First Light
Published by Shippensburg University through The Writers’ Lighthouse at Ship.
Neil Connelly, Editor
Luke Hershey, Chief Acolyte
Cover produced with original art by Georg Eiermann posted on www.unsplash.com.
Copyrighted 2020 by Shippensburg University. All rights revert to authors upon publication.
Spectrum Award for High Artistic Achievement
Jacob Smith, “Winter Boy”
Lian Wang, “Mother Tongue”
Gretal Shank, “The Colors of You”
Hannah Cornell, “The White Girl”
Honorable Mention
Birdy McDowell, “Encoded”
Vera Chekhtman, “The Tale of an Essential Worker”
Dedicated with gratitude to the teachers who worked with and encouraged the writers published in this volume:
Doonie Brewer, Mercersburg Academy
Sarah Clayville, Carlisle High School
Michele Poacelli, Mercersburg Academy
Brenda DeLellis-Johnson, Camp Hill High School
Lynne Reeder, West Perry High School
John Kurzawa, Shippensburg High School
Megan Heisler, Mechanicsburg High School
Bethany Pagze, Big Spring High School
Andrea Mills, Chambersburg High School
Glory Sterling, Greencastle-Antrim High School
Colette Silvestri, Hershey High School
Leigh Ann Chow, M echanicsburg High School
Marti Sload, Bermudian Springs High School
Editor’s Acknowledgements
Several pieces included here received recognition previous to the publication of First Light. Lian Wang’s “Mother Tongue” was awarded a Scholastic National Silver Medal with publication on the website and publication in Mercersburg Academy’s student journal, Blue Review Aidan Ferrin’s “Set Adrift” was also published in Blue Review. Jacob Smith’s “Winter Boy” received a National Gold Medal through the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and, alongside Olivia Stuckey’s “Fireflies” and was published in The Beacon, produced by Sigma Tau Delta and produced by Shippensburg University.
Editor’s Preface
On a vacation my wife planned last summer, we traveled with our sons out west. Visits to Zion, Canyonland, and Bryce offered extraordinary vistas, open and vast. But one day I found myself especially struck by a comparatively small exhibit along a shaded roadway. Across a babbling creek, thirty feet up, petroglyphs were etched into the rock. Standing binoculars were available for fifty cents, but even with the naked eye, the ancient artwork was clear: an arrow, an animal, a curved stick figure with long hair that looked to be dancing.
Thousands upon thousands of years ago, some prehistoric human being with a heart that beat the same as mine lifted a shaped stone to that blank wall, took a breath, and began.
What compelled this person? What inner yearning was satisfied by creation? Could I ever comprehend what it signified to that original artist? Perhaps more importantly, I came to view these incomprehensible petroglyphs as an act of defiance against misery, meaninglessness, depression, even death itself. Surely art’s loudest cry in the wilderness is the song of “I am here! My voice deserves to be heard!”
And so I turn to the young writers of this inaugural edition of First Light. Plagued by loss, befuddled by pandemic, angered by injustice, giddy with joy and wonder, each stared one day at the bright white wall of a computer screen, took a breath, and settled their fingers over the keys.
The Colors of You
Gretal Shank, Spectrum Award for High Artistic Achievement
Blue
It was the color of your faded overalls when you rode your tractor into the rising sun. It was the color of your eyes, crinkling at their corners as you laughed. It was the color of that October sky when we watched the geese fly south in their arrow formations, and the color of mountains on the horizon, just above the wheat that swayed in the autumn wind. It was also the color of my lips when I emerged from the pond beside our house; I was trying to catch a fish with my bare hands. It was the color of the old towel you wrapped around me as I stood dripping water on the kitchen floor.
Yellow
It was the color of the fields I ran through in the summer, chasing your tractor as it rumbled along. It was the color of the black-eyed Susans you picked from beside our driveway and put in a vase on the dining room table. It was the color of the lemons at my lemonade stand and the bees that lazily feasted on the sweet water. It was also the color of the raincoat I wore as I trudged home after the girls in kindergarten called me ugly; I was too upset to jump in any puddles. And it was the color of the nail polish you let me use so I could feel pretty, even though you told me I was already the prettiest girl in the world, besides Mommy.
Red
It was the color of the bird we saw in the winter, trying to hide among the branches of the pine tree in our yard. It was the color of the berries you told me not to eat, and the color of the cherries we picked from the orchard in July. It was the color of your truck when we went to town and the color of the signs we drove past when we were in a hurry. It was also the color of the blood when I scraped my knee after falling off my bike, and the color of Lightning McQueen on the BandAid you placed on my wound; you said that soon I would be faster than him.
Green
It was the color of the grass and the clovers you helped me search for, the ones that would make me lucky if I found them. It was the color of the garden and the hose you watered it with, when you sometimes sprayed me if I got too close. It was the color of your lawnmower and the color of the lima beans that Mommy made me eat even though they didn’t taste good. It was also the color of the nettles that stung me by the creek and when I ran to you, crying, it was the color of the aloe you rubbed onto the burn.
Gray
It was the color of your face when they said you had cancer. It was the color of the fields after you stopped caring for them, and the color of the sky. It was the color of your truck after all the paint peeled off and the color of your eyes as you looked into mine for the last time. It was the color of Mommy’s hair as she squeezed both of our hands, tears spilling from her eyes. It was the color of everything because as you slipped away, you took the world with you.
Encoded
Birdy McDowell, Honorable Mention
As I sit at home on the couch Watching the news I am reminded of a theory I had been meaning to look into On collective trauma Passed down through generations.
Generational trauma has been well studied In holocaust survivors And their kin, In the African American population With ancestors brought to America as slaves, In refugees, and Native Americans, In impoverished children, and those abused.
I wonder if this is our generation’s collective trauma I know that I have hoarding tendencies Refusing to let go what may be of use Because my grandparents grew up During the great depression.
What will we pass on?
Mother Tongue
Lian Wang,
Spectrum Award for High Artistic Achievement
How do I describe that when I first mumbled “mama,” she didn’t know if it was English or Chinese
How do I describe that it’s a futile search for what sounds my lips first molded to, what language first constructed my thoughts, when I am still finding my definition of “first”
How do I describe that it’s neither fork nor chopsticks feeding me morsels of sound that fuse on the heat of my tongue
That I don’t detach my tongue and switch to a spare like one might a screwdriver or a wrench But my words do rust, they tarnish and crumble when I no longer forge their shapes And when I try to reassemble the syllables, they become screeches of metal on metal, ugly to my ears clumsy between my teeth
That sometimes I call my mom over the phone and forget how to cry in Chinese, fluent in “anger” and “sorrow” but not in nu and ai She begs Merriam Webster to relay her daughter’s voice, but I know and she knows we’re searching in different dictionaries, and the shelves between us only grow
The Tale of an Essential Worker
Vera Chekhtman, Honorable Mention
“H
ello. Thank you for choosing McDonald’s. What can I get for you?” The recording of the young woman’s voice buzzed in my ear like an annoying wasp.
The muffled and distorted voice of the customer came through my headset. “Yes, hello,” he greeted me. As he gave me his order, I selected the requested items on the monitor in front of me, the process done through partial guesswork, like choosing the correct door that would lead to the prize on an old game show. The prize here is the customer successfully going away and leaving me be without complaint or giving me attitude. I can no longer tell if that is gut-wrenchingly depressing or wonderfully uplifting.
I can no longer tell if
that is gut-wrenchingly depressing or wonderfully uplifting.
“Alrighty! Your total is 13.69. If you-” my voice, sickly sweet like old and dry honey, is cut off as the thrumming sound of traffic and gentle static in the background abruptly ends with a final beep. Silence briefly crashes through my headset, before being replaced with a repetitive beeping, like a neverending countdown. “And they’re gone, they don’t care,” I mumble to myself, as the next customer arrives, the recording of the woman somehow sounding even more irritated than before. The cycle starts anew.
Customers flock to us as we offer our particular brand of easy salvation. We serve them, forgetting their faces in the process, and they move on, forgetting ours in turn.
As I start taking the new customer’s order on the screen, my thoughts drift to the peculiar situation that we find ourselves in. It’s odd how life seemingly took a nose-dive sometime in March and woke up with severe head trauma and a new personality. Few things have been the same since the Coronavirus pandemic began, yet one thing that has remained unchanged is that at several points throughout the week I drag myself out of bed at 5 AM to go to work. Yet, I’ve moved up in the world, as it were. When people think of essential workers, healthcare workers come to mind first. What they probably don’t think of immediately is a McDonald’s Crew Member. However, that’s exactly what I am. Yet, this feels like an empty title, like a noble with no land.
The 13.69 man pulls up to the window, and I give him a brief smile. I forget that he can’t see me through my blue and white surgical mask that feels like a
“Hello,” he greets me, his voice oddly chipper considering the early hour.
“Good mornin’, sir,” I respond, stretching out the “mornin’.” “Here’s your food,” I politely tell him, reaching my hand, covered in a see-through glove that feels like a second skin, out the window. His car is parked far from the window, and I narrowly avoid pressing my face against the practically invisible plexiglass that covers half the opening. The man takes the package, carefully grabbing the corner to avoid touching my hand.
“Thank you,” he tells me, while briefly checking the bag.
“Have a good day, sir,” I respond automatically, as I try to focus on the earsplitting chatter in my headset. He drives off.
