2013 Teens Write

Salt Lake Teens Write

Stand Strong

Salt Lake Teens Write is published by the SLCC Community Writing Center All inquiries should be directed to: SLCC Community Writing Center

210 East 400 South, Suite 8, Salt Lake City, UT 84111

Salt Lake Community College (SLCC), The Salt Lake City Public Library, the Salt Lake City Arts Council, and the SLCC Community Writing Center (CWC) are not responsible for the opinions expressed in Salt Lake Teens Write, nor does the writing represent any official position at SLCC or the CWC. Individual authors are solely responsible for the opinions expressed herein.

Each author retains copyright individually. Reprinting of this publication is permitted only with prior consultation and approval from the SLCC Community Writing Center.

This edition of Salt Lake Teens Write was compiled and edited by CWC Staff Members and Associate Director Elisa Stone. Cover art created by Annie Best.

Salt Lake Teens Write: Stand Strong ©2012, 2013

Salt Lake Teens Write teens and mentors are paired up at the 2012 Fall Kickoff Celebration.

Salt Lake Teens Write Mentoring Teams: 2012-2013

Teen Writers

Annie Best

Sara Campbell

Mackenzie Clark

Wahe Dar

Jade Frost

Matthew Garcia

Bhim Gurung

Jia Jia He

Ku (Q) Htoo

Grace Hunt

Alexis Isle

Logan Jepperson

Kyuho (Kevin) Ji

Patricia Keene

Wilder Koeven

Brianne Morrison

Lexi Northrup

Sarah Robinson

Mariam Roe

Annaleigh Seeley

Jeyleen Takakiro

Jennifer Ulvestad

Jordan Wagner

Cheyne Warren

Tin Then Win

Mentors

Ana Antunes

Robyn Badon

Daisy Bennett

Callie Buys

Maria Calvi

Amy Childress

Emily Donaldson

James Duport

Shauna Edson

Faye Fischer

Rachelle Hancock

Ruth Hendricks

Liza Jones

Jarred Martinez

Brandon Miller

Natalie Moldover

Silvia Navejar

Maryam Pedraza

Tim Rowan

Brandon Schembri

Susan Schulman

Ken Simin

Martha Taylor

Mindy Wilson

Patricia Worley

Daniel Yocum

Mentoring Teams

Annie Best and Liza Jones

Sara Campbell and Silvia Navejar

Wahe Dar and Faye Fischer

Jade Frost and Callie Buys

Matthew Garcia and Jarred Martinez

Bhim Gurung and Ken Simin

Jia Jia He and Ana Antunes

Ku Htoo and Daniel Yocum

Grace Hunt and Daisy Bennett

Alexis Isle and Patricia Worley

Logan Jepperson and Mindy Wilson

Kevin Ji and James Duport

Patricia Keene and Robyn Badon

Wilder Koeven and Brandon Schembri

Brianne Morrison and Maria Calvi

Lexi Northrup and Amy Childress

Sarah Robinson and Ruth Hendricks

Mariam Roe and Emily Donaldson

Annaleigh Seeley and Susan Schulman

Jeyleen Takakiro and Natalie Moldover

Jennifer Ulvestad and Shauna Edson

Jordan Wagner and Tim Rowan

Cheyne Warren and Maryam Pedraza

Tin Win and Martha Taylor

The 2012 Salt Lake Teens Write Kickoff Celebration paired 30 teens with 30 mentors.

Photo By: Ryan Cumminngs

Preface & Acknowledgements

Elisa Stone

When we come together with mutual respect, a quest for knowledge, and a willingness to strive, we are sure to “Stand Strong,” our publication title and opening poem by Alexis Isle. Each of us has a voice like no other; our words need only the guidance of an understanding collaborator who will listen and really hear us, then help us to be heard.

The SLCC Community Writing Center (CWC) is pleased to share this publication as a culmination and celebration, in partnership with The Salt Lake City Public Library, of the 2012-2013 Salt Lake Teens Write Program. What started three years ago as Salt Lake Girls Write has expanded into a program that pairs underserved 11th grade teenage girls and boys with community mentors who use writing in their daily lives and professions. Together our mentoring teams work on writing throughout the year, exploring a variety of genres such as applications, essays, poetry, fiction, articles, letters, and more. Their individual endeavors are supported by group workshops where teens and mentors come together to collaborate on writing skills they would like to hone. Each writer’s work is featured in individual portfolios.

We are proud to note this program won Salt Lake Community College’s Innovation of the Year award in 2011-2012, including national recognition at the League for Innovation. This year’s group included teens from many parts of the world. What is most inspiring about Salt Lake Teens Write is the way teens and mentors learn from one another, each of them contributing to the creative process as they acquire new knowledge, overcome obstacles, and make their voices heard.

We appreciate our partnership with The Salt Lake City Public Library and its contributions that make this program possible. Thanks to Salt Lake Community College, The Salt Lake City Public Library, The League of Innovations, and the Salt Lake City Arts Council for funding and supporting this publication. And, of course, thank you to our wonderful mentors who volunteered their time and talents, and our amazingly creative and expressive teens!

Teens and mentors will meet weekly to work on writing within a wide variety of genres.

Mentors and teens gather for workshops on topics such as scholarships and poetry.

Stand Strong

Alexis Isle

Stand strong

I know...

That with every tear that falls a smile will follow

That passion lives on even when the heart no longer beats I think...

That everyone has the power to make a difference

That no matter what life will always go on

We need...

to see each other for what we are

To let the tears flow freely

To hold each other up

To never let each other fall

I know that with my family standing strong we will be okay.

I think that even in the darkness of death life’s light will burn

We need to stand as a strong standing wall

Support each others’ weight

Never to fall

I need

To be patient

To be strong

To let my tears fall

To let the world know that if I fall

I. WILL Get back up again

Art By: Annie Best

Death’s Birth into Life

Annie Karoline Best

My nerves twisted around my heart, and the paint in my blood created a piece of art. This is the life that I was creating, and now my existence is fading. Transparent skin wrapped around frail bones, My hands stretched out, so I wouldn’t feel so alone. I looked into his night time eyes, and was lost inside their infinite skies. as my eye lids shut, I felt the excruciating cut. Was this the passionate kiss of death? The butterfly’s ghosts fluttered through my last breath. I exhaled the horrid beauty of my strife, and inhaled the fresh air of the next life.

My soul was tossed by the earth’s breath, a heart, no longer confined within a chest. I reincarnated within the breeze, and became trapped inside the hands of trees. The branches slung to my spirit, and I felt the pull of two worlds split. My reality was torn apart, lost between worlds, with an open heart. I stretched out along the universe.

My soul was as vast as space, when it transversed. I lived within the changing sky, and watched how the birds flew by.

Life murdered me last night, but most excruciating was the sight. of souls, left alone, and thrown into the unknown. I tried to reach out, without hands, but he could only feel the soft wind. I couldn’t pass into the next life, and this left my heart open to strife. The moon’s light was dim and grim, I laid in the stars to watch over him.

I saw the anguish bleed from his eyes, while he searched for me up in the sky. Was there more pain in his chest? because his heart was ripping with each breath. or was there more pain flowing through my breast? because I was shattering from cayos and distress. We screamed because of our hearts’ sorrow, and that he no longer looked towards a tomorrow. Each tear fell to his chest like bullet, drops of blood painted the carpet. He looked into the sky, whispered, “I love you,” closed his eyes. Kissed the gun, and ceased his anguished demise. I watched the last movement of his soul,

then fell off the universe, lost in a black hole.

How deeply could I fall into myself? confined within darkness. Cursed with blindness. Holding onto consciousness. My dreams were not stolen from me, I had no eyes, but I could see, into my mind, clinging to memory. I longed to escape through them to be free... Was this a distorted hell?

I always thought it was demons that fell, from a deep place in heaven. What could I have done to have fallen? allowing my body to die from addiction. Giving into hallucinations, creating a distorted fiction. Cutting into delicate skin, I let the scars heal, but could this be a sin?...

