting for them.

“So you’ve arrived at last,” said Dr. Couch, “We’ve been waiting.”

“That’s the most cliche thing I’ve ever heard,” Hugo said, sitting down on the pavement. “Let me guess, you have come to recapture Ari, but you want to strike a deal with me to give him up.”

“How did he know?” she said. “You said your plan was ingenious and original.”

“Oh be quiet, he doesn’t even know our real plan,” Dr. Couch said.

“The one where we trick him into teleporting into your trap?”

“Be quiet! You just gave us away!” he wailed.

Hugo wasn’t listening; he had caught sight of something over the doctor’s shoulder. There was a bang of a frying pan and the doctor crumpled, revealing none other than Aunt Daisy brandishing her weapon.

“Auntie!”

“Hugo, darling, are you alright? I came as fast as I could; some agency men came as soon as you disappeared, they explained you had found something important and you were in danger,” she said, crushing him in a hug.

“Let him breathe,” said a voice behind her. “You must be Hugo.”

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“And you must be Ari,” a different voice said, this time in their minds. The first voice belonged man in a green adidas tracksuit. The second one belonged to a squat black dog in a matching outfit. “We are from the United States branch of the alien conservation society. We invite you to join us!”

A little while later, when they had all settled into Hugo’s apartment, the man, who introduced himself as Tony, started to explain his work.

“I travel all over the country with Bill here,” he patted the alien in a Scottish Terrier form beside him. “We get sent out to recruit people before they get into too much trouble.”

“If you would like, you can join us and travel around, doing odd jobs.” Bill said. “It pays better than your crappy day job for sure, although I can’t promise you won’t get dirty.” l Two weeks later, Hugo was back visiting Daisy. He had gotten back from his first mission, alongside Tony and Bill. He felt almost back to normal, the pictures in the hall were fixed, and his bruises had faded. Hugo had promised to tell Daisy all the juicy details about his trip, from the people to the lack of plumbing.

“I can’t believe that there was no running water,” Daisy was saying. “You’ll have to pack some wet wipes next time around.

Next time you see him, tell Tony hello for me, and give his adorable little dog a pat too. Although you are so out and about, I’m glad for your new job; my little baby is all grown up.”

“Oh, Auntie, I’ll be sure to still come and visit.” Hugo promised.

“That would be granite,” she said, winking.

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I’m Thinking of My Life Jeremy Faulhaber CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

I’m thinking of Portland, but not for long I’m thinking of a number, 2 I’m thinking of 35 turtles melting in the sun I’m thinking of a hot disgusting mess of a place I’m thinking of a place no child should have to live in I’m thinking of 2 little cars that could, fleeing that warm wet hell I’m thinking of a crayon disaster I’m thinking of a would-be truck, all shiny, blue, and efficient I’m thinking of a welcoming nip of cold winter air I’m thinking of a two psycho dogs few could tame I’m thinking of a house, or a mobile home, or both I’m thinking of a house, the big house I’m thinking of a sport, then an e-sport I’m thinking of a system, the best system I’m thinking of a school, then another, then another, and another, and another I’m thinking of an old friend you’ll never truly leave behind I’m thinking of being forced into a cult, no matter what others say I’m thinking of a friend, never again I’m thinking of a fresh start, back to the roots I’m thinking of going all out on what you love, who needs money anyway I’m thinking of blissful ignorance keeping you on the path I’m thinking of laziness, as usual I’m thinking of busy work that doesn’t matter if you ace all the tests I’m thinking of dancing around a sleeping bear and escaping the cave unharmed 61

I’m thinking of a baby being thrown into a pit and bouncing back out a man I’m thinking of an 80s drug PSA I’m thinking of an author who ran out of metaphors I’m thinking of clarity and understanding, plus a shorter walk I’m thinking of acceptance and wonder toward the future I’m thinking of keeping friends and leaving some behind I’m thinking of “harder classes” and “stricter teachers” if you came from 5th grade I’m thinking of a group, the group, led by one and involving everyone I’m thinking of a little cafe I’m thinking of a girl I’m thinking of zoo lights, definitely not a first date set up by friends I’m thinking of awkward starts, a loving middle, and a teary end I’m thinking of a mother’s day I’m thinking of working, but never too much, and sometimes not enough I’m thinking of another year, no surprises or tricks I’m thinking of the first year of the same old life I’m thinking of progress and maturing I’m thinking of a number, 16 I’m thinking of a snowy white figure who comes to steal you away I’m thinking of another to open up to I’m thinking of a number just received I’m thinking of chemistry I’m thinking of an assignment about thinking about my life I’m thinking of a never-ending loop of that last line

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Go To Your Room Bella Johnson LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: BRIAN KETTLER

The scene opens with Maddie Mae (eight years old) and her father having breakfast. It is a stereotypical morning.

FATHER

(humming to himself while he makes elaborate breakfast) MADDIE MAE

(curls tightly with dirty stuffed bunny) FATHER

Good morning, sunshine.

MADDIE MAE

Morning, Father.

FATHER

(scowls and gets slightly aggressive) Maddie, you know I do not like being addressed as Father.

MADDIE MAE

(ducks her head) I am sorry, Daddy.

FATHER

Let’s go get some breakfast. You hungry, sugar?

MADDIE MAE

Sure, Daddy. (both walk toward the feast Father has prepared) MADDIE MAE

How are we gonna eat all this food, Daddy?

FATHER

Just eat as much as you can, sugar.

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MADDIE MAE

Is there anyone joining us, Daddy?

FATHER

(tightens hand around fork) No, sweetie, no one will visit us. Now, please eat. (beat) I got these eggs this morning, aren’t they delicious?

MADDIE MAE

Yes, Daddy.

FATHER

Sugar plum, you haven’t eaten any of your breakfast— you know how I hate wasted food.

MADDIE MAE

(winces at the memory of what happens when her father gets angry) I’m sorry, Daddy, please forgive me.

FATHER

It is okay, my child, please finish. I would like to do the dishes before it is time for your nap.

MADDIE MAE

I just got up, Daddy, can’t I go outside?

FATHER

Child, you do as I say and I think it is time for a nap. And will you stop pestering me. (long, uncomfortable pause) MADDIE MAE

Daddy, why do I not look like you?

FATHER

(pauses mid-bite and slowly puts down his fork) I don’t know, honey.

MADDIE MAE

Where are the people in the pictures? Why don’t I have a 64

mommy? Why do they look different? Why don’t you talk about the people in the pictures?

FATHER

(with clenched fists and white knuckles) Maddie, finish your breakfast.

MADDIE MAE

Daddy, why don’t you ever answer my questions? Where is Mommy and the boy in the picture? Why can I never go outside?

I am a big girl now; I lost teeths!

FATHER

(rises with anger and slaps Maddie Mae) I TOLD YOU TO FINISH YOUR BREAKFAST. (Maddie whimpers) Now please finish your breakfast and go to your room.

MADDIE MAE

Yes, Father. (walks toward a dark room with many locks) FATHER

I hate when you do not listen, Maddie. You understand why I had to punish you?

MADDIE MAE

Yes, Father. (locks the multiple locks on the room without windows) FATHER

Now when I come back I expect my obedient child, and it is time to do your hair again.

MADDIE MAE

Yes, Father. (pulls at her dyed blonde hair) FATHER

Are you excited for a pretty red color this time, baby girl?

MADDIE MAE

Yes, Father.

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I Remember Roxanne Talbott-Bigham CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

I remember that terrifying and painful moment at my mom and dad’s when I dislocated my shoulder.

I remember the way my first gingerbread looked, all depressing and small. Then it fell over and surrendered itself to the force of gravity.

I remember the first day of middle school, riding the school bus and being told to “avoid that creepy Jesus dude who gives you random cards.”

I remember that sad, funeral-like feeling that you only get on the last day of summer and the first day of school. When you convince yourself that you will surely die in the coming year and question all of your goals in life.

I remember the amazing feeling that you get when you wake up to go to school and realize it’s a Saturday and you can fall back into your hibernation sleep.

I remember getting constantly annoyed at myself for having bad handwriting and not being able to read what I just wrote five minutes later.

I remember the day my whole family realized that my baby cousin had learned to point with her middle finger and was constantly flipping us off when she asked for things.

I remember the time I lost my tooth in a Universal Studios elevator in California and spending ten minutes looking for a bathroom to rinse out my aching, bloody mouth.

I remember the first time I tried coffee, sitting there all jittery and wondering if I should clean my entire house or run around the block a couple of times.

I remember the time I discovered K-Pop and sat at my 66

computer continuously watching videos for five hours straight.

And skipped dinner. Ahh, the life of a fangirl.

I remember the so-happy-I could-die feeling when I got my first pair of squeaky light-up shoes in preschool and wore them every day for a year.

I remember the first time I sprained my ankle and that searing pain that you get when you think your ankle is broken but it’s not. After that day, for about a month, I kept repeatedly spraining my ankles.

I remember the exciting thrill of shooting a BB shotgun at summer camp and being obsessed with BB guns ever since.

I remember the day I discovered YouTube and thought it was the greatest invention in the world, besides the Internet itself.

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Stand Vivian Hoang LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: LISA EISENBERG

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Sisters Katy Brown CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: ALEX BEHR

The crisp September morning air came swirling into the front hall as the door, with its cracked, peeling yellow and red paint, opened.

Tiny Kindergarten me stood there, watching wide-eyed as her two sisters descended the old, creaky stairs to where the neighbor’s kids stood waiting, bundled up against the cold, backpacks full of now school supplies, and mixed expressions of anticipation and boredom. The two Brown girls turned and waved to their mom as she waved back, then the four kids began the walk to Winterhaven School. Kindergarten me waved too, although she didn’t know if her two older sisters noticed, and after her mom closed the door, she pressed her small nose to the cold glass, and watched until she could no longer see the shapes of the students walking to school.

As a five-year-old, and a to-be kindergartener, I looked up to my sisters more than anyone. To me, they were heroes. To me, they were perfect. My idea that they were heroes stemmed from, and was strengthened by, all the times I would be alone at recess and one of them would find and help me. I truly believed, with all my young heart, that I would grow up to be just like them.

Now, I know that to say that I had to be just like them was more accurate. The best me that I could be would come from striving to be like them and holding onto my belief that I would be just like them. However, like my eighth grade language arts teacher once said, “In the middle of belief, there is always a lie.”

On the first day of first grade, I walked to school with my sisters for the first of many times. Being the youngest and shortest of our group, I had trouble keeping up. I knew they would be annoyed if I fell behind and they had to wait for me, 70

so from the first month or so of that year, I walked as fast as my little legs could carry me, sometimes running to catch up if necessary. As I grew and trained myself to become a faster walker, it became easier to walk at their pace. Even so, in many ways, I was always trying to change something to please them, until I learned that I wouldn’t be just like them.

There are many factors that contribute to who we are, and what we become: The places we’ve been and the places we’ve lived, the people we’ve known and the people we’ve loved, our experiences, both the good and the bad. In some ways, we become like those around us through shared experiences.