Pandemic, or not, work goes on. It’s a numbing experience, as I feel like my body has been flooded with an anesthetic. I go through the motions, another background character in a play where it feels like someone else is pulling the strings. I’m one of the seventy-some employees at this particular McDonald’s among the eight or so McDonald’s’ just in the immediate area. I’m simply another face among the sea of teenage workers.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but we don’t have the Steak Egg and Cheese Bagel, nor any other bagels at the moment,” I say as I push the button on my headset to speak. I feel like I’ve said that phrase a million times, that it may as well be written on my tombstone. The lady in the drive-through scoffs at me through the headset, the noise sounding like an odd gust of wind. I sigh, making sure my finger is off the button. This makes my glasses fog up briefly because of my mask.
“Why not?” the woman asks, her voice tainted with the slightest bit of irritation, like a child who didn’t get the toy they wanted for Christmas.
“It’s because of the pandemic. I’m sorry,” I tell her politely. The truth is, I’m not sure why the bagel suddenly disappeared off the menu because of the pandemic and I’m not sorry because I deeply don’t care. It’s just a bagel.
“Fine, I’ll just have a Bacon Egg and Cheese McGriddle then,” the woman concludes.
I’m not sure why, but these interactions irritate me more than they should. Perhaps because there are so many of them. Like ants. On their own - they’re nothing, and you can squash them down, forgetting about them soon after. Yet, these things pile up, day after day, until it becomes a massive teeming anthill, with thousands and thousands of tiny bodies scrambling about with snapping
First Light 6 suffocating muzzle at times. On the other side of the window, the man’s cloth mask has an image of Darth Vader staring back at me, as the careful dark stitching blends into the fabric. I silently compliment him on the mask.
Soon after the Steak Egg and Cheese Bagel Lady pulls away after paying and getting her food, a man and a woman pull up to the window. I’m about to tell them that we’re still waiting on their sandwiches, when the woman asks me, “Do you know who took my order?” I look over to my co-worker who is also on headset. I hadn’t taken anyone’s order since the Bagel lady, and she had already left. The boy comes up to the window, as I move to the side. I can feel the gray clouds gathering at the horizon.
“Yes, that probably was me,” he says.
“You sounded very angry over the speaker. Customers can tell, y’know? You need to work on that,” the woman responds. It feels like she’s talking to a misbehaving dog who had just peed on the living room carpet. The employee nods. I know him well enough to know that he’s fuming on the inside. I feel this bubbling anger, like molten lava, within me as well. I haven’t worked alongside him long enough and I’ve only been at this McDonald's for a few months, yet somehow this odd mentality of Us vs Them is always there while I work. I want to push my co-worker, who’s only a few years younger than me, out of the way and give this woman a piece of my mind. Perhaps I’m overreacting.
“My brother-in-law is the supervisor of this restaurant, so I can talk to him,” the woman continues. It feels like a threat. The boy moves out of the way, as I hand out the food. They promptly leave, and I take a deep breath.
Being deemed essential by the government doesn’t change the tendency for some patrons to treat me and my co-workers with some level of disdain. It makes me feel angry rather than insulted. Maybe I’m simply using these people as a release for my own pent-up rage and fear. Maybe they are too. Who knows what they’re going through. They probably also live in fear of what the next day will bring, when this virus will pass, when the economy will get better. Maybe they too feel the cold and crushing anxiety that comes with the thought that they’ll wake up one morning with a fever that gets worse and worse, a cough that can’t seem to go away, an inability to taste or smell. They wonder if they’ll die, becoming another casualty lost in the curve that desperately needs to be flattened. What if they’re already a carrier? A walking incubator spreading the sickness to someone who will succumb to it, a tree catching fire among the blazing inferno. Who next will fall? A neighbor, a friend, a family member, a loved one.
As that stream of thoughts crosses my mind, I continue to take more orders and create a steady flow of fancy flavored iced coffees and drinks. More people arrive through the drive-through and more workers come in, looking the same and
First Light 7 mandibles. Some customers are better, some are worse, but somehow this resentment has seeped its way into my head.
all with a similar tired expression etched into their faces. The uniforms we have to wear consist of a cap with the small golden-arched ’M’ stitched onto the side, a grey shirt with another McDonald's logo stitched onto the large breast pocket, and an apron with many pockets. Everything is the same varying shade of dull grey. Occasionally, someone will have a little name tag stating their name in large letters, but that’s about the extent of the individuality that you can be afforded, besides the home-made and store-bought masks some wear.
The day goes on, crawling slowly like a dehydrated snail. My manager finally sends me off on my thirty-minute break, which feels like an oasis in the middle of a scorching desert. I head over to the break room with my free meal. It’s a new policy that throughout April, employees get one free meal during or after their shift. It was a “thank you” from the owners to all of the “essential workers.” Some cynicism emerged when I passed that sign in the cramped corridor on the way to the break room. I know that many people have stopped showing up to work due to safety concerns. Hundreds of cars pass through this McDonald’s and the risk of infection is too high. I can’t really blame those people for not wanting to put themselves in danger.
W ith nothing to do, nothing to give me some duct- taped semblance of purpose, I’d become a depressed shell of a human being.
I sit in my rickety chair chewing on my sandwich, enjoying the relative peace of the tiny room, away from the noise of the kitchen and the front of the store. Being left alone for thirty minutes is a sure way for my brain to go on a crazy roller coaster of thoughts and emotions. Perhaps that’s why I’m here - I need something to distract me from the emptiness and silence of my apartment. The white walls of my home would close in on me otherwise. My thoughts drift back to this morning with my dad. Oddly enough, he was the one who persuaded me to keep going to work. Partly because he wanted me to bring in some income, partly because he knew that with nothing to do, nothing to give me some duct-taped semblance of purpose, I’d become a depressed shell of a human being. He always reminds me that I’m “essential” despite me constantly mocking the new title. This morning, he was retelling me some stories about the war his mother had told him. How she’d been assembling guns at a factory during the Second World War. I used to hear my dad tell me these things and think how turbulent it was, how every day must’ve felt like a volcanic eruption of emotions, how it must have felt like to live through history. Yet, some part of me thought my grandmother maybe was like me - simply
getting up, going to work, going on about life, even if what that meant had changed irreparably. I wondered if she felt this brewing apathy.
With my break coming to a disappointing end, I drudge back to the hub of commotion at the front of the restaurant, passing by people in the cramped space. Trying to keep six feet apart in this store seems impossible. The hallways that connect and stretch from the back of the store to the front can barely accommodate one person standing with their arms spread out. Everyone constantly bumps into each other with half-muttered apologies, as they move back and forth like grey bees. The kitchen and the front area of the store with the window from which we hand out food aren’t much better. The staff often breathes down each other’s necks as we try to grab materials to re-stock or to hand out food. My co-workers and I move back and forth quickly, navigating around the small space and each other, like an obstacle course. Physical contact is inevitable, as people prod each other to move aside or to get their attention and as we hand various items to each other.
It’s lunchtime now, so it’s as busy as ever. One of my managers hands me a headset, and I head off to the monitor that greets me with its customary messages warning me about COVID-19, how to wash my hands properly, etc. I feel myself going deaf, as people yell through my headset when I ask them to repeat their order. Some simply give up, driving away, the rumbling of their car abruptly disappearing into nothingness in my right ear. One man mumbles something about his McChicken, the words getting tangled up like flies caught in a spider’s web. I ask him a few more times, until finally, his voice sounds through my headset like a clap of thunder, “I just want my fucking McChicken well done!” I’m taken aback, but nonetheless happy for this exchange to be over. I press the appropriate buttons on the monitor and the man drives onwards.
I feel like I’m stuck in an endless cycle of deja vu, as the machinery from the kitchen and the fryers screech like fussy children, their voices joining in the cacophony that comes with the lunch rush. My fellow employees yell at each other to communicate because you can barely hear yourself think. The other appliances add to the ear-splitting symphony as people rush around to get together the drinks and food for the orders. It’s all so much on top of the adrenaline rush that surges through my body as I try to do my job as quickly as possible. Somewhere along the way, my brain shuts down, panic drowning out everything else, and my body simply does what it can to keep up. The heat radiating from the kitchen completes the picture of a suffering inferno. The stifling atmosphere is worse because of the restrictive masks. I feel sweat accumulating on my back, making my shirt stick to
Light
My headset is taken and I get tasked with presenting the food to the customers. I appreciate being closer to the breeze that helps me cool down. A colorful menagerie of masks greets me as I hand out the bags and drinks. Every single color of the rainbow, peculiar designs, home-made and bought face coverings can be seen. Gloves of all kinds too. I try my best to hand out the food to avoid touching their hands. Some people snatch the items from me, whilst some pluck them out like berries from a vine. A young man pulls up, his mask the color of snow. I hand him the food politely. He grabs the bag and quickly sprays down the part of the bag I’d touched with some kind of disinfecting spray, driving off without a word.
I understand this precaution because for me it has become a compulsion. I zealously disinfect my hands and switch my gloves, avoiding contact when I can, berating myself when I fail. I think back to my dad once more. He’s turning sixtysix soon and the virus is a merciless executioner of the old and vulnerable. I try not to focus on the darker thoughts that have a tendency to plague my mind like locusts. If I mess up, make contact with the wrong person, don’t wash my hands properly, don’t disinfect everything I’ve touched when I come home… My dad will get sick. I can see images of my ailing father, disappearing before me like a specter in the night, all because of me. I feel the bone-deep loneliness, a rattling fear that feasts off of me like a parasite, as I picture my father’s gravestone.