The meaning of one’s life, shouldn’t be judged on its moments of strife. Will this confinement last? What amount of time will pass? Will I start to lose my mind? or are there hidden mysteries to find? all I know is that I’m lost within time, and that I’m starting to lose my mind.

Thoughts fading into one another,

I feel like a falling feather, slowly falling, twisting, and dancing. Could this be another aspect to dying? Delusions and illusions, twisting my nerves, Memories and thoughts, becoming a blur, are these voices in my head, memories of past words once said? Lullaby’s whisper into my ears, I sense happiness, within the dew drops of tears. Delicate music flows through my darkness, and its melody paints onto my canvas. The quiet movement of the heart, began to create this piece of art. I feel the beat of a metronome, beating in time with my own. Breath stretches my soul, beyond the confinement of this black hole. I feel the process of creation, from pieces that once were broken. I felt myself once again, as her hands caressed me through her skin. My life grew beside her chakra, then my world spread beyond her aura. And in a second everything can change... The bars strangled the bird in her cage. curled up, heart beating. Anxiously waiting.

But death and birth blends, and life never ends.

In a moment everything can change, perceptions rearrange.

White light revealed my delusions lies, and I felt my body float in the hands of the sky.

My painful death gave birth into life, and I was released from darkness’ strife.

Each blink opened my vision, a painted world began to brighten.

Umbilical cord cut, bodies disconnected.

Vivid red paint dripped and flowed, from the black hole, that once consumed my soul.

Too numb to feel my nerves tingle with slight pain, her wisdom whispered, to explain.

“I love you my beautiful creation, I’m glad that I was chosen, to create you, my masterpiece... My beautiful baby.”

My heart bloomed for this goddess’ sacrifice. In exchange for death, she has given me life.

Art By: Annie Best

The Girl with the Golden Eyes

Annie Karoline Best

I caught the eye of a woman on the street she traveled through life following her feet she moved her head and hands to the beat then she disappeared around the corner and onto the next street old souls once whispered “Eyes are the windows to the soul” this statement is true because you can see inside when you look into a soul’s eyes when I caught that sight of her dark golden eyes she revealed more than she realized I could see how she gets lost in the skies when she entered her mind and closed her eyes her appearance told me a story about her life and her soul’s history she was an open book and her scribbles made me take a second look because she had a crazy outlook to what was in the world’s sketchbook old souls once whispered “eyes are the windows to the soul” I’ve seen into a soul that once was broken and once her scars healed her heart bloomed and opened I looked at her hidden moments of misery yet there is something that will forever stay with me

I was the scars on her legs from the knife that she drew to leave scars of her life the thing I embrace is that she learned from the violence I saw what her golden eyes could see and how she learned to let her soul free she learned from the delicate pain and kissed the skies delicate rain I saw her exquisite bliss to every instant I saw her happiness that lifted her lips in silence The girl with the golden eyes revealed her soul and let her soul rise this women had to realize that her greatest inspiration came from weakness so she pulled on her silk dress walked through the world and let her eyes confess old souls once whispered “eyes are the windows to the soul” opening the eyes to realizations affects the heart and makes its flame brighten

As I followed my feet I caught my reflection in the windows that gave off their perceptions my reflection stared back at me and I could see my soul lace into life freely I could see my past life’s eternity then the wind caught in my hair and blew across my features like a flare looking into my soul’s stare I began to feel self-aware

the wind danced like a flare and flew past my bones while grabbing at my dress painting my reflection with a hint of abstractness thoughts flew into my brain then got caught and locked up in my chains so I could keep this memory contained to make it part of my soul and veins I looked inside my mind’s treasure box to find direction so I could pull out some recollection then I put my life’s memories in a collection and could see its sequence of events perfection consciousness pulled my mind back to my reflection and I could see the golden eyes that revealed my secret then I realized my eyes painted a portrait of all the things inside of my spirit so I drew a smile on my face and moved my feet to leave my life’s trace flowing through life I listen to the beat followed different paths that guide my feet when I come to the end of this moment’s street I open my eyes, take a left, and keep walking with the beat

Adam Villanelle

Liza Jones

Open my ribcage, crawl inside

The image painted is not a beautiful scene I’ll tell you a secret that will truly make you writhe

Two figures made equal, but man has his pride

Adam pled to God, a request obscene “Please open my ribcage, crawl inside”

Adam’s rib removed, his chest bared wide an immaculate fossil, white and pristine and thus formed a secret that will truly make you writhe

The results created a permanent divide because God was only too keen to open his ribcage, crawl inside

Come play hide-n-seek inside of me, as Adam did with Eve

Here’s the secret that will truly make you writhe

Lilith came first, the Bible lied she was cast out because she caused Adam to squeam

Open my ribcage, crawl inside

Now you know the secret that will truly make you writhe

Blood Soaked Feather

Cheyne Warren

Giving a pain filled growl, I lunge against the cold lifeless bars that hold me in. I scream hatred at their merciless numbness, blue scaled claws slashing at them viciously. They cast sticky spider web shadows that cling to the dull grey walls in my cell, spinning together with my hot pain to create shapes that torture my fatigued mind.

“Fighter, please,” Tripsy’s voice pleads over the intercom, “you’re going to hurt yourse-” Tripsy is cut short by Duchess’s flowing voice.

“Tripsy,” she barks in disgust, “You know better than calling experiments by name! They have none! They are nobodies, mindless numbers that no one cares for!”

“But-” Tripsy starts, but the noisy box clicks off before she is able to finish. For a moment, I crouch in the dead silence that needle pricks my skin, before the shots start kicking in again.

I can feel something hot and too large to hide under my skin trying to break out of my shoulder blades. I can feel dull bone shifting just under my thin skin, trying to force its way through.

I sit in the fetal position; face buried in my claws, salty tears dripping down my face, through my scales and tumbling off my whiskers—my choked screams reflecting like light off them.

The skin cracks and rivers of warm blood snake their way down my back, tickling down my spine with sticky vengeance. Something large bursts from my shoulders, arching high over my head, sending silver blood splattering onto the cement walls. My screams of pain are swallowed alive in the vast white nothingness of my cell and go unanswered. They’re lost where not a soul can hear them, deep in the basement of THED. My newest deformity—a blue and black, silver blood-soaked feather falls to the floor.

Art By: Cheyne Warren

My Cat Has a Crush on Me

Brianne Morrison

Black cat, green eyes. I rescued him from people that were going to sacrifice him. Since I brought him home he follows me around everywhere I go, to the bathroom, to the kitchen, outside, downstairs, and upstairs. He sleeps above my head at night, purring extremely loud. Not to mention, I am the only one that can hold him. Everyone else, he bites. Although he is obedient to me, he gets jealous of my boyfriend and claws at his feet. He hates when I give my dogs attention, so he will swat to move them out of the way. He even tries to imitate my dogs by kissing my face with his sandpaper tongue. So there is a possibility, just maybe my cat has a crush on me!

Koosh Ball

Brianne Morrison

Opening the front door was my favorite part of the day because you run up to me and embrace me with your paws wrapped around my waist. Even when I was sick or sad, it was like you knew and you wouldn’t leave my side.

I miss hanging out on the couch watching TV and you would come and put your head on my lap, letting me know you wanted your ears scratched. I never knew what unconditional love was until you. I miss your soft golden fur, the way you would waggle your tail, and tug of war play. Going on walks to the park was your favorite thing to do and you had to smell every tree on the way too.

There is not a day that goes by that I don’t think of you but I am happy to know that I have a Guardian Angel. Until we meet again at the Rainbow Bridge.

Chit Chat

Kevin Ji

Are games always fun?

Not if the rules change.

Will you go to the dance with me? No, you’re not my type.

What did she say? Dude, I don’t care.

Hey, you want some? No, I’m okay.

How can you say that? I didn’t say anything.