In many ways, I am very similar to my sisters: our political views, our eye color, our height, our love of cats, our perfectionism. However, at the same time, I am very different from my sisters; my hair color and style, my preferred fashion, my music taste, my love of make-up. Even though these things set us apart, I still felt that I had to be an exact copy of them.

This made it a little difficult when I got into eighth grade.

At that point, my eldest sister was a sophomore in college and our middle sister was a junior in high school. My eldest sister had passed high school with straight As, and it looked like my sister would much the same. I knew my parents would expect that from me, so I did my very best, and got a B in Spanish.

To my parents, this was a horrible thing, but to me it didn’t feel like that big of a deal. In fact, nothing ever really had. Six years before, my sister was in fifth grade and everything seemed like such a huge deal, she had so much to do, and any test she had outweighed the importance of any of my tests.

When I reached those big important fifth grade tests, they were less substantial than my sisters eighth grade tests. In that way I think my brain was subtly programmed to believe that no test of mine would ever be as important as hers.

So when eighth grade came around, I couldn’t fully understand that my tests were important, too, and even though I thought I

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had done my best. Maybe I was held back by that idea.

When my eldest sister left for college, there was a noticeable power change. I went from listening to what my eldest sister said and being indifferent to what my other sister told me, to having to listen to every word she said. It took me a while to adjust, and during that period of time, we bickered, argued, fought, and yelled. Because our eldest sister still comes home quite a bit, I feel like I am still adjusting. My middle sister and I still fight but less often. It’s because of three factors: her stress level, my stubbornness, and our fundamental differences.

Being a senior and a full IB student, my sister has a lot of homework, college applications, and an extended essay to finish.

So I understand where her stress comes from. As for who she takes it out on? Being the only person she feels that she can safely blow up at, that spot goes to me. However because of my stubbornness, I feel compelled to blow up right back at her. This turns our small disagreements into huge fights that last for hours or even days, and will sometimes end in tears and stress-baking. Unfortunately, our differences cause us to get into quite a few arguments. In some ways, this year I’ve become her emotional punching bag; having to let myself take everything from her, and not retaliate.

I think it’s important for not only my parents to realize that I’m neither of my sisters, but for me to realize it too. I needed to understand that I can’t be anyone but me, and sometimes trying to be my sisters won’t make me better, it will just set myself a goal I can’t reach. To truly become everything I can, I need to know where my limits are, and I need to do my best to become as close to them as possible.

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Mount Hood Tony Young LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: AMY MINATO

inspired by Portland Art Museum’s Albert Bierstadt photo Hills of green I sat on top of the tallest one Gazing outward Looking along this large landscape, so wide and expansive.

Jade green trees stand as guardians Protecting the mountain, Guarding the treacherous water bridge.

They looked fierce.

Immovable, Unshakable, Deeply rooted, Unbreakable.

They may have been Standing like Swiss Guards at Buckingham Palace.

No expression or emotion.

You didn’t want to mess with them.

What were they protecting again?

I looked deeper, and saw A great white castle The tower reflecting sunlight.

What was at the top?

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What was inside?

Treasure?

A princess?

Never trespass.

I could only guess.

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Out the Window Willa Bixby CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: ALEX BEHR

I sat perched up in my bed, with my earbuds in, listening to Dora the Explorer on full volume, trying to drain out the sounds of my sister Laine’s frustration that she was not given goldfish to accompany the apple and whole wheat avocado toast in her lunch. After about twenty minutes of unreasonable nonsense, she became outraged, and came running up to my room. Laine informed me that she was sick of the unfair treatment, and she wanted to make a point to our parents, Janet and Martha. She told me to collect all the blankets and sheets from her bed and mine and align them on my bedroom floor. I knew it was an unsafe idea, probably gotten off of one of those Zack and Cody episodes on Disney Channel.

I glanced to my right at the old grandfather clock in the corner, it read 2:06 p.m. I said to her, “I do not want to have anything to do with it,” and she responded, “You have a weak adolescent mind, unable to react and respond to such a dire situation, and my advanced eight-year-old mind has much better common sense than a little five year old.” I hesitated for a second, pulling a blonde hair even straighter before deciding to give in with the exception if we were caught that I was not involved in the planning at all so not to be blamed.

I peered out at the hard concrete driveway below my window, and I clenched my pink, itchy sweater. I remembered all the other things my sister had me do with her, but no matter what I was feeling, I wanted to prove to my sister that I was trustworthy and therefore cool enough to hang out with her and her friends. So I shoved down those feelings telling me what a barbaric plan it was.

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The plan was simple: we would tie a series of sheets together and tie them to the end of my bed, the one farthest from the window because, obviously that was the sturdiest place. After some serious planning, we had come to the conclusion that we needed a diversion, so we could bring down the blinds in the kitchen. I of course had to be the one to distract my parents, because I was not the one who was just fighting with them over goldfish. Luckily they were already out of the kitchen; they were playing Scrabble in the living room. They asked me what I was up to, and I responded with “I’m just fetching some yogurt.” I entered my room, where my sister was busy at work tying the sheets together. The sheets were set up, so there was about a three foot period where you just had tot hold on and shimmy down until you reached the next knot.

We finally finished setting everything up. Laine mentioned that I would be the first one to go. I felt like a test dummy, one that she could push around, but again I wanted to demonstrate to her that I was worthy of playing with her, not fetching snacks while she and friend Hannah played Just Dance. I gulped down one more spoonful of key lime pie yogurt before I rested my arm along the soft sheets from the bed to the edge of the window frame. The sky was blue it, never seemed close, and the ground had never seemed so far away. I saw the trash bins below and figured they would not be of any use If I were to slip. I heard my sister’s voice behind me informing me I was too slow. So I grabbed the cloth and took one last look at the computer, still playing Dora on full volume, and my beta Jeremy, swimming around in its jar on my dresser.

The first knot was two feet below me and I backed out of the window, clenching my finger to the inside of the window froame. One at a time, I put my feet down. Half of my weight, I was holding on the window until I finally transferred it to my feet. Slowly, I inched my way down; luckily I was strong and full of calluses from playing on the playground bars for hours in my

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pink cowboy boots. I finally reached the ground, and instantly felt very guilty.

I saw my sister point her purple nail polish feet, step gently out the window frame and hesitate until she finally turned around. I wanted to tell her to stop, but I did not want to blow our cover. She propped her left foot on the knot below her and with her small hands, she grasped the yellow sheets. And little by little, she inched her way out. When she reached the bottom, she seemed to be very satisfied with herself. I thought to myself, What drives her, to have us do such a thing when we were not even going to run away after? I shoved my thoughts away.

I do not have any memory of my parents finding us, and their faces peering up at the sheets laying out the window, although I can only imagine what was going through their heads. But, I do remember being accused for lying to Janet and Martha. I felt frustrated and betrayed for such a preposterous claim. I glanced up at my sister, as if to say; remember I had nothing to do with it, but she blatantly ignored me.

We were both grounded for three days, and I was not allowed to listen to Dora the Explorer for a week, which, now, looking back, I do not understand why they did not take it away for longer. What a repetitive irritating song; it could drive anyone insane.

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The Runner and the Tiger Carson Cohn LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: AMY MINATO

from Mary Oliver poem prompt “Be the tiger running through the woods,” the voice said inside my head From a silent standstill to an exploding force in seconds Everything working together All the muscles contracting, extending, reaching...

I could feel all my arms, legs and gut working hard “Feel the adrenaline start to kick in,” the voice said inside my head I could feel a ton of power coming from within me.

My form was great I focused on keeping my body in as smooth of a glide as possible All for the win I was out of control with my power and in control of my emotion.

Calm yourself, “Be the tiger,” the voice said inside my head I was running out of oxygen, my legs near spasm I didn’t have any energy left, yet I was the tiger The tiger in me came striking out of nowhere Ready to compete and do anything to accomplish my goal The tiger would claim my prize

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My Hands Moira Burkhart CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

I lay my hand flat on my desk. The first thing I see is the fading ink from the other day where my best friend doodled, her pen tickling my rough knuckles as the swirls sunk into my patterned skin. On my thumb is a scratch I don’t remember getting, scabbed over but still red from my unknown trauma.

My nails are dirty and naked, except for the little bits of color from the acrylic paints I used this morning.

I flip over my hand to look at my palm and am reminded of my past summers. I trace the worn lines in my hand like a palm reader would. Using my finger I trace my lifeline, going along until it suddenly breaks, restarting in the center of my palm, along with the few other lines of skin being stitched together.

The memory of falling on my bike in 7th grade still relatively fresh in my mind. I landed in the gravel, my hand bleeding and dusty, my already bruised knees, bloodied and scraped. A piece of skin hung off my hand as I walked my bike home six more blocks. When I arrived at my front door and saw my mom, I broke out into tears.

The next thing I remember is the sizzling pain of peroxide being poured on my gravel filled wounds and the reassurance that it wouldn’t leave a scar.

I look up to my pointer finger, a small red mark sits just above where my palm splits into a finger. It is small but reminds me of homemade pizzas and the naive ten-year-old that thought it was a good idea to touch a hot grill.

I flip over my hand again and observe the writing callus that has formed on my ring finger from years of writing and drawing.

I lift my hand up slightly just to see how much I will shake. I 79

do this often, measuring my tremor, noticing the progression of an inability to keep them still. I remember how I will probably never be able to draw a straight line without a ruler and how I will never win at Jenga.

I look at my hands and wonder how they will age, my skin becoming wrinkled and devoid of color. I think of how everything I do is because of them, how everything I’ve ever done has been a product of my hands. So now I wonder how many stories I have written, pictures I have drawn, photos I’ve taken. Every moment of my life recorded by my two hands.

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Valedictorian Abby Carton LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: LISA EISENBERG

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25 Things About Me Henry Slatore CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

1. I was born in Seattle and lived there for eight years.

2. I went to four different elementary schools.

3. I have greyish blue eyes.

4. I have very blonde hair and pale skin. I am not albino, but people have thought I was all throughout my life.

5. I am average height, but shorter than all of my friends so I feel short.

6. I have been on a swim team for eight years, but I don’t really like it anymore.

7. I do speech and debate. I’m not very good at it, but I enjoy it anyway.

8. I used to really like math and science but now they’re my least favorite classes.

9. I never really liked dogs until we got one and now I love dogs.

10. When we first moved to Portland we bought these two little frogs that were only supposed to live for a few months but they ended up living for three years, even though we always forgot to feed them.

11. I went to Paris when I was two but I don’t remember any of it.

12. When I was younger I really liked cooking and wanted to be a chef.

13. I was absolutely obsessed with Star Wars from ages three to eight.

14. I have lived in five different houses.

15. When I was in first grade my friend and I got in a fight over the right answer to a math problem and he broke my nose.

16. I’ve never broken a bone except for my nose, which I’ve broken two times.

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17. In pre-school some kid sprayed bleach in my face.