It’s almost one, and my manager moves me to the back window. I like this place. It’s calmer here, farther away from the insanity of the restaurant. All I need to do is collect the customer’s payments for their orders and give them their receipts. Things are starting to slow down. The minutes turn into eternities as the day grows dull like haphazardly pasted wallpaper.
A lady drives through with ziplock bags on her hands instead of gloves. I smile slightly at how unusual it looks. She hands me the exact money that she owes for her order. I hand her the receipt with a farewell that feels more genuine compared to the rest of what I’ve said today.
A blonde woman with glasses pulls through. As I count the money she gave me, she asks, “I’m paying for the car behind me as well. What’s their total?” I give her the total and she pulls out a few extra dollar bills. With a brief “good day,” she drives forward. The person behind her pulls up, cash in hand. “Oh, the car in front of you already paid for you,” I tell him. Surprise flashes on his face, and I feel confused. “Well then. I’ll do the same for the car behind me. What’s their total?” I’m uncertain as to what is happening, but I can’t help the glee that settles in my
First Light 10 my body. The occasional draft that passes through the open window feels like a blessing.
It’s a small moment, but it briefly clears my mind of the negativity and darkness that grow like weeds. It reminds me of how human kindness can be a surprising but welcome guest.
Still, the dopamine rush doesn’t last long, as the day retreats back into the confines of monotony. Somehow, despite everything, I feel void. I’m growing tired. There’s only so much a person can stress or feel before they exhaust themselves. I think I’ve reached that point. I just want to go home.
The seconds finally build up to three o’clock. Finally, I can leave. I can’t help feeling utterly boneless as I climb into my car, my back and feet aching. My head feels like it has been stuffed with lead. I clumsily turn on the vehicle, welcoming the cool air that comes from the vents.
People still have places to be, problems to fix, dreams to dream , lives to live. It will always be like that, won’t it? Through the swirling fog, through the fear and pain that fly above us like vultures over a rotting carcass, we’ll push through.
The world feels like it’s ending sometimes, but I know it’s not. Some day it will all seem like a bad memory that we’ll discuss at holiday dinners as we talk about the World Wars. People still have places to be, problems to fix, dreams to dream, lives to live. It will always be like that, won’t it? Through the swirling fog, through the fear and pain that fly above us like vultures over a rotting carcass, we’ll push through. We’ve done it before and we’ll simply have to do it once more. Even if all the stars in the sky go out, the sun explodes, and the world stops spinning, we’ll still have things to do. Nobody canceled tomorrow, because somehow, in some way, we’ll continue, we’ll persevere. What else is there to do?
I sigh and pull out of the parking lot, starting my drive home.
Light 11 stomach. The man smiles as I give him the number. “That’s not a lot! Here you go,” he says handing me the cash. He pulls ahead. The man after that does the same. “Let’s pay it forward,” he tells me with a firm smile. I can’t help my giddiness that rises like bubbles in a carbonated drink. It’s heartwarming to see how touched people look, little glimmers of light among the backdrop of darkness. The young woman who pulls up after laughs with relief at the wonderful gesture.
Color Wash World
Vivian Gomez
I wonder if he knows he sounds like orange. Or if she sees the song dance like purple daffodils in Spring wind. I promise, I’m trying to listen but the screaming red hurts my head and leaves me dizzy for days. Dazed, a word that should be blue. But it’s pale green when spoken by you.
Is it weird to say your voice brings out the color in your eyes? Should I tell her she sounds like lilac skies? No,
I gotta stay quiet. But, God, do I hate the silence. Oh no, I can’t stand the noise right now. Turn it all down, wash the colors out. Quiet place, safer space, everything is black.
Then, beams of yellow sunlight come pouring from the melodies you play sweetly as I wake. Always with a smile, “Welcome back,” you say in a soft pink. My favorite color.
Unprecedented Cara David
Just checking in How is everyone? Are you okay?
Chills Headache Fever Sore Throat Older People Immunocompromised Stop the spread.
It’s just the flu.
People are dying
There are people hoarding toilet paper. I couldn’t find any yeast at the store.
She’s using curbside pick up I watched this great webinar. Essential services only It’s closing indefinitely.
Stay safe everyone and remember social distancing.
We are heartbroken to announce…
We won't be administering the SAT. We are rescheduling the the ACT At least they're refunding us.
In May, we’ll send information.
AP Exams will be at-home this year. Modified DBQ’s and FRQs. You’ll need to time yourselves. Figure out what your plan is now.
Everyone’s saying they’ll go test optional. You should still take it Take virtual tours. You might not be able to visit in person. We’ll have to wait and see.
It’s going to be an Interesting admissions process. Thank God you're not a senior.
The Virus. Have you heard about what’s happening in New York? That’s why it’s good to live in the country, we’re all spread out…
The animals are loving this.
Try to stick to a routine.
Get a Nintendo Switch
Unprecedented
Challenging and unpredictable times Insufficient testing. Social Distancing Quarantine Trump’s press conferences Reopening the States Restaurants in Georgia Beaches in Florida Barber Shops in Maine
We’ll have to wait and see how it goes. The best thing you can do is stay home.
Stay connected
We’ll get through this
First Light 14
Perspective in a Pandemic
Michelle Yun
Idon’t remember when I first heard the name. Maybe it was on the news, a headline about a novel sickness in Asia. Maybe it was during my biology class, when a classmate brought up this new disease. The name was COVID-19. For weeks, it remained a distant issue. Just a new strain of illness with a mortality rate lower than the flu and something only the elderly and those with lung problems had to worry about. But then our college friends came home as universities closed. Then the lines on graphs and numbers of infection started rising at faster rates and upward inflection. Then we were talking about corona in practically every class, discussing the facts and the possibility of the school district shutting down. Then, it became real.
We heard through emails and conversations that all these events that we had held for years in anticipation were, one by one, being subject to elimination. Sports events, academic competitions, music festivals cancelled, cancelled, cancelled. Every time I heard that word, hope dropped further down in my stomach, and my heart ached for the memories never made.
We found out that all schools in Pennsylvania would be closed for the rest of the year. An idea that was once laughed about, without fear, now was a painful reality. Because, while it meant sleeping in, it meant staring at screens all day was a new normality. And while it meant more freedom of time, (not that we had much freedom offline), it also meant that this entire situation was becoming more serious than any of us had ever imagined, throughout the entire nation. There was a realization: school means social events are more than tentative. The presence of school is representative of the continuation of daily life. And to our dismay, we soon uttered words we thought we’d never say: “I miss school.”
Days turned into weeks turned into the rest of the year. Each day we checked our beloved Canvas Instructure and attended the prestigious Zoom University. More than anything, we longed to see our friends in person instead of in a rectangle on our phones. We complained that we wanted to leave the house and be done with the stress, and parents who had to deal with our mess whispered under their breaths, “You have no idea.”
That was the reality of these past few months. I know that many of us, including myself, would rather talk about anything else. But, I bring it up because to acknowledge that it happened is essential. We are living history that will be influential for the rest of our lives. We can’t ignore it and hide, waiting for everything to return to the way it was, because return means moving backwards, to regress. Yet, this time of uncertainty is primed
Each day we checked our beloved Canvas Instructure and attended the prestigious Zoom University.
for progress. In this pivotal experience, all we can control is our attitudes and our actions. We cannot be stagnant in wishes and regrets. We must invest in using what we have been given to move forward.
As I reflect on what we students have learned from this time, I don’t think about the content from taking classes online. What comes to my mind is how we have adapted and come together. We longed to see friends, so we got creative with outdoor walks and innovative by sitting in car trunks in parking lots. We could see that all this was bigger than us, so we made videos for healthcare workers and masks for those in need. However devastating this situation, it has been stimulating mature conversation and bringing unity to groups that would never have connected otherwise. We have found what is truly valuable in our lives and now know to cherish those things, because they can be taken from us in the blink of an eye.
We’re not perfect, and we don’t always have the right answers, even if we like to think we do. But we are learning and growing, and that is what makes us great students and why school is much more than a building. We are not passive teenagers who wait for difficult trials to end, but we actively search for service, for a hand that we can lend. We are young adults, part of a movement, conquering struggles to make improvements for ourselves, for each other, for the community. Our year was cut much too short, but we must mourn the loss, stand back up, and keep moving forward
A Modern Dilemma
Bella Zarcone
Concentration is a scarce resource. Students shuffle into empty caverns where once resided wide cores of ore, their pickaxes mining for some gold nugget of knowledge, hammering at hollow walls like the rereading of a sentence.
Opportunities arise, but I don’t go outside. My cave, my room, is dark but in my mind the walls are darker. The monotonous grinding of metal against rock, pencil against paper, keeps my work steady and my laboring brain from becoming too heavy.
Voids of knowledge litter my head like a scoria rock dropped in its spot, waiting and waiting for just one coherent thought. Is it better to wait, to regain my strength? or to continue on at this meager pace? will I be whipped into shape or bend until I break? Which is better?
“It’s a pandemic,” they say, “but teen recklessness is the disease. They went to the beaches instead of home.” And yet every teen I know is dreaming of sandy shores while working at grocery stores or cramming for exams in May.
Don’t blame my generation when everyone’s sick because Karen couldn’t go one month without Cracker Barrel, protesting for the death of the working class.
She may think she’s a Rosa Parks, but she’s really just an ass.
Nine times out of ten we, the “reckless” youth, are trying to get up, to study, to live just one more meaningful day. We’re earning degrees, graduating from a system you thought turned us into brain rot.
We know it’s a pandemic, which is to say, life is changing and so are we Teens.
