Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

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A publication by Currents: youth for youth by Missouri Youth for Youth A Publication

Summer 2020

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Project Lab St. Louis is honored to publish this collection of art, prose, and poetry composed and edited by Missouri youth. These pieces were created in the fall of 2019, when school was still a material place where more than 56 million young people in the United States spent every weekday. Those hours and days are reflected in the beautiful Iquibusdaand quidis mi, netdrafted magniaon que explicae.paper, Agnisand estidoodles dolorem.

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Currents edited in the winter and early spring, in the shadow of COVID-19, as staff shifted to remote learning in their respective schools, our meetings moved to Zoom, Velicit rferorr orepelique repe ea velique velit volupta ius estius, and weexplace made the decision to shiftnam fromrem paper tosed a digital platform. officita vollorpore nem voloreptatur explis2020, dolorum et volo queand plabore ero Currents is being published in aut summer when private publicptionest conversations offictur? are examining 400 years of racism in education, housing, policing, criminal justice, health care, economic opportunity, labor policy, community investment, the political process, Doluptatur?

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Inda Schaenen Executive Director Project Lab St. Louis June 2020

Cover

Mending of Earth’s Wounds Sana Habib & Sumeja Tursunovic

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Welcome to the very first edition of Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth. Our editors have worked incredibly hard to gather the voices of students from across Missouri and collect them onto the pages you are about to read. We have spent many hours getting to work together, and although no one could have predicted the unexpected challenges we would face due to both our busy schedules and a pandemic, we, just like many others, have found ways to overcome our challenges and connect with one another.

These themes of overcoming challenges, connecting, and gaining new perspectives are exactly the ones that have been reflected in the multiple poems, stories, essays, and art we have compiled. In our design we have decided to take you on a journey of how we interact with the world around us. We have organized our submissions into the categories of Discovering, Questioning, Adapting, and Stating. This order is meant to show how we change as people with the ever-moving currents of life. We hope you enjoy reading as much as we enjoyed making the final product.

Thank you, The Currents Editing Team

May 3, 2020

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Velicit explace rferorr orepelique nam rem repe sed ea velique velit volupta ius estius, officita vollorpore nem voloreptatur aut explis dolorum et volo que plabore ptionest ero offictur?

Doluptatur? Gia nullaboremod qui omnihic iatiscius remo etur? Quibeatem. Em est ipis ulparum esId quatias con nullicatem esequodi cum aut is dolorporum quia quatest ea sunt plandiciet quam quaepel il et, unt anti consed et elestium corit ium idus mos repelis siminctota quo quis excepudipis et adissi as magnis ut ese pro mo quideni tecusdae nos siminih.

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Head Up In Space Rogerlyn Echols

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Questioning When we first emerge into this bright world filled with opportunities, we know nothing. Curiosity is a tool used to expand human knowledge, and adolescence is the time to explore this tool without the training wheels of childhood naiveté. Wisdom and knowledge are acquired by questioning one’s own reality and allowing the answers, no matter how dim and somber they may be, to reformat our way of thinking and push us to grow further as human beings.

Our experiences are what separate us from past generations, and the examination and inquiry inspired by those very same experiences will propel us past the heights they soared to.

These submissions are coming from those who have been through trials of fire — some were burned, some were enlightened.

Either way, the questions and realities they pose reflect on both their experiences and their individual personalities and talents as artists. The artists examine wide themes of heartbreak, pain, and imagination. As the late great John Holt said, “Ask questions to find out about the world itself, not to find out whether or not someone knows it.”

Darion Smith

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

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Slips Away Francie Surdyke

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I think I failed.

Everything was good,

I think that I messed up.

I saw more and more,

I think I’ve done it wrong again.

But the world around is hurtful,

I think that I’m too dumb.

They don’t talk to me much anymore.

I really tried to see.

I’m unreachable,

I tried to do it right.

It’s like they’re scared of me,

I wanted to be better,

I must stand alone.

I wanted to have a life.

Will I never be free?

I was too scared of failing,

I feel the darkness closing in,

I was too blind to see.

I am going to die.

All my life I wanted more,

They didn’t keep their promises,

But I am still just me.

But I didn’t lie.

I don’t care if it hurts,

They told me I would learn,

I don’t want to be alone.

They said I could be smart.

I never tell lies anymore,

They said they’d make me good,

But I wish that I had known.

All they did was break my heart.

I tried not to look,

Will they ever return,

I guess I failed that too,

Will I ever have a friend?

I was scared to death,

Will they ever be kind,

But wouldn’t you be, too?

Or will it all just end?

I thought I would be better,

I wish it all would end,

But I don’t know how to think.

I wish I could be free.

I wish that I could hide,

But it all slips away,

I’m starting to feel sick.

Slips away from me.

Markers Maryam Noor Javaid

He was my pack of markers.

Opened up a world of imagination And filled my life with color. But when he left, the page couldn’t be erased. It struck me then, that the effort and time I had put in, was nothing but a mistake.

the villain in me Maryam Noor Javaid

tears, unexpected, barge in lately u see there are things right now, that got me crazy. these things they tug, and squeeze, and pinch me, they weigh me down, they’re in my own body. i need to find a way to kick them out and let me free, because right now all that’s left of me — is a dumb. little. crybaby.

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

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Ayden Lugo

Rogerlyn Echols & Madyson Perks 6

Friends Bring Out the Best Brooke Higgins

I thought I had the friends of a lifetime.

I was wrong and it’s my fault.

This happened due to my low standards and I now realize that my biggest mistake was letting people stay in my life longer than they deserved.

I thought that I deserved better but I guess I didn’t fight hard enough for what I wanted to get from life.

Maybe next time I’ll get another chance.

What if there won’t be a next time?

I want the chance to prove myself.

I want to show that I am stronger than those who try to tear me down.

I want to be better than what I am today.

I keep everything in.

It’s like I’m the only one that feels out of place And I don’t know how to feel anymore.

Everything is numb.

And all I can do is wish things were better because I have to believe that there is more than this.

I believe that there is light at the end of the tunnel.

And that the noise will get softer, but I must listen.

And then I will be able to think for myself.

Maybe I will understand why nothing makes sense.

But until then I’m going to fight for what I want.

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

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Why Break Hearts Full of Love Haya Meah

When I watch you climb a tree I don’t wonder whether or not you would fall No — I wonder why you climb up You reach the top Gaining full control of all around you We cry out “Give us back our hearts!”

But you leap From branch to branch And reply with a sneer: “Why ever would I do that?”

Your reign of heartbreak entices innocents Each one gives you the benefit of the doubt But you destroy them Taking their hearts And shattering them into scattered bits of glass Each time it happens I wonder Why do you do what you do?

Why must you do it?

I will give you my heart I will let you break it Destroy it Crumble it into a ball and throw it into fire Take it and cut it open, and feed it to the wolves But I ask for one thing: An answer to my question: Why break hearts full of love?

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Masked Person Christian Meriwether

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

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Imagine a world where the hard shell of the human could dissolve, open to the waves of exploration and wonder, never avoiding communication or fear.

Claire Butzlaff 10

Discovering Discovery drives humanity. From the dawn of time, we have been eager to learn. Discovery is the step after questioning — putting actions where words once were. It is the beginning of a new chapter, sparking a change, a drive to be better. It is not always easy, but it is necessary. Nothing would happen if the innate need for discovery was not embedded in our DNA. Revelations allow us to understand more about our world. We remember great people because they shaped our understanding of the world. They revealed some of the many secrets of life.

These submissions reveal the true nature of discovery. These stories come from loss. These stories come from love. These stories come from pain, family, hope, humiliation, and the past. Each writer has a different life and exigence. No one is quite the same. But through reading each story, we find that we are not as different as we think. We share a common thread of hurtful endings and new beginnings. We share our humanity.

Madelyn Pozaric

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

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Seek and Find Joselynn Yates

I told him to go away,

I told you I see a girl,

But he really didn’t care.

Who didn’t know who to be.

I told him to leave me alone,

She was locked in her own little world,

But all he did was stare.

But she couldn’t find the key.

I’m trying very hard,

In an urgent voice I pleaded

To see his point of view,

what this may mean.

Why he stood in my backyard,

And you told me that all I needed,

I truly wish I knew.

Was someone to set me free.

I tried to understand,

You said go find someone who will help

What this truly means.

you find the light.

I tried to understand,

You told me to find someone who makes

What was happening to me?

me feel alive.

You told me to find someone who will

I meant it like I told him,

always hold me tight.

“It takes time.”

You told me to find someone who loved

He talked so fast, his expression was grim,

me and who I wanted to be.

Then he turned away, and said, “That’s fine.”

Although it took a while, I came to understand

I turned away too, my eyes wet with tears,

That it was you I needed most.

I tried to see who I was inside.

You are the one I needed to find the key.

Then you touched my shoulder and said

You are the one I need, and it took me so

look in the mirror

long to see.

I sadly spun around, to see what I could find.

I see myself and you whispered be proud, That’s what you need to be.

Just forget the crowd, And tell me who you see.

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Renaissance Music Maddie Mertz

The fairies danced as my family wove our way through the crowd. We walked past a man swallowing fire, several mermaids cracking jokes, and a boy in a peddler’s outfit carrying a live owl on his shoulder. There was always music playing at the fair though I never gave it much thought. Although I liked the music at the Renaissance fair, it was nothing special.

Just noise. Like all other music. My family continued down the path towards the jousting ring where Sir Philip charged at his opponent in a purple mask atop a white stallion.

It was then that I heard it, like a hurricane that pulled me under the moment I fell in. I was drawn into the sounds instantly. My head turned and my walk slowed as if I were moving underwater. My eyes were fixated on a lady in a pilgrim’s dress. She was perched on a low stone wall with a harp leaning up against her leg. The dark wood had patterns carved into the sides, but the beauty of the instrument was muted by the most important part — the sounds it made. Her fingers moved deftly along the strings and the sounds it made were like a calming ripple on the surface of a lake. The music of the harp rose and I could feel the song drawing me deeper, filling my body and my lungs, permeating my soul and every corner of my being. It was beautiful.

The song was complex, heart wrenching, and beautiful. I had to learn how to play.

It felt essential, the substance of life, the liquid that shaped the earth come to shape my soul. A deeper, heavier world, full of sounds and life that ate away at doubt like water on rock. A world that drowned me the moment I heard it. It was wonderful. My feet were rooted to the ground. My mother called me to move along, I was blocking the path. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. My ears were full of water and my feet tired of treading. The music provided the drink of life to my soul. The music drowned my doubts and shaped my memory.

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

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Bee-ing Kind Emily Butler

“Kindness: It costs nothing, but it means everything.” This is a popular saying, and I believe that acts of kindness can be life changing. Few people think about how they can be kind to others, but always seem to remember the times when others were kind to them. Even though it may sometimes hurt me, I can help others and spread kindness to everybody.

Something as small as listening to others, holding the door open, or even offering a friendly hello can change a person’s day.

A few years ago, my sister Catherine and I were babysitting our neighbors, Anna and William. They wanted to show us the fort they built in the creek near their house. So me and the kids began to walk through the muddy creek. I was wearing flip-flops, so I asked Catherine to run back to our house to get me sneakers. While she was gone, the children and I continued walking down the creek, and found the fort. While Anna and William were showing me different features of it, Anna stepped on what looked like a bump on the ground. A second later, I heard a scream from her. William’s screams soon followed. I asked them what happened.

They were both frozen like statues and wailing like sirens. A swarm of bees surrounded us and began to sting. I noticed the bees were coming from the bump, which I later learned was an underground hive. I had been stung by a wasp before, and it felt terrible. I wanted to run away so badly, but I knew these kids needed help. After a few minutes, Anna, William, and I were able to escape. I got four bee stings. Anna got three. William got just one. While we were walking back to their house, I saw Catherine holding the sneakers for us, confused at why the children were in tears.

We told her about our encounter with the beehive. Catherine and I contacted our neighbor’s mother and our own. A few minutes later, our mom came over with cream to stop the pain. I will always remember getting stung, but I will also remember how I was able to help protect my neighbors. Doing good deeds warms your heart, and will inspire the other person to pass that kindness along.