18. For a brief time when I was little, Bee Movie was my favorite movie.

19. I have broken three windows on three different occasions, all on purpose.

20. When I was four I saw raccoons in my backyard and was so scared that I didn’t go back there for almost two years.

21. I am extremely afraid of birds.

22. I played the drums for four years, but my parents made me stop because I never practiced.

23. I took the same Spanish class four different times over the course of nine years.

24. I used to love reading so much that when I misbehaved my parents would take away books from me.

25. When I was in elementary school, all I ever wanted was a videogame system but I never got it.

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The only one, the only survivor Austin Vanderwal FRANKLIN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: LESLEE CHAN

I am the only One, the only Survivor, of the Massacre, of my Burning village, the buildings I grew up in burn like the altar of Solomon. the fires, Laughing at me taunting me, “you can’t save them” I hear them say, While they consume their food, the food that used to be my home, the food that used to be My family, a stench so bad that even an animal that’s noseblind, could smell it, And knows to run away, the smell of flesh and bones, of wood and blood But most of all, I smell death and destruction of my Village. As I watch the flames consume my village, I cry, for I am unable to put out the orange hue by Myself, for I am only Nine years old. I am Unable to put out the flames For there is no one around To help me, except the burning Bodies of my entire village My entire family, gone. As I cry, I fall to my knees, hands on the ground, I Cry, saying to myself “no, no, this can’t be Happening, this just CAN’T BE HAPPENING!!!” As I Cried this to the world,

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The sky wept with me And made the laughing flames That are consuming the buildings Of my village, my family, scream With pain, as they are dying out. Raining though it is, I stay where I am. As the buildings on fire Are put out, I look up To see the buildings, to see the damage. I see the buildings Burnt to the ground Piles of ash and charcoal are Left of the buildings. I get up Shed a few more tears and wipe Them off with my arm. Grab a Shovel, and dig holes for graves for my family. Once finished, I only recognized who’s who By the weapons they bear on their backs. I tried to save them, but my father pushed me out Of the way of a burning support beam Before the beam collapsed. I place all the bodies into the graves and cover the bodies with dirt And use the two swords each body carried, with some vines to make tombstones for all the graves, and I say “this is where the bodies of the village of elders lay for eternity, may they rest in Peace,” Before all of this happened, I was a happy jolly soul, now my soul burns with Malice, hatred, for the person who started this. I cry, and say to the one who started this “you will pay for this BROTHER! WITH, YOUR, LIFE!!!” and I depart to chase the monster, that is my Brother, to kill him, and make him pay for what he did here today. I already see his slain body

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With the weapon that killed him, in my hands, blood everywhere, I look over his body, with an evil grin on my face. And I’m the good one of us two.

I am the only one, The only survivor, of this massacre But I do not Truly survive, this massacre-

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Under the Elms Flora Wells CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: ALEX BEHR

When I left my dance studio, darkness had already fallen, but that didn’t stop my father and me from shortcutting through the rose gardens. I live near Clinton Street, but for my whole life I have walked through Ladd’s Addition, either to go to elementary school in the morning or heading to ballet classes at night.

My dad loves to take long walks, and Portland is the perfect place to explore, so I have many memories of walking to the waterfront and back. My memories date back to before elementary school, lots of ones being zipped into the waterproof stroller and bumping along the sidewalks in the rain with my whole family.

These days though, I rarely walk for fun. My trips by foot are mainly back and forth from my studio, CMA, where I dance eleven hours a week.

As I passed my third grade teacher’s house, I remembered walking with my friends from Abernethy to dance only two days a week. Violet was always a class ahead of me in ballet even though she is in the same grade as me. I was in awe of how graceful she was, and the moves she was comfortable with that I hadn’t even started to learn. Ellen was a grade younger than me, but she has been in my dance class for at least six years.

Now that I have finished my last ballet five class, I will no longer see her almost every day of the year. Starting the next day, I would be joining Violet in Intermediate class. Ellen has been like a sister to me, and I remember how weird it felt to no longer walk with her to dance when I started at MLC for middle school.

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Abi, the last girl in our group of dancers, was in my class at Abernethy, but she was one level behind me at dance. As a young girl, it was always confusing to me that your age didn’t determine how good you are at dance.

Now that I have learned that everyone learns at their own pace, I’m very grateful that I wasn’t forced into a class that was too hard for me. These girls walked with me after school for three years, and I treasure the silly conversations that I remember from those walks. Now all three of them dance with me in our teen company, and I get to be with them once again as we perform and rehearse the choreography for our many dances.

My father’s flashlight showed us the first rose garden that we would see on our fifteen minute walk, and I peered down the triangular shaped blocks to the looming elm trees that are slowly being taken down one by one. When I was in maybe second grade, the first tree died because of the quick spreading Dutch elm disease. Since then a whole sidewalk strip of trees have died, and many more are in danger. I miss the giant leaves waving above the playground at recess, and the death of these trees are almost like deaths of the memories that I am slowly forgetting of elementary school.

I do feel like I am a different person than the Flora that was learning the alphabet almost ten years ago, but it still feels like yesterday when I first met my preschool teacher. I still treasure a memory of the Ladd’s garden of a walk with my family that is from very early preschool or maybe before. I was still in the blue stroller that broke down not long after Erskine’s second birthday, and my brother and I were being pushed along the rain-dappled sidewalks in early spring. It was still dewy from the recent storm, and the drops falling from the trees rested on my eyelashes. We reached the Ladd’s circle with the curved and short rhododendron bushes where I would later play hide and seek with my brother when the puddles that saturated the lawn dried up.

All of a sudden my mother excitedly pointed up to the sky;

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“Look, it’s a double rainbow! Oh wait…I think it’s a triple!

It is!”

Sure enough, three distinct arches encircled the island that was surrounded by asphalt, and farther back, the elms I now know so well. My perspective from the stroller made the ends of the rainbows look so near to us, and the dew in my eyelashes melted the colors together, making the light play with the leaves and clouds beautifully. It was so magical. I don’t remember what happened after that but it is a moment I have held onto for my whole life. I miss how carefree and happy I was with my family then. I experienced each day like it was my first and everything was new and exciting.

Continuing on our way home, my father and I walked across the crosswalk that the fifth graders at Abernethy still guard after school for the students walking home. When I started elementary school, the play structures I know so well seemed so much bigger. The roof on the smaller platform used to be in proportion to me so that when I reached as high as I could, I still couldn’t touch it.

The last time that I was there, I was babysitting my neighbor’s toddler, and I had to bend in half to fit into the small space. It’s amazing to imagine how small I was, and I can’t believe that I once fit into the baby clothes that my mom still keeps in the basement.

When my father and I passed by the empty, shadow-filled park I could see the outline of the old elms waving their leaves peacefully against the deep blue sky. It’s bittersweet to leave my childhood behind, but it’s important to move on to becoming an adult. I struggle with knowing where I should be for my age. Should I start putting a resume together to search for my future career or focus on spending time with my grandparents, being the grandchild they never got to see when they lived in Chicago, Illinois?

I’m excited to grow up, head to college, and live by myself,

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but I also want to squeeze all of the experiences I can out of my youth. I’m not ready to fully take care of myself, but I’ve grown out of the child I used to be.

On this walk home from my last ballet five class, I realize that the spot I’m in right now is nothing like I’ve ever experienced before. I am living in a time where my present is all transition.

This year I started high school, got my first steady babysitting job, and skipped a level in dance. To further confuse my world, my country has gone through the longest, most stressful election of my life, and the new president has shaken what I thought was acceptable in the country. I have learned so much about how my country works, what the options for my future are and what my education needs to be to get there this year. I really have my life in my hands now and it’s different to be in control of all of my choices. I’m very scared to make the wrong step, but I’m excited to see what happens next.

After remembering some of the beautiful memories I have of my slice of Portland, I realized that I have been afraid of my future and that I have worried more than I needed to about the choices I have made. Just on that short walk home from class, I had learned that I’m in the place I need to be. There is no reason to worry about the colleges I might get into. I have at least two years before that should be at the top of my mind!

As for the past that I am forgetting, that isn’t who I am anymore. I don’t need to remember everything from my past, as long as I remember who I am in this moment, the past choices I made don’t matter. My memories have made me who I am, but I am not who I am now, in them.

With this knowledge in place, I felt content as I walked down my street to my house shadowed by the giant cherry trees in my front yard. I was happy to live in the present and to enjoy each moment that was given to me. I can look forward to my future, but I know not to worry about where I will be.

My porch glowed welcomingly to me and my dog Emmy

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lifted her head at the sound of my father and my foot steps up the stairs. Even though I do miss being younger, I still have so much to be grateful for right now. I’m so happy to have good education and dance lessons of my choice. I have such a supportive community where I can be myself. I’m happy to be where I am even though everything is changing.

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A rock speeding through time Jacob Shaver LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: AMY MINATO

A rock speeding through time as much as space.

Only to burn up in our atmosphere, Oh meteor.

How far have you come, with your asteroid stream How long is your cosmic tail! ... ... ...

What’s the time?

What a flash!

You’re burning up now Oh, the dust is nearly gone Leaving only, your metal core, Oh meteor.

Your cosmic flames With your manganese yellow green Your lithium crimson red highlights Your cobalt blue and arsenic hue Speak the colors of you, Oh meteor.

Who would you be?

What would you do Without space?

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The Hand Alexander Taylor CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

My hand is a thin, elongated affair. It looks like the Hydra of mythology; each finger is like a head, lithe and quick. My fingers are mobile; they can negotiate the hardest video games, write the longest papers, and lace the biggest shoes. Each of them can strike keys with unparalleled accuracy, jolt joysticks, and sedate ferocious lions. I value my hands more than most body parts; they let me do the things I enjoy in life. I play, I learn, and I relax with them. I would be a sad, sad man without these things. I have clean, soft, smooth hands, I don’t often work with them; I like to say my brain is bigger than my bicep.

They have some nicks, scars and scratches, I am, after all, a teenage boy. They are the hands of an intellectual. I suppose my hands are reflective of my whole body; thin, long, pale, nicked, but at the end of the day, they aren’t working hands. Whether my hands are hyperbolic hydras, or just long and thin, they are vital to me and my happiness.

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Speechless Jordan McCallister GRANT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: ARTHUR BRADFORD

Tuesday, November 3, 2008: Less than six hours until the presidential election The blade paved its way down past my beard. The barber snipped my curls down to the floor.

“Ay, what’s your name again?” the barber shouted, piercing my left ear.

“William,” I responded.

The barber threw down a white washcloth coated in aftershave. Everything about the shop was natural. It was covered in masculine wood, and the smell of sandalwood filled the senses from every corner of the store. A black smock laced with white stripes rested on my lengthy body.

“William, who’re you voting for tomorrow?” he interrogated while staring lifelessly at me.

What did he seriously think I was going to say? It was the first time in U.S. history where we could finally have a black president.

“Obama,” I instantly responded.

“Hmm, oh. . . I forgot,” he stuttered.