Photo By: Kevin Ji

To Procrastinating

Kevin Ji

Coming out of my oven of heat, ready to tackle an overdue chore. But when the chill freezes my feet, all I want to do is go back through the door.

I sigh a deep breath as I sit down to read. Side-tracked, I look at the floor. Then like a cup of warm chocolate, a warm breeze touches my cheek. And now all I want to do is sleep for a week.

Save a Dance

Jeyleen Takakiro

Save a dance for me. I can practically hear the slow sound of music in the ballroom. I can picture you in that dress you showed me. The pink making your features sparkle.

And how would you know that, all knowledgeable one?

Because I’ve dreamt of it. Dreamt about this night and meeting you. Xiaver, always the charmer. What else would you expect? So will you do it? Will you save a dance for me? I will save a million dances for you. Because I too have longed for this night. I can’t wait to see you. To feel your arms around me as we dance.

Please don’t take me as forward.

What for?

Because all I can think of are your lips. My lips?

To feel how soft they are, and maybe a kiss. A kiss?

Please don’t take me as forward.

My dear Xiaver, a kiss will be more than fine. To be honest, I long for one from you. Do you really?

Yes, I do.

Then please Diane, meet me in the middle of the ballroom dance floor. Yes, I will meet you there. Do you have your ticket? Your mask?

Yes, they’re in my hand.

Okay, I will see you soon my love.

See you in a few love.

Xiaver stood back staring at the screen. He was finally going to see her. His love online for a year. His sweet Diane. They were both attending a masquerade ball here at this hotel. He sighed contently at the screen, and just kept staring. He stared until his eyes strained.

He was going to meet her. Tonight. After so long of a wait. Xiaver could start to feel his stomach churn and his palms start to go clammy in a cold sweat. Was this really going to happen? Was this really what he wanted?

Xiaver bolted out of his chair, and quickly made his way to the drawers, piling his clothes back into the empty black suit case he had brought with him. He packed his laptop and grabbed the rest of his things. He couldn’t do this. He had to leave, muttering apologies towards his sweet Diane.

Xiaver placed his suit case into the trunk of a taxi, and got inside. He had closed the door before noticing someone else was already in there.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll just,” he began.

“No, it’s fine. Where are you headed?” the young woman next to him asked.

“The airport.” He says.

“Oh, I’m headed there too.” She says with a shy smile.

“Oh, well maybe we can split the cab fare then?” he suggests. She smiles and nods at the idea.

“Yeah, okay.” She agrees.

Xiaver smiles and extends his hand, just as soon as she does.

“Xiaver.” He introduces himself, just as the woman next to him says, “Diane.”

That Fat Girl

Jeyleen Takakiro

People walk on past me and I can hear the whispers in their head. I can start to hear the rumors start to spread.

I hear the words that are said

And then I realize that it was all in my head.

But I can tell by the looks on people’s faces

By the expression on their faces

That when they see me

They think;

Oh that white girl

Oh that weird girl

That shy girl

That one girl

That FAT girl

Yeah that Fat girl that walks on by you

That Fat girl that you never knew

That Fat girl you don’t even want to get to know because all of your other friends ignore her.

I used to go home crying to mommy and daddy telling them none of the other kids liked me

That they were mean to me

But mommy and daddy said “oh baby they don’t mean to be”

But they didn’t see

How they were mean to me

No one sees the pain and hurt behind my eyes

No one ever sees past my lies

I never let my pain rise

I never let anyone hear my cries

I just never let anyone care

Because I am a FAT girl

A FAT girl who hides behind smiles

A FAT girl who eats her worries

A FAT girl who comes off to be happy

When in reality is nothing but junk food and crappy

You don’t know me!

You don’t know my troubles.

You don’t know how much I’ve cried

Or how hard I have tried

How much I want to die!

Because no one likes a Fat girl

Size Large—“she fine”

Size X-Large—“She cute”

Size 2X— “She’s … okay”

Size 3 and up—“No way”

I’m sick and tired of being measured by size

If being measured by size is important, then measure me by the size of my heart and not my T-shirt

Because my heart has grown bigger and stronger from all the hurt

My heart pounds rapidly from exhaustion

I’m getting tired of emotion

I want to rip the feelings out of my soul

Leaving it black like coal

Leaving a giant hole

But then I wouldn’t feel whole.

Being a Fat girl can lead to crying

Being a Fat girl can lead to dying

Yes, dying of Diabetes

The disease that looks at a girl like me as a warning

Don’t eat that Twinkie—Diabetes

Don’t drink that soda—Diabetes

Don’t eat that eat that burger—Diabetes

Yes, I know I’m near the end

But for a long time food was my only friend

The friend who was there

The friend that cared

The friend that made the pain go away.

So yes, I am a FAT girl

But I am a complicated girl

A “not to be judged” girl

Because you don’t know my story

And you don’t know my glory.

Those of you who know some of me

Know who I am meant to be.

I am meant to that Fat girl

And it’s no longer F-A-T fat

It’s P-H-A-T fat

Pretty Hot And Thick

And you best believe I won’t quit

I will become the best that I can be

Because a Fat girl has dreams

And Because I am that PHAT girl!

The Seven Car Conversation

Logan Jepperson

Well it all started on a Monday morning at 7:00 a.m. when a huge, long traffic hit New York City. He was a dark-skinned man, in his late 20s. He was wearing glasses and had a black suit on with a red tie. And on the passenger side was his black briefcase and he was all nervous. “Great, I’m fired for sure this time,” he says to himself, then leans against his seat.

And behind him was a young single mother who was driving a blue old van. She was wearing a green hoodie and she had her hair up in a funky ponytail. And her two young sons were whining and complaining. “Mom make that car go faster!” says one of her sons complaining, then the other son starts to complain “Yah Mom we are going to be late for school!” she sighs “Guys relax, we will get there soon.”

Then a red truck behind her kept honking the horn constantly “Come on!” a young man yells as he was honking the horn. Then his girlfriend puts her hand on his shoulder “Relax Zack, everything will be fine,” he nods “Yah it will be,” then he rolls down his window, “when we start moving!”

As for me, I was driving a grey small car. I just started college two weeks ago and I was going to try out for a part in the college play. I leaned back against the seat then I got out my cell phone “Hey I am stuck in traffic I will be there soon,” then I sigh to myself “If I ever get there.”

Then the car behind me kept honking its horn. It was a small old Mustang “Hurry up! while I am still alive!” Then the old man spits out his window “Darn kids need to learn how to drive!” Then the young teenage boy corrects him “Grandpa they can drive we are just in traffic.” He looks over “Who said that!” Then the boy sighs. While the boy was struggling with his deaf grandpa a blue Camaro was behind them,

it was a young teenage boy and he gets out his phone, and reads my text message and laughs then responds “Yah, well me too, it sucks I hope it will end soon otherwise we will both be late, lol .” Then he gets out his script and reads out loud “Oh she speaks oh fair maiden for how long have I waited to hear thee speak.”

Then he heard very loud music from behind, it was coming from a black truck. There were three football players rocking hard on hardcore music, and they sing to the music “We’re not gunna take it! No! We ain’t gunna take it! And we’re not gunna take it anymore!” Then they start to dance in their seats having a good time. As for the other drivers they were having the worst time.

30 minutes later . . .

The young man honks on his horn again “Come on already!,” then the girl sighs and looks through her window, he looked at her and noticed that he was making her miserable. “Hey I’m sorry Emily, it’s just I wanted this date to be perfect,” she grabs his hand “It is as long as I’m with you.” Then they start to kiss.

“We can always fly across the cars Mom!, then her other son nods agreeing “Yah then we would get to school on time!” She smiles at her sons as they use their imagination “Yah you would, and hey maybe when your older you should try making a car that can fly,” then the boys look at her “Mom a flying car?” Then the other boy nods “Yah that’s impossible.”

I was reading my script, then my phone rings, I answer it, and read my friend’s comment, I laugh as I was reading it. Then I respond “Yah and that would be horrible .” Then I continue to read my script “Oh Romeo! Romeo! Where art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name.”