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Shapeshifter Grace Tilley

Slamming the door behind her, she rushed to the mirror.

Tears streaming down her face. she glared into the soul of the girl whose mom said she couldn’t be replaced.

She was right, but only because she didn’t have a place to begin with.

All the hours she had spent trying to look like them had not protected her from their thunder.

Their words stung even though she expected them.

All the “I’ll text you later” excuses and the “Oh I didn’t know you wanted to go” defenses came back to haunt her. The feeling of defeat when the text never arrived and when they “forgot” to invite her again.

She ran a cloth over her rain-ruined makeup and tore off her dirty clothes.

She wanted to be like them so badly, but if that’s what they are really like, maybe it’s better not to be a shapeshifter.

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

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Danse Macabre Jadyn Kelly

The single light pouring out of the auditorium doors of Shin Seikatsu Private High School was hardly visible from the outside. If not for the darkness of the December sky, it wouldn’t have been seen at all. A sleek, black shoe sat lodged between the door and its frame, holding it open for any curious souls who dared arrive after hours. Within, a quiet drone of mischievous chatter filled the air, interrupted occasionally by the repetitive ringing of instruments being tuned.

It was exactly the kind of party Sosa hated. An audience of classmates, all dressed up in suits and gowns just for fun. As promised by the crumpled flier handed to him a week prior, not a single adult was present for the ordeal. A secret concert wasn’t exactly the most rebellious cause a crowd of pretentious rich kids could rally for, but it was a cause nonetheless. He checked the list of performers, saw his name in the last slot, and sighed.

He had originally planned to stay long enough to play, then leave. In any case, perhaps being the final performer was a good thing. It gave him an excuse to stay longer. Anything was better than lingering at home with Misao. The fists fell harder when Lucy and her diamonds drifted through the clouds.

People around him seemed to silence as he passed, offering their condolences for the events of earlier that day. He shrugged them all off. I’m alright. Don’t let it worry you, we’re here to play and be merry. He would have made his sister proud of the rate at which he spat out those garbage lies. He tried to ignore the eyes he felt at the corner of his vision.

The whole event was orchestrated by an upperclassman that Sosa recognized. Like him, the boy was a prodigy, but rather than violin, he truly shined when his fingers curled around the bow of a cello.

“Hey, everyone. Thanks for showin’ up.” If Sosa remembered correctly, the boy’s name was Ichigo. He felt bad for not recalling his family name. Ichigo entered the stage with the swagger of a man that held no fear of crowds. He was overly casual, didn’t seem to mind the murmur of students talking over him, and struck Sosa as the kind of boy to sit backwards in chairs. He showed the crowd a toothy grin.

“I’m sure you all know, but today is special.” Sosa already knew where this was going.

He wondered if Ichigo was among the massive crowd that came to honor his father earlier that day. His arms crossed tightly over his ivory suit as Ichigo continued, “Seven years ago today, one of the most influential musicians of our time, Mitsui Tsuginori, disappeared.”

Glances flicked in Sosa’s direction, eyes crawling across his skin and leaving behind them trails of raised hair. He wished he had fists to meet them. “I’m holding this recital in his

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honor, in hopes that our music will reach him.” A few whoops from the audience, muffled by the sheer density of warm bodies.

“I want him to know the kind of influence he’s had on all of us.”

Sosa had underestimated just how long it would take to get through everyone. He couldn’t deny, there was some genuine talent in the crowd, but he was in no state of mind to take joy in every performance that he found to be … subpar. Hours passed. He spent his time people watching, observing the groups that had formed in the cramped seats and catching a few eyes wandering his way. I’m not going to let a flashback ruin this for me, he told himself over and over, even as the phantoms in his eyes grew darker. He found no joy in the silence that smothered his corner, in the shadows that sent sensations of touch through his hair and down his shoulders. His uncle Misao’s hands, crushing his chest, fingertips pushing at the edges of the bitter chalk on which he choked. Molly wasn’t as beautiful when she ripped open your eyes and set your skin on fire.

Applause tore his mind from the memories. The release from a flashback was always jarring, like being shoved into freezing water. He gasped when the hands vanished, struggling to fix his face to meet the alarmed stares of any student that noticed. Cursed were his initial thoughts. I’ll stay quiet. I won’t say a word. I’ll get you whatever you need.

Please, just let me go.

The soft chime of the piano onstage turned into a harsh buzz as Sosa tried to regain himself. He took a deep breath, drew the block puzzle out of his pocket … but it was no use. Even as his fingers flicked and flew to align colors and shapes, they twitched with restless fury. He stood, searching for something — anything to calm his nerves. The shuffle of his feet made hardly an echo as he wandered passed the faceless, floating stars to a spot beyond the backstage door.

The space behind the curtain was a party. Everyone was there for the fun of it, a fact which would have made Sosa smile if not for the anxiety that plucked his veins like the strings of a harp. He found a seat away from the activity to breathe. As the tides of panic began to recede, the shared distaste the attendees had towards judges, their musical enemies, boosted his confidence by a fraction. Nothing destroyed a child’s creativity more than having a crotchety old man scrutinize their every move. A variety of sounds reached him from the stage outside: everything from the flutter of flutes to the shred of an electric guitar. His tension eased with a smile. He was enjoying it more than he thought he was, and before he knew it, his turn had come.

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

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He took comfort in the silence just before a performance. A minute or so just to prepare himself, physically and mentally. His eyes swept the cloud of students before him.

Would the men return tonight? Would he relive the sensation of blood, warm and thick, dripping down his lip? A shiver ripped through his body, one he tried his best to hide. He removed his glossy, worn violin from its leather case, brought it up to his shoulder, and had drawn his bow when he was sharply interrupted.

“P … please let me accompany you!”

She was loud enough to startle him. Sosa’s eyes snapped to the source of the voice and he found himself witnessing a sight quite unfamiliar. Thankfully, his brain broke apart the emerging visions with ease, instead making sure to display to him his reality: there was a girl standing at the edge of the stage. He blinked a few times, acknowledging also the giggling from the crowd.

“She can’t be serious.”

“She’s humiliating herself!”

“Isn’t she … ?”

She looked nothing like anyone else present, and Sosa wondered why he hadn’t seen her before. In addition to the golden hair that tumbled like a waterfall down her shoulders, she also wasn’t wearing a dress. She only wore her school uniform, wrinkled beyond recognition with a loose tie to match. Add that to her unbrushed hair, and everything about her looked as if she’d been sitting at the bottom of a laundry basket for quite some time. Despite his initial surprise, Sosa eventually nodded cooly, asking softly, away from the microphone, “Do you know the material?”

The response he received was not from her. From her, he received no response at all.

As she paced nervously to the piano, voices piped up instead from the crowd.

“He’s making a mistake.”

“Someone get her out of here!”

The strange girl’s face did not display any reaction to the taunting murmurs, either.

Her blank stare, tinged with worry, focused only on Sosa. He wasn’t sure exactly what to make of their comments, or even if they were real, but it was the inclusivity of the show that was supposed to set it apart. He continued without a hitch.

He should have known when her first three notes rang out into the air like tiny bells into a winter sky, that she was not an accompanist of his normal caliber. When his violin burst to life, he felt the piano take a breath in unison. It wasn’t long before their spark bounced into flame.

From Sosa’s experience, any new accompanist would be bound to fall behind. They weren’t used to his style, the way he took the melody by the throat and stole the Greats’ places on their thrones. It was impossible to predict the extent to which the spirit of his father flowed through his veins when he took up his instrument. Even had they seen him play, or watched his performances for hours, nothing compared to the real thing.

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This girl did not let up for a single second. She forced him to share this rhythm, matching each drag and thrust of his bow in stride. There was no race to the end, no battle for dominance on that stage. They’d found each other in a dance, hearts burning with the same heat. Passion in the form of ribbons tied them together into a twisting knot of emotion.

Her fingers were gentle when they needed to be, climbing the keys with the grace of a butterfly as the steel strings of Sosa’s violin ground to a screech against his bow.

Seconds later, her butterflies became tornadoes. Each note sang with grand intensity and excitement. From the piano came a low thrum as Sosa’s violin, death in cadence, transformed their song into an intoxicating swirl of sound.

Anxiety was never one to hit Sosa until after a performance was complete. Somehow, tonight, he was someone else. He felt the sweat down his neck and the hitch in his breath as nervous energy hit him in waves. His mind was a tumultuous sea of overthought as their performance hit its peak, notes tumbling around him and falling out of his hands in a way that only heartfelt familiarity could spur. This girl, whose eyes shone blue as the summer sky, had taken him by the collar and spun him wildly around in a way he’d never felt before.

She didn’t play the piano, she conquered it, holding the world in such a way that Sosa’s heart pounded even as the song cooled to a close.

The stunned silence was maddening. Sosa woke with a start to find the only sound he heard was that of his own ragged breath. No figures, not a single one, had come to rest in his vision. He was burdened only by the unusual sweat and soft tremble of his hands.

He turned to see the angel that had joined him, twirling, in his dance of death. It seemed the world rushed back to life and the crowd roared with excitement the moment they locked eyes. When she bowed, she faced the audience, but she looked only at Sosa. He wasn’t expecting her to run from him then.

He slammed his case shut the moment he heard the backstage door close and immediately took off after her. She barely spoke a word to him before leaving him overwhelmed in the remnants of her luster. The echoes of her request bounced around the walls of his mind. Although, perhaps it wasn’t what she said, but what she didn’t say. Almost always a pianist would rise, thank him, and most often, say something about his father.

“Just what I expect from a Mitsui!”

“You really are his son, aren’t you?”

“You sound just as wonderful as he did.”

She didn’t give him any of that. For the second time that night, she had betrayed his expectations entirely. The thrill he got from assumptions denied was unreal. He wanted more. He wanted to feel that jolt in his chest as years’ worth of predictions and established track records crumbled in her delicate hands. Misao’s face vanished underneath the radiance of her sunflower blonde hair. He could only think of her eyes, windows to the sea,

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

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as she bowed her head before him. She didn’t see Tsuginori’s mirror, he knew by the way she called to him. He had to find her. He wanted to find her. He needed to find her.

“Did you see her? Who was she?! What do you mean you don’t — ?”

He cursed. She wasn’t here, she wasn’t there, she wasn’t anywhere. She’d set Sosa’s heart on fire and left, simple as that. Torn, anxious, and riled up by the loss of her identity, Sosa didn’t wait for mentions of thanks before storming back out into the cold night. The pure white glow of the snow-covered ground served only to remind him of the mysterious beauty that presented herself to him. He had plenty to say on the matter as icy crystals gently peppered his face with kisses on his way home.

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In 2031 I hope we have snowy winters , warm summers and mild fall

Commented [1] discovering

In 2031 I hope we have snowy winters, warm summers and a mild fall.

Yusuf Javaid

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

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Thank You Jacquelyn O’Harver

Thank you for my sophomore year

Thank you for putting me into a position

When we played basketball

Where I had to make myself eat

Thank you for always being there

Thank you for showing me

In my thoughts and memories

that I am unbreakable

Thank you for putting me on top of

Thank you for making me push myself

the world

When I just wanted to quit because you

When you walked with me down the hall

were gone

Thank you for making me want things

Thank you for showing me that I can

That I never wanted to do before

have feelings As strong as I did for you

Thank you for giving me hope That I could be with you

Thank you for putting your popularity ahead of me

Thank you for giving me the day

So that I could find myself

When you let me know how you felt Thank you for rejecting me Thank you for walking me around

So that I wasn’t pulled down with you

And giving me a hug while I ran my fingers through your hair

Thank you for pushing me away So that one day I might find someone else

Thank you for those moments Of utter bliss And thank you for pushing me away And leaving me wondering what I had done wrong

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who loves me as much as I love you

Burn with Us Thomas Boldt

There was once an orphanage. It was a fine building that stood on top of a large hill. Many children lived in the orphanage. Every night before the children went to bed they would sing each other lullabies to get the youngest children to fall asleep. The caretakers would lock the children in the nursery to avoid anybody getting out at night time. One night, a maid forgot to turn off the stove top. The heat from the stove caused an apron to catch fire. The fire from the apron soon spread to the rest of the building. All the staff safely escaped. Unable to open the door, the children all burned to death.