Something seemed wrong, but words were locked behind the gates of my teeth.

“Look buddy, you were one of the few of your kind I respected.

Can you please get out of my shop?” He pulled the black smock off of my body and put the blades away.

My mind was in shambles. I had been going to Maestro’s barber shop since I was a baby. I got my first haircut there. I had watched gentrification destroy every other building near my 95

house except the shop. The audacity of this white man to kick me out, not even halfway through my haircut, simply because of political views. But, obviously to him, it was more than that.

Yet I reached into my left pocket and handed him the twenty dollars I owed him, topped with an additional fifteen dollar tip. Had he not realized his client who had been going to him since he was a child was black? Had he not realized that he lived and worked in a largely diverse neighborhood? Had he not realized that on January 20th the first black president would be inaugurated into office?

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Zoo Kayla Rae LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: AMY MINATO

Never before have I seen an animal of such tamed freedom His head rolled back and his mane followed as he made the entire world know that he is the one who can’t be touched Captivity has never seemed so justified at least from vision from the outside Or else I wouldn’t have ever known what it means to be free Such majesty should never be caged My beauty belongs to no one and neither should this mane’s Except Shoulders back and strides long showing that he’s the king of the jungle His feet move toe first Walking in front of the females to protect them from the horrors outside the walls That is beauty Beauty refined to three acres Beauty that soars above all And sometimes you can hear the cries of the rest of the world when that loud call cracks like the voice of a teenage boy That’s when you appreciate your freedom

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Only when you see what it’s like to be refined did I understand the importance of my independence With my head held high and my feet now making louder noises to ward off my enemies because I walk toe first My head rolls back and my hair and bangs follow as I speak into the microphone chanting and rallying Because this mane deserves to see its freedom too And my call doesn’t crack or cry because I’ve finally seen mine, too

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My Slice of Portland Finn Riley-Belew CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: ALEX BEHR

The day had finally come, the day when I would see The Descendants perform live. It was November 12, a cool but not cold day. I hadn’t done much that day for there was so much anticipation around the concert. The Descendants had been my favorite band since seventh grade and I was finally going to see them. Our family friend and neighbor was taking me and my mom to the show because she knows the bass player, and she knew how much I love the band. The Descendants are an awesome punk band from California that formed in the 70s.

We pulled up to the venue, the Roseland Theater, a creaking, old death trap. We crossed the narrow Old Town street filled with rowdy people and went into the theater. In the poorly lit lobby, I could see people wearing the classic Milo logo on shirts and hoodies.

We went through security and walked up the stairs, I could already hear the first band playing. A woman at the top of the stairs checked our bracelets and put a stamp on our arms that read “You Are My Hero.” We went to the upper floor and watched the opening band for a bit. They had a melodic boy band/Green Day sound that wasn’t my style. Also, their drummer didn’t have any mounted toms, which is crazy. Luckily, my neighbor said, “Hey, do you guys want to go see Stephen?”

She yelled, but it was so loud I could still barely hear her.

“Sure!” I said. I was so excited, I was about to meet the bass player of my favorite band.

We headed over to the restricted area. It was hard to stay calm. I was so jittery that I started to walk stiffly. We came to a door with a security guard, showed him our All Access 99

passes, and asked him if we were going the right way to get to the lounge.

“It sure is,” he said with a smooth, cool voice and friendly smile.

We wound down a few flights of stairs and entered a large room with lots of chairs. We didn’t see anybody and went into another room. We saw him in the second room, talking to a couple other people. He saw us and walked towards us. “Hey guys!” he said in a happy voice.

“I’m so excited to be in Portland, seeing old friends and the city. Plus, THE COFFEE IS GREAT.” He spoke in a slightly aggressive voice that indicated he had clearly started into his coffee routine. We only talked for a few minutes because he had to go, but he said we could talk after the show.

We walked out of the lounge, past the huge coffee bar and back up the windy stairs. On the stairs we passed the guitar player, Karl Alvarez, he was wearing old grey jeans, a vest, and white Doc Martens. He looked very tired; concert Tours are rough. He said hi to us and walked down the stairs. I couldn’t believe we had just passed him on the stairs, it was already a great night.

We made it back to the side of the stage and walked into the theater. The second band had started playing and they were much better, they had a more hardcore sound with a female vocalist who was basically screaming. We stood and watched them play for a while, but the whole time I could only think about seeing The Descendants. I was so anxious for the show to start, I wasn’t even listening anymore. I kept checking the time, even though each time I did, time seemed to go even slower.

It was getting closer and closer to 9:00 p.m., when they were supposed to play. The band announced that they were going to play one final song, then leave.

This was it, the moment I had been waiting for. They finished the song and left, the stage lit up and people immediately started setting up the new equipment. After about twenty

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minutes of moving, they left, and the lights went off. My heart was pounding; this was when they would finally come on. I was off to the side of the general crowd and could see the drummer Bill Stevenson doing stretches next to the stage. He then left and walked up the stairs.

The whole band then came onstage. It was magical. Everyone went crazy, applauding and cheering. The vocalist, Milo, came on stage and spoke. “Wow, it’s been about twenty-two years since we last came here.” He said, “We all went to Stumptown and got some great coffee, we also saw all the anti-Trump stuff up and thought that was really great, it kinda makes me think, everything sucks.”

They went into playing one of their more popular songs, “Everything Sucks.” The crowd went wild, it was awesome. They played more of their old songs which had a better, scratchier sound. The new songs had a more warm and crazy sound, but I didn’t like them. They went into a break and everybody cheered for them to come back, even though they knew they would.

The finally came back. They did this a few times, each time was better, with even more songs I knew. I looked into the general crowd and saw one guy crowd surfing, he seemed to really be enjoying it and was yelling the lyrics of the song the entire time. He got tossed in between the stage and the crowd, he was definitely onto something. You could tell when he ran back to the crowd from the walkway at the side of the stage, when he bent his back and threw up his elbows while wrestling off imaginary people. After about an hour they stopped playing.

We went backstage to congratulate and thank Stephen.

“Nice show!” we all said.

“Well, thanks a lot for coming!” he said. He was out of breath and really sweaty. He gave me one of his shredded picks with his logo on it, a drawing his son had made of him. Him and J.J. talked about meeting up again. We soon went down the windy stairs again and came back out to the wet, cold street.

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Tapes Ellie Starck LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: LISA EISENBERG

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The Eyes Kayla Rae LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: AMY MINATO

The eyes blind without help The eyes tired but always awake The eyes wet but dry The eyes full of emotion but never truly full The eyes gates to the soul but never seeing it The eyes always able to understand but never understood The eyes accepting but never accepted The eyes full of color but colorless The eyes beautiful but ugly The eyes will they ever be truly understood The eyes are a gift and a curse

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Addict Macy Potter FRANKLIN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: DAVID CIMINELLO

I will not accept this Look past the sky, To shattered glass Riddled with bullet holes Of greenhouse gas Touch it And you’ll burn through it As the holes progress The sky weeps Tears of renewal Cleaning the black Tar and rainbow, Oils from our streets The earth inhales Our artificial Substances like A smoker inhales A repulsive cigarette.

We are the pusher The earth is the addict Pools of Black oil Lay under the surface Like black circles under A prostitute’s eyes She uses concealer 104

To hide them As we build skyscrapers And apartment buildings To hide ours She did not ask To taste our fine powder Yet she begs at our feet For just one more hit

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The Day that Changed My Life Macy Potter FRANKLIN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: DAVID CIMINELLO

It was a warm September day in 2009 and I was sitting in the field in front on my small, private school, playing with pieces of yellowing grass, as a second-grader would. My entire school was there, along with several hundred students from other schools across the city, but I either didn’t know or didn’t remember why.

I wasn’t aware that I would come to remember this day for the rest of my life.

It wasn’t the day, or even the events of the day, that changed my life. It was a person I saw that day, but with whom I have never spoken and who I do not know. On that day, September 14, 2009, Jane Goodall spoke at my elementary school and I, a small, shy, second grader looked up with interest and fascination as she spoke about the environment, animals, and wildlife biology.

It probably wasn’t a passion I suddenly developed after hearing Jane Goodall speak, or something I remembered years later and started researching. I had always loved animals, but over the course of several years, I learned more and more about Jane Goodall. At some point, I picked up a book she had written at the library, and I later did a project about her, but it wasn’t until middle school that I really became fascinated with her and her work, even spending hours at bookstores, looking for every single book she had written and others about wildlife conservation, deer, and other wildlife biologists. I also decided early on that I wanted to be a wildlife biologist, and am not planning on giving up that dream.

It’s remarkable how much someone who does not know you can influence you, even changing the course of your life. My career, and possibly the rest of my life, has been shaped by a few 106

well-chosen words by one person, but I sometimes find myself wondering what would have happened if Jane Goodall hadn’t spoken at my elementary school. Would I have picked up a book of hers at the library? Would I have done a project about her years later? Would I have spent hours at bookstores or spent hours reading about her? Maybe I would have learned who she was, but I could have just as easily bypassed any mention of her name. I could have never seen her name, never read any of her books, and not known what I wanted to do with my life, and I could be a completely different person than I am today, if not for a few well-chosen words.

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In the Town of Carina Carelle Namagake LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: LISA EISENBERG

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Wall John Yingling ROOSEVELT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: MATTHEW ROBINSON

“The wall was built in 2145 and encompassed the entirety of the Tri-Metropolitan Oregon area. During this time there were riots and protests, online petitions to stop the inhumane act of banishing nearly the entirety of a state to a small bubble where all areas of escape risk execution or artillery fire on attempted air escapes. On June 24th, 2160 my grandfather was able to tunnel his way around the perimeter mines surrounding the outer wall and safely make his way back inside with many of the outside world’s new creations and some items that simply weren’t available. The patrol officers found the tunnel the next day; no one has escaped since.”

River came to the pedestal after giving her speech to present her most valued possession, a perfectly intact and mint multitool. River spoke about what made it so special, the fact that it, “could do things we couldn’t imagine,” was obvious hyperbole but the item was still dazzling as it was completely rust free. She sat down and let the other students present on what their parents and grandparents had done for the Tri-Metro over their lives.