19 Claire Kane
I was supposed to be 19 today the balloons sounding it out instead of turning that two digit number I am stuck in a snow globe of surgical masks and fear yet it is still the 26th so i smile and they sing even if i don’t feel nineteen
Colors
Kiara Orellana Rosales
For as long as I can remember everything I have ever seen has been in beautiful colors that brighten my memories about my childhood. They always made my plain blue skies a beautiful shade of teal. They made my mother's jet black hair shine in the sun like the prettiest jewel. They made the sand a fine honey yellow, and during the sunset the sand reflected all of the sun's beautiful colors. The softest reds that made bold statements, the hues of orange that always seemed to be the color of the tangerines my mother would buy for me and my siblings. Behind my house, I remember there being a sea of lilacs that always waved as if whenever I looked outside my window, they saw me, and wanted to say, ‘Hi.”
I recall my psychiatrist asking over a Facetime call, “What do you think has changed?”
I can hear the curiosity in his voice as though he were a child who was told a story that he did not understand. “What do you think happened, Dr. Schuester?” I ask trying to switch the tables.
“I think that losing your dad to the Coronavirus caused you to have a certain type of vision impairment that caused you to lose your ‘colors'’ because of how much emotional stress this has caused you,” he answers.
Have I mentioned how much I hate my psychiatrist? I hate his explanations, his way of sounding like a stuck-up snob, but most importantly, I absolutely detest when he’s right. They say whenever someone dies, it leaves a hole in your life. Your family will never feel whole, you will never feel whole, because you just lost a part of yourself. They say that I lost more than my mom, brother, and sister did because of how close I was with my dad. They say that’s why I lost my colors. That’s not true, though. It can’t be. I lost my colors because he left me.
“Oh...chrrss.. I’m losing you doctor. I’ll… call... you...tomorrow.” I try to act out a bad connection on my laptop and hang up. I fall on my bed. “Man, sitting criss-cross applesauce was never this painful when I was a kid,” I think out loud.
“That’s because you were a midget and now… well you’re still a midget, but you’re growing,” I hear my brother, Thomas, comment.
“Tell me something, Tommy, when did I ask?” I question, peeved at the fact that I had once again forgotten to shut my bedroom door.
“I never said you did. Now, come on, mom’s been calling you for dinner,” he says.
“Whatever,” I respond as I follow him down the stairs.
I look at the pictures as we walk down the stairs, and I remember dad hanging them up with such a beautiful expression on his face. My father was a handsome man. He had his dark tan complexion, which, from what my mom has said, attracted all of the girls in high school. His brown, curly hair was always
perfectly combed at the top of his head. His sweet liquidy brown eyes that could hold a stare so deep that you’d be too scared to look at him because then he might see who you really were. All of the family portraits slowly fade away as I near the bottom of the stairs and go into the dining room. I see my mother placing plates at the stone and wood table that she had bought in our home country, Honduras, and brought with us for the sake of keeping a part of home with us. My older sister, Naomi, is helping her. If you looked at us, you would assume that we're a picture-perfect family. My sister, with her beautiful tan complexion that she gets from my mom. Her curly, brown hair that seems to bounce with her as she walks to get the salad, and the hazel eyes that my mother has. She’s the perfect mixture of my mom and dad. My brother and mother are basically the same person. Same straight, jet black hair, same tan complexion, same deep pools of hazel eyes. I look like my dad. His
‘chocolaty brown eyes,’ as my mom says. Same curly hair. I feel bland compared to my family members. As we eat and say grace, the only thing I can look at is dad’s chair. I excuse myself and go back to my room. The last thing I remember is looking at the photos of me and dad.
O ne night when I woke up, I saw everything in black and white.
For the first couple of weeks without dad, I had nightmares all the time. In one of them, I could see him lying in his hospital bed as he was surrounded by people in masks who were taking him away. I watched in the hallway of the hospital and started screaming and running towards him. I could hear my feet hit the tile flooring of the hospital's hallway, and heard the gurney roll away as it was being pushed. I ran even faster with my lungs burning for air and my body aching in a way that seemed to beg me to stop, but I didn’t. I then felt someone grab my hand, then another, and before I knew it I was being held back. I looked to see who it was, but all I could see were different versions of myself. I saw me as an 8-year-old little girl with pigtails and two missing front teeth holding my left leg. I saw myself at 12 years old restraining my arms, as I wore a punk rock t-shirt that had splattered paint all over it along with skinny ripped jeans. Then, I saw myself, a 17-year-old wearing a sweater with two dogs kissing on it, a sickly red nose that looked red because it seemed as though she was crying, and then… I woke up screaming. I could see my brother’s blurry figure rush in and hold me down. That dream haunted me every single freaking night for two weeks. Then, one night when I woke up, I saw everything in black and white. I screamed for about two hours straight. My mother took me to the E. R. but they told her that everything was fine until they took me to the mental wing, and introduced me to Dr. Schuester. He told me that I was visually impaired...blah blah blah... special case....blah blah blah...therapy sessions, and so on and so forth. My world used to be in color, and now it’s in black and white. No longer do the May flowers bloom in beautiful bursts of the brightest colors.
The dandelions no longer seem like a bright shade of honey, but a dreary shade of black that in most cultures is used to describe death itself. The sea of lilacs behind my house no longer creates an ocean of the prettiest shades that artists labeled as shades of lavender and mauve. They now hold the colors only fossils displayed for our entertainment do. They no longer wave in the wind, but whip as though they have lost their pattern, unintentionally, and yet, still they have lost themselves. The florets no longer allow me to smell their sweet, honey like scent. The taste the wind brings as it blows through the dandelions and lilac, my tongue will no longer accept. How I miss the delightful taste of fresh air that brought to me those pleasant savors. I stare outside at the fields, and I feel the numbness seeping through the wall that I so weakly built. I knew that this feeling was coming, but alas, felt no need to defend myself. I could lie and say that I wanted to fight, I won’t. The numbness comes in, at first, small waves, then as if it had been angry at my attempt to keep it out, it comes in all at once, as if it were a tsunami. The waves drown me with their salty taste and coarse texture. My lungs which so desperately desired air, stop, and allow the tsunami of numbness to fill them. I can hear how they echo as they fill my heart with this sensation. It’s funny how I say sensation when I can no longer feel anything. Isn’t “it” bewitching how this tsunami has switched off all emotions as if feeling anything were like a light switch that you could easily turn off and on?
The days pass by as I sit here in this chair, watching for any sign that the fields might regain their color. I search for any sign of hope in myself that someone might come and rescue me from no longer being able to feel; I realize that no one is coming. I stay in my chair hoping for some movement from the legs that, despite the fact that they’re attached to my body, have no feeling and no want to move. I look inward and watch as I float as if I’m flying in air, but as I take a closer look, I realize I’m still drowning in my ocean of numbness. I watch as the TV informs us that the quarantine changes from two weeks, to three, to a month, to another. The television is stationed at the corner of the wall for my mom and siblings. They hoped that perhaps seeing and understanding that the rest of the world is in our same situation and other people have lost people they love, perhaps, it will take me out of my coma like state. I ignore their comments. Until they one day tell me something that allows me to surface from my sea of numbness, and the tides change from a gray to a blood red, the tides allow me , for what seems like a second, to drown in rage.
“Do it for dad,” they say.
So I bellow with all of my might, “No, because guess what!? Dad isn’t here, and neither are my baby blue skies. I will not lie to myself; they are thunderstorms. The colors that I so loved are gone. With them has gone my sanity, my emotions, my want to be myself, my enjoyment of life. I’m not me anymore. Dad left, he's gone, and now the only thing I can try to get back are my colors. I allow every drip of rage to hang on to those words, and then I allow them to drip off of them.
After my little meltdown, I begin to see Schuester more and more often than I wanted to. At one of our sessions, he asked me to describe my family and
“My mother is 52, a mixture of Honduran and American with hazel eyes, 5’ 5”. My brother is 19, basically my mom’s twin except he’s 6’ 0”. His name is Thomas. My sister Naomi is 21. She’s 5’ 7 inches, and she can be a real brat at times,” I say smartly, trying to make him mad.
“Okay Katerina, we have only a couple minutes left, so for tomorrow's session I want you to think of something positive about each of your family members okay?” he asks.
“Whatever,” I respond.
“My dear Katerina,” he says my name with the baritone voice he had when he spoke Spanish. “Why have you neglected your colors?”
I go through the same routine that night as I do every night, and it goes as follows: nap, dinner, chores, nap, family time, and sleep. I wake up in a white room which had no flooring and no ceiling. I look down and realize that I’m floating and wearing the ugliest white I had ever seen. I look in front of me, and suddenly realize that I’m not alone. I feel a gaze on me that seems to pierce right through my being and makes the tiny hairs on the back of my head stand up. I turn around and see… I see… I see him. I see the man who had taught me how to ride my pink and silver bike down the paths of our neighborhood. I see the man who had taught me how to calmly stroke through the clear waters of our pool. I see my dad. I don’t know if I ran to him or floated, but I blink and all of a sudden, I am in his arms. “My dear Katerina,” he says my name with the baritone voice he had when he spoke Spanish. “Why have you neglected your colors?” he questions.
“I haven’t Papa,” I sob. “You gave me those colors, and when you left, you took them with you. You left me.. you stole my colors… why Papa?” I sob even harder while tears leave trails on my cheeks.