In time, the tragic accident was forgotten. Different people moved on and off the land, and there was no trace of the tragedy that happened there. An old man named Steven Gray lived on the land. No one ever heard anything about Steve. He didn’t leave the house. He lived a very normal, unremarkable life.

It was nearing the holidays, and Steve invited his daughter and grandchildren over for Christmas. He needed to get a tree and some extra ornaments. On his way to the tree farm, he heard a deep humming in his ears for a few seconds.

“Must be going crazy,” he chuckled to himself.

Once Steven returned, he put his tree up in the front window. His home seemed warmer than normal but he thought it felt nice. He then heard the humming again.

Steve went to bed and slept. When he arose the next morning, he was sweating. His house was very warm. He turned off his furnace, which seemed to help. Steven decided to decorate the tree. He put all of the ornaments on and when he reached for the star, he heard the humming once more.

“Think I might need to see a doctor,” he said.

He drove into town to see what was wrong. The doctor said he was completely fine.

When he arrived home it was warm again. He opened all the windows and stripped down to boxers and a tank top. Still, the house was hot. He poured water over his head and dropped ice down his shirt, but nothing seemed to work. He then heard a knock at the door.

“D-Dad, it’s me, Ann,” said his daughter from the door.

Steven felt a sense of relief hearing his daughter’s voice. He sprinted to the door and flung it open. He must’ve looked like a crazy person because his grandchildren were startled at the sight of him. He told them to come in.

“Holy cow Dad, it’s freezing in here!” exclaimed Ann. “What do you mean, it’s quite hot,” declared Steve.

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

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His daughter shot him a confused look. Steve was just as confused. Later, during dinner, the family sat silently eating cereal because Steve refused to turn on the oven.

“Are you okay, Dad?” asked Ann. There was a long pause.

“Can’t you hear it?” he replied, “the humming.”

“No, it’s quiet, Dad.” Steve now looked a little angry.

“Think I’m going to go,” said Ann. Steve grabbed her arm and squeezed hard. He kept squeezing until she screamed.

Ann managed to unhinge his grasp. She grabbed her children and ran out the door. The old man sat at the table in grief, listening to the humming. It eventually stopped. He decided he needed sleep so he went to bed without brushing his teeth or taking a shower.

The man had a very unpleasant dream and suddenly awoke. Six children with charred clothing holding candles surrounded his bed. The man couldn’t move.

A small boy stepped forward and said, “The world forgot about us, and they’ll forget about you.”

Another child stepped forward, “In the fire your body will soak, as your lungs fill with smoke.”

The smallest girl stepped forward and said in a deep demonic voice, “The way you treated us wasn’t just, now you have to burn with us.”

They all threw their candles onto the man. He tried to move and get out but he couldn’t. The man’s screams filled the house. They were so horrible and so shrill, they drowned out all other sounds. But no matter how loud he yelled, no one would come, because he was alone.

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Nothing Could Stop Us Andrew Boldt

Do we act the same when we are watched?

Is our personality botched?

What would the world be like if we always acted like we were alone?

Imagine the mood of the world, its tone.

Because in our hearts we know we are all slobs.

Going alone, would we even do our jobs?

The world would fall, the streets filled with mobs.

But the quiet would speak, and who would rise, the weak.

And in the end we’d all breathe free air, All because no one was socially aware.

We’d change.

There’d be a whole new range of people and groups and friends.

We’d run the world to its ends.

People would be honest and nothing could stop us.

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

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To Steal Hearts and Motors Humnah Khan

Diana Bonnet stood in the dark alleyway. The bare light of the moon and the stars that adorned the indigo sky above them gave her silver eyes a blue tint. The moonlight had made a crown of white in her black hair and illuminated her dark skin.

“I thought we were just gonna prank him, Dia,” her panicked accomplice whispered.

She turned to look at her boyfriend. His vivid green eyes were deeply concerned, and his fair skin was flushed pink from the night’s autumn cold. Fletcher had been raised by a lawyer who had taught him better than to steal.

They turned their attention back towards the man who stood outside the bar. His hair was slicked back in a way that told her he was the kind of guy who acted rich — even though he was just a creep living in his mother’s basement. Diana rubbed her nose, trying to get rid of his cigarette’s stench.

“This is a prank.”

“No, this is a felony.”

“You haven’t even heard my plan yet,” she complained.

Fletcher let out a slow breath, gently grasping one of her shoulders from behind and pointing to the smoker’s motorcycle. “I have been watching you stare at that thing for like, five minutes.”

She hummed in response. “Well, I have a reason to. It’s shiny. Plus, that jerk tried to rob Camilla a few days ago.”

He groaned. “More criminals.”

Camilla, her adoptive mother, spent much of her time watching over ladies in the bars. She’d always had a thing for protecting women. Diana supposed it was from losing women who were important to her. Camilla had gotten into a fight with the creep who stood in front of them and in turn, he’d try to rob her. He failed, of course.

Cracking her knuckles as silently as possible, Diana tapped Fletcher’s shoulder as she began to creep in the shadows, closer to the stupid smoking guy and his silver motorcycle. She made sure that her black ankle boots weren’t shuffling against the gravel.

That would make noise. Noise was the true enemy of any thief.

Diana reached the man, barely glancing at Fletcher as he copied her motions. He only stopped to push his glasses back on the bridge of his nose and run a hand through his dark chestnut locks.

26

She pressed a finger to his lips and then turned to the man in front of her. He still had his back to her, and he had Airpods in. Diana hoped Fletcher didn’t see them. When it came to memes, he had no self-control. Still, earbuds didn’t block noise. With that thought in mind, she decided to remain as silent as possible. She exhaled through her nose and flexed her fingers one last time before she drew one hand back and sliced at his cigarette.

It flew far and she would’ve whistled had she not been jumping back gracefully. She watched the guy whip around.

His nostrils were flaring and his blue eyes were wide in anger. He opened his mouth but before he could say anything, Diana balled her fist and socked him in the jaw, making him practically fly back.

Diana grabbed Fletcher’s hand, pulling him out of the shadows and jumping on the motorbike. She smirked. No keys required for this one. Stealing this bike was fate.

Fletcher got on behind her, his hands gripping her arms in fear. “DRIVE!” She activated the ignition and they drove into the night.

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

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Eagle Rogerlyn Echols

28

Trigger Maryam Noor Javaid

Sensibility sprints away, My mind begins to shudder.

Thoughts lose control, Leaving me helpless — Not coming to an end, no hope to recover. Surrendering to demands — from uncontrollable unleashed desires, that hover over my head and thunder.

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

29

Everything Happens for a Reason Ashley Horrell

I sat on the deck in front of the sliding glass door and looked up at the red hot fiery sky.

I breathed in and closed my eyes, feeling the spring breeze on my face. I heard the door open and looked behind me to see my mom smiling, her blond curls bouncing and moving with every step.

Her beaming smile was like a white light in the red hot sky. “It is getting late, why don’t you come inside?”

“I will in a little bit, I’m just thinking.” I looked back at the fire before my eyes.

“Okay, just don’t stay out too late.” She walked back inside and I sighed.

My life was never the happiest. I have dealt with loss, hurt, and pain. I was born to a family that experienced loss. My family lost my aunt — a daughter, a sister, a friend. My mom tried for another child for a long time but could never. When her sister passed away she felt hurt and alone. She would visit her sister’s grave and always wished to have a little girl. One day she prayed, prayed that her sister could put in a word for her to have a little girl, and a couple weeks later she was pregnant with me.

Some can call it luck, a coincidence, but I call it faith. I believe that God gave me to my mother to help put joy in everyone’s life after something so special was taken away from them.

Going through life you are destined to lose everybody, because no one lives forever.

It sucks, it really does, but things in life happen for a reason. I know it is sick to think about it that way but it is.

I believe that everything happens for a reason. If I never was born I wouldn’t have brought happiness in the time people need it most. If I never ended some of the friendships I once had I would be in a toxic relationship that I couldn’t breathe in. If I never lost someone close to me I never would have known why I have to hold them closer and cherish them so much more. If none of these things happened to me I wouldn’t be the person I am today, and I mostly like this person.

Everything happens for a reason.

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Broken Maryam Noor Javaid

Solar He was the sun. Generous, caring and warm, and made every moment brighter. But she got too close — got burned, eyes stung, and the fire left a scar.

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

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Sunshine Christian Meriwether 32

Stars, Soil, and Other Necessities Velouria Grace

Growing up, Ana’s mother had taught her that shooting stars were a sign of good luck and fortune. They spoke of better times to come, hope and peace. Everything was good and well. For years, Ana believed her.

It wasn’t until she grew up that she began to see otherwise. She never doubted, not once. Not until she saw the end of the star’s path. The blackened earth as it crashed into the grass, taking with it the trees and the soil that had once laid there. With shooting stars, came fire and darkness.

Suddenly her beliefs were nothing but dust in the wind, a curse to many, something to fall into her eyes and blind her to what was right in front of her. Suddenly her mother’s beliefs were old, wrong, dangerous.

They began to hold little meaning in her life. Her mother had claimed for years that the stars were the key to all; that all Ana had to do was look to the sky and the heavens would open up to her. The key would click in its lock and all would be clear.

But the sky held no answers, only destruction. Her friends would look up and see beauty and hope, but all she could see were the balls of long since dead stars lighting their planet. Their path was guided by the lights of those past and Ana wasn’t sure she could trust them.

Her mother once spoke of shooting stars, how they paved the way for the lost, lit a path for the blind. Ana had believed her.

They lit the way until they themselves needed guidance as they broke the atmosphere, crashing into the ones they once saved when no help arrived.

Ana was sure she was a shooting star, her mother too. They lit the way until even their flames extinguished, then they crashed, and burned, and flickered out. They fell to the ground, knocking against those they loved, and sending them crashing, too. She would take down anyone who stepped in front of her, whether she wanted to or not. It wasn’t her choice. It never was. Shooting stars were never given choices, only a path of fire and misery, until it all ended in one giant bang of light and sound.

Ana would never go quietly, she would never go willingly.

She was a shooting star, destined to explode.

Her father, however, believed in the earth. All good things came up from the soil; crops, trees, homes, all the Earth. At night, he would tell her, as the stars shined above and her mother whispered tales of the heavens, that the truth lies within the dirt and rocks.

He would tell her that if she simply dug deep enough, hard enough, that all would one day become clear as the sky her mother had put so much faith in.

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

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He would promise that all the rocks beneath her feet could one day become coal, which then became diamonds which then became security.

But he never told her that to find diamonds, you must press. You must press and you must wait. You would keep pressing and pushing and hoping that someday, this piece of crumbling darkness smudged between your fingertips would become something that could keep your family out of want for years to come.

He never told Ana of the wait, either. The waiting, and wanting and wondering. The lingering thoughts, the questions, the what-ifs and doubts that inevitably blossomed in your chest. He would only watch as the days became desperate, making her question if the wait was truly worth the payoff.

Certainly, Ana could wait years and years, generation after generation for the chance that her coal would eventually become enough to save her family. Or — Or she could use it now, for the family she knew. The one she had to save now, not in ten or 20 years. She could dig that coal up from the soil he believed in so much, and use it to put her family through one cold, cold night, give them a warm bed, a heated meal.

But then would come the morning, when life was warm again and no one feared the cold. Then came the morning when her coal was gone and Ana would wait for when the next night was colder than the last.

Even so, would she regret the choice? She may freeze the next time, but she had brought her family breathing into the next morning. After all, shouldn’t that matter most?

Her descendants were of no concern when they did not yet exist. Rather, her brothers and sisters, father and mother, they were beside her; breathing the same air she did, sharing the same bed, eating the same food.

Should she not care for them first?

She cared for her future, as most did. The past could never exist without them, after all. But then, neither could the future without the past.

And so, she took the coal, she crushed it between her fingers, letting her nails be coated with black and soot and she dropped chunks among the flames, before shaking the remains, however small they may be, back into the hole she had pulled them from, knowing she would return one day soon.

There was little, but she tried, she worked for their future with the same hope her father had placed into the earth. With all its soil and gems and rocks and coal and diamonds. She held his hope close, even when she dug deeper than she ever had and came up empty. The next time, she would say. Surely.