Then as he was reading his script his phone vibrates. He answered it and smiles, then responds “Yah, but hey as long as we stay positive about it then it will end.” Then he starts to read his script again and while eating his granola bar and talks with his mouth full “Ah swan fair maiden my sin is purged,” then he starts to cough and choke, then quickly grabs his water bottle, and drinks the water rapidly. Then

gasps for air, still continues to cough.

The young man was so nervous, so nervous that his tie was half off his neck because he kept messing with it. “Yep I’m definitely going to lose my job, and just when I was starting to know and like my peers, and actually started to like my job.” Then he turns on slow sad music, and leans against his seat.

While the young man was losing hope of his career, the three football players were asleep with all of their mouths wide opened and were all snoring. And as the three musketeers were fast asleep the old man kept yelling at the cars “Come on! While I can still breathe! I ain’t getting any younger ya know!” The young man laughs, then the old man takes out his teeth “Here,” he puts them in his grandson’s hand “Hold these while I get my cleaners for it.” The young man sighs and starts to whimper “Ah man.”

Then the light changes to green at last, and everyone lived happily ever after. Well at least some of them did.

Jam

Mindy Wilson

Smart Car was feeling so smart until traffic pulled him up short behind an insurmountable Atomic Orange Pearl-glazed Humvee with one of those look-where-I’vebeen black-and-white oval stickers on the bumper—this one spelling out an enigmatic “OBX”—the bumper being about all Smart Car can see in his windshield now. So frustrating not to be able to see around, to see through this thing, to see what the absolutely inefficient holdup is. Nothing to do but sit there while his carbon footprint grows a full shoe-size larger and ponder that OBX sticker and play cryptographer: Obviously Butter . . . X-ray?

With sixteen inches of ground clearance for starters, Humvee tribal leaders gerrymander the territory, able to recon four or five traffic lights ahead, beyond the spray-painted red box of Mr. and Mrs. Food Truck whose bumper they’re riding. They can, with their 20/20 vision magnified to the nth by German-engineered tactical binoculars acquired in a gray market closeout, see all the way past downtown, the Temple spires, and the Delta big jets to and fro’ing at the airport to the southern shore of that remnant prehistoric lake—its shores their objective. But they can’t confirm the cause of the traffic jam, and it turns out they’re not really seeing at all because they’re too busy smelling, smelling the peppery, gingery, garlicky, vinegary, tomato-y, oniony, peppery, cloven hoof-y scent of whatever Mr. and Mrs. Food Truck have been concocting and serving up.

Mr. Food Truck drives, Mrs. Food Truck stirs. It’s not safe, they know, they will plead to the officer if he catches them, to cook while they’re rolling, but they’re late, late-late-late to the wedding they’re catering, and so the wife has fired up the burners under the special wedding goat curry and is bringing it to a gentle rolling boil.

Further back in traffic, Vanilla-Blonde SUV is coming to a boil too, her three boys popping up and down like popcorn in the backseat, their Jack Russell Terrier riding shotgun and yap-yap-yapping in time with each boy bouncing. The boys and the JRT are on the lam, from the time-out corners of school and the kennel, respectively; and Vanilla-Blonde SUV drives getaway, circumnavigating town for the eighth, or eight hundredth, time. Her rearview mirror frames a Mayflower moving van; she wishes, in that speck of mindfulness achievable between yaps, that it could be her life boxed, labeled, and sealed neatly in the back of that packed-up trailer capable of pushing aside everything else on its way to somewhere else.

Somewhere else, indeed, Mayflower Exiles think silently but simultaneously. We’re not in Georgia anymore. Or Alabama, Mississippi, Arkansas, Missouri, Kansas, or Colorado either, each of those stopovers on the push west preserved now in the past tense, in smartphone photos posted and liked and commented upon and scrolled past and smirked at and forgotten. For nearly two thousand miles, two millennia of roadway, through red clay and flint hills, past orchards of windmills and up over the Continental Divide, leaving friends, family, and the westernmost outpost of Waffle House in our eastern-looking rearview, we’ve been flat-out going, our stopping never more than really pausing, on a great western pioneering to somewhere else. To this place. Embedded between the Isosceles Mountains and Sodium Lake, over which dual suns will rise tomorrow. Here now. There now. There now.

Haiku

Grace Hunt

Day of the deadline

Nothing is done to turn in

Write a sweet haiku

Excerpt from Demonkind

Jordan Wagner

Months went by and Dulban’s egg hatched. The dragon’s color matched the egg. Dulanton found that because of its temperament it should be named Bás, meaning death in the language of magic. The day he hatched had been momentous and busy. They prepared for the upcoming arrival of the dragon by setting up an area in the house for it, near the fire; dragons, in their infancy, need vast amounts of heat. To find food for the dragon, they hunted down and slaughtered all the mice in their house.

Dulanton showed Dulban where the dragon should hatch. It was about a mile in the forest, where a brook splits around an island. There was a large field on the other side of the island. The area was very peaceful and tranquil. They continued on to the island and found a pearly white tree stump, perfectly smooth, and about a yard high.

Approaching the stump, Dulanton explained, “This is where you will need to lay down the egg for it to hatch. It is the perfect place for the dragon to hatch. The moonlight comes down through the gap in the trees all year long. When it falls on the baby dragon, an ancient spell is completed. Then the first human to touch it becomes its master. He is then known forever more as serpent master, or more properly in the language of magic, Gheidïn Lokt Vëän. Serpent master is the closest translation to it, but not exact.”

They went back home to get some food and finish discussing the dragon hatching. “When it happens, it will be extremely painful. You will feel the power that the dragon has—from simply breathing fire to ice, from electricity to acid, or some combination of those. Or a rarer one. Whatever it is, you will feel it.”

“Why?”

“So you know the power of your dragon. Luckily, you don’t feel the full power of the dragon.”

They waited until night fell and picked up the egg. As they left Oglog, inquired if the runt was to hatch. Dulban asked why he called it a runt. He responded that the egg was smaller than a normal one; he had not seen one so small in years. They walked to the island, leaving Oglog to his supper.

The island was surrounded by twelve huge dragons—a bright red one, a shimmering blue, a glittering green, a magnificent gold, a beautiful yellow, an incredible silver, a menacing red and black striped, a jet black, a mud brown, one covered in splotches of dark green and brown, a florescent purple, and finally, dominating the clearing they were in, a stony grey.¬ The grey was named Beatha (beh-ha), meaning life in the language of magic. He was Dulanton’s first dragon.

“So I just go there, set the egg down on the stump, and wait?” asked a trembling Dulban, his voice reflecting his physical state. Dulanton hadn’t seen his brother more anxious since their parents’ funeral ten years ago.

“Yes,” responded his brother kindly. The anticipation may well kill him, he thought. His poor little heart may just give out on him.

He is strong, replied a deep rolling voice, the sound of like a rockslide in Dulan ton’s mind.

Beatha, he is a kid still.

You weren’t in much better shape when I came to you.

True.

Stop your blather, interrupted the purple dragon. The old fart is running up the trail. Should I stop him?

No, he is good. How many times do I need to tell you this? said Dulanton in his mind.

“Wait!” came a scream, making Dulban jump.

“Hello Oglog,” replied Dulanton.

“Whoa! Don’t sneak up on me like that. I’m already scared enough!” screeched Dulban.

Heh heh heh… Ooops, said the purple to the brothers.

“Whaaat is going on!!!!” screamed Dulban.

“Oh yeah, they communicate through the mind,” said a chuckling Dulanton.

“I am sorry; I just need to tell you something before you go in.” Oglog seemed almost to chant. “You will be forever changed after this. I have stayed here for much longer than either of you know. We will soon embark on a perilous journey. And, lastly, I am happy to say, Brastians’ reign, the era of pain, the great suffering, is at an end! And more will be revealed, as to how he is so powerful, and a Ghedïn Lokt Vëän to just one dragon. Once you enter, the whole of Êqûïrán shall be changed forever.”