“Mija, I will forever be a part of you just like the colors. Your eyes, nose, and mouth are mine, and the things you see, taste, and smell I will as well. Through you I will always live, my daughter,” he calmly explains. “Allow your colors to come back mi amor, and live, if not for you, then for me.” His voice slowly fades, and I jolt awake.
I run as fast as I can out of my house and into the fields. Papa’s message is clear. My colors are still somewhere in me, I just had to find them. I go to the lilac fields, laid down, and listen with my eyes closed to the sounds around me. Thump, thump.
I hear thumping but I know there are no animals around me. Thump, thump, thump. The thumping grows louder. It sounds like a herd of horses running. I realize it is my heart. Then, I look inside, and see her. The girl who had been drowning surfaces from the ocean of despair that had been slowly killing her. Her
First Light 23 what they’re like. I’m a smart aleck, okay, so, obviously, I decided to make his job even harder by only stating the basic facts.
hair is soaked, her eyes red from the salt of her tears. Her hair is sticking to the sides of her head, and her mouth curves into a smile. She slowly turns in the ocean to look at a bright light. A golden light. I open my eyes as she closes hers in peace. I see them, the sun rising on the horizon with the most beautiful golden colors, the prettiest shades of magenta and the rays dance the same way fire flames. The lilacs return to their patterns, and the scents waft their ways to my nose and tongue, and I did as Papa had asked. I smell, and taste, and enjoy all the colors I could see. This is not for the girl who was drowning, or for the one who resurfaced, this is for the man who inspired her from the beginning, for the man who rescued her, and gave her back her colors. This was for the artist, son, and brother. It is for him, for Papa.
But I’m Just A Pessimist
Brooke Mitchell
The Good News Is
While Jenna mourns her mom after Covid pooled in her lungs, the veins of Venice have cleared enough for fish to roam the city until the dead are buried and the world starts moving, again.
The Good News Is
While Evan’s vertebrae slip beneath his dad’s fist because Now I’m supposed to feed you f-ing lunch?
Jenna’s dad drives her to the closest school and asks for a bagged meal because the world is so much more generous now.
The Good News Is
While Emily gets sacked because she hacked behind her mask at McDonald’s, Evan’s babysitter takes this opportunity to host a Facebook Live raising awareness for children wearing bruises like blush on their cheeks.
The Good News Is
While a funeral home in Wuhan hands out urns spilling over with government secrets, Emily receives a stimulus check to dent the hospital bills accumulating like a virus as the doctors and nurses intubate her lungs.
Fireflies
Olivia Stuckey
Some nights I lie awake and dream of plucking the stars from the sky and cupping them in my palms until they whisper their secrets in my ears.
But the stars are so far above and I am here below, light years away from the knowledge I crave. And so, the closest that I can get on this earth to catching stars is catching fireflies.
I arm myself with mason jars and hope and venture into night, filling them until they become beacons that banish the darkness surrounding me. I place the jars by my bedside, put my ear up to the glass, and pray the fireflies will mutter words that allow light to dance in every crevice of my being.
But fireflies don’t whisper and people talk too loud, and this earth rotates far too fast for anyone to enjoy their time on it. I know this. I do.
Yet each insomnia-plagued night, I find myself grasping at jars and luminous insects praying to find purpose along the way.
Differences Jonathan Gaston
From the beginning of my memory, I have had someone with me who complimented me. Someone who could pick up where I was lacking and whom I could do the same. Someone I could rely on. That someone is my sister Laurel who has been my best friend for as long as I can remember. She has been someone who has always felt like my better half. Whenever I struggled, she would be right by my side in order to help out. When we started high school it became clear that we had different skills. I excelled in math and Laurel did well in writing. So when one of us struggles in a class the other one comes in to help. Laurel has a better work ethic, and I have a better sense of calm. Right before a major test Laurel panics and forces us to study even if I’m reluctant. Then the next day I’m calming her down on the way to school, reminding her to live in the present instead of her fears.
When you cut off what makes people different, you cut off what makes us human.
This has resulted in us working like a well-oiled machine most of the time. Sometimes our personalities clash, but we always get through because we know we are stronger together. We have different strengths and weaknesses, areas where we shine and where we need help. The same could be said about humankind as a whole. In a way, this is what makes people beautiful. It’s almost like we were made to need to reach out towards each other. We need differences in order to thrive, because in a world of sameness, how do you improve? When you cut off what makes people different, you cut off what makes us human. I can see it every day, in friendships, in family, in relationships, and with my sister. I can see people working together to improve the world as a whole. Infinite and unique perspectives create infinite solutions in a world full of conflict.
However, there are so many people who fight against our differences. Not just racial, gender, or sexual, but political and personal values. We fight over party affiliations and differences of opinions. We forget that not everyone believes the same things as we do. So when we find something that contradicts our perspective, we fight against it. Even when it seems minor, we bristle at what scares us. Almost as if we would rather everyone be just like us. But where would that leave us? An ooze of uniformity, where everyone does the same thing. A world without color, a world without character, a world without humanity.
We have to learn to accept our differences, even the ones we don’t like. Even the offensive ones can teach us a lesson. Even cruelty can inspire compassion. That’s the point of free will; we’re free to make our own decisions. So we have to learn to work with the differences, becoming stronger because of them. Like how
my sister and I have our differences- we don’t let it divide us, but improve us. We are all pieces in one big puzzle, and specific pieces might not fit in one spot. But a grander design is revealed when you appreciate the larger picture.
The Big Red Beast
Eva Parno
He was crimson, bulbous, and barbed. Sharp pearly white teeth filled his mouth ready to sink into his victims.
When he was young, everybody laughed at him. They said he would never get them, that he would stay in his territory. It was unthinkable that he would cross the sea. Besides, we were stronger than other places. The greatest country in the world, we could protect ourselves.
The risk was low, but the monster had other plans. He took his first victim in February, but it was just one person. It was doubtful he’d go after more, until the monster killed 2 and the panic began.
A global warning was issued, ordering people to stay in their homes. The monster could not get them in there. Still he rampaged through grocery stores, nursing homes, playgrounds, preying on those who refused to go into hiding, devouring not only grandparents and the sick but young, lively people.
Snatching proms, graduations, and family vacations, he took everything from the people of the earth. Now he doesn’t want to leave. Nobody knows when it will be safe again. The monster has killed 228,000 and counting.
A Poem Written in Uncertain Times
Nate Ebeling
The streets are barren. Fear lurks like smoke from a fire. Fabric obscures faces. The walls appear taller than they were before.
Every door is locked.
The rains ebb and flow, washing nothing away. Clocks disintegrate. For eternity, we stare into mirrors.
Leaves scatter lazily, as people lay fearfully. There is an oxbow of lava between us. We have turned inside ourselves.
The world collapsed at our feet. We aren’t sleeping, only dreaming.
Set Adrift
Aidan Ferrin
Floating in an empty void, drifting to infinity, a surveyor of the stars, moving into the cosmological horizon never to be see again. My being was weightless, limbs floating freely as I twirled and danced among the heavens, but my mind . . . my mind was still, tranquil, like a small pond in a quiet forest, thoughts like raindrops only briefly disturbing the stillness, ripples of contemplation echoing throughout my being.
Drip. I was a child sitting on a chair on the porch of my old house, looking across the small, placid pond on the ranch my family used to own. I would spend hours there, absentmindedly braiding pieces of dry grass together as I watched the sun sink behind the rolling hills of the horizon. And as I sat I pondered. I pondered how the fish must feel when they swim in the lakes that ripple with wind, zipping about and twirling in their watery world. I pondered how the worms must feel, blindly pushing their way through the soft earth in an eternal search for food, enveloped by gentle embrace of mother earth. I pondered how the birds must feel, riding currents of cool and warm air as they soar over everything we know and breathe, air fresher than any other could dream of. How spastic we must seem to the fish, who dance fluidly in their world. How lonely we must seem to the worms, who live in a constant embrace. How insignificant we must seem to the birds, who fly above all problems.
Gently, I would pour into a lake and I would become silence, my thoughts unperturbed and peaceful.
Drip. I was a child standing by a waterfall in a national park, the cool mist billowing around me, settling gently on my skin and tickling my nose upon each inhalation. I continuously crept closer to the thundering tower of water, letting it fill every fiber of my being with its vibration and sounds. Finding purchase on a flat, slick rock twenty feet from where water met water in a mighty crash, I sat, the slow seeping of moisture into my clothing of no consequence. And as I sat, I envisioned myself as the water, beginning high in the mountains and flowing downward into the distance.
Fluidly I would move, snaking around rocks and trees, through forests and plains, surrounded by the chirping of birds and the soft footsteps of deer and elk. Gently, I would pour into a lake and I would become silence, my thoughts unperturbed and peaceful, occasional ripples moving my being toward greater stillness. How rigid we must seem to the water, who moves in both complete freedom and peace, shaping the geography of the world and providing life effortlessly.
Drip. I drift toward the infinite unknown, a single point of life in a deep, primordial darkness punctuated occasionally by brilliant points of light, distant galaxies smudges on the horizon. I catch a brief glimpse of where I had come from: a pale, blue speck, just on the edge of vision. I was now the bird, looking down upon the problems of others, the worm, embraced by the darkness which surrounded me, the fish, twirling endlessly through time, and the water, flowing my course, eventually settling into stillness. How small I am, but a drifter in the dark. How small we are, who feel the world is ours.