But even then, when nothing came to be, she still dug. Digging and digging, holding the hope close to her chest where she could always reach for it.

Overhead, shooting stars soared by on their path of predestined destruction. Colors went by in a flash and a crash could be heard far, far off in the distance.

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Ana, however, believed in neither. She didn’t believe in the earth and its riches, nor the stars that soared over her head every night. Rather, she believed in humanity.

In her life, she had met countless dark souls. Ones who only wished to see the world burn around them, the ones who took a shooting star and harnessed its powers for destruction. The ones who used the diamonds for themselves, then left the coal under pressure for others to burn.

But, some days, Ana would look down, away from those dark souls, and into those who surrounded her — family, friends, the young ones, the growing ones. She could see the hope in them, the fight. They had seen what those before them had done in their time and decided for better. There was never a word spoken between them, but the looks, sharp stares and knowing glances, were enough to know what needed to be done. The ones that told her they would succeed. They would take the world and twist it under their grasp until it once again filled with the light of a thousand shooting stars, and the Earth sprang up with soil and promise once again.

She watched, as others would try to saw them into pieces. Taking knives and scissors and slashing away at them, only finding their blades eventually shattered. A few strikes would land, and they could be knocked away for a time. They would fall to the floor, breath lost, only to pull one another up and twist together once again.

Ana believed in humanity — she believed in the young. Others would be gone one day, and after the young grew old, a new generation would come into play, even better than those before them. Each time, they came fresh and ready and desperate for a change they couldn’t name quite yet. They held hope in their hearts and let it show through to those around them. They shared it with the most hopeless. They peered in Pandora’s Box and pulled out what remained, pinning it to their chests and sharing it with the world.

They were forced into the ground and kept screaming. They climbed out of the soil her father had believed in so much in and took it with them. They used the coal left behind and lit fires within themselves to light the way for others still climbing.

They let the shooting stars fly by and guided them down better paths. They kept them high in the sky and showed them safely to the ground. They left no charred grass or destroyed earth.

They brought only light, and life, and color.

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

35

Business Meeting Holly Jones

Richard Longwood refused to pay for his meal. Despite the credit card and crisp dollar bills sitting thick in his Gucci wallet, he took the bag of takeout, and with a smile as polite as a red herring, shut the door in the protesting delivery guy’s face. Suppressing a smirk, Richard took the crinkling, flimsy plastic bag, pulled out the steaming dinner, and settled down into his pristine white couch, throwing his sneakered feet onto the dark oak coffee table. He stripped off his perfectly tailored, crisp suit jacket, leaving on a tight button-up shirt and ironed tie. As he picked up a file and thumbed through it, Richard waited, listening intently to the Tchaikovsky that waltzed through the roomy penthouse. As he read, Richard got angrier and angrier until his hooded eyes were flashing dangerously, hidden under his large owl-like glasses.

“Five-thousand dollars,” he thought, his fingers deadly calm as they turned to the next page of the file. “Someone has me missing five-thousand dollars.”

The heavy smell of hair gel and cold brew pressed down over the home, drafting over the “vintage” furniture, which was selectively placed to look casually messy. Finally, Richard’s gold monogrammed watch clicked eight o’clock, and a knock rang: three quick, nervous raps tumbling against the door.

“Come in!” Richard called, not even turning his head to look at the opening door.

A man wearing a cheap, ill-fitting suit stumbled into the room. Sweat poured from his collar. His baggy legs trembled against the matte hardwood. His bleary eyes coursed over the penthouse, filled with fear as if it was a tomb, rather than a home. John Cobb, loyal employee.

“Don’t be shy,” Richard purred like a cat inviting a mouse to share a warm dinner, and maybe a glass of wine. He waved his hand absentmindedly to the chair next to him that matched the couch, but was just three inches shorter. Coughing terribly and slurring the snotty evidence of a cold down into his throat with a great sniff, the man’s thick cheeks flushed as he followed instructions. He sat on the edge of his chair, his back held ramrod straight. As he avoided his boss’s eyes, John thought of the email he received two days prior, summoning him to the penthouse. Richard relaxed into the back of the couch, resting his head lightly on his bony white hand, elbow digging into the couch, legs crossed as they planted themselves onto the coffee table.

The man looked at anything, the granite gleaming countertops of the spacious kitchen, the French Press ready for tomorrow’s cup of black coffee, the pocket watch being pulled out of his employer’s pocket, shining as Richard checked the time ticking by.

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“I’m ’ere boss,” the man said, clearing his throat with a hack as he scratched the back of his sweaty neck with picked-at fingernails that were forced into red and peeling cuticles, dirt caking the inside of the nails. Richard curled back in visible disgust. Every time John spoke to Richard it was as if a stranger had coughed a loogie on him in the subway; it was as if he had reached under his seat and stuck his hand onto a still-wet piece of cherry bubblegum; it was as if he had something in his eye all day long, only to get home and find an entire hair scrolled up inside.

“I still don’t understand why we ain’t meeting someplace else.”

“Oh, I think this is much more personal,” Richard crowed, finally looking up as he pushed his shock of blond curls back, tapping his comically large round glasses up his skinny long nose. He licked a single long index finger, flipping to the next page of a paper in a manilla folder. With a gulp, the man realized his name was on the front, bold and black in Times New Roman.

“Well, boss — ” “You have a wife, right John?” Richard interrupted in a slick, oil-spill of a voice, the words gluing themselves to John’s skin. They hissed with tiny whispers, announced John’s title, branded him with the truth.

“Liar! Liar! Liar!” they seemed to call.

“Yes sir,” John answered, blinking perspiration out of his eyes.

“Your job … ” Richard crowed. He made eye contact, unblinking, staring his employee down for a long minute that tik-tik-tikked slowly by. “This is what supports your family, correct? Your wife, Catherine, right? Two sons too? Michael and Jack, I think.”

For a second, Richard hesitated. He felt dry bile in the back of his throat. “How am I to do this?” he thought.

“Yes sir, that’s right sir,” John repeated, feeling a slow shiver ring up his body, from the tips of his toes to the top of his flushed bald head. He shifted uncomfortably in his un-tailored suit, gulping through a dry mouth.

“Looked through your paper from last month,” Richard Longwood said, turning his calculating gaze back to the just mentioned papers, “Seem to be a bit short.”

“Well you know me, boss,” John barked a laugh through petrified lips. “Can’t count to save me life, eh?”

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

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“I suggest you learn,” Richard finished the conversation, standing up and towering just over six-four. His cold words rang like a just silenced alarm clock, quiet, but the blaring kept repeating in the cavern of John’s mind. John opened and closed his mouth like a gasping fish, knowing that any words that slipped through his mouth would be the burning words of a liar. Richard looked down at John, who cowered back in the chair, then oh so slowly stood up, accepting the few inches of space he got to stand, but still uncomfortably close to his boss, whose minty breath was steaming down John’s neck, freezing cold against the burning feverish unshaven skin. The stench of John’s sweat and nerves mixed in a nauseating cocktail with Richard’s cologne. The smell wafted between the close proximity of the two men, and Richard furrowed his narrow nose in barely concealed disgust, noting in his mind the minor details that can take a man from class to trash.

Oblivious, John swung back and forth on his squeaking, brand new shoes that burned his ankles in a building blister as he walked, since they hadn’t been broken in yet. They had been bought two days ago with a chunk of a suspiciously gained five thousand dollars.

Richard opened his mouth to announce John’s termination, but hesitated, having thought of his threat from moments before. The two boys. The wife.

“How am I to do this?” Richard thought again. He swallowed the termination and let it bubble and brew.

John thought of his boys and his wife, tributed in a thinly veiled threat from his boss, whose eyes twinkled as he calmly warned of harm to their well-being. He thought of his shoes, and the new clothes, and food, and comforts that he could provide for them out of a small fee of guilt. Swallowing his troubles through his cold-slicked throat, he rolled his shoulders back and grabbed his employer’s hand with a gusto he didn’t feel.

“I’ll see you Monday then … nine A.M. sharp, as usual,” Richard Longwood said, never breaking his glass-covered stare, reaching for John’s reluctant grip and shaking his moist hand firmly. John nodded respectfully, releasing himself from the meeting.

38

Imagine a World Matthew Taylor

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

39

Interdimensional Eraser Rachael Voss

It was safe to say one thing about Mark’s life and that was that he disliked schoolwork strongly. It seemed that it always took longer than it should have, but, being a college student, he understood that it had to be done.

This was his exact internal battle as he forced himself into the library. Everything about his mind said no, but everything about his … his … Well, actually, everything about him said no.

He had an English paper due in two days and a pile of physics worksheets waiting for him in his binder. It wasn’t something he was looking forward to.

Accepting his fate, Mark set his backpack on the floor next to him and dug around inside it for his laptop and books, mentally calculating how much money he would have to spend on coffee for the day. It was unarguably a lot. No wonder college students were always in debt.

He spread his supplies over the table and reached into his pencil case to retrieve a pencil and eraser. However, when his hand emerged from the bag, it was with only a pencil.

Mark slid the case toward him and dug around for a few minutes. Still nothing.

He emptied the bag out in front of him and searched through the seemingly endless pile of highlighters, pencils, and broken pens, but still no eraser. The boy rolled his eyes and began stuffing everything back into his bag.

A half hour had passed since the disappearance of his eraser and it quickly slipped his mind while he typed away at his essay and took notes in his notebook. Though annoyed, he was too apathetic to waste an hour of his time looking for an overrated piece of rubber.

It smudged anyway, he thought, reaching for his coffee nonchalantly. His relaxation quickly turned into confusion as his eyes landed on what was on top of his cup.

Perfectly and guiltlessly on the lid of his coffee sat his eraser. Mark picked it up, examined it between his fingers, dropped it into his palm, then set it onto the table midway between his notebook and his computer.

The boy watched it for a minute as if expecting it to move of its own accord, but it didn’t. It simply sat there.

He rolled his eyes and returned to his work, every so often glancing down at his eraser to make sure it was there.

After a few hours, he had almost entirely forgotten about the incident. It hadn’t crossed his mind since he had gotten to the third body paragraph of his English essay; Mark was more confused as to why he was writing an eight-page paper as a STEM major than to the mystery of how his eraser miraculously appeared on top of his coffee cup.

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He yawned and closed his laptop, finally finished with his work for the day, and looked down at the table. Lo and behold, no eraser.

“Where — ” he started his question, but stopped when he felt something fall from atop his head and hit the floor.

Mark looked down, knowing exactly what he would see, and picked up the mischievous pink office supply that had been causing him so much trouble. “What the — ” he twirled it around in his fingers and put it back in his pencil case, then stood to pack up.

He was giddy with excitement as he thought about the perfect experiment he could conduct in his dorm. There was no way that eraser was going to disappear this time.

At least, not without him seeing it.

Mark set the eraser in the middle of his desk and placed his phone in front of it, positioning his camera so it was centered on the eraser. It was bathed in the light of his lamp, a cold and powerful thing that snuffed out all life and destroyed all ability of concentration. He had spent many late nights at that desk, but tonight would be for a different reason.

He was going to catch his eraser on camera.

Mark sat intently in front of his desk and pressed the red button on his phone screen.

Ding.

And so began the recording.

He made his way to the other side of his dorm and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Eventually, the sun began to set and he gave up. So much time had passed with nothing happening that he stopped the video, plugged in his phone, and got ready for bed.

He had to admit that he was a little disappointed about not catching anything. Someone must have been messing with him in the library. He only wondered who it was.

Sighing disheartedly, he took one last glance at the eraser. He had fully expected it to be there, but in accordance with the trend he had been experiencing within the last couple of hours, it wasn’t.

Mark’s groggy-eyed expression morphed into one of full awareness as he sat up from his bed and made his way cautiously toward his desk. Its surface was completely empty, save for a lamp, a cup of pencils, and a clock.

He reached forward and dumped out the cup, but it was exactly as he had thought.

Only pencils. No eraser.

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

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He searched the floor, his bed, his shoes, his closet, his backpack, his nightstand.

Nothing. The eraser was nowhere to be found.