His trance grew more intense. “Friendships shall be strained. Allies shall be lost and gained. Heroes shall be villains and villains shall be heroes! The dead shall not be dead, and the living shall be a hoax! A triumph shall be difficult, but we will conquer! And most importantly, remember, when things seem the worst, remember the prophesy of Glesnaw.” He finished.

“What prophesy? You just rambled,” asked Dulban.

“We will learn it soon enough,” said Dulanton. “But commit what he said to memory, down to the letter.”

“Why?”

“It was a prophesy in itself, but not the prophesy of Glesnaw. I do not know it all, but I know most. You will be taught it all eventually, and some may truly interest you.”

“Enough now,” Oglog said. “Time to go.”

With that Dulban entered the forest, holding the egg. It seemed to warm up in his hands. The closer to the island he got, the more it warmed. Then, as he was stepping across the stream, it started to wobble. He let out a yelp of fright and almost dropped it. His brother and Oglog urged him forward. He got to the stump and knelt next it. The movement had come to a crescendo when he set the egg down and then stopped. He had thought for sure that it was about to hatch.

All of them sat in utter silence, watching the egg. It was completely still. Minutes passed. All waited in silence, as if a spell had been cast, eliminating their

ability to speak. Their silence was only matched by their stillness. They appeared as statues frozen in time from a bygone era. The forest even seemed to be holding its breath.

They stayed where they were for hours. Midnight came and, at the screech of an owl, the egg started shaking violently. The moonlight was rolling all over it, tumbling like water over a rock in a stream. The full moon illuminating the area, bright enough to read by. No torches had been lit. The egg continued to shake, until it was hopping all over the place.

Then, just as Dulban put out a hand to steady it, it cracked. There was a bright flash of crimson light, a silent explosion of cool fire. Shell fragments rode the fire, feeding the conflagration. There, in the epicenter, was a baby dragon. Dulban ripped his hand away. The dragon matched the egg’s pattern, crimson with jet black spots, and bright, metallic, gold pinstripes. It was a few inches long, skinny, with a double row of spikes going from its head to tail. It let out a pitiful squeal.

At that moment, Dulban made a life changing decision. He reached out, and patted the dragon on the head .

As soon as he made contact, starting on the back of his right hand and flaring all around his body, an explosive fiery pain erupted. It felt like being in a furnace, having it all explode on him. Jets of fire exploding on him, he couldn’t think of a proper description, other than the pure definition of pain. He screamed, an unearthly sound; one that a person would expect to be coming from the underworld, not the living. His brother, knowing it will be over soon, did nothing. The sound coming from the dragon though, was heart breaking. The little creature was screaming. It sounded like an army of rodents being swung by their tails. Even the adult dragons cringed at the pitiful sound. Dulban noticed a new presence in his mind, screaming with the same voice as the baby.

After a couple minutes, it was all over. Dulban slowly got up, panting. The dragon, breathing heavily, looked at him. “What happened?” the voice asked. “I don’t

know, but I think we are now united as a serpent master and serpent.” Ok. The dragon the jumped, and very gracefully, flew to Dulban’s shoulder where it perched and laid down. He noticed that it was surprisingly heavy and very warm.

He walked off the island toward his brother. Dulanton greeted him with enthusiasm. “Welcome to the order” he said. He was then distracted by the dragon. “* Yúthòk Gøk Døúkèéñ” he said—Greetings young dragon.

“gyeee gah raaaahh hak!” the dragon cooed.

“Gruu gooo huuugh hah rrrrrrrerrrg!” Beatha responded in a voice of deep rolling thunder.

The baby dragon, not expecting this, peeped in fear, and burrowed deeper into Dulban’s shoulder. Dulban chuckled. They left for home, the first streaks of dawn breaking the night.

My Name Is a Boy from the Coast

Tim Rowan

My name is a boy from the coast

My name comes to you in an elevator

My name, at least today, is a capped mountain, smudged in the dirty glass, neglected, crying out

My name lingers curious on the baseboards for a moment and then, upon its own inclination, scurries off into the dark

My name is relevant as yesterday or perhaps as the dreams logged in an adolescent journal, holy visions, yellow and blue, of a mighty hand I no longer hold

My name was not mine, will ever be borrowed, will be pinned to my lapel like a rose snipped too long ago or a cheap left-of-center declaration to the world (or at least 33rd South) or like a note for mom—a progress report or a release for the upcoming trip which everyone must have signed

My name is carved and dancing, grain that spins and loops and circles as at the touch of dramatic nylon strings, choreographed year after year, each new whirl fortifying the intransigent bust of some colonial figure, his bottom lip stoic and harsh,

Yes. My name is all of these things, but tomorrow will it be still?

Will it whisper with the same timbre through the grain and hiss between the third and fourth floors to you alone?

Bicycle Helmets: A Personal Perspective

Annaleigh Seeley

In 1965, my grandfather got on his 10-speed bicycle for a ride without his helmet. He hit some loose gravel on the road, went sailing forward and hit his head on a short, metal post. The speed of this collision caused one-third of his brain to be cut off. Within a few hours, he died from the brain damage. As a consequence, my mother and one of my three aunts have little or no recollection of their father. The two aunts that do remember him, who were ten and six at the time of his tragic death, have many fond memories of him. Around that time, there was hardly any research or common public knowledge about brain injuries or bike safety. Not many people knew the dangers of not properly protecting their brains.

The most common injury that a biker could receive is a head injury. New York State released a statement that said “95% of bicyclists killed in 2006 reportedly were not wearing helmets”.2 If bikers do not wear a helmet they are fourteen times more likely to die in a bicycle accident.3 When people wear their helmets as well as insure that the helmet properly fits their head, they are more likely to be protected adequately if they get into an accident.

Throughout the world, bicycles have become progressively a more popular way to travel. “In countries such as China, Belgium, and The Netherlands there are more people who use bikes as their transportation than any other mode”.4 Yet, the people there are not as likely to wear helmets. Some feel that just “wearing a helmet will not protect them or their loved ones. Others believe that when they wear helmets, their hearing is impaired and they cannot hear the traffic as well”.5

Since the mid-1980s helmets have been developed and information has increased dramatically. For example, in 1985, the U.S. Cycling Federation made a rule that racing bikers must wear helmets that meet American National Safety Institute Standards. The helmets of the time were large and uncomfortable for the biker to wear. Because of being a nuisance, the helmet was unpopular and for that and various other reasons, people did not want to wear helmets.

Spinoff technology has impacted society today in many different ways. One of the ways is through the improvement of sport helmets. Shock-absorbent foams were developed by NASA to prevent the negative effects of g-forces on astronauts. This foam takes the shape of the impressed object and then returns to its original shape after use. This foam is found in bicycle helmets as well as in football helmets. Raymond Hicks, an aerodynamics specialist at Ames Research Center, was asked to design a lightweight and comfortable helmet. Hicks did this by using the technology from a NASA airfoil section to create an aerodynamic helmet shape. Air vents were placed on the helmet to make the air flow laminar and reduce the drag. Raymond Hicks’ design has continued to have an impact on advances in the safety of the bicycle helmet.

Through personal beliefs and experiences, I have learned how vital it is to protect my head from getting injuries. From my research, I have been able to influence my family and friends to always wear their helmets. I know that if helmets are used for their proper purpose, then they will be able to save many people from injuries.