Even if they lived in one of the nicer areas in town, River still knew that the outside world considered her neighborhood a slum. It was the most incredible and rage-fueled moment of her life when her mother decided to show her old photos of the outside world, seeing the houses built for two that could house forty or more, people owning pets simply for the hell of it and not having a general use to the family. The only pet River had ever had was a crow named Arnold who hated her with a passion but continued to come to her windowsill for the rotting bread that she would very occasionally have. She 111

soon after semi-training Arnold realized that he could be useful. She would watch as he would almost effortlessly fly up and over the thousand-foot hurdle of the wall, soon he would return, hopefully with something. Arnold would arrive hours or possibly days later with interesting odds and ends from the abandoned zones outside the wall, cigarette boxes, dryer sheets, circuit boards, and sometimes the occasional stale stick of gum (these days were like holidays to River) but one day the birds just never came back inside the walls, and there haven’t been any birds for three years hence. She still thought that this bird was of more use to her than a small rodent would be to the family of an outsider. It was the weekend and schooling had slowed down as summer came, everyone who was physically able was taken to the locks and were made to help tighten the Willamette’s flow through the city. If the able-bodied failed to tighten the locks then there would be a repeat of the 2152 floods, the floods from intense snowmelt rushed through low areas of town and destroyed hundreds of homes, this was an important job and River’s father had gone to help. On the weekends it was rivers job to man the farm that had been built on the wall behind their house, while the walls were impossible to scale due to their immense height and slick material, it was entirely possible to mount wooden pallets onto them and thus create a vertical farming ground. River’s job was to move her ladder from one row of pallets to the next, cutting and basketing stray herbs as she went. After a tiring start to her day she would hike to the city center where she would set up her mat and sell herbs before returning home for supper and bed.

It was Sunday now and River was getting ready to go down to the city center to sell her wares and herbs when the rumbling began, the rumbling was more powerful than anything she had ever felt. It even seemed to dwarf the immense noise and shaking of an old-world skyscraper collapsing downtown, she was stopped in her tracks as the analyzed the shaking and

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incredible sound of whatever may be occurring. She rushed home to see that her family was already meeting. River asked her mother what could possibly be happening and was met with an answer that she should’ve expected, an earthquake, 9.0 had struck the coast and had been shredding the town with its vicious shuffling of the ground beneath us. The devastation seemed to be retained inside the wall until this feat of mother nature’s fury gave the people of the wall a chance against the rest of the world, the wall had crumbled on the north side.

River’s father was one of the first to volunteer for an egress mission, he left for the north side on monday and told his family that he would return soon with, “Items beyond our wildest dreams.” He left, River and her mother were working the garden when the meeting was called, bells rang out across the city showing the need for all people performing non-vital work were to attend an announcement at city center. When they arrived the mayor had already began speaking, he was talking to the audience in a sorrowful tone and informed us of the military insurgence through the wall. Tanks and artillery were slowly creeping through the wall and crushing people and shacks as they pushed toward the city. River and her mother were extremely worried about their missing figure and what may have happened to him as he and his squad attempted to cross over the rubble. Many days from there were spent crying into pillows or semi-optimistically checking windows whenever a bike rode past the home.

While River’s house was an emotional mess, the two current inhabitants needed to think about their plan in case of a total invasion of their land. After a quick spree of barricading doors and hiding jars of water and food, the two tried to return to daily routine. School had been suspended until further notice so River worked in the farm and sold on most days. On Friday she was confronted by a man carrying a hefty amount of metal and wires. He gave her an entire motherboard from an old computer

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in exchange for a personal delivery. River was instructed to bring a fistful of rosemary and thyme to a woman named Susan Dunlin, working at the dam. The dam was on the opposite side of town but for what she was paid it was more than worth the trip. Once she arrived at the dam she entered the gloomy, dank old building that housed the control station, the last of the functioning computers in the town were brought here to keep the dam’s systems under constant check and moderation, she spoke to the receptionist and was instructed to place the bouquet inside the corresponding mailbox for the recipient she wished to deliver the gift to. River placed the bouquet inside Susan’s mailbox and walked out of the building.

She wandered down the dark hallway for a few minutes before she heard the gunfire coming from the town. She soon exited the dam and standing on the hill she saw the tactics at play, the invaders seemed to be targeting the few remaining skyscrapers downtown with their artillery fire in order to topple them onto the surrounding land. She could see heaps of vines and rubble where many of the remaining structures stood. As she stumbled down the hill the enemies remained out of her vision, the only evidence she even had for their existence was the chorus of clattering gunfire and tank shells. River knew that very few people inside the wall had anything more than knives for protection, the gunfire was massacre.

When River made her way back into town she was greeted by piles of bodies sometimes reaching what she assumed to be hundreds, the streets were bloodied and it was as if the buildings surrounding her themselves were bleeding. She could hear the firefight had moved into the dusty streets of downtown, the intruders would have an advantage while holding the tainted streets. It was not long until River remembered her mother at home waiting for her. When she arrived she was met with smoldering brick and shattered glass. River broke into tears and rushed into the her slowly crumbling home to recover

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her possessions. She collected one burnt family photograph.

Everything else had risen to the heavens.

As River collected her thoughts she inspected the perimeter of her home before repulsing at the sight of a charred corpse.

She fell to the ground in shock and cried for what seemed like an eternity, she gave up. When she came to she was beginning to realize that her town couldn’t fight against an entire military, the morning smog began to roll in and River knew that the chemical fog would mask her movement. She hugged the wall and continued to walk until she found another girl that seemed to have the same idea, she was walking along the wall with her family, struggling to hold two children. River asked the woman if there was anything she could do to help but was immediately rejected violently. River thought that she could’ve helped a fair amount but yet so, continued to walk.

When River met the mangled rebar of the fallen wall-face she found the opening with her hand blindly through the fog.

The splintered rebar and concrete of the wall sliced at her hands as she proceeded through the rubble, when the smog cleared out as she descended the pile. When she reached the bottom she began to think about the simple facts, she was one of the very first people outside the wall since her grandfather had, all of those years ago. Other people began to pour out of the toothy maw of the fallen wall. Once around twenty people had appeared out of the smog some began to throw concrete chunks and rebar forward while gathering others, when a small lump of concrete thrown by a little boy rattled towards a small lump in the dusty brown soil seemingly the whole world ignited, the child was blown back and was luckily caught by a nearby person. People continued to throw objects in the direction of the blast until a trail of craters created a safe passage to a small ledge that had been preventing them from seeing the wonders of the world, less smog, less people, less suffering. The escapees looked back as they heard the last of the skyscrapers fall and

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the city beginning to burn to ground, River’s grandfather had told her of the flame troopers that would patrol the ledge, she assumed they were inside the walls now. One by one the free men, women, and children climbed the slick rock ledge and stood atop it, the people sitting at the top seemed to stop in their tracks and stare blindly into the horizon. When River got to the top of the ledge she was struck with the same reaction.

Cracked and dried red dirt rolled on for miles, thick layers of smog covered the sun just as it had within the walls, the only sign of humanity was a small light that appeared to be at least ten miles away. As more and more people climbed to the top of the ledge, more and more people started to realize that the only thing that the wall was holding in was the people. The outside world was just as depressing and dead as the inside. The group somberly walked around the perimeter and eventually found the small barracks and farm that the soldiers had originated from. After one or two group members confirmed it was empty the farm was pillaged. The group found carrots and lettuce, they had also found four chickens that were being held by their feet and held separately by two people.

River didn’t have anything to hold and was tasked to guard the members that happened to be carrying items. River didn’t like this concept due to the clumping of all members and thus, vulnerability to explosives. The group looped around the perimeter one more time only to see that a massive barricade of metal had been erected over the destroyed hole, no-one would be getting out again. While the group began to lose hope, River noticed a box sitting in the back of one of the military trucks. River instantly knew what was inside due to obvious the labeling of “HIGH EXPLOSIVE, HANDLE WITH CARE.” River pulled her grandfather’s multitool from her rucksack and skittered down the ledge, she snuck around the trucks and jumped onto the bed, she carefully opened the box and removed what appeared to be a thermite charge, she had only

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heard about the horrors that her grandfather had said he’d seen with thermite, burning through people as a form of execution, hotter than the surface of the sun. She peered back inside and saw around fifty more charges, she had an idea. River grabbed the box and ran back up the hill as quickly as she could, and she told the group the urgency of their need to move. The mob moved along the side of each wall, mounting a charge every twenty or so feet to the metal reinforcements encasing the wall, when the group made it back around they stopped on the edge of the ditch as River jumped in. River was still assessing her plan and course of action when she hit the rock protruding from the sheer drop of dirt that led down into the military camp.

She tumbled and eventually landed on the cracked dirt with a thud, she tried to pull herself up and stand but was unable to do so. She looked back at her legs to see that her left leg was very badly damaged and mangled beyond immediate repair. She pulled herself along on the ground towards one of the humvees parked behind a large fence that would block her from sight, she hauled herself onto the hood of the car and popped the hood, she shuffled around inside until she could unhook the battery.

She pushed herself off of the hood and retching in pain as she hit the ground again. She pushed the battery in front of her as she made her way back to the ledge and was swiftly lifted up by her comrades. They inched towards the other side of the wall again and once they made it there they paused. River had time not to think of her losses, she remembered her mother, her friends, her home, her father that never returned from this wasteland.

The crewmates next to her began to set up the electrical charge and connect one wire to the metal post and preparing the other for connection. River shed a tear and as she began to weep, the walls all began to fall.

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A Fall Stroll Claire May CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

During an early weekend walk during the fall, I see the crisp green grass blades with tiny dew drops that look like little marbles. The sun slowly peeking through the trees, blazing in through my bedroom windows. As I turn right, I see the small Catholic school, a place that I attended since I was in preschool.

The memories come flooding in like a welcome dream.

That school was my whole life. On a school day, I would see my middle school English teacher and her son unhitching his bike from her car. But on a weekend morning everything is peaceful and silent. The only sounds are the birds chirping and the wind gently howling. I would see birds flying around and hear little baby birds chirping at their mamas. I would see piles of leaves on the curb and the remnants of dew particles covering cars.

As I stroll across the street, I see layers of freshly fallen leaves.

The sidewalk has layers of leaves making it very slick. At the end of the block, I could continue walking down a hill to Westmoreland Park, where I would see the kids playground, the small stream and geese that fly overhead. My neighborhood means so much to me. It’s a place where people are joyful and funny.

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Heat Bridget Levesque LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: AMY MINATO

The sun beats down Heats the earth, Heats the shirt, Heats the back of the man.

Dirt in the cracks of his hands, Yet when washed align to show his story.

Beads of sweat run down his cheek proving his labor.

He turns to see what seems like miles of work he has completed, Yet is forced to look ahead at what more needs to be done.

The soreness from his bended knees is masked by his dirt stained jeans, His hat blocking out the sun, Which still heats the head, Heats the face, Heats the eyes of the man, That still twitch so suddenly at the loud sounds he once heard.

Yet his eyes have seen so much, That even his reel of footage that shows his life, Step by step, Can’t even display what toll his past has had on his present.

The calluses on his hands are sore, yet not felt, By the strong hands of the man who forgot about them years ago.

His heart beats fast as the warming rays beat on his already beaten shoulders, That have carried so many tons without a moment of relief.

He huffs but never complains, For this man is humble enough to know that it has no benefit.

The heavily heated sun in the sky now, 119

Heats the rows, Heats the skin, Heats the soil of the land That results in blisters on the man’s hands That can be felt by the smallest of a touch Showing that the earth has an odd way of saying thank you To the hours of manual labor he has put in.

“Ten minutes left,” he hears.

The man looks up just enough to see the boots of the boss, Standing over him, Providing some shade that he so desperately needed Yet the shadow vanishes as the boss moves on down the rows.