As Mark pulled his head out from his search under his bed, he saw the dim glow of his clock against the wall. His vision blurred from exhaustion, his brain barely registered the red, illuminated numbers.

The time read just past two A.M. It was safe to say he almost peed himself. He had a nine o’clock lecture in the morning; he was most certainly not going to sacrifice thirty thousand dollars’ worth of scholarships for an eraser.

Confused and tired, he started toward his bed and plopped down face-first into the sheets. By ten past two, he was engulfed in sleep.

The next morning he woke happily. His sleep-duped mind had completely thrown out all thoughts of the missing eraser. In fact, it might have thrown out a few too many things, like setting an alarm for his lecture.

After checking the time on his phone, he began thinking of any excuse he could tell his professor for being late to class. Sorry, I overslept. No. Way too cliché. Sorry I’m late.

My eraser’s been teleporting in and out of our dimension and might have the power to bend space and time. Yeah. He’ll believe that.

He slipped on a pair of pants and a shirt and quickly ran a comb through his hair, popping a breath mint in his mouth to hide the fact that he hadn’t had enough time to brush his teeth. Then he was out the door.

Mark raced across campus in the pouring rain. His shoes, which were definitely not made for this kind of weather, slid and squeaked with every step he took.

Ten minutes had gone by when he finally crept through the door to the lecture hall, attempting but failing to mask the horribly obvious squealing of his soaked tennis shoes.

“What are you doing?”

Mark paused in his tracks and slowly turned to face his professor. “I’m sorry, sir.

I was late to class. I thought I might just — ” “You’re soaking wet! Look at the water you’re tracking all over the floor!”

Mark’s hopeful expression fell. “I apologize, sir. I — I can get some paper towels from the bathroom or — or — ” “No,” said his professor. He was one of the most unpopular teachers in the school, notorious for being unfair and high-strung. “I think it’s best if you leave.”

“Sir?” His face twisted into a mass of angry wrinkles as he pointed a twiggy hand toward the door. “Get out.”

Mark left the hall more embarrassed and disappointed than he had ever been in his entire life.

He practically sprinted back to his dorm room, longing for the comfort of his bedsheets and his pillows and a bowl of warm ramen. His legs carried him through the torrent of rain at a fast jog, passing by groups of people huddled under umbrellas or cocooned within their jackets, until he heard someone call out his name.

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“Hey, Mark!” It was his roommate, Josh. “I think you left this in our dorm earlier. I found it in the fridge?”

Mark took the object in his fingers and frowned. It was his eraser.

Before he knew what was happening, his head began to spin. Black spots danced around in his vision, the ground beneath him getting closer and closer. The stress of his morning had finally gotten to him. He could almost feel the concrete against his cheek — Mark shot up out of his bed and tore off his sheets, skin and hair drenched in sweat. His lungs heaved for air and his heart pounded out of his chest, so loud he thought it might explode.

He didn’t know where he was, nor how he had gotten there. He only knew that it was now night and that he was not dressed in the pair of jeans and tennis shoes he had put on that morning.

Mark glanced around himself urgently, searching for any signs of where he might be.

A fridge. A bed. A desk.

It was his dorm.

He breathed a sigh of relief and laid back, thankful that everything that had happened was just some sick, twisted, and oddly specific nightmare. He had never had a more stressful dream in his life.

Mark lay thinking in his bed for a few minutes about what had happened and what to make of it. Had he really let himself get terrorized by an eraser? How threatening could it really have been? Had he eaten something weird before he went to bed that night?

An unceremonious grrrrr interrupted his thoughts and he looked down at his gurgling stomach.

“Really? Right now?” Mark whispered to himself. He threw his head back onto his pillow in frustration, then stood shakily up in search of a pack of ramen.

He shuffled toward the microwave and grabbed a pack of noodles from beside it.

Bowl of water in hand, he opened the microwave and set the bowl inside. It slid in perfectly.

Mark spun around to grab the open pack of noodles and plop them in the bowl, but stopped short once something pink caught his eye. He moved the bowl out of the way and felt his stomach lurch at what he saw.

It sat innocently next to his bowl of noodles as if it had been there the entire time. He knew it wasn’t a living thing, but it seemed to be smiling back at him in the most mocking way an office supply could.

His eraser was back.

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

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Iquibusda quidis mi, que explicae Agnis esti dolorem

Iquibusda quidis mi, net magnia que explicae. Agnis esti dolorem. Ita iusam, consequibus volor maxima adistet vendi blacest lique estia pedipictium es exerunt dolorec epuditistia sequam haritat accus.

Velicit explace rferorr orepelique nam rem repe sed ea velique velit volupta ius estius, officita vollorpore nem voloreptatur aut explis dolorum et volo que plabore ptionest ero offictur?

Doluptatur? Gia nullaboremod qui omnihic iatiscius remo etur? Quibeatem. Em est ipis ulparum esId quatias con nullicatem esequodi cum aut is dolorporum quia quatest ea sunt plandiciet quam quaepel il et, unt anti consed et elestium corit ium idus mos repelis siminctota quo quis excepudipis et adissi as magnis ut ese pro mo quideni tecusdae nos siminih.

Ilitia ni offictest et ut diorerum asim vendis sus aut lab illest reptatecea audam everupt aquaerita sum quis delesed mo odignis ut utempor eperfer fererit aceruptur as dolessi culpa cor aut harum latius, cusam, sequo optatia pero eaquisquo que plique volorem vid maio. Et rae porit plabori beatem quodiciet, optur mil in re magni ium et audae sus aborum et, si ipsa eic te pe volest, natum quam re voluptatur?

Lily Bartin

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Adapting Our lives are different in some ways and similar in others. However, each of our lives unfolds inside our own individual bubble. On some days we live in an unchanging normal. Some of us like silent, quiet lives, while some of us want an exciting, action-packed life with changes at every turn.

The submissions in this section are about people living their normal life, when suddenly things change. In one piece, someone describes moving around at a young age and having to get used to new places. Sometimes changes are for better, sometimes for worse. Changes might be permanent or last less than a month. In all of these cases, though, it’s about change — an unstoppable force of life that runs rampant.

In the end, change affects all of us and everyone around us.

Your life in a bubble has now burst and you must explore the outside world. Whatever the change is, you must — no, we — must all ADAPT.

Marshawn Williams

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

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With Every Hardship Comes Ease Noor Husein

Imagine going to a brand new school and not knowing any of the students or teachers.

This happened to me — not once, not twice, but six times. Although I am only eleven, I have been to six schools and am a successful student with a high GPA. I’ve experienced a wide variety of teaching styles, demands, and peer groups.

I am currently in my sixth school. I have been to Kingsley Community School in England; West Rise in England; Greenbank in England; Lisa Academy Chenal in Arkansas, USA; Huda Academy in Arkansas, USA; and my current school, Al-Salam Day School in Missouri, USA. I faced many hardships moving so often. One of the problems I faced was fitting in.

In one of the schools I went to, my brothers and I were the only Muslim people there. We had to get used to going to an empty place to pray. Another hard adjustment was moving from England to America. England and America have slightly different types of English.

For example, in England, people spell the word favorite “favourite.” They spell color “colour.” Despite all of that, I am still a successful student, thanks to Allah.

The message that I am trying to send is that despite how much you go through, you can still be successful. In the Quran, Allah says, “For indeed, with hardship [will be] ease.”

(Chapter 94 Verse 5). What Allah is trying to show in this verse is that there will not come any hardship without ease. This doesn’t just happen with me. I can think of many people who have gone through hardships and still succeeded.

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The Hum Andrew Boldt

UGH! Mondays.

Just like any other day, I had to get up at 6:00, get dressed, and go to work. I was brushing my teeth and I began to hum. I don’t know why but humming my own tunes has always been comforting.

Hm-hm hm-hm hmm-hm hmm-hm hm-hm-hm.

I’ve always loved that tune, it’s so calming. I use it for Mondays a lot.

For my normal routine I walk to work to get my steps in. Because of the briefcase, it’s really an arm workout. The day was cloudy. There was an eerie sense, almost like something bad was going to happen. No matter. I had to get to work instead of worrying.

“Johnathan, c’mere,” my boss called. “You’ve been doing really well and excelling in all areas better than anyone else, and I want to promote you to acting manager.”

I almost jumped out of my seat.

“YES!” The whole office heard me and stared through the window. Then, more quietly, I told him I’d love the job.

OH! Tuesdays.

This Tuesday I’m excited because I’m the new manager at my office! I got up, brushed my teeth, and started humming.

Hm-hm-hm-hm-hmmm!

This was the happiest jingle I could think of. I was walking down the street and then — a sudden quiet. I could still see people’s mouths moving and hear them but something was … missing. Then everyone fell silent. They knew something was wrong. I heard the leaves fall and an eerie wind blew through all of us. Something had stopped. It was the noise. A noise we’d been hearing every day. A slow, monotonous sound that had played all our lives, had been playing throughout all of history for all we knew. And now it had stopped. We only noticed it now because it had stopped.

I could see the fear in everyone’s eyes. Everyone knew the noise had stopped, but no one spoke of it. No one knew what it was. No one knew what it meant, and no one knew what would happen. Days were quieter, and not just because of the missing sound. People were too scared to speak.

It was like once the noise had stopped so had everyone else. Days were darker, colder, quieter. You don’t notice something in your life until it’s taken away. I didn’t know what to do, so I hummed.

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

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Hm-hm-hm-hm-hmmm.

Each passing day builds tension and fear. The day the world goes silent is today.

The sun rose quietly and I got ready for work tensely. I walked the same path to work like any other day except it wasn’t filled with people. That was normal now. When people leave their homes it’s because they have to, not because they want to. That’s the fear the silence put on us.

It wasn’t so much fear, but the mysterious and ominous anticipation that we have for such a big change. The weather is dark, the clouds so thick that it almost seems like night all the time now. You couldn’t have imagined living in a silent world, just because one sound had stopped. I called it The Hum. I do not know what others think of it. It’s amazing to even hear someone’s voice anymore.

I’ve heard so many horror stories and so many scary tales but this one is the worst, not because I have to live it but because I don’t know what the thing is that we have to fear. All I know is that it is there. And that we have to wake up each morning.

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Yin Yang

Ancient Tree

Rogerlyn Echols

Rogerlyn Echols

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

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Prayer is Powerful Marybeth Curtis

I’m blessed to have a Grandma who is caring and loves everyone. She has one of the strongest faiths of anyone I know. My Grandma believes God is all powerful and will take care of her and her family. To strengthen her faith, she goes to church, bible study and serves others in her church. She prays all day everyday and knows God will always answer her prayers.

My Grandma lives in Pacific, Missouri. with my Papa. She enjoys spending time with her friends and family by going out to eat, having them over, shopping and traveling to see family in other states. My cousins Charlie, Sophie and I love to go to my Grandma and Papa’s house. They often will take us to a movie, to Five Below, to church or out to eat.

When my Grandma hugs me it feels tight and warm, and I can count on a hug every time I see her.

In 2016, all of these things my Grandma loved doing came to a screeching halt because she couldn’t walk more than four or five steps without her lips turning purple and having difficulty breathing. Instead of having fun with her family, she had to spend her time going to different doctors and specialists. The first doctor took his time running a bunch of tests, which, within two weeks, put her in the hospital. She was then diagnosed with Afib, a problem with her heart. The doctor put his hands up and didn’t know what else to do.

My papa began to help her research other doctors and specialists, and they moved on to a new doctor closer to their home. This doctor determined that she had a small hole and sack around her heart, preventing it from beating properly. Therefore, he encouraged her to lower her sodium intake and have surgery at Mercy Hospital.

It was a very long day. My mom, her siblings, my papa and their friends waited patiently that day and we were all scared, but not my Grandma. She told everyone in the hospital that she had lots of people praying for her and she was going to be just fine. My Grandma went home and began to get well and got back to her activities. Even though my Grandma went through two very hard, scary, difficult years and was very sick, she didn’t just mope around because her faith told her God would heal her.

After seeing my Grandma go through this, I believe that prayer is very powerful because it gives us hope. I believe that my Grandma is still here and hugging me today because of the power of prayer.