Temporary Housing
Mel Cort
I suppose I didn’t realize what true boredom felt like until I had no one else to bother me no one to drag me by the hair, kicking and screaming, out of my thoughts and into a world that would force me to forget for an instant, how discourteous my thoughts are when I come to visit and now, all of a sudden, I’ve packed my bags and moved into my head where I took the leftover lasagna without asking always leave the lights on, and put my feet on the ottoman with my shoes still on. I suppose I gave my mind roommates no reason to like me but if they kick me out, you see, I have nowhere left to go except for my house in white suburbia with a family who cares about me and a roof over my head and food in the fridge. So,
I’ll be staying in my head until all this blows over. I’ll make myself at home, mind you.
Life on Register 5
Abbie Brennan
A smile in every aisle
Now covered by a mask
Tell Brenda she can go on break
Tell Brenda she can clean her register
My hands smell like money
My hands smell like bleach
When is your next sale?
When are you guys getting toilet paper?
Here, lemme see I have no idea
Man, the weather has been crazy lately Man, people are crazy lately
How many reusable bags do you have?
I’m sorry you cannot use those right now
I like your shirt! I like your mask!
I’m sorry I didn’t see you there! Oh no, we’re too close to each other!
Hello, how are you?
I’m sorry you can only get one thing of paper towels!
I’m good, and you? Just trying to survive, you?
I’m good thanks! I’m… okay.
Paper or plastic?
Life or death?
How’s the musical coming along? It was cancelled…
Graduation is right around the corner! Yeah, so was that…
Thank you, I hope you have a good day! Have a nice day, and thank you for being here…
Have a nice day! Stay safe…
Breaking Free Amayah Walker
Laying down in my bed I watch the minutes count down. The more this quarantine lasts, the more I want it to be over. It is day whatever in quarantine and the boredom is eating me alive. Even social media is getting boring to me. I jump out of bed and head to the kitchen. Everything was left as it was from last night. I grab a garbage bag and start to clean off the table.
“Good morning, Alexandra. There’s a box for you on the step,” my mom tells me.
“Thank you?” I question.
I grab a pair of gloves and Clorox wipes to sanitize the box. Meeting the package at the step, I pick it up. There is no label on it, just my name. I stare at it wondering what would be inside. Entering the house, I look for a knife. I cut the box open and inside lays a piece of paper. It isn’t in an envelope. It’s just a piece of paper. I picked up and turned it upside down.
“Well…what is it?” My mom questions.
“I don’t really know. It’s a paper,” I answer.
Summoning up my courage, I finally read it: “Your present awaits you. Just break out of quarantine.”
Your present awaits you. Just break out of quarantine.
My mom tries to take the paper away from me. I pull back. I don’t want her to freak out. I am more confused than she is.
“Oh, it's nothing. It’s a letter from a friend.” I scurry upstairs with the box and letter. I search it for any identification, but there is none. The letter confused me. What does it mean “break out”? I post a picture of the letter on Snapchat to see if anyone knew about it. After a couple minutes, no one answers. I throw the letter on my desk and turn on Capitol TV. All they talk about on the news now is COVID-19. The numbers continue to rise and more people continue to stay outside. I change from the news and go to Disney Channel.
My phone vibrates. It’s a notification from Snapchat from my friend Brooke. “I don’t know why you’ve got this letter.”
This scares me even more. Why me? I look back into the box one more time. I spot a post-it note stuck under the flap. It’s an address. 678 Chelsea Drive. I type the address into Google and it’s an alleyway near our house. I put the letter and note back into the box and I slide it under my bed. I've come to the conclusion that I don’t want my mom to find out.
I chill in my room for a couple hours, thinking about what to do. Should I sneak out? I’ve done it before, but never during quarantine. It’s not a big deal if I get in trouble. My hands and body sweat and I circle around my room a few times. Stopping my train of thought, I decide to sneak out.
It’s finally midnight and my mom has fallen asleep. I’m going to sneak out the window. I grab my mask and put on a sweat suit. I open my window slowly and slip through. I’m glad my room is on the second floor. Grabbing my bike, I slip my mask on and follow the address. No one is on the road because of curfew. I made it. Standing in the alley a man in black. He doesn’t say anything. The man holds a paper in his hand. I grab the box from his cold hands and slowly back up. The box feels light, like there’s just some clothes in it. The man stands there with his hands by his side. I start to get freaked out by this whole situation. I turn around and head towards my bike.
Heading home I wonder what’s in the box. My thoughts of this crazy night overwhelm me. I finally make it home. Lifting the window, I try not to make noise and wake my mom. I slip through the window like jelly squeezing out of a bottle. The wooden floors creak, but not loud enough to wake her. I continue to creep until I make it to my room. I peel off my mask and gloves and set them on my nightstand. I grab my scissors and open the box. A blue cloth with gold string lays there. It’s my graduation gown. A stream of tears fall. Corona took my graduation away this year.
Stolen Spirit
Madison Levreault
Golden fur, Eleven years. I wanted to be there. Cancer, seizuresThey said I couldn’t stay with you, When you went to sleep. So with a mask, through a door, I say my last goodbye. Holding onto my newfound pain, Which now cuts deep.
Outside is Closed
Cole Pynes
The swings sway in the wind
As the slides have no motion
Seesaws forever lean to one side
And the path stays unused
Benches and tables remain empty
No cars parked along the street
The bike rack has plenty of room
All that remains is silence Besides the soft breeze
The grass remains uncut While weeds begin to emerge And trees become overgrown Next to trash cans left full
The equipment begins to wear And across the park signs all say
Closed
Hopelessness and Rage
Kyra Nadzady
For the majority of my life, I have been a happy-go-lucky child. I could easily go with the flow when plans had to abruptly change, even on some of the more special occasions. Not many setbacks or change of plans ever made me that upset. However, when COVID-19 came around, all of that changed. I felt emotions that I never thought I would experience so early in my life, the feeling of pure rage and hopelessness.
At that point it felt like
nothing could break me any further. My heart felt heavy, yet empty at the same time.
At the beginning of the quarantine, I thought that we would return to school after two weeks had passed. Then the return date was extended further… and further… and further… and further. The continuous moving of the day meant our high school’s production of Annie had to be postponed numerous times. I was still hopeful then. Hopeful that me and the other seniors would get the chance to perform our last show. For months we had spent two to three hours memorizing our lines and preparing for the big day to come. We were just one week away from the show. One week before getting to live in a memory that would last us a lifetime. A memory that never came to be. Instead, our memories are now filled with sorrow and pain as wept for the long awaited event we had lost due to the coronavirus. Ultimately, the show was canceled, shattering the hearts of everyone in the musical, especially mine. I sobbed with my mother on the kitchen floor for what felt like hours, both of us mourning for the moments we would never get to live. My mother even told me that she was looking forward to the musical more than graduation, and I told her that I felt the same way. The following days, I could feel the hope that I once held dwindle more and more with each cancellation. Athletic Training was over due to spring sports being cancelled, learning had to go online because of the long absence of in-school learning, and vacation plans to celebrate my final year of high school were all thrown out the window. It came to the point where I almost felt nothing when my school said that we were not going back for the rest of the year. I always thought that my last day walking through the halls of my school would be a sad, but pleasant day. Instead, it was filled with sorrow and uncertainty. The last faces that I remember seeing every time I think of that day are two of my friends from drama club looking up at me from the steps as they try desperately not to cry from my mere presence. Those were my final memories of being in school. At that point it felt like nothing could break me any further. My heart felt heavy, yet empty at the same time. I began expecting everything good to just slip away. I tried to stay the happy-go-lucky me for my family, but they could easily tell how depressed I was. Never had I felt like the
world was crashing down on me until now. Never had I felt like I was in a bottomless void, swallowing every ounce of joy from my chest. Never had I ever felt so hopeless.
Hopelessness wasn’t the only new emotion that I felt during all of this. As the weeks began to count down, talk about graduation started to rise up. My family and I dreaded the possibility of having either a virtual graduation or nothing at all, like some of the other more unfortunate schools in Pennsylvania. At first, I was fine with anything as long as it did not become virtual... That is until they presented us with their idea. They planned on having us graduates crammed into our cars with our family members and just sit in our cars for three hours in a construction vehicle company’s parking lot. Not only would it have taken place not at the school, but instead of us walking onto the stage to get our diplomas as they would call our names they would have staff members walk down to our cars and hand us our diplomas through the window like at a drive-thru. This momentous event was what many of our friends and family members have longed to see, yet they were threatening to rip this out of our hands as well. We all would have been sobbing depressed tears rather than joyous ones. I was honestly surprised by how upset I became after hearing the news even after I had no hope left to hold on to, so much so that I would have rather wanted it to be canceled just like everything else. It felt as though the school board did not even make an effort to make our graduation as close to the actual event as possible. When my mother heard the plan, her hands were shaking in pure rage as she texted to her friends on the matter. I have never seen my mom be filled with so much anger to the point where she did not have full control over her hands. It was heartbreaking for me to witness, which only fueled my own rage even more. My cousin’s school tried exceptionally hard to hold a normal graduation, but ultimately failed in the end. Their school at least tried. Mine simply went straight for a simpler solution that was at least half a step up from going virtual. After everything that our graduating class has been through it felt like they were just giving us a crumb for our efforts. This fact alone was what made my blood boil the most. My rage did not cease as the governor of Pennsylvania continued to keep counties in the red zone that did not need to be in that zone. There have been many plans that I have disliked in the past, but I have never felt so much despise for an idea until I was told the graduation plan for my school. I was tired and fed up with having everything from my senior year being taken away from me. All I wanted was just one piece of my senior year to be given back to me.