He’s asked to pick up the pace, “Go faster,” he’s told.

Using his sore forearm, The man wipes away the sweat that tickled his forehead He hears a loud “Break time.” Causing his eyes to twitch He stands feeling shaky from the hot yellow mass above him that Heats the air, Heats the neck, Heats the souls of the man’s shoes, That have walked so far to get where he is today Worn with holes that he hides.

The man picks up his hat which slid off his wet head.

With thirty minutes on the clock now counting down, He chugs down the long awaited water Curing his dehydration, but not his painful migraines Which have been occurring for years.

The man goes to the bathroom, Washing his face that’s looked endlessly tired Gazing into the mirror which reminds him of what this is all for, His family, Immediately back to work

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His freshly washed hands covered in soil once again Burying his story deeper, And deeper, Into his thoughts His everlasting tan now peeling on his shoulders, On his nose, On his once youthful cheeks, That have now lost their rosiness, And is nowhere to be found Within minutes his body is again reheated, The man producing sweat, The way an ice cold glass of water produces condensation on the outside of a cup The sunlight heats the hands, Heats the feet, Heats the underarms of the man, Which take so long to dry, Yet are wet in no time With the accidental flick of the dirt, He is forced to take off his shoe And dump out the accidental entrance of the soil Which reveals his no longer bright white sock But only a dark and dirty piece of cloth that now provides no use to him.

To help the time go by faster, The man imagines his two daughters at home, Who aren’t aware of the task their father once faced, I mean is facing, He continues to dig, Pull, Pat, Repeat.

Dig, Pull,

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Pat, Repeat.

Dig, Pull, Pat, Repeat.

He rolls his head side to side, Yet is used to the pain he feels The man cracks his knuckles, Which releases a cloud of dried dirt, That was locked into the lines of his fingers The sun still blazing which, Heats the field, Heats the rows, Heats the mind of the migrant farmer, He wipes off the beads of sweat creeping near his eyes, He dusts off his dirt stained jeans, Revealing the blue denim they once were, The man pats away the grime on his face, Once again providing his cheeks with the rosiness they so dearly missed, The man brushes off his hands no longer hiding his story, But showing it.

And gets up revealing the holes in his shoes which he no longer avoids, The sun heats the land, Beats the land, But does not beat the man.

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Special Ring Mia Stanley CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

I’ve never gotten anything that I’ve cherished so much until two years ago, when I got this gold and silver ring from my ninety-two-year-old great-grandmother. She currently lives in Oakland, California, about ten hours driving distance from Portland, Oregon.

My mom, grandpa, and I went down to Oakland for my greatgrandma’s ninetieth birthday party. When we were getting ready for her party, she was going through all of her jewelry.

She told me I could pick something of hers to wear to the party and then keep for myself forever. I decided to look for a ring.

Since my great-grandmother is fairly small, some of her rings fit me while some didn’t. This one ring that struck my eyes when I was looking fit me on my ring finger.

Ever since this day it has been my favorite thing I have ever received. Every day after I got it, it would always be either on my finger or in a special place in the bathroom. My greatgrandmother, being ninety at the time, was and still is getting older by the day. Because of her getting older I feel like this ring has a very special place in my heart. I want to keep this ring forever so I can always remember the time I spent with her if she ever passes away. I don’t think she will anytime soon because she is doing really well and she is super healthy.

My possession of this object says a lot about me. It says that I’m very generous and grateful for the things I receive. It also says that I am caring for having something that was given to me by my great-grandmother.

My great-grandma used to live in Grand Ronde, Oregon, but was then kicked out of her home and was forced to live 123

in Oakland, California. This happened because she is Native American. She is a very important person in my life because without her I wouldn’t be who I am today. Considering that she’s Native American, I get to have many different opportunities that she didn’t get to have when she was younger. Being Native American has helped me and my mom out a lot. It has given me scholarship opportunities, and has helped my mom pay for things she wouldn’t be able to pay for by herself, such as my braces.

Since I don’t get to see her that often (one week every five years) I don’t have a strong connection with her. And by having that ring, I feel like I have a stronger connection with her than I actually do.

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untitled Alex Elliot BENSON HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: KATHLEEN LANE

Throughout his life, Alan was always told the existence of ghosts was a lie. That it’s just something that your brain makes up when it’s feeling uneasy, or to make sense of an ominous situation. He would say to himself that it’s not rational, and that it’s just a figment of your imagination. But alas, there was no end to Alan’s young imagination. He would imagine different scenarios. What a ghost thinks, or how it feels about all the fear it strikes in young children across the world. He had wondered what terrible ghost had killed his parents, and left him in this miserable orphanage that he was forced to call home.

He contemplated this for a while, until he gazed at clock on his wall and realized that it was already morning. He jumped from his bed as fast as he could, and ran to shut his door. He knew that if any adults saw him awake he would be put on chore duty for a week. He heard his door tilt open as he tried his best to make a quiet breathing sound that resembled sleep.

“Alan, are you awake?”

He recognized the voice as a girl that had gone to his school during 2nd grade, someone he was really good friends with until she had suddenly disappeared halfway through the year.

She was said to have gone missing a nearby forest, leaving her parents in grief. Alan could now see her clearly as she walked up to him. He stared in shock at what he was now looking at. A face that only half resembled a human, the other half warped and distorted. Her eyes blank, with no sign of life or presence in them. She appeared to have no scars or cuts, which made no sense compared to her terrifying image. He stared at her for the longest time, still in shock. After a silence that was not eased 125

by either person, he came to a conclusion. A conclusion that his miserable life was built up for. This girl was neither controlled by neither an entity nor demon, but by a ghost. A ghost that will hopefully not exist within the next few days.

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Iron Planet Deliang Cen LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: LISA EISENBERG

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Ones of Yesterday Haley Carlough FRANKLIN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: DAVID CIMINELLO

For the sake of love You’d never believe It’s one event you’d never conceive All is sobbing and suffering Life seems to be shattering There your saddest, most horrifying memories Losing one you love But people tell you “you’ll be alright.

Life goes on” Saddest thing is I remember them all In detail feeling my heart crack Knowing they won’t come back All the pain in my back As if being attacked There’s only one wish Bring them back Bring them back There’s only one wish As if being attacked All the pain in my back Knowing they won’t come back In detail feeling my heart crack Saddest thing, I remember them all People tell you “Life goes on” “You’ll be alright”

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Losing one you love There your saddest Most horrifying memories Life seems to be shattering All is sobbing and suffering It’s one event you’d never conceive You’d never believe For The Sake Of Love

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To Freeze Time Osvaldo Rios-Sabalza ROOSEVELT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: JOANNA ROSE

To freeze time is to survive the core of the earth and to survive the core of the earth is to think that J Kole is a king To be immortal is to have your head cut off and to have your head cut off is to run at the speed of light.

To touch the sky is to have a talking dog and to have a talking dog is Rihanna giving good vocals.

To walk through walls is to reach all the time and be right and to reach all the time and be right is to think that money makes a musician talented.

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untitled Haylee Hanna FRANKLIN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: ALEX BEHR

I woke up laying under the tree in the school courtyard. I woke up to the sound of branches snapping, with the feeling of fear lodged deep into the pit of my stomach. I looked around for something familiar, the school was there all around me but something was different; something was missing. I got up and made my way inside, but when I got there there was no one.

It was silent, as I neared the main office I heard the smallest whisper, someone was whimpering, like they were dreaming. I followed the sound to the back office. I was a little freaked by what I found. It was me—same face same hair—it was me.

“Oh my god, this isn’t real.” I pinched myself trying to wake up. “Wake up, wake up, wake up!”

I inched forward, trying to get a better look at my clone. She had a small cut on her neck. I touched my neck to see if there was one on me, as I skimmed my skin where the cut was with my finger and felt the blood running down my neck, I felt around for anything unusual.

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The Gift of Loving Others Peter Predisik CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

It’s a special gift that you can get for being kind and caring for others. You can find this gift in a place where love is forbidden and hate runs like water in a stream. It can make strength in others to start things like a revolution or creating something new for the world to benefit. It’s this warm feeling you get inside that you get for sharing kindness and love. It tastes like a vanillacream-filled donut with a chocolate glaze and it smells like a fresh batch of bread just made for you from the bread factory. It sounds like the ocean with whales singing and jumping in the air. And it looks like the person you love the most and they are hugging you.

For me it looks like my grandmother because she always had the best come out of me and she made me feel happy. She loved a lot of people in her life and she didn’t care who they were. She gave me this gift at the age of four at a peach farm and I didn’t know what it was at first but over time I started to understand it more when I got older. And it has shaped me into the person I am today. A kind, helpful, funny, happy guy that you can chill with and I know this will help me in many ways; for example, it has made me a respectable person in my community with my peers.

We could change this country with this gift by only loving others, not hating. Because hate creates destruction of ourselves and others. If we could change this country with my gift it would be a better America than now. But I need the strength of others so we can strive for change for the betterment of the people because the people can change countries if they work. Please help me change our town into a better place because we can do it.

This is the gift of loving others, the gift that the world gave to her people and given to a young boy with a heart for loving others.

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Darkened Days Travis Castillo FRANKLIN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: ALEX BEHR

Log 43 July/17/1773 Knowing my time is shortening more and more I keep my journal as true as I can, these last few months have brutal, I stay in my quarters attempting to fray from the fighting that goes on above but I must go soon.

I stand from where I sat and set my journal aside but cannot leave it alone. Grabbing it for what it seems the very first time once again, I flip through the pages and reliving what I’ve done on this ship. From near loss of my sight to the day I was promoted but nothing was like the day I first came aboard. It was some odd few months back I’d say around winter (November) I was staying home that day and took care of my youngest. It was midday the sun was high and I could tell that everyone was out and cheerful, but now knowing it wouldn’t have lasted very long.

As my memory best served me I saw out my window that a sail had been casted thinking that it was a vendor ship I ventured out to see what things there could buy. The closer I got to the dock my daughter pointed out the boat, she asked me, “Father, why are the ship’s sails black?”

“Maybe they come from Africa,” saying this with a grin on my face having the highest of hoping they are from Africa and not being pirates but the closer I got the more and more I was frightened for my daughter’s life. I see my wife in the crowd near the dock I go to her and tell her to go home with Jennabeth. The last thing that I wanted was here; it was a set of rogue pirates.

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The captain walked the dock and asked for whom was the wealthiest man here, no one spoke… I stepped forward “I, I am the wealthiest man here.” Saying this made me regret what I have just done.

“The name is Barry,” the captain responded. “You say you’re the wealthiest man here, didn’t you?”

With invisible distress I walk up to him. “Why do you ask?

Will you rob me?”

Barry said with spite, “No, who do you think I am, Thatch (Blackbeard)? I want you to come with us to make us some of the richest pirates across the sea.”

In surprised I asked him “And if I don’t?”