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Tsunami Tyzauna Patrick

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

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Bad Girl Peter King

Annabelle’s Goldilocks hair draped down like a curtain just below her shoulders. Her ocean-blue eyes glistened in the sun. She stared out the window in her room. A warm salty tear trickled down her face. She turned after hearing what sounded like the front door slam.

“I did it! I did it! I did it!” Annabelle heard echo through the halls. She grunted and wiped the tear from her cheek.

“That’s wonderful sweetheart!” her mother said.

“We couldn’t be more proud!” her father said.

Annabelle knew exactly what it was. Annabelle had a twin sister, Anna. They were in the same grade, had the same Goldilocks hair, the same freshwater eyes, the same everything. They were simply identical. But their parents had always seen Anna as “the pretty twin.” They gave her everything. Annabelle had once heard her mother and father talk about how she, Annabelle, was the ugly one. After hearing this, the boiling pot of anger began to brew deep inside Annabelle. There had been a huge school assignment due at the beginning of that week and their grades had just been released. Annabelle received a 98 and her sister an 86.

Anna was overjoyed with her score. She came home from school and mentioned it to her parents. However, the reaction of her parents stabbed Annabelle through the chest.

“A 98 isn’t a 100, Annabelle Marie,” her father scolded.

“Two points, Annabelle? Really, it’s two points.” Her mother sulked with disappointment.

This was their family pattern. When Annabelle received compliments from her parents, it was always taken back because her parents mixed up who was who.

Annabelle looked at the desk in the corner of the room. Sitting there was a doll. It was Anna’s, and Annabelle hated it. She hated it because it was supposed to be hers.

Now it was one of the many things Annabelle hated about Anna. Anna had received the antique doll for her birthday, the same doll Annabelle had asked for. The doll sat primly on the desk, one hand placed atop the other on her lap. Its porcelain head was slightly tilted to the right, with chocolate brown hair in braids dangling on its shoulders. The dress was white, the color of clouds, and a blue flower was sewn into the left side. The doll had belonged to their mother as a child. Their mother gave it to Anna, who didn’t even want it.

The girls’ 11th birthday was nearly a month ago, which was when the doll became a

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problem. Annabelle had to sit there and watch Anna ignore the doll and only play with it only to make her jealous. For her birthday, Annabelle got socks. Socks. Pink and purple socks. Nothing at all would have been fine.

Annabelle got up and walked back into the house. She made it to her bedroom.

“Out of my way, Annabelle!” Anna shoved Annabelle to the floor and marched over to the bed to grab the doll.

“It’s absolutely disgusting that you look like me. We’re completely identical, and yet somehow, I’m still prettier than you,” Anna snarled. She sounded like a whiny four-year-old who just dropped their ice cream cone.

“Yes, Anna. It is a bummer that we look the same.” Annabelle growled through her teeth.

Anna sat on the bed. She had undone the doll’s braids and was brushing its hair.

Even the doll hated Anna; Annabelle swore she could see it frown when Anna picked it up. Its perfect plastic face only smiled when it saw Annabelle. She could see the doll’s painted smile curve up to its cheeks, as if it were alive.

Anna threw the doll on the bed and marched out of the room, swearing at Annabelle as she went. Annabelle shut the door and walked over to the bed. She picked up the doll and touched its cold porcelain skin.

As she brushed the doll’s hair she thought back through the last ten years of her life, trying to find the reason she was hated so deeply by her sister. They had had little arguments as children about who got to shower first, who got the first hour on the TV at the end of the day. Somehow, even then, the parents let Anna go first.

There was nothing, absolutely nothing, that Annabelle could think of that would cause such hatred. Especially with her parents. She had done nothing worse than Anna.

When they were younger the favoritism wasn’t as obvious. They still favored Anna, but it wasn’t half as bad as it was now. It had never gotten to the point of Annabelle planning to run away, never. Annabelle had plotted running away for so long, she even packed a small duffle bag and kept it hidden in the tiny closet she kept her clothes in. She dreamed of the day she would leave. She would have dreams about running away and finding a family that loved her, cared about her, and paid attention to her. But she knew it was just a dream, she knew it. As Annabelle imagined a better life she watched the doll, mesmerized by it. She lost herself in the eyes of the doll, and she wanted to take it. She wanted to save it from her horrible sister.

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

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“Annabelle!” Her mother was shouting from the living room. Annabelle threw the doll onto the bed and ran to the corner of the room.

“Yes?” As she headed towards her mother she saw Anna sitting in a chair, flipping her the bird as she passed. Annabelle rolled her eyes.

“I want you and your sister to pick a few things up from the store.

Her mother handed Annabelle a list; it was a bunch of common kitchen foods. Eggs, flour, butter, sugar. Annabelle suspected they were making cookies of some kind.

Annabelle grabbed the list and ran out the door as her sister followed.

They began walking, and Anna started talking, just the usual annoyances. Anna had brought that stupid doll with her, swinging the poor thing by its arm. Anna was saying the typical things, until it came out.

“No one loves you, Annabelle. No one. It’s funny that you thought mom and dad did, they want to give you up for adoption. You were the last thing they wanted in their life, and certainly the last thing I wanted.”

Trying to ignore the words, Annabelle rolled her eyes and clenched her fists. As they walked deeper into the woods, they came to a creek. The calming sound of the running water was destroyed by Anna’s ugly voice. Annabelle looked at the doll, still swinging.

“I’ll never understand why you turned out so disgusting, Anna,” Annabelle muttered.

Anna didn’t hear her, and continued her speech about the many things that annoyed her about Annabelle. What she failed to mention was that she’d heard a conversation her mother was having with her father about how Anna was everything that their mother had ever wanted in a child. She hated Annabelle. It pained the mother to live with her. They were deep into the woods, nearly into town, when the argument heated up.

“Mom and dad wanted to give you up for adoption, Annabelle. You should run away before they send you to a family that hates you even more than we do.” Anna’s disgusting, prissy, repulsive voice echoed in Annabelle’s ears. Her anger and rage built up; she felt like she was going to explode. She simply couldn’t do it anymore, live with this horrid sister who had caused so many complications in her life. She felt her adrenaline spark like a firework, and explode pumping through her body.

“Shut-up, Anna! Shut-up!”

That’s when it happened. Nearly twelve years of anger finally burst. She exploded like a bomb. Anna’s body cracked and splashed as it hit the creek. She screamed and then was quickly silenced by the rock that her head had split on, cracking like a raw egg. Her arm slammed against the water, releasing the doll which fell and floated nearly a foot down the creek until it caught on a nearby rock.

“Anna?” Annabelle stood on her toes and looked into the now-crimson water.

She had to think about what to do with the body. She couldn’t just leave Anna in the river where she would be found. There was no way Annabelle could cover this up. She dragged her lifeless sister out of the water and pulled her to shore. She looked around the woods. She saw one option, but it would take hours. She dragged her over to a tree, where

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she saw the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. It was a deep hole. She grabbed her sister’s blonde braids and pulled her over to it. She grabbed both hair ties from Anna’s braids, then kicked her down to the bottom of the hole. She began digging dirt with her hands and throwing it onto the lifeless body. It took Annabelle an hour to build up enough dirt to cover the body at the bottom of the hole. Thinking that was enough, she ran home.

Her mind was racing as she thought about what she was going to say, what she was going to do. She stopped at the path leading up to the front door and glanced at the doll.

That’s when it struck her. She put her hair into two braids on either side, using the hair ties she took from her sister.

“Mama! Mama!” her voice howled through the forest. She ran up to the door. Her mother burst through.

“What is it?! What is the matter?!”

“It’s Annabelle, Mama, I can’t find her anywhere! We were playing hide-and-seek in the woods! I tried looking, I really did!” Annabelle could feel her voice transform into the hyena squeal her sister always spoke in.

“We were halfway to the grocery store when Annabelle decided she wanted to play hide and seek, I agreed, because I thought we’d only play one round and then I couldn’t find her!”

The doll was swinging at Annabelle’s side.

“Oh, Anna, sweetheart.” Her mother hugged her, held her in her arms. Her mother smelled like fresh roses and Dawn soap. Annabelle melted in her arms. Her heart pumped and she began to heat up.

Her mother whispered. “Why are you so dirty, love?”

“I fell, Mama. I fell in the middle of the forest on wet mud.” Annabelle wiped a make-believe tear from her cheek.

“Anna, dearest, go upstairs and wash the dirt from your fingernails. Then you can have some food. We’ll ring for the sheriff about your sister.”

Her mother smiled and caressed Annabelle’s face. Her head was soft like a pillow, and warm like tea.

“Yes, Mama,” Annabelle replied, gleefully dancing up the stairs.

“I love you, Anna,” her mother said.

If you love me as Anna, then Anna I shall remain.

Annabelle was overjoyed. She would finally be loved by her mother and father, and she would never see her horrendous sister ever again. She knew that for a fact.

Annabelle’s father had just come home and she heard him and her mother talk about how “Annabelle” was missing.

“Missing, you say?” Her father’s voice shook the house.

“The girls went grocery shopping, Anna came home explaining that they were playing a game of hide-and-seek. She couldn’t find Annabelle.”

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

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Annabelle decided to leave the house to get her mind off what was going on. She grabbed the doll and headed for the door.

“Where do you think you’re going, Anna?!” her father exclaimed.

“I wanna take a walk to the creek. I’ll be quick, I promise! I love the creek. That’s where Annabelle and I used to play. I can see if she’s there?” Annabelle made every excuse to leave the house before they suspected anything.

“Stay on the path, please God, Anna, stay on the path.” Her father turned to her mother. “She has a point, the girls were together, she may know more about where Annabelle may be. However, if you’re not home within the hour, Anna, it’s not going to look good for you if your mother and I have to find you.” Her father’s voice resonated like a policeman’s.

“Yes, father, I’ll be home in less than an hour!”

With that Annabelle, left for the woods, the doll still in her hand.

Annabelle began walking on the path until she was out of sight of the house. Then she darted into the woods looking for the hole she had left her sister in. Although she had sworn it was close by the path, she couldn’t find it anywhere. She searched everywhere for that hole. And now she had a gut feeling Anna might still be alive. She had to check for herself, otherwise she’d live in agony, waiting for the day her sister would return home.

She decided to give up. Annabelle knew Anna was dead. There was no chance she’d come back home. Annabelle turned around and headed for home. She followed the path for what seemed like forever. She’d have been home by now, but the woods kept getting thicker. The wind brushed against the trees and whispered to her. She swore she could make out words. She continued walking, but the path wouldn’t end. It just kept going. And then it began to get dark. Annabelle felt so tired, so exhausted. She sat down by a tree and began to cry — steamy tears that streamed down her cold pale face. She had walked on this path a hundred times, and now all of a sudden it seemed the path had a mind of its own and was guiding her deeper into the forest. She closed her eyes.

When Annabelle awoke, she heard the nighttime animals and shivered in the cool breeze that bit through her skin. She began to cry again; she would never make it out. It was as if the path got up and walked to another part of the woods. Annabelle picked up the doll and held it close. She could swear she heard her sister in the woods, a ghostly whisper. A whisper that made Annabelle’s spine quiver and her shoulders hunch. The voice was Anna’s; she could recognize that voice in an instant. Anna sounded like the undead, and Annabelle clutched the doll close to her chest. A cold wind blew as she swore she heard her sister in the woods. Anna spoke in a parental voice, “You’ve been a bad girl, Annabelle Marie.”

Annabelle tried to shake the voice she had just heard. It had to be her mind playing tricks. At the same time, Annabelle knew just as well as Anna’s ghost that she was not going to find her way back home, and that she would never leave those woods.

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Muslim Struggles in America Serene Khalil

Asalamu Alaykum, that’s the Muslim saying for peace be upon you, but when people think of Muslim struggles, they really have no clue.

Oh, the name-calling or bullying, that gives us so much stress, For the way we speak or the way we dress, Calling us terrorists, villains, bombers, or oppressed.

Sometimes, these words hit us like lightning, The thunder that comes out of us is striking, And the rain that falls from our eyes is so tiring.

You look at the constitution and you find “We the people” Last time I checked, wasn’t that supposed to mean equal, But it turns out, the founders were hypocritical and evil.