Even after the hopelessness and rage, I am learning to accept these turn of events, and I am finding a positive reason for all of this. If the pandemic had not come around, I would not have had the time that I do now to be with my family for a few more months before I have to leave for college. The end of my senior year and my entire summer was packed with parties, trips, and vacations, leaving me little time to just be with my family at home. I also would not have gotten a job if it were not for my busy schedule suddenly going blank from all the cancellations. In an odd way, I am a little glad for this pandemic, although it is bitter-sweet. Now, I
can spend my final days in this town before I leave, for after graduation I can be free to leave this place as I go to purge my thoughts from these foul memories. I will return to visit my friends and old teachers, but never do I plan to live in this state again. Not after everything that has happened to me here. Even though I have had many fond memories here, I have also had some unpleasant ones. These memories that we are now living in was the breaking point for me. Now I get the chance for a brand new start, to leave behind the sorrows of my old life and start anew. I may not have suffered as much as others during these difficult times, but I suffered just the same. I am a part of history. I am a part of our future. I am a graduate of the pandemic.
Red Todd Feil
Sometimes I wonder about the color red. How it gets stuck in my head. It crowds my skull, Leaving nothing to mull. No matter my age, Red fills me with rage. And when I step back, I don't see its attack, But only the tears Not mine, but my peer's. The color melts away, Shifting to another day. Now I’m not red, but morose; I just hurt someone close.
Sugar and Cinnamon Alexa Marsh
I stare out my window and Long for a time when Sidewalks are filled with Families walking and an Elderly couple talking about The blooming blossoms And the rich color of the Cerulean sky.
When I can sit outside Under the warmth of the Yellow sun and carelessly Turn the soft page of a book That I’m reading simply For the pleasure of Immersing myself into a Good story, Rather than to distract Myself from the grim Realities that weigh On my shoulders like an Immense boulder Heavy and immutable.
When the eerie silence And stillness fade away And the faint hum of jazz Music can be heard Drifting from a bustling Coffee shop, Its freshly painted patio Filled with friends and Siblings and lovers licking Their fingertips, Sticky with the syrup and Sugar and cinnamon Of a sweet pastry.
I ache for the simple Pleasures and tender tastes Of normalcy
Winter Boy
Jacob Smith, Spectrum Award for High Artistic Achievement
Four
When I was four years old, my grandmother locked me in a January stare, pounding an icepick into my muddled mind that love could never exist between two boys. As we pulled into her driveway, I bit off a piece of the Blue Raspberry Airhead that she always had waiting when my mom needed her to babysit.
“Does your dad have a girlfriend?” She killed the ignition and turned in her seat to face me. She always let me ride upfront, as long as I promised not to tell.
I traced the outline of my hand with my finger. “No.” The edges of my palm were sticky from the candy.
“Well, as long as he doesn’t have a boyfriend.” Her gaze narrowed, expectancy frosting her irises.
I looked up from my hands, eyebrows furrowed. “Why?”
“Why! What do you mean why?” She lowered her head, frosty eyes turning to a hailstorm. “Boys can only like girls, they can’t like other boys that way. Hasn’t anybody ever told you that?”
“No.” I refocused my attention to my hands clenched in my lap, Airhead between them.
The usual May flowers of her eyes wilted as they stared at my small frame. Perhaps she caught a glimpse of an unholy force of desire residing in my candystained lips. Maybe she had heard somewhere that broken families led to broken sexualities, and she was only trying to prevent excess wreckage from my parents’ divorce. Whatever the cause, her seasons shifted from the gentle showers of spring to the blunt frostbite of winter, and she set the ball and chain standard of my small town world. At four years old, I learned love came with a rulebook scripture, highlighting all of the forbidden fruits of passion to avoid.
My grandmother’s words rested uneasy in my head. How was the brain of a young boy to simply accept this without question? I stuck the last bit of candy into my mouth as her words chiseled at the pieces of me I didn’t know needed removed.
Six
In a cloud of late August heat, I started my kindergarten year at six years old. On that first day of school, a film of sweat scribbled a million chaotic question marks across my body. My curious eyes stopped wandering once they fell upon a particular classmate. Something about the way my heart quickened, tapping a little harder against my ribs, made it hard to peel my gaze away from him. When I looked at a girl, anyone that noticed would dive into asking if I liked her. I had seen many beautiful girls, but this sensation that pulsed through my veins while looking at him was new.
My grandmother’s words hung like icicles in the back of my mind. Did I like this boy? The thought brought a December breeze into August, forcing goosebumps on my arms and a shiver down my spine. I think that if I had told anyone I liked that boy, they would have said that I was too young, that I didn’t know what I was saying, that I didn’t understand my own heart. That’s strange, though, because my best friend was a girl, and everyone thought that I was in love with her.
I think it’s odd when adults believe they know children better than children know themselves. I wonder if the adults know that there are elementary-aged kids starting flames to try to weather the snowstorm of preconceived expectations hailing down onto them.
Ten
By the time I was ten, the snowflake fears that fell when I was six had piled up to be five and a half feet deep. This nightmare of being what I only knew as a forbidden word started to become too real. In an effort to hide a truth that I couldn’t even face myself, I started wearing masks. I gave up color and dressed like a bruise, wearing only black or blue. My music library lost its pop anthems to quieter synth beats. My rather ambitious creativity occupied midnight shadows of pencil striking paper where nobody could see.
I gave up color and dressed like a bruise , wearing only black or blue.
I mastered blanketing the parts of me that were not worthy of the public eye, the way snow covered the yard outside. A picture perfect front to cover the dull, dead ground beneath. The ground that nobody would really like to see. That’s the way this word, this title that I so greatly feared, made me feel. Dull. Dead. Unwanted. Who was I without the approval of my friends and family? At ten years old, all that I knew about this word was that nobody seemed to care for the people who were infected by it. I began to lose hope that it was a sickness I would eventually recover from. I began to believe I was terminal.
In search of solace, I took to the internet. I wanted to learn what it meant about a person to feel the way that I did. I wanted to know if I had to wear different clothes, or if my voice would start to get higher. I wondered, if I really was different, if I didn’t like girls, could I still be happy?
My searches warranted bountiful results, but scarce comfort. Numbers told me enough to know that I wasn’t alone, but statistics told me nothing about the individuals behind the data. I stumbled across YouTube videos of people preaching about the importance of staying true to yourself, but it was difficult to accept I could someday reach what they had. As a ten-year-old living in middle-of-nowhere Pennsylvania, I was universes away from the twenty-two-year-old YouTuber living in Los Angeles. He had no need to chase the sun.
That night around dinner time, my mom pointed her steak knife at me, stabbing my chest with the realization that I forgot to clear the computer’s search history.
“Were you looking this up? Are you gay?”
The stress on that word. The disgust clinging to her tongue like saliva. Her accusation struck me into a state of permafrost. My heart snapped in the bitter cold. She must not have read my silence or seen the blizzard winds behind my eyes, because she pressed further.
“It’s okay if you are. Well, not okay, but we’ll deal with it.”
I burrowed myself away, six feet beneath the surface of the snow. The wind filled in my footprints on the tundra. “No. I’m not.”
Twelve
I wanted to chisel the black ice of my sinful thoughts away.
The seasons shifted in me at twelve years old. I had spent each day of middle school recreating myself a little bit, and each night begging God to let me become who I was trying to be. I wanted to chisel the black ice of my sinful thoughts away. I wanted to believe the words that my grandmother once spoke to me. I never wanted my mother to have to deal with who I was. I wanted to be the boy that everyone else wanted to see, so I put all of my energy into reaching him. The thing was, I didn’t like that boy nearly as much as everyone else did.
At the end of the year party that May, however, my facade melted away. That night, my eyes opened. For the first time, the sun touched my skin.
As the boys I’d spent all day with began settling down to sleep, I claimed a recliner as my territory for the night. Just as I sat, my friend slipped into the chair beside me, pulling a comforter all the way up to our necks.
The heat of his body next to me made the air hard to swallow. I tried to focus my attention anywhere else in the room, anywhere except on him. I thought about getting up to go and sleep on the floor, but feared that would be too obvious. Even more than that, I really didn’t want to leave. A flicker tapped at the back of my ribs, and I didn’t want it to go out.
He ripped my train of thought from its tracks as he took my hand into his own in one swift movement. His fingertips felt the same as mine. Frost. He had winter living in him, too. I was frozen there, fingers laced with his, but I didn’t feel anything like snow. The flickering in my ribcage burst into an inferno. Icicles hanging from my heart began to drip. I was lost someplace that felt like spring. I had never been more alive. I had never been more terrified.
As time went on, the fire he fueled in me never became enough to change the seasons. He and I were both boys of winter, after all. We could only ever offer the heat of a moment to each other. Never enough to treat the frostbite damage. We couldn’t save each other, and so we weren’t able to hold on to each other
either. What he did do was show me that somewhere under the snow, I had an ember in me. He showed me everything frozen in me had potential to thaw.
Fifteen
“Momma, I have to tell you something.” I didn’t move my eyes from my hands, locked together in my lap, as she sat on the edge of my bed.
“I’m-” Tears began to brim over my lower eyelids. For most of my life, I lived in the waters of a frozen lake. Floating beneath the sheet of ice, sometimes pressing my hands against the lower surface but never hitting at it so that I may cause it to break. Every day I would try to feel at home in the frigid waters. I would pretend I belonged there. I would ignore the world above, careful to never have hope I could someday live in the air on the other side. Hope always felt dangerous. Hope only really led to heartbreak. The water was never home but it was safe. Safe was never comfortable but I had always believed my discomfort was better than everyone else’s. Especially my mom’s. I bled into the water and I tried to speak but I couldn’t.