Resources

1. Helmet related statistics from many sources. (2013, January 1). Retrieved from http://www.helmets.org/stats.htm

2. Helmet related statistics from many sources. (2013, January 1). Retrieved from http:// www.helmets.org/stats.htm

3. Nicaj L, Mandel-Ricci J, Assefa S, Grasso K, McCarthy P, Caffarelli A, McKelvey W, Stayton C, Thorpe L, Bicyclist Fatalities and Injuries in New York City: 1996-2005: A Joint Report from the New York City Departments of Health and Mental Hygiene, Parks and Recreation, Transportation, and the New York City Police Department, 2006. Retrieved from http://www.nyc.gov/html/doh/downloads/pdf/episrv/episrv-bike-report.pdf

4. S. Seeley, 2013, personal communication

5. S. Seeley, 2013, personal communication

6. Bluejay, M. (2013). What’s wrong with bicycle helmets?. Retrieved from http://bi cyclesafe.com/helmets.html

7. Feucht, D. (2008). Why I don’t wear a helmet. Retrieved from http://portlandize.com/ why-i-dont-wear-a-helmet

8. Wood, T. D. (2012, December 28). Bike helmets: How to choose. Retrieved from http://www.rei.com/learn/expert-advice/bicycle-helmet.html

Susan’s haiku’s: reactions to and variations on a theme by Leigh

Susan Schulman

Gone in an instant. Two daughters never knew him. Lives changed forever.

If helmets were there, For him to choose: Wear or Not? What would he have done?

Only thirty-five. Was that old enough to know The difference they’d make?

Yes, I did wear one Years ago, at thirty-five, But how I loathed it…. Nasty, heavy thing, Plus: important Then & Now. Made my hair a mess.

Better now, I think, In weight, style, fit, comfort, ease.

That, I’ve learned from Leigh.

Still, as I drive now, Terrified of all bikers, That if I hit them, I fear their helmets Won’t suffice if fate brings them Together with me.

St. Patrick’s Day

Mariam Roe

I was looking out towards the Shehy Mountains from my little home near Cork. As I looked out of my window, I could see a little man walking in my direction. This little man wore a pointed hat that drooped beside his shoulder length red hair. He had a beard that was as long as his body which was all wet from the rain. I opened my window and yelled out “Hey, you’re the leprechaun aren’t you?” The one everyone’s talking about?

He looked at me with a face full of fear. He jumped up and down 3 times and a pot of gold appeared. “Wow, look! A pot of gold! But, where is the rainbow?” I thought to myself.

I ran outside of my comfortable home to the cold rainy air. I looked down into the pot and reached down to grab some gold. As, I put my fingers into the shiny little beauties, they all disintegrated into a letter addressed to me. When I opened the envelope, I was excited to see what I would read.

I was surprised to find that there was only a blank piece of paper. Hmm, is this a joke? Oh well, what a waste of time. So, I went back into my house to eat my breakfast – wild blackberries and corned crubeens.

I’ve had enough for one day!

Photo By: Bhim Gurung

Favourite Holidays

Bhim Gurung

My favourite holiday is dashai and tihar. We have 5 days dashai and after 15 days is tihar for 3 days. During dashai our parents give us blessings and money. We cook wheat, chicken, pork and others things to eat. When done eating we sing a song and dance.

During tihar on first day we pray to god and ask for bless and then girls go to others’ home. They sing a song. They give blessings to people while singing. Boys can’t go on first day. If boys go to other homes, people will kick them out from their home but on the second day boys can go to others’ home and sing a songs and dance. People give the boys more than 30 dollars for singing and for giving them blessings. Boys and girls have different songs. On a 3rd days, every sisters put 7 different colors like, red, yellow purple, black, white, green and gray to her brother’s forehead. Sisters give us to eat (roti) it’s like a donut. roti make by flour and sugar. Sisters give cloths to their brothers. We have to put 7 colors in sister’s forehead and give her money. We play game called spades for money.

One Dinner Can Change Everything

Lexi Northrup

It completely changed my world in less than 24 hours. The leaves were changing, the weather was turning cold and my great grandmother held me as tears ran down my red, hot cheeks onto her polyester sweater. I didn’t know which way to go or which way to turn. It has been two years and the doctors still don’t know my diagnosis.

When I was 14, my family and I went out to dinner at Tres Hombres. I ordered fajitas and soon after dinner I had severe abdominal pain. My mom thought it was an allergic reaction to onions, but the pain lasted for three days. For the next two months, I went to two different doctors and had various lab tests and radiology scans done. Finally, they realized that I had a non-functioning gallbladder and the next week I went in for surgery.

When I returned to school everything had changed. A person who I thought was my friend pulled me aside into a classroom and told me, “Lexi, me and all your friends have been making fun of you because you’ve been in pain. We have also been making jokes about you because you are stupid and ridiculous.” I was completely shocked. These people were my only friends, so I played along with the jokes, but inside I felt like crying every day. One day I remember sitting in a classroom with all my friends eating lunch, when one of them came in and tripped over a chair. Everyone laughed and simultaneously said, “That was just a Lexi thing to do!” I continued to laugh with them but I remember feeling completely heart broken inside because I couldn’t believe that my friends would ever say that about me. Six months after I had returned to school the pain affected my life again. For a whole other year I was back in the doctor’s office and hospital having more tests and procedures done. All the while my friends continued to make jokes and tease me.

When I went to my doctor’s appointments and the hospital for procedures I was able to put the teasing out of my mind and focus on myself. Procedures are a scary thing for me to endure. I never knew what the doctors would find. They tested for several things including cancer, Crohn’s disease, and Irritable Bowel Syndrome. One time, I remember the nurse telling me to relax and not to tense up as they inserted a needle into my arm but all I could think about was the outcome of the test. Will it be bad? Will it be good? For every procedure my stomach felt like there where butterflies fluttering around inside it. Even though I didn’t have the support from my friends, I had the support from my family. My parents would take me to every appointment I needed to go to, but I was the only one experiencing being sick. I would walk into the hospital and know that I had the support of the world, but I felt alone.

Since I got sick I haven’t been the same person due to all of the invasion and confusion of my sickness, but every day I get out of bed and take it one day at a time. Even though I have missed many weeks of school I worked hard to get caught up. I also have made time for extracurricular activities. I still go to school dances and have fun with my friends. Being sick hasn’t stopped me from living my life.

Banyan

JiaJia He

In my memory, a blackish green Banyan stands firm and erect on the campus. It is old, but still vigorous.

Banyan is big. It has brown, wrinkles bark, and spindly roots dangling from thick, curvy branches, yet it has a dazzling green, the dense leaves like thousands twinkle stars under the sun, shine brightly.

In my eyes, banyan is one of the things that everybody loves on the campus; it seems it has an infinite charm. In my memory, I can still see those little heads jumping up down in the shade. I remember that we used to play a chasing game called “The Eagle Catches Chicken” (A Chinese traditional game”); Hand in hand, we wrap ourselves around the tree, and innocent voices called “Why this tree is so big?” Teacher smiled and said, “It is the glamor of nature.” We played hide-and-seek; we played swing. Many naughty kids climbed the tree, pick the little red fruits as the gregarious monkeys.

Rain (Limerick)

Sara Campbell

There once was a woman from Spain Who really hated the rain. She moved and she travelled, But still slowly unraveled, For the sun also drove her insane.

Rainfall

Mackenzie Clark

Wind

Blustering wind

Watch as the clouds move in

Clouds

Dark Clouds

They loom overhead; then, silence

Silence

Promising silence

The calm before something loud

Loud

Deafeningly loud

Bright lightening and powerful thunder

Thunder

Clapping thunder

Causes the clouds to split and the rain to fall

Rainfall

Cold rainfall

Hitting the cement and creating puddles

Puddles

Huge puddles

Little kids splash in the sunlight

Sunlight

Hello sunlight

Bye-bye puddles; see you next time

Fear

Alexis Isle

We have all felt Pain

Who hasn’t known it? Anger

Lashing out what else is there to do? Gone

With you gone I would feel all of this

My fear of losing you just too real

The pain would kill me

The anger would harm me or others I would be forever gone Gone

What else is there to say?

I am gone

Was I ever here?

Was I ever truly a live?

Were you ever mine?

Questions feel my head but they all go unanswered

Except for one

What am I scared of?

A lot

I am scared of being alone

Scared of being hurt

Scared of being the one to hurt

Scared of failing

Scared of pain

Scared that putting part of my heart

Out there will be a mistake

Scared that my voice will

Never

Be heard

Even though I am screaming it

Will you listen?