He blatantly said that if I didn’t he’d kill me and everyone in my town. Looking at everyone’s now-endangered faces I agreed and boarded his ship.

Moments later my life would get worse, the tides came in and rocked the boat. My wife with Jennabeth ran to me, the boat rocked one more time and destroyed the dock. What happened in seconds felt like an eternity, my lovely wife and daughter came down with the wood planking, soon after their screams of being frightened came to a halt. I ran down, jumping into the flooded rubble, trying to see if I can find them, but nothing. My dreams and hopes of seeing my last child grow up to be an aspiring woman had vanished, and so had I from the disarranged dock. With my now-crew and family of ravaging pirates. (thank you) I finally got the courage to put down my journal and as I did so I heard the loudest screech run through my ears. I look over and see a child pirate running at me with a dagger. Easily I disarm her and as I look at her I slowly more and more reminds of Jennabeth. Kneeling holding this small child I break down and cannot stop crying.

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The child looks at me. “Why are you crying? Pirates don’t cry, especially the captain.”

Struggling to look back at her I explain how she looks like my daughter. I hold tightly hugging her and she hugs me back.

I stand up walking down the hall to the stairs that lead upstairs.

Seeing of what remains I see we had lost the fight, stepping up to the other captain I comply. “Go ahead, as they always say ‘the captain always goes down with their ship’.”

He looks at me. “As you say.” He announces his men to ready the cannons and before he tells them to fire the little girl fires at her captain and he falls. Not even a second after I see her got shot by almost every scoundrel on that boat, I fell on my knees and I hear the cannons fire and I accept my fate and go down with my fallen family.

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You Will Be OK Ashley Moo ROOSEVELT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: MATTHEW ROBINSON

If I died today I would hope you would stay the same no matter the pain and sadness you feel. I hope you know it will be OK. We would still have hot summer days with the sunlight shining on our skin.

Hopping and splashing in puddles to see who would get the most wet.

Playing soccer in the cold for hours although we’d end up getting sick.

Don’t think I’ll forget about all the beautiful memories we shared as a family.

We would still have family trips full of impatient car rides filled with chaotic days.

Long walks pushing and shoving one another, waiting to see who would fall first.

Late nights watching movies with mami yelling, “Ya Callesen!” because we would always talk.

And family dinners where we’d all talk and argue until someone cries.

So even though I am no longer there I’d want you to stay the same.

Because the sun’ll still shine tomorrow and the skies will still burst with bright colors.

Music will still play loud on the streets and the people will still dance with one another.

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None of these things will change even though I am not present.

My love for you will always be there.

Even though my heart won’t beat, you can still cry and weep.

Just know the love I have for you will never end because not even death can do us part.

With this reminder I hope you know that you will be OK

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The Tales We Tell Madelyn Johnson LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: BRIAN KETTLER

BRIDGET

No, no. Dr. Stevens, I know what you are gonna say. Bridget, it’s not your fault. How could you have known he would crawl through the vents? Well, god only knows I feel this sickening sense of guilt.

DR. STEVENS

Bridget, I don’t think you’re understanding.

BRIDGET

What?

(The screen turns a deep yellow. The silhouettes of two cops appear, Frank and Tony. Bridget and Dr. Stevens freeze.)

TONY

My golly if I had an imagination like hers, I would have passed freshman art class. (beat) I mean how many times do we have to go through this?

FRANK

(eating a donut, a classic cop. His mouth is full so his words are barely understandable.) As long as it takes for her to realize her homicidal ass ain’t gettin’ away with it. And once that day comes, prison awaits.

TONY

I mean it’s been three years in this nut house.

FRANK

Only a week in her mind.

TONY

What?

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FRANK

Only a week in her mind.

TONY

Goddammit, Frank, put down that carboload, it’s eleven in the fucking morning.

FRANK

Blame Burt, he brought donuts.

(The screen returns back to grey and Dr. Stevens and Bridget unfreeze.)

DR. STEVENS

Bridget. There are two stories we tell ourselves. The first kind: once upon a time Christopher Columbus sailed the ocean blue in 1492 to discover the Americas. And the other kind: In 1492, Christopher Columbus murdered, raped, and pillaged the hundreds of people who just happened to already be there.

Yes, both stories take place in 1492, but there is a crystal clear difference. Can you find it, Bridget?

BRIDGET

He’s the hero in one. Bad guy in the other.

DR. STEVENS

Exactly. (beat) Bridget there are two sides to every story we tell.

BRIDGET

But which one’s the truth?

DR. STEVENS

Well, isn’t that the 50 million dollar question!

BRIDGET

Alright, Doctor Harvard, just because you think you’re the best thing since sliced bread doesn’t mean I wanna hear about it.

What are ya even talking about?

DR. STEVENS

(sighs) Okay Bridget. I will be back. ( gets up and goes behind curtain) 139

(The screen turns bright yellow and the two cops appear again.)

FRANK

Any progress, doc?

DR. STEVENS

I want the tapes.

FRANK

Are you sure that’s a good idea, doctor?

DR. STEVENS

Yes, give them to me.

TONY

(pulls out a big cassette player and a tape. Dr. Stevens is about to go back in when…)

FRANK

Good luck, doctor.

DR. STEVENS

(nods and enters back into the room. The curtain returns to grey. He sets the cassette player on the table.)

BRIDGET

What’s that?

DR. STEVENS

I want you to listen to something, Bridget.

BRIDGET

To what?

DR. STEVENS

A story. (puts the tape in the player) Your story. (presses play) DR. STEVENS (ON TAPE)

Don’t cry now. You know this is good for ya.

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BRIDGET (ON TAPE)

It just don’t make no sense. Why would I do that? Why did I do it? I miss my mama. I want my mama to come back!

DR. STEVENS

(pauses the tapes) BRIDGET

Hey, doc. (beat) What the hell was that?

DR. STEVENS

You, Bridget.

BRIDGET

No. No. No. You’re lying. You’re Johnny Cochran, you’re pulling things out of thin air!

DR. STEVENS

Don’t cry now. You know this is good for ya.

BRIDGET

(suddenly grabs the chair she is sitting in, ready to chuck it at the doctor.

The doctor stands with his hands up.) Stop telling lies or I’ll have to chuck this chair at your little pecker-sucking face.

DR. STEVENS

Bridget, darlin’, you know the wood in that cathedra is made from the sunken remains of a Somali pirate ship.

BRIDGET

Really?

DR. STEVENS

No! But you know what that story and your story have in common?

BRIDGET

What?

DR. STEVENS

They’re utter horseshit.

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Missing Hannah Witscher GRANT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: ARTHUR BRADFORD

The child watched in dismay as the spacesuit floated away from them. Everyone knew that losing your spacesuit was the surest path to detention, so they rushed down the hall after it.

No matter how close they got, they could never quite reach it.

It seemed to have a mind of its own as it floated down the hall, skillfully evading all of the child’s attempts to capture it.

The child startled as the late bell rang, and turned and pushed off the wall, floating down the hall toward their classroom.

They had almost given up at this point—the school bullies had been taking their stuff for the past month and they were getting tired of explaining how they had ‘lost’ their spacesuit three times in the past week.

They had no idea why this was happening to them. They were a quiet kid, rarely speaking unless called on, and they spent most of their free time wandering the ship, pokng around in areas most people never saw. They were almost invisible to most of the students in their class.

As they were sitting silently in the back of their classroom, they started to scheme. They decided to set a trap for the next time this happened.

After class, when they had shamefully borrowed a spacesuit from the lost and found, they headed to lunch. As they entered the airlock and pulled off their spacesuit, they kept a firm grip on the sleeve. When it started to float away, they went with it.

They floated down hallways and around corners until they reached the door to the computer room. Shocked, they let go of the suit and watched as one of the fierce-looking robots stepped out of the room, grabbed the suit, and returned behind the thick 142

heavy metal door. They had never dared set foot in the room, because everyone knew that the areas where the robots worked were off-limits.

The child turned around, planning to head back to join their class, only to see another robot approaching before it stabbed them in the back of the neck.

As everything faded to black, the robot whispered, “Nobody can ever know about us.�

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Writers in the Schools Writers-in-Residence 2016-2017

Turiya Autry’s work incorporates the arts, pop culture, and history with personal, community, and political struggles. Turiya has provided performances, workshops, panels, and keynotes to over 20 colleges throughout the country, as well as hundreds of community venues. Her poetry collection, Roots, Reality, & Rhyme, is a poetic journey that bridges the personal and political, the mythic and the real.

Alex Behr is a writer and teacher who has played in bands for about 25 years. Her work has appeared in Utne Reader, Propeller, Nailed, Salon, and Tin House. She has performed nationally in the show Mortified, and her first short story collection, Planet Grim, will be published in 2017. She holds an MFA in creative writing from Portland State University and a certificate in eLearning design and development.

Cooper Lee Bombardier is a writer and visual artist based in Portland, Oregon. His writing has appeared in ten anthologies and many publications; most recently in The Kenyon Review, MATRIX, CutBank, Nailed Magazine, and Original Plumbing. Cooper’s visual art was recently curated in an exhibition called “Intersectionality” at the Museum of Contemporary Art in North Miami. He first taught writing to youth through WritersCorps in San Francisco two decades ago, and currently teaches writing at Portland State University, the University of Portland, and online at LitReactor. Cooper is currently finishing his first book.

Arthur Bradford is an O Henry Award-winning writer, Emmynominated filmmaker, and Moth GrandSLAM winner. He is the author of the books Dogwalker, Benny’s Brigade, and Turtleface, a 2016 Oregon Book Award finalist. He directed How’s your News?, a documentary series for HBO and MTV as well as the film Six Days to Air, about the making of South Park, for Comedy Central. He’s currently shooting a feature documentary about Matt Stone and Trey Parker, the creators of South Park and the musical The Book of Mormon.

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Leslee Chan earned an MA from Miami University of Ohio, and an MFA in fiction from Florida State University. Born and raised in Eastern Oregon, she now lives in Portland. Chan was a 2016-17 WITS Apprentice.

David Ciminello’s fiction has appeared in the Lambda Literary Awardwinning anthology Portland Queer: Tales of the Rose City, The Frozen Moment, Lumina, Underwater New York, and on Broadcastr. His poetry has appeared in Poetry Northwest. He is a proud recipient of a 2013 annual Table 4 Writers Foundation grant. His original screenplay Bruno appears on DVD as The Dress Code. As a screenwriter he has written for HBO, 20th Century Fox, and Aaron Spelling Productions. David holds a BFA Degree in Acting from The Catholic University of America and an MFA in Fiction from Sarah Lawrence College.

Lisa Eisenberg is a cartoonist and illustrator. Her comics have been published at TheNib.com and in a number of anthologies, including Papercutter, Love in All Forms: The Big Book of Growing Up Queer, and The Strumpet. Since 2008 she has self-published the print and webcomic series I Cut My Hair, a collection of fiction and nonfiction comics. She also works as a teaching artist with Young Audiences, Caldera, and The Right Brain Initiative. Lisa is currently at work on a graphic novel about middle school.