She put her hand on my knee. Sobs broke through me. The thing about living that way, believing you’re a disappointment in disguise, fighting to change yourself everyday, it’s a suffocating existence. Your lungs will eventually demand you breathe.
“Do you know?” I choked through my last breath of air.
“I know.” Her voice was softer than it had ever been. “It’s okay.” She wrapped her arms around me and I couldn’t stop apologizing. I inhaled the icy water into my lungs, and the primal instinct in the back of my brain kicked in. Survive. I thrashed my legs, hurled myself against the ice. I threw fists and cut my hands on the rigid surface. My mother held me and whispered, “It’s okay.”And it was. We were.
At fifteen, I broke through the ice.
Sixteen
My phone lit up to reveal my best friend’s message. “Leaving now.” Anticipation crystalized along my spine. His coming over to spend the night was a common occurrence, but that night my family was away. That night, we would be alone.
I sprang up from my bed and raced out to the living room. Okay, okay. I flipped on the lights, moved the dimmer all the way down, back up again, down again, and eventually opted to just turn them off. To keep the room from being totally consumed in darkness, I clicked the fireplace on. The glow that filled the space turned out to be the perfect lighting. Soft, warm, no harsh edges or definitive lines.
Does everyone think this much about how to make a room look before his best friend comes over? I tucked the thought away as I placed my speaker behind the garland on the mantle and put on a background music playlist, just loud enough to fill the silence. After fishing the lighter from the junk drawer in the laundry room, I lit the candle on the coffee table, but worried it would be too
much. I blew it out, watched the smoke rise from the lifeless wick for a moment, and decided to relight it. He probably wouldn’t even notice.
Did I want him to notice?
When my phone buzzed again, I didn’t have to look to know he’d arrived. I went back to the living room and sat on the rug in front of the fireplace, hugging my knees to my chest. I shook as if the house was subzero. Breathe. I’m surprised I couldn’t see my breath in the air. I focused on where my hands locked around my legs, careful not to look up until I heard the door open. When I first saw him step in, my mouth curled into a half smile, but I didn’t greet him otherwise. He met my gaze across the room and stopped for a beat in the doorway, his eyes not leaving mine, before turning to shut the door.
Why hasn’t he said anything yet? Why haven’t I? He dropped his bag inside the front door and faced me again. I breathed in the familiar salty scent of his deodorant as he crossed the room, and something flurried in my chest. An energy, a surge between us that had never been there before. A lump grew in my throat with each step he took until he stood over me. He dropped to his knees, and I forgot to breathe. His eyes, so dark in that lighting, flickered with a reflection of the flames behind me. His cinnamon skin, so close I feared if I breathed too deep I’d choke. He moved forward still, closing the inches separating us until his forehead met mine. Until the distance was no more.
One beat. Two. The fire in the fireplace threw a spark.
With a heavy sigh, he tore himself from me, falling back onto the carpet. “Hi,” he breathed.
Air rushed in against the skin he abandoned on my forehead, frosting over without him there.
He had never felt so far away.
Seventeen
My eyes rested on the horizon where the land and night sky began to curve together, interrupted by the glow of firefly-sized city lights. I thought about the space between the two of us and the people in their apartments there, miles away, separated by an expanse of murky nowhere. I thought about him, the boy who a year ago I called my best friend, the one who now hated “labels”, and the inches between us. His heat brushed against my neck, painting it in shades unspoken. The city had never felt so close.
We sat on a mountainside where people often came during the day to see the hawks that nest nearby. The rocks at the peak were hidden beneath early January snow. I shivered, imagining how much warmer it’d be if I moved closer to him.
He leaned back, turning his body away from me. “Who’s idea was this, anyway?” He tried to laugh, but it fell clumsily to the snow.
I stared at the ground where it hit. It was his idea. He’d texted me. “What do you mean? I’m having a blast.” Sarcasm dripped from my words, froze against my chin. Sometimes silence was easier than pretending.
I tilted my head up, allowed myself to steal a glance at him for a moment. I wasn’t sure I knew him anymore. He looked the same but felt so different to my eyes. Maybe I didn’t know myself anymore, either. Maybe we were more dead than broken.
I thought about the hawks, and how they’re opportunity feeders scavengers. I wondered if we sat here long enough, we’d become their prey. They’d swarm the cliff, ghostly feathers fluttering in the space between the moon and the rocks. They would dive, sinking black ice talons into our inhibition. They’d peck at the words I never let slip through my prison bar teeth. They’d shred the questions from where they stuck in my throat, about the girl he’d abandoned me for, about the silence he couldn’t explain, about why he held me in the rain and choked out an apology for making such a horrible mistake. A mistake he didn’t know how to name. They would feast on the death of two boys that never allowed themselves to love. To be in love.
I thought of the people that would come to see the hawks the next day. What a mess we’d be, nothing more than bones and scarlet snow.
I stood, keeping my eyes on the lights. “I’m cold. Maybe we should go.”
Eighteen & Counting
What a mess we’d be, nothing more than bones and scarlet snow.
My bedroom is lit entirely by Christmas lights. Every few minutes I look up from my laptop to see them. I count seconds between their pulses. I search for a pattern. The light reflects off of the polaroids hanging in my window. I think about the snapshots of memory held there, boxed in by the white frame, and wonder if my friends feel most themselves when they’re alone, too.
“Back To December” by Taylor Swift comes on my holiday playlist. It’s a song from ten years ago. Does she ever think about the person she wrote it for? A stack of journals on my dresser stands full of my own thoughts and poems for boys. I wonder if I’ll think of them ten years from now. Will they think of me? Will I find the sort of love that doesn’t thrive in choking back truths or whispers of secrecy? Will it shine like Christmas lights?
I watch the lights again. Small, each tiny bulb bringing only a flicker of light on its own. But strung together and stretched before me, they give vision. They illuminate everything.
There’s snow in the forecast for tonight. If it comes, it will be the first real snowfall of the season. I hope it does. I hope I wake to see the snow.
red thief
Saskia Mentor
you do not don gloves or a mask. whoever heard of a thief whose victims wear gloves and masks? you lurk in the shadows, threatening to break and enter at any given moment; but no one knows what’s stolen until they go looking for it and find that everything is wrong. you are unashamed of yourself, wrapping your fingers around their throats, their chests, their bodies, choking until red-rimmed eyes glaze with distant presence and die.
The White Girl
Hannah Cornell, Spectrum Award for High Artistic Achievement
I am the white girl. My name is comprised of six letters, but only three if you don’t count the ones that repeat. I drink coffee from a mason jar and buy too many stickers and wear my privilege like an ugly sweater I was given for Christmas.
I am the white girl, my dirty Converse have become my battle armor as I stand in the ice and snow protesting the deaths of my fellow students. Our cries, like their screams, fall on deaf ears.
I am the white girl, and this time the rainbows on my face mix with blood. I watch the red drip onto the floor trying to ignore the pain in my split lip and broken nose. I tell myself that rainbows are worth the rain, even if the rainbow is dripping off my skin and falling through cracks in the pavement.
I am the white girl, and today I don’t fight for myself. I fight for those on the news
whose skin color paints them like a bullseye in a corrupt system. I want to be shouting in the streets with them, milk pouring from my eyes and rubber bullets hung around my neck like trophies. “This Is America” plays from my 2003 speakers like a battle cry.
I am the white girl, there are six letters in my name, three if you don’t count the ones that repeat. I drink coffee out of mason jars, collect too many stickers and fight.
Classroom Notions for First Light
* Compare 2 opening lines from 3-5 of the poems, or the opening paragraphs of a few prose pieces. D iscuss what makes a strong opening in each form
* Take one of the poems you admire and remove the 6 best word choices, leaving a blank for a partner to fill in. Explore the impa ct of a single word.
* Manually input one of the shorter poems into a new file. How does the text read differently as a block paragraph? If you rebreak the lines in a new way, how does it effect the reading and meaning? (Hint: all this matters more than you think).
*Select your favorite paragraph from a prose selection. Input it and break it into a poem, noting the effect of line breaks.
* Select 3 great lines/images/sentences. Determine what words actually give the passage power and replace them w ith bland choices. This “reverse-drafting” should illuminate both the impact of an individual word and the importance of revising.
For example, look at Jacob Smith’s line, “I wanted to chisel the black ice of my sinful thoughts away” and compare it with the much weaker, “I thought about chipping away the cold ice of my bad feelings.” (Apologies to Jacob).
* Many of these pieces deal with the pandemic. You are reading this later, with a different perspective. Compose a poem or prose piece exploring the difference between your world (or attitude?) then and now.
* Draw on your experience in the pandemic to write a “How to Survive X”. X might be quarantine or a divorce or having a sibling battle cancer or the death of a pet. Calamities come in many shapes and sizes, yes?
* Take a line you admire from a story, or the last line of a poem, and make it the start of another work, one that perhaps continues the conversation begun by the original.
* Review “Revision Case Study: First Light 1.1” (available in Teaching Resources) to see the originals of several of these works. Take note of the editorial feedback provided and the improvements made by the author.
* In “Breaking Free,” the narrator escapes quarantine during the pandemic in search of a mysterious gift. Write a story with someone breaking quarantine for a different reason.
* “The Tale of An Essential Worker” benefits from Chekhtman’s keen use of simile. I Identify all the comparisons used on any one page, then decide which is the best.