Well, that was history, let’s talk about the present, Most of the trash-talk comes from the president, This makes so many people discontent.

In the end, not all people are mean or bad, In fact, there are so many people that help us when we are sad, Or can calm us down when we are extremely mad.

With all the sadness that comes with weep, I wish all of this could go to sleep, but thank you for listening to struggles so deep.

Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth

Summer 2020

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Iquibusda quidis mi, net magnia que explicae. Agnis esti dolorem. Ita iusam, consequibus volor maxima adistet vendi blacest lique estia pedipictium es exerunt dolorec epuditistia sequam haritat accus.

Velicit explace rferorr orepelique nam rem repe sed ea velique velit volupta ius estius, officita vollorpore nem voloreptatur aut explis dolorum et volo que plabore ptionest ero offictur?

Doluptatur? Gia nullaboremod qui omnihic iatiscius remo etur? Quibeatem. Em est ipis ulparum esId quatias con nullicatem esequodi cum aut is dolorporum quia quatest ea sunt plandiciet quam quaepel il et, unt anti consed et elestium corit ium idus mos repelis siminctota quo quis excepudipis et adissi as magnis ut ese pro mo quideni tecusdae nos siminih.

Ilitia ni offictest et ut diorerum asim vendis sus aut lab illest reptatecea audam everupt aquaerita sum quis delesed mo odignis ut utempor eperfer fererit aceruptur as dolessi culpa cor aut harum latius, cusam, sequo optatia pero eaquisquo que plique volorem vid maio. Et rae porit plabori beatem quodiciet, optur mil in re magni ium et audae sus aborum et, si ipsa eic te pe volest, natum quam re voluptatur?

Life D’Maurion Johnson

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Insomnia Maryam Noor Javaid

It’s a dark Tuesday night, as I lie in bed. My body is exhausted from the day’s events, yet my senses awaken and my thoughts begin to crawl in — the ones I very much dread.

His eyes peer through the cracked window, his rough hands rattle the knob at my door, his threatening words float through the air and suddenly my room begins to shrink.

He barges into my mind, grabs some cushions and gets comfy on its floor. He’s here for the night, a sleepover I always expect, but never prepare for.

At this late hour, he reminds me of times I wish I could forget, memories that make me shudder. I clench my faded little rabbit, and pull up the covers. Hours later I’ve given up hope of getting any sleep, kept awake by my personal monsta’. In the fairy tales, the horrid creatures give bruises and scars — which I’d rather have cuz mine leaves me with insomnia.

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Pictures With Your Mind Melissa Megathlin

I feel like it is unrealistic to say the world will greatly change in a little over ten years. Yes, 2030 is in ten years. My mom keeps telling me that it is almost 2020. I think she is just scared of what will happen to me when I go to college since I graduate in the year 2020.

She is more worried about it than I am but I could go on and on complaining about my mom so I will stop here.

In the year 2030, phones will keep getting bigger and bigger until they have dreams of ever fitting in girls’ tiny pockets. Phones will keep getting smarter. They will listen to your conversations even more than they do now. In 2030, there will not be a conversation unheard by Apple. Everyone will start just being connected to their phones and no one else in their life. Texting conversations will be more popular than talking on the phone or in person. When people hear others talking on their earpieces, there will be confusion of who people are talking to. This already happens, but it will start happening more and more.

People will become more socially awkward because they will only know how to text.

Students will become worse at presenting and will hate it more. Kids will really start depending on spell-check and not know how to spell, even more than they do now. I caught myself misspelling “language” in the heading of this paper. This is not a lie and most of the time I depend on Grammarly to fix my grammar mistakes. I was bad at grammar before I started using Grammarly and I am even worse now. I caught a mistake where I needed a comma in a paper this morning, after I printed it out, of course. I added it in black pen. Enough about the phone and how the world will be less educated.

There will be fewer people that join sports in general. Why would someone play a sport when you could play them on the Wii? Or watch professionals play sports? An athlete can’t compete with them, so why would they try? To have fun? I can have fun playing on my phone or watching Hulu. Who needs exercise? The world will get more fat and lazy.

Now, I should start looking on the positive side of technology instead of just ripping on the world. People will be able to open doors and start cars with just their fingerprint.

The owner of the house will be able to program a certain number of fingerprints in the lock to enable friends and family to open the door. If you want to keep your friends out of your house when you are asleep you can give them a time period that they can get into your house.

If a person concentrates enough, then tells their brain to take a picture, they will be able to take one. You will also be able to take a picture by putting your finger in your ear. A

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person will get to this “camera roll” by downloading an app to your phone that connects to their head with earplugs that look like earbuds. The earplugs will connect to your head and have to be on when you take a picture and when you want to access your “camera roll” to save the new picture to your phone. If you want to look at the pictures that you have saved in the past you don’t have to have earplugs in. You will be able to take a picture of the world around you but not of yourself. Anyone else can take pictures of you though.

All textbooks will be on computers. Students will have an option to use a real textbook or not. Most students won’t take a real one. This kind of thing is already happening because most teachers don’t use their textbook. I won’t have to carry around my stats book anymore. Lockers will still exist but people will stop using them because everything will be online. Students don’t use them now they just break their backs. It will be the students’ and parents’ choice whether they go to a real school or go to an online school. Students would have to choose between online school and regular school for their whole school career. If you choose online, it will be reading the online book, recorded lessons, and Google Forms. If you choose real school it will be the same as it is now. The online school could happen whenever you want. The lessons would be recorded and then you could just watch them whenever. Students will be able to access the Google Form from wherever.

There will be real hoverboards. They will actually hover above the ground. They will do this by shooting air out of the bottom of them causing them to fly like in Back To The Future.

In 2030, I will be 28. I should have a college degree by then. I will be either in veterinary school or teaching. “Teaching what?” you may ask. Probably, some science class but I have not decided yet. I would love to teach creative writing, but I would have to find another English class in addition that I like enough to teach and that wouldn’t happen. Besides, I am bad at English and grammar.

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Please Come Home To Me Ryleigh Lindsey

Imagine sitting there waiting for the bell And a hall monitor walks in He’s there for you, you’re being signed out Woo Hoo! You get out early Exciting right? An unexpected early day? Well, just wait.

I see my mom, she’s covering something up Did my cat die? My dog?

Is it actually just a fun surprise?

The whole way home, I think and I think When we get home my parents say, “Sit down” I couldn’t bare what came next My mom tells me my grammy is gone, she passed away this morning It was sudden, it was soon The smell of smoke And her idiotic driving Gone, all gone My mom has the hardest time, for her mom is gone My mom just forgets to mom at all, the pain is simply just too much I struggle with the pain, but my mom needs me Be strong Ryleigh, always be strong Get through this Ryleigh, you can get through it Be strong Ryleigh, be strong How long must I be strong though? I want to cry and weep This goes on for what seems like forever But then my mom comes home to me

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Oliver Wajda

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Stating In an increasingly divided world filled with political, social, and economic strife, it seems as if everyone has an opinion or a solution.

However, the “everyone� that we get to hear from the most seems to be those over eighteen. Young adults are often the ones who directly observe or are impacted by some of the most pressing social issues we see today. Yet, their voices are all too tragically often left out of the conversation.

Our Stating section is all about the opinions and views that young writers wanted to share, with topics ranging from politics in the Middle East, to violence and socio-economic inequality right here in St. Louis. These next few pages embrace the many different forms that writers have chosen to express themselves, whether that be through poems, short essays, or photo stories. We want to show there is no one right way for us to speak our minds. We hope that these works have given young writers the opportunity to have their voices heard, and inspire our readers to speak up and join the conversation.

Athena Vinch

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Fall Model United Nations Conference Nesreen Wardeh, Mame Diarra N’daw, Aisha Osman

The conference room erupted into a deafening snicker. It filled my ears with needles and sliced so sharp it pierced my heart with pure and utter anguish. It was pathetic. All I could do was sit there frozen in astonishment. When my mind began to process what exactly just happened, I slowly spun my head to make eye contact with my fellow classmates. All of our faces reflected the same expression: devastation, pain, and endless frustration that we had to mask to keep a strong composure.

This is exactly what occurred during the 2019 Fall Model UN conference on October 8th, when the room was discussing the legitimacy of the ‘Escalation in IsraelLebanon Tensions’ resolution submitted by the delegate from Egypt. More specifically, when Palestine was introduced during the period of cross-examinations.

The main complication that we faced at the conference was a universal ignorance regarding the conflicts in Israel and Lebanon. This led to derogatory behavior starting like a flame and spreading like wildfire in a matter of seconds. My fellow Muslims and I were in utter shock. We felt an immense urge to get up and belt out rebuttals with the aspiration of defending our people. The constant stereotypes preassigned to Muslim countries makes it difficult to edify people about the real-world problems that many are facing today across the globe. When someone has an opinion they have the right to say it, but it should not be in a manner that may offend those who have different viewpoints.

Implicit assumptions are derived from fear and stereotypes. “Reading someone” usually results in derogatory behavior towards Muslims and other minorities. Consequently, it leads to ignorance and staunchness when people meet Muslims in everyday life. But what they don’t realize is that having discussions about controversial topics will lead to healthy debates and open conversations that might lead us in the right direction.

What would happen if you built a refuge for a persecuted people where other people already lived? This moral quandary is at the root of the struggle between Israelis and Palestinians. One group of refugees found a much-needed home but in the process, a new group of refugees was created. Israel was founded as a Jewish state, but what exactly does that mean?

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When we think of the Israel-Lebanon tensions, we think of politics, war, land, and leaders. But there is one very important factor that is often missing: the stories of the people. As United States Congressperson Ilhan Omar once said, “To me, it is the dehumanization and the silencing of a particular pain and suffering of people that should not be OK and normal. And you can’t be in the practice of humanizing and uplifting the suffering of one if you’re not willing to do that for everyone.”

If shelter and safety are what a community wishes for, then it should be presented to everyone equally.

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The Traffic Sings A Lullaby Madeline Cronin

Have you ever seen traffic at night?

It’s the most beautiful and utterly terrifying sight.

All the reds, and yellows, (and sometimes blues,) and greens, and yellows, and reds — they all mesh together with the night — (sometimes I get really dizzy from all of the lights, and all of the noises — ) along with the sirens, and the honking, and the tires screaming, and the breaks yelling — Sometimes it makes me more anxious than awestruck.

Traffic can be very overwhelming.

The noises just get to be too much.

The lights are just too blinding.

But it’s still beautiful, in its own way.

Like the streets are singing a lullaby, tucking the people in goodnight.

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You know, life does the same thing. She gives us people and situations and sometimes it all gets to be too much. Sometimes we scream for her to stop. She’s too quick, too impulsive, she won’t stop — she doesn’t know how to stop — sometimes we think she doesn’t hear us.

We think we’re alone. We think we’re unloved. So we call out to life by whatever name we may call her, some say their many different variations of a God(-s)(-ess)(-esses), some say nothing at all. But I think she’s there. I think she hears us. I think it gets very overwhelming, and I think sometimes it’s all too much, but I’ve made it this far, haven’t I? I think I’m supposed to be here. There’s a pattern in the honking, and the screaming, and the sighing, and the lights; I think there’s a voice whispering among it all; I think it’s telling me to keep going, that I have a place here, amidst the noise. I think everyone does. Every good thing.

I think everyone has a bit of good in them. I think we’re supposed to spread it. Is that why we’re here? To be ourselves, to be kind, maybe not to quiet the noise, or understand it, but maybe … maybe to just be?

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Imagine a World‌ ‌ Where every turn around the block is a fresh new part of Earth, from the hot deserts of the Sahara Desert to the frigid Antarctica. Everywhere on Earth coming right to your fingertips

Imagine a world where every turn around the block is a fresh new part of Earth, from the hot deserts of the Sahara Desert to the frigid Antarctica.

Everywhere on Earth coming right to your fingertips.

Tate Drexler

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I Am a Muslim Raneem Khalil

I am a Muslim, Trying to spread peace.

Allah, I pray to him, For my faith to increase.

I am a Muslim, As proud as I can be.

Allah has made the light not dim, For me, I can see.

I am a Muslim, I pray five times a day.