Cold as Death

Jeyleen Takakiro

Winter snow covers the roads

Another crisis being unfold

The night before Christmas day

“Why?” is all I can say

Surrounded by plane white walls

As my world beings to fall

I remember the last words you uttered in my ear

Those words “I love you my dear”

Like rivers the tears began to fall down my face

While death takes your place

I cry on my mother’s shoulder

Your life taken from me forever

All I could do was cry and pray

“Dear God, why did you take my Grandma away?”

Then I began to think

And the pain began to shrink

Grandpa must have needed you

And with that I knew

That even though you’re no longer with me

In my heart you forever will be

A fine soul God had made

My memories of you will never fade

As I have told you before

I love you Grandma, and we will meet again I’m sure

Now as the snow begins to melt for a brand new start So does the ice around my heart

Not alone

Alexis Isle Alone

I am alone

The punches I can take

The hitting

Give me more

The words

That’s what hurts Alone

Always alone

Blood dripping

Cutting deep

Not as deep as the words

Never being accepted

Fat Stupid

Annoying

Ugly

Untalented

Unloved

So many words cut through my skin

Deep

Deeper than the metal against my wrist

Deeper than the pain the moves through me

Pushing me to the noose of society’s grip

The noose of hatred

I am unwanted

Blood drips onto my wrist

From the tears or just a deeply wounded vain?

I was already dead

I was here

I was never heard

Screaming out the names of the people who had damned my life

The people who have pushed me to this limit

A light shines

Voices yell

Alone

A room of white

A room of solitude

I lived

I have hurt

I was heard

They heard my screams

They responded to my pain

They saved me

They brought me back

They told me I wasn’t alone

Not alone? What a concept

Listen

Listening to the stories

Listening to the pain

Crying out for the other you have felt my pain

Silence

All is quiet

Walking to the stage

Standing alone

Light burning my eyes

Open my mouth

“I am not alone”

More on stage

“We are not alone”

Together we stand against the pain and unlawfulness

Stand together we will stand until there is nothing left to do but fall to our knees in triumph

“We were heard”

Tears run down my face

I am not alone

I was never alone

Senses of Winter

Amy Childress

I hear the ice breaking underneath my feet as I walk across the parking lot behind my apartment building. The crystallized water cracks beneath the weight of my body. It reminds me of the hardwood floors in my grandmother’s parlor, slick and cold. When I take a step, my shoe loses contact with the ground and the dense ice sighs as if letting go of a breath.

I taste the downtown winter air that settles on the fronts of my teeth while I wait for my bus. I can taste the pine needles that I rub between my fingers as we hike along the Bonneville Shoreline. My boots too tight, I can feel the ribs of my socks digging into my ankles.

I smell cold exhaust and worn brakes as small cars, encapsulated in last night’s snow make their way through the streets. I smell chilies simmering on the stove inside, the smell locked in, unable to get through the plastic sealed windows.

I touch the ground with my knees, on accident. As my foot slipped, I grabbed at the air, at the icicles above me with their wholeness, gleaming in the sun. But still, I fell. The wetness sinks into my gloves as I push myself away from the asphalt. Their insides, now a mushy fabric.

I see snow falling for days, people bundled up rushing carefully down the sidewalks, their bodies blurring as they rush through doors. I see the yellow light of the street lamp, turning the darkness soft as it reflects off snowdrifts. On those nights, I spend my time, carefully picking my way through the snow piled up to my knees. Too late to shovel, the downtown streets are silent.

Zen of Fog and Ice

Natalie Moldover

Shrouded, filtered light Birds on the electric line Shards of shining ice.

Photo By: Natalie Moldover

Photo By: Natalie Moldover

Sweet Dreams

Natalie Moldover

Why am I sitting on this sidewalk? Why am I going through the contents of my safety deposit box? Who knows—but here I am and here are a few things I see.

I see a really tough dog owner walk by. His dog is on a leash but the owner is not holding it. Instead, the dog vacillates between exploring the sidewalk and cowering in fear of the anger of the owner. All the while dragging his leash on the ground. Hmmm. They walk on.

Back to the contents of my safety deposit box. Oh, that’s where all that stuff went:

- my sneakers

- a few sweaters

- my winter gloves

- my scarf.

I’m pretty sure in real life, my hubby turns on the radio. The voice of a woman on the BBC fills my dream. She’s talking about the advancement she expects now that women are allowed to fight on the battlefields in the military. Wow, I think, that really sounds scary. I’m really interested in how this young woman will rise in her military career because of this recent change.

I could have really used all this warm gear - not knowing it was all in my safety deposit box - when it was frigid cold. I love these gloves. The warmth they convey to my constantly cold hands is unparalleled. My scarf is a little campy. One of those

feather boas that is more cute than functional. Wow, this sidewalk is getting cold.

How did I get this box from the bank to this sidewalk? What does all this stuff spread out in front of me on this city sidewalk mean?

- Am I at war?

- Am I cold?

- Am I going to become a dog owner?

- Am I in trouble for taking this box out of the bank?

- Are my important papers secure?

- Hope they won’t attract anyone’s attention to want to steal them.

- Hope this dog is friendly.

Summer Night

Emily Donaldson

summer night tastes like freedom and just enough cigarette smoke

night that hints of rain and unbroken promises and love but not not the cheesy kind kind of like when we met and realized that we we just might be perfect for each other the sprinklers are on and hit when you least expect it a fire cracker or boom of thunder

the flowers’ heady scent follows you c

g on the wind

summer night

the only time where breathing is possible where there is now fear of the press of cold and of icicles getting caught in your lungs your chest your mind

summer feels like truth but not not the permanent kind kind of like something that you can hold onto but but sometimes you lose it when you least want to

City

JiaJia He

I walk by the street, Letting crowed people push me. Honking bus, running motor, Energy is floating.

Hold the time, Students, officers, workers, Walking out of the soul, Falling in their dead itinerary.

Lights on, Cool down, twinkle neon, The city in colors. Life here does not seem to end, Only the melodious melody, Only the jump notes, Only the swing dance.

The city, As a machine, Never stops working. As a plane, Never stops rotation. Appearance of life as a walking ghost.

Untitled Jenny Ulvestad

The window rattled sickeningly and with a small pop, the lights flickered out. Eyes so wide she imagined her eyelids might rip, she backed against the wall. The darkness was thick and she had difficulty breathing.

An audible crack, and suddenly she was face down on the hardwood floor. Her right ankle was aflame. Hot, teasingly slow agony crept up her leg, and she cried out. “Jeremy!” She sobbed, clutching her throbbing ankle and reaching desperately for her cell phone, still sitting on her bed.

Her other leg lifted from the floor by means of an alien force, and with a strangled gasp, she felt the floor moving beneath her. The leg tugged towards the door across from her room that led to the basement. With a plunge of terrifying realization, she sunk her fingers into the floor, searching for a finger hold. She desperately grabbed at the foot of her bed, fighting her own leg which insistently and with increasing urgency pulled toward the basement.

Her hands were ripped from her hold with a squeaking screech, and the hardwood floor burned her exposed flesh. She choked, blinded by tears and pain. She screamed once more, “JEREMY!”

It was the last word ever uttered in that house.

And it was the very last name she ever spoke.

Breezes

JiaJia He

We are fleeing down the field, We are untrammeled birds.

Breezes blow over our faces, Innocent voices, you ask me:

“Where are the breezes?”

I say,

“It’s on the dandelion.

Look, the breezes puff away their seeds.”

“What color are the breezes?”

I say,

“It’s green.

Look, trees are waving their hands.”

“What is the smell of the breeze?”

I say,

“It is the fragrance of the earth.

Look, the rain has colored the soil.”

“But where do the breezes come from?”

I say,

“It is a secret of mystery.”