James Gendron is the author of Weirde Sister, Sexual Boat (Sex Boats) and the chapbook Money Poems. His poetry has appeared in Tin House, The PEN Poetry Series, Fence, The Fanzine, and Pinwheel Journal.

Courtenay Hameister is a columnist, playwright, and screenwriter whose projects include co-writing the web series The Benefits of Gusbandry and the satirical stage adaptations Roadhouse: The Play! and Lost Boys: Live!. She also created the storytelling series True Stories and SEED, and was the host and head writer for the nationally syndicated radio show Live Wire for a decade. Her first book, Okay Fine Whatever: The Year I Went From Being Afraid of Everything to Only Being Afraid of Most Things, is due in late 2017 from Little, Brown.

Jamie Houghton is a poet and teaching artist. Her poetry can be found at La Fovea, torches n’ pitchforks, qarrtsiluni, Abramelin, and Tribe Magazine’s micro publication, Thief. She represented Smith College at Poetry Slam College Nationals in 2006, received a Fellowship Residency at Playa 146

Arts in the fall of 2014, and was honored to be part of Young Audiences Teaching Artist Studio’s 2015/16 cohort.

Emiko Jean is a Young Adult author. Her debut novel, We’ll Never Be Apart, was published by Harcourt in October 2015. She is working on her third novel, a YA Japanese fantasy. She is represented by Erin Harris at Folio Literary Management. When she’s not writing, she’s reading. She lives in Vancouver, Washington with her husband and very large dog and loves the rain.

Brian Kettler earned his MFA in Playwriting from the University of Texas-Austin, where he studied under Steven Dietz. His full-length plays include Poor Boys’ Chorus and Lyla School, both of which received full productions at UT-Austin. His short play, Clown Room, was selected for the 2014 Theater Masters National MFA Playwrights Festival, with productions in Aspen and New York City. This year, Brian was commissioned by Orphic Theater Company to write an original adaptation of Euripides’ Iphigenia Among the Taurians. In Portland, Brian has worked with the August Wilson Red Door Project, the Right Brain Initiative and PlayWrite, Inc. He is a former recipient of the Oregon Literary Fellowship in Drama.

Ramiza Koya’s fiction and nonfiction have appeared in publications such as Washington Square Review, Lumina, and Catamaran, and she has been a fellow at both MacDowell Colony and Blue Mountain Center. She has both a BA and an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College, and has taught in Spain, the Czech Republic, and Morocco. In addition to teaching composition courses, she also works as a freelance writer and editor.

Kathleen Lane’s middle-grade novel, The Best Worst Thing, was published

by Little, Brown in spring 2016, and she is currently working on a short story collection and young adult novel. She’s taught writing as a visiting instructor at Pacific Northwest College of Art, and before Portland co-founded ART 180, a nonprofit in Richmond, Virginia that gives kids living in challenging circumstances the chance to express themselves through art, and to share their stories with the community through readings, performances, exhibits, and public installations. Along with Margaret Malone, she hosts the Portland art and literary event series SHARE.

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Bettina de León Barrera is a joyful, bilingual writer born in Los Angeles, California of Guatemalan descent. In addition to being a community activist, she is a Graduate of UC Berkeley and attended graduate studies at St. Mary’s College in Moraga and Mills College in Oakland, CA. Her poetry recently appeared in New American Writing and was chosen as a finalist for the Boston Review 2014 Discovery contest.

Zeloszelos Marchandt is a multi-media creative and arts journalist. Their articles, opinions, photography and illustrations have been published in the Willamette Week, Portland Mercury, Northwest Kids, Portland Family, Drainage, and more. They’ve covered a myriad of music festivals, interdisciplinary events and have directed projects aimed to preserve and project ethnic American history while responding supportively to communities made of different experiences.

Monty Mickelson is the author of the novel Purgatory (St. Martin’s Press), for which he received a Bush Foundation Individual Artist Fellowship.

Mickelson’s short fiction has been published in Loonfeather, Minnesota Monthly, and The Whistling Fire. His creative journalism and essays have been published online at Gently Read Literature and Salon. Two of his YA feature film scripts have been produced for cable television. Mickelson has an MFA in Creative Writing and Writing for the Performing Arts from the University of California, Riverside.

Amy Minato is the author of a memoir, Siesta Lane, and two poetry collections, Hermit Thrush and The Wider Lens. Amy has been a recipient of both a Literary Arts Fellowship for her poetry and a Walden Residency for her prose. She teaches writing through Multnomah Art Center, Fishtrap, and at Breitenbush Retreat Center as well as a community service course in sustainable living at Portland State University. She holds both an MFA in Creative Writing and an MS in Environmental Studies from the University of Oregon.

Laura Moulton is the founder of Street Books, a bicycle-powered mobile library that serves people who live outside in Portland, Oregon. She has taught writing in public schools, prisons, and teen shelters, and is an adjunct professor at Marylhurst University and Lewis & Clark College.

Her social art practice projects have involved postal workers, immigrants, prisoners and students. She earned an MFA from Eastern Washington University.

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Mark Pomeroy is the author of The Brightwood Stillness. He has received an Oregon Literary Fellowship for fiction and a residency at Caldera Arts. His short stories, poems, and essays have appeared in Open Spaces, The Wordstock 10, Portland Magazine, The Oregonian, and What Teaching Means: Stories from America’s Classrooms. A former classroom teacher, he holds an MA in English Education from Teachers College, Columbia University, where he was a Fellow in Teaching.

Matthew Robinson is a writer and educator living in Portland, Oregon.

He is the author of The Horse Latitudes (Propeller Books, 2016) and his words have most recently appeared in Grist, Clackamas Literary Review, O-Dark-Thirty, and the war anthology The Road Ahead (Pegasus Books, 2017). Matthew earned his MFA in fiction from Portland State University and is the recipient of an Oregon Literary Fellowship for fiction.

Joanna Rose is the author of the award-winning novel Little Miss Strange (PNBA Fiction Prize). Other work has appeared in numerous literary journals. Her story “A Good Crack and Break” is in the Forest Avenue Press anthology, The Rain, and the Night, and the River, and an essay, “The Thing with Feathers” (Oregon Humanities) was listed as a Notable in 2015 Best American Essays. She started out with the Dangerous Writers oh so many years ago, and now she and her teaching partner Stevan Allred host the regular Pinewood Table prose critique group.

Stacey Tran is a writer from Portland, OR. She curates Tender Table and her writing can be found in diaCRITICS, The Fanzine, Gramma, and The Volta. Wendy’s Subway released her first chapbook, Fake Haiku (February 2017). Tran is a 2017-18 WITS apprentice.

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Index Benson High School Elliot, Alex 125

Gresham High School Benoit, Will 28

Cleveland High School Bixby, Willa 75 Brown, Katy 70 Burkhart, Moira 79 Connelly, Elena 34 Eisenbach-Budner, Lev 48 Faulhaber, Jeremy 61 Hellberg, Justin 103 May, Claire 118 McCreery, Henry 43 Mistkawi, Bridget 13 Predisik, Peter 132 Qing Li, Jia 39 Replinger, Deirdre 106 Riley-Belew, Finn 99 Slatore, Henry 83 Stanley, Mia 123 Talbott-Bigham, Roxanne 66 Taylor, Alexander 94 Wells, Flora 88

Lincoln High School Becker, Kyla 17 Carton, Abby 81 Cen, Deliang 127 Cohn, Carson 78 Dominic, Bella 40 Hoang, Vivian 68 Johnson, Bella 63 Johnson, Madelyn 138 Levesque, Bridget 119 Namegake, Carelle 108 Rae, Kayla 97 Shaver, Jacob 93 Starck, Ellie 102 Veillet, Poppie 47 Wise, Anna 23 Young, Tony 73

Franklin High School Carlough, Haley 128 Castillo, Travis 133 Hanna, Haylee 131 Kashkan, Daniyil 49 Palzom, Tenzin 20 Potter, Macy 104 Vanderwal, Austin 85 Grant High School Geist, Olivia 25 Janowski, Nora 30 McCallister, Jordan 95 Witscher, Hannah 142

M adison High School Cannaday, James 24 Roosevelt High School Moo, Ashley 136 Rios-Sabalza 130 Simpson, Darel 32 Starman, Alia 51 Yingling, John 111 Wilson High School Cunningham, Sean 15

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Youth Programs Support 2016-17

Anonymous Autzen Foundation Mike R. Barr Kim & Daniel Bissell Bora Architects Broadway Books Susan & Michael BurmeisterBrown

Amy Carlsen Kohnstamm & Kevin Kohnstamm The Collins Foundation Rick Comandich Betsy Cramer Marian Creamer Catherine Crooker Marian Davis & Peter Librizzo 153

Amy Donohue & Paul McKean

Melissa Mills & Doug Tunnell

Theodore & Nancy Downes-Le Guin

Deidra Miner

Ann & Mark Edlen Family Sue & Ed Einowski Ellen Fader Jinx Faulkner & Paul Koehler Caroline Fenn & Mark Bohn Joan Fondell Bob Geddes Sara & Andrew Guest Susan Hathaway-Marxer & Larry Marxer The Bill Healy Foundation Betsy & Tom Henning Henry L. Hillman, Jr. Foundation Anne Hoot Becky Jackson Susheela Jayapal Jeff Jones & Donna Wax KeyBank Kinder Morgan Foundation Carol & Max Lyons Phillip M. Margolin Carolyn & Larry McKinney Sally McPherson & Melinda Helms Richard H. Meeker & Ellen F. Rosenblum Susan Mersereau

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Jessica Mozeico Corrine Oishi Jan & Steve Oliva Andrew & Veronica Proctor Amy Prosenjak & Steven Guy Jon Raymond Arlene Schnitzer Rachael Spavins Storms Family Foundation Bob Speltz Donald & Roslyn Sutherland Herbert A. Templeton Foundation Trust Management Services, LLC Debra Turner Hatcher U.S. Bancorp Foundation WeMake Jackie & William Willingham Tom & Marcia Wood David & Sharon Wynde & many more generous donors, including 272 Portland Arts & Lectures subscribers who raised over $20,000 to Send Students to the Schnitz.

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Writers in the Schools 2016-2017 Student Chapbook This collection contains the work of 55 teenage writers who participated in Writers in the Schools (WITS) residencies in the 2016-17 school year. Their poetry, prose, and comics encompass a huge swath of emotions and experiences. In this addition to the 2016-17 WITS anthology Galaxies on the Ground, you’ll get to know even more talented young writers in public high schools across Portland, Oregon who know that Everything is Changing.

Writing with WITS was way more fun than writing on my own. I got to uncover parts of my imagination that I didn’t even know were there. I learned I had a voice.

–Franklin student

WITS improved my writing immensely. Having a writer made me want to go to English class just to write freely. I am now more proud of my writing.

–Cleveland student

With support from my professional writer, everything changed and now I have excitement about writing.

–Parkrose student