Holding my faith to him, For that, my life is certainly not gray.

I am a Muslim, The month of Ramadan is important to me.

We fast all thirty days, It purifies our souls and bodies.

I am a Muslim, Everybody can see.

The Hijab I’m wearing, Which is the key.

I am a Muslim, My deen is Islam.

Thank you for listening, Salam!

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Bellflowers for War Zuhaira Quadri

Once my mother, young and bold, told me a saying “To those who cry for more, when you are not yet content with what you have taken, Woe is you for your splendor.

To those who do not attempt to understand the struggles of another, when you have caused them, Woe is you for your bliss.”

Once my father, a man ice-cold, told me a truth “Euphoria has guided us through smoke and fire And through twists and turns, we may run, it’s a golden path Though once it leaves it’s uncertain if it’s truly gone.

But o’ Dorothy, in desperation ever so twisted, that Euphoria may return, You’ve come home after you’ve slain your witches and slaughter, kill, torture, and pray that on judgment day, your friends and your brothers will rid you of your sins.

For everything you’ve done is in the lord’s name.”

Once my sister, broken and hopeful, told me a story that I’ve loathed.

“You reap what you sow.

And so it’s inevitable that if what you say goes, They shall meet the quota for gold, If not the punishment will be untold.

And off on rocky shores, they will go to a new land as slaves or red carpets.”

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My grandfather, on the porch of a blood-stained home, told me a saying that resides in my heart.

“Foolish are these children, Who believe bellflowers don’t grow for war.

Veterans are we, who are forgotten in the name of glory, In the name of ‘peace’ Fighting for a cause we don’t believe.

Why did we join?

Because bellflowers are a beautiful sight to behold.

But not whilst growing on a battlefield.”

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A Nation Without A Present Mohamed Hussein

When somebody asks you about Palestine, do you think about the Palestine-Israel conflict and bombings in Gaza?

When somebody asks about Kashmir’s desire for independence, do you think about the wars raging between India and Pakistan over the fate of Kashmir?

Those are the associations most people make.

But what comes to mind when someone says “Egypt”? I have asked people what first comes to mind when Egypt is mentioned, and most people say “the pyramids, hieroglyphics, and the Nile River.”

The difference between the answers to the first two questions and the last one is obvious. Conversations about Palestine and Kashmir are based on current events.

Conversations about Egypt are based on historical attractions, artifacts, and a wonder of nature.

On January 25, 2011, the Egyptians overthrew President Hosni Mubarak, who had been in power for 29 years. In 2012, a parliamentary election was held and Mohamed Morsi, the head of the Freedom and the Justice Party, came out as the victor. He was Egypt’s first democratically elected president. Then on June 30, 2013, Morsi was ousted in a coup d’état and Abdel Fattah El-Sisi was elected in May 2014 with approximately 97% of the vote. In what type of election could one win with such a percentage as this? Is it a coincidence that four years later, El-Sisi won with almost the exact same percentage of votes — 97%? Then in August 2013, El-Sisi ordered a massacre in Rabia square against a sit-in protest. More than 1,000 people were killed. That was one of the largest single-day massacres in modern history.

The purpose of me telling you this recent history is not to convince you of anything in particular. What I am trying to say is that with all of this going on, how is it that Egypt is only associated with the Pharaohs? I do not see people thinking of Babylonia when Iraq is mentioned; they think of Saddam Hussein. People in the United Kingdom think of Trump when the subject of the United States comes up. They don’t think about George Washington. It’s degrading to a country to only associate it with archaeological artifacts and nice nature.

Almost all countries have problems, and they are almost always what people think about when the country is mentioned. That is what drives improvement.

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For example, Kashmir is known for having beautiful landscapes, but that does not mean that people consider Kashmir to have no problems and consider it just an ornament of beauty for people to visit and take snapshots of. Rather, people think critically about the problems going on there. These associations are what made the problem well-known to a degree where it could be brought up at UN conferences.

Egypt needs to be seen by a new light. As an Egyptian, I do not want my country to be considered just an ornament of history for people to stare at and admire. I want Egypt’s present to be analysed and criticized so that its problems and conflicts can become apparent to the world. If the issues are seen, steps can be made to improve conditions.

Perhaps Egypt’s challenges could be discussed in a United Nations conference and a resolution could be reached.

The admiration of Ancient Egyptian history can go on mostly undisrupted by political issues, and its past can be preserved. However, if people do not consider the reality of the conditions now, then Egypt’s past may be preserved, but its present will be lost. Egypt will be a nation without a present.

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Imagine a world where air pollution didn’t exist, where you could see the blue sky in China, where oceans weren’t rising due to glaciers melting, where people don’t have to wear mask to breathe.

Imagine a world where air pollution didn’t exist, where you could see the blue sky in China, where oceans weren’t rising due to glaciers melting, where people don’t have to wear masks to breathe.

William Clear

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This I Believe Marshawn Williams

I believe that I am a warrior in a realm who doesn’t see it and I must live for the fight of my very own life. I have believed this since I was young. I watched cartoons about fighting, saving, protecting — all the normal hero shows, and they had an impact on me. I wanted to become a hero of some kind. Based on how unathletic I am, I knew I couldn’t be the hero I imagined, so I decided I didn’t need skill or power to be a warrior, just brains, smarts, movements, and reaction in the right moments. I’ve also been interested in weapons. Most warriors have and fight with weapons in assault, defense, recon, collection, and stealth missions and no, I’m not describing a mercenary or a ninja but a vigilante of some kind.

I believe I’m a warrior because the labels I get from my school aren’t my kind of image. Being a warrior wasn’t like something I just became, it turns out that my family are warriors. We are exceptionally good fighters. We plan, think ahead if you will, and we move fast, think fast, and are unstoppable when it comes to our intelligence.

This realm may be looking for fighters to fight for this country, but this country has done something in the past that has made it impossible to fight for or believe in. I’ve been watching shows with heroes who don’t go with the grain, who want to save and protect but without the leash of the law and the defense of their wrongs.

I am a warrior who one day will be born and I’ll save this realm with everything I have because it’s on its own brink of destruction and lives are on the line. But for now I’m here training, learning, becoming the man I’m gonna be. I am a warrior in a realm who doesn’t know it.

This is what I believe in by choice since it was made by me. Anything I create I take to heart, and this is something that guides my life on the road to the future.

To me, working hard is me being me in this everyday world. It’s a judgement and a command. Being a warrior in this realm isn’t a game, it’s a balance of life in multiple areas while seeing the realm for what it really is. Being in this realm while people die every day, every day is full of fear of the great unknown. I choose to be this and I’ll never go back on my word.

I’ll never become my surroundings, the people in my school. If I ever do, I’ve failed the warrior. I’ve failed as the warrior of this realm. Be, warrior!

Call me a vigilante, stay out, protect, care, and see what no one will ever see in their life. Being a warrior will always go into my writing every single day of my life.

This is what I will always believe.

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What It’s Like To Be a Minority Student Living in the United States Nasi Kemer

Imagine going to bed hearing gunshots every night, living in fear, and wondering if the next home to be shot at was going to be yours. That’s exactly what my family and I had to go through.

The neighborhood a block away from us was really troubled. Neighbors would fight using guns. Kids somehow got a hold of their parents’ guns. People often died.

One summer day a couple of years ago, my aunt went downstairs from her room to get the laundry. She checked on her kids watching TV in the living room. She went downstairs, gathered the clothes, and came back to see bullets in her walls, the window broken, and the curtains filled with holes.

My aunt called the police, but nothing really happened. My aunt asked the manager of the neighborhood to look through the cameras, but the manager said that she couldn’t see anything. My aunt recalled seeing kids playing in front of their home, but when she checked after the bullets went through, she didn’t see them anymore.

I think the kids didn’t really mean harm. They probably just wanted a bit of fun.

What they did was wrong, but if your parents are doing something wrong and there’s no conversation about it, chances are that you are going to do it, too.

The problem is that people in this St. Louis neighborhood are afraid because they don’t have the money to move. Most of the people living here came as refugees and didn’t have a lot of money when they first arrived.

The other part of the problem is that the people already living in the neighborhood right around the block don’t have access to good education. If you don’t have a good education, how will you make money when you are an adult?

You might be asking yourself, why should we care? Well, if you vote for people who care for others, then there is a chance that everyone will be successful in life.

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Face Rogerlyn Echols

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By Nejla Hodzic, an 8th grade student at Al-Salam Day School

Returning to the Soil of My Soul A collection of images taken from my trip to Bosnia this past summer, the birthplace of my family and culture.

Returning to the Soil of My Soul: Summer 2019 Nejla Hodzic 80

My Roots Samyra Randels

My Roots are where I’m from.

My Roots dig deeper than the trees and are stronger than steel. I wouldn’t be here if it were not for the generations that fought for me. I am proud of my Roots. Through oppression and hardships, my Roots have only dug deeper and stayed strong. From deep down in my spirit I feel the uprising of every African ancestor of mine. They walk with me through this journey and have helped me understand where I come from. I will help them continue to shine bright and everyone will hear the calling of my Roots. So open your ears now and listen close to the sound of deep sorrow sung in those Negro spirituals. May I remind you of all the pain it took to get us where we are today, and yet we still must fight for our freedom, from a label that had been permanently put upon us. Your Roots are my roots so don’t look down on me and tell me I’m worthless. We come from the same place and should understand each other. Why bicker with your own kind when you should be worried most about the ones laughing as we harm each other, as we pluck each other off this Earth one by one. The rich man, the white man, or whatever you choose to call him, does not want to see our Roots grow. He enjoys our suffering and believes we are nothing more than another threat to him. He wishes he were able to be proud of himself and have a history, have a culture to celebrate. But we do and we shall continue to carry these Roots into the next generation.

Our Roots will stay.

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Currents Staff

Madelyn Pozaric It is difficult to truly understand others and the world we live in. Writing can help bridge the gaps between us by allowing many unique perspectives to be heard. Reading someone’s work is like peeking into their world. Working as an editor on Currents taught me so much about myself and my community. As a reader of these pieces I have lived through changes, endured hardships, and loved so many strangers. Thank you to my co-editors and all the writers for changing my life for the better.

Darion Smith As a young writer I find it important for there to be a forum for our works to be shared and published. If it was my piece being tweaked and published I would want someone, like myself, who can see and understand an artistic vision.

Athena Vinch It was such a pleasure to be able to see Currents come to life over the months that I and my fellow talented editors worked together. I met some truly amazing people and I will never forget the time we spent together. I would also like to thank the writers who took a leap of faith and sent their submissions into us. I learned so much about my peers and the community I live in by reading their work.

Marshawn Williams I enjoyed working with my colleagues to create this magazine and hope this creation of ours soars and everyone enjoys it. Remember to truly adapt to our ever-changing world!

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Project Lab St. Louis and the editors of Currents: A Publication by Missouri Youth for Youth would like to express our gratitude to the individuals and organizations that made this project possible.

We thank each of the writers and artists

Ann Taylor, Dean of the College of

for entrusting us with their creative work.

Education at the University of Missouri, St. Louis, generously opened the

We thank the teachers and mentors across

wonderfully equipped Ed Collabitat for

Missouri who encouraged and supported

our editors meetings.

these young artists and writers to contribute, and who helped connect us all.

Diana Hammond of OneCity Stories was an essential planning partner, creating

We thank Nathan Dee, for his deeply

our call for submissions and reaching out

appreciated assistance and expertise.

to potential writers and artists.

We thank the Missouri Arts Council and

We are grateful to Eleanor Safe

the people of Missouri for financial and

for designing a journal that honors

logistical support on the path between

our content.

planning and publishing, with very special thanks to Joan White, Donald Rice, and

We thank Corey Hogrefe for his gracious

Michael Donovan.

support with web design and functionality.

Katherine O’Daniels, Professor at the

Heartfelt gratitude to all of the supporters

University of Missouri St. Louis and

of Project Lab St. Louis, who made sure

Gateway Writing Project, helped

we had the resources to compensate the

disseminate our call for submissions

young editors of this collection for their

across the state, coordinated our meeting

time and talents.

space, and generously provided snacks, lunches, and beverages for the editors.

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