DaDa Poem by Stephanie Costa

we were in love

Tin Win

we used to love please don’t make me cry it’s only you when i close my eyes i see you when i block my ears. hear you please don’t leave me.

the person who became a light in my dark life, such a precious person. A day passes and another passes and i long for you...

you might came back because you might return again today i wait for you you don’t know how much i’m hurting.....

if i were to choose between you and the world even if everything is taken away from me...

if it’s you i’m okay day or night i’m thirsty for love my unseeing promise to forget you makes me cry again.

the only thing i want from you is without you i can’t do anything if you hear this please came back the more i love you..

the end turn away and you.....you keep me away i threw my pride and like a crazy person, i followed you but my heart urged me on and told me not to love you, who is the only one in the world. i pretended to smile, pretended to be fine.

please don’t leave me....

THURSDAYS

Martha Taylor

On Thursdays we sit together. We are just across the table from each other, but we come from worlds apart. Words come easily to us – we talk easily, we share easily and we write.

We both remember.

We both come from childhoods in the country. We both remember crossing rivers to go to school.

We remember how our mothers needed us to help them. We remember teachers who helped us and teachers who scared us. We remember friends and family.

We remember moving and why we moved and how we felt about moving. We remember trying new things for the first time. We remember being afraid. We remember when we were no longer afraid and when we could laugh at being afraid.

We remember brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers. We remember wanting to be free of our family and wanting to stay close. We remember friends who are more and friends who are less and friends who are no more.

We remember buildings. Buildings we have seen. Buildings we want to see. Buildings we lived in. Buildings that are gone.

We remember dreams. We remember dreams from our sleep. We remember dreams from our hopes. We talk about dreams for our future. We dream of futures for our talks.

We sit a world apart across a table every Thursday. We sit, no longer apart.

The Absence of Everything

Sarah Robinson

In the absence of everything, what do you have? Most people would say, “Nothing,” My life may be falling to pieces, but there is always something. I may be unconventional, but even from the darkest coal, there comes a diamond.

“Excuse me, miss. I am with the NYPD. My name is Detective Morgan, and this is Detective Wright,” the police officer said, gesturing to his partner, though looking grim. “Are you Hope Branston?”

“Yes, I am. Is something wrong?” I asked, clenching my jaw in worry, assuming I knew what they were about to say.

The tall man evaded the question. “May we come in, Ma’am?” he asked formally. I stepped aside so they could enter. “Yes, but please, call me Hope.”

We stepped in to the living room. The other, stouter policeman gestured to the couch. His Southern accent showed through clearly as he spoke, “Would you please take a seat, Ma- ah, Hope?”

I did as he asked. Detective Morgan cleared his throat. The compassion was evident in his voice, “Hope, I am so sorry we have to tell you this. Early this morning, your father was hit by a car while he was crossing the street. He was killed instantly.”

I tried to be strong, but my face quickly crumbled. Detective Wright looked uncomfortable being with a crying woman, but Detective Morgan was sympathetic. He handed me the tissue box from the table beside the couch. I looked into his kind eyes and thanked him.

“Do you have any family around here?” he asked, his voice soft.

I struggled to speak, “No. The rest of my family is back in Seattle. I am here only to attend Columbia University. My mother passed away two years ago. My father just

came to visit me. If he hadn’t he would likely still b--” I cut off, overwhelmed by raw emotion.

I thought back to my mother’s last phone call.

“Hope, can I talk to you for a minute, please?” My mother’s voice was tight and a bit too high pitched. She sounded scared, which was so very unlike her.

“Of course. Is something wrong, Mom?”I sensed the fear in her voice and couldn’t help but let it color my own as well. I heard a sob on the other end of the line. I could only recall one time in my life that I had ever heard my mother cry, when she found out her brother had been killed in Afghanistan. My voice cracked, “Mom, what’s going on?”

My mother’s voice was firm when she spoke, “Hope, for several months now, I haven’t been feeling very well. I have been very tired, weak and nauseous. I would barely hit my hand and it would bruise. I have lost twenty pounds.”

“What?” I asked, surprised. My mother didn’t have twenty pounds to lose.

She continued, “I went to see my family practitioner yesterday. He sent me to a specialist. Hope, are you sitting down?” She asked.

“Yes.” I felt my breathing quicken, “Why?”

“Sweetie, the specialist said that I have Stage 4 Leukemia.”

I dropped the phone in shock. I quickly picked it up so I could respond. “You what?” I gasped. My eyes filled with tears, and I felt something inside me rip in half.

“I have cancer.”

I found myself unable to breathe. “Did they give you a prognosis?”

“Yes. A maximum of six weeks.” A sob crept up in to my throat, but I held it back to be tough for my mother. “Hope, your father and I are going to fly out to see you as soon as possible.”

“Is it safe for you to fly?” I asked in concern. “Why don’t I fly home?”

“Yes, it’s safe. I am perfectly fine to fly. We don’t want you to miss school; it is so important to you. We’ll come to you. Because of the late stage of my disease, they said

treatment would likely be ineffective. Thus, I have opted not to have any treatment.” She heard the sob I could no longer hold back. “Sweetie, don’t cry. It will be alright.”

“How will it be OK, Mom? You are dying!”

“Hope. That is your name. We named you that so you would be able to draw on the strength of your own name in times of distress. Now, you must do so. You must be strong and stand a little taller. It will be always be alright, and the future is bright. Have hope.”

I steadied my shaking voice, “Yes, Mother.”

“Good, Sweetie. Hope, I love you!”

“I love you too, Mom.”

She had never made it to New York.

“Hope, we are so very sorry for your loss. Is there anything we can do or get for you?” Detective Morgan asked. I shook my head.

Detective Wright added, “Is there someone we can call to come be with you? Again, we are so sorry.”

“No, thank you,” I said, shaking.

They nodded and quietly shut the door as they left. I watched out the window of my apartment as the police car pulled away. I grabbed my purse from the kitchen table. I jogged to the elevator and took it down four levels to the lobby. As soon as I was free from the claustrophobic building, I ran to the subway station and took it 3 stops to the one across the street from Columbia University. I walked into the music building and held up my student ID card. The man at the desk waved me through.

Fortunately, I found an empty music practice room. I sought solace, as I always did, in my music. I sat on the hard bench and held my hands up to the piano keys. I closed my eyes and began to play and compose a new piece, letting my grief work through the melody. My fingers moved as if with a life of their own. My pain began to dissipate as I played, though the tears still flowed freely. My tears turned to sobs as I

thought of my parents, though I continued to keep playing the wistful song.

Four years ago, I picked up the mail from the floor near the door. I flipped through the envelopes, just seeing bills and more bills. The last letter held the blue crown insignia and the name Columbia. I grinned so big, my lips felt as if they were going to crack. The other mail fell to the floor as I greedily tore the envelope open.

“Dear Ms. Branston, We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Columbia University…” I didn’t read the rest. Instead, I shrieked. My parents came running.

“What’s wrong?” They asked in unison. I held up the letter. “I just got accepted to Columbia!”My cheeks began to hurt from smiling. I saw the great pride in my parents’ eyes.

The smile returned again to my face, but it quickly faded as I thought about the letter that was sitting on my kitchen table right now. It was a letter stating that I had been accepted to Oxford University on a music scholarship. I had been so excited to share this with my father. Now, he would never know that fact, nor would I feel his pride.

Suddenly, a voice spoke, breaking me out of my reverie, “How did I know you would be here? We were supposed to meet for dinner. Did you forget?” I jumped at the sudden noise, and I hit a jarring chord. I opened my eyes to see who it was. A familiar form was casually leaning against the wall with a teasing smile on his face. My attempt to hold back another sob failed. His smile slipped and he quickly came and sat next to me, as he put his arms around me, “Hope, what’s wrong?”

“Al…” I trailed off, unable to speak.

Alex’s face was filled with concern. “What happened?”

“My f-f-father was killed this morning.” My voice shook heavily.

My best friend shocked, said, “What? How?”

“He was hit by a car crossing the street. The detectives said he would have felt no pain, but that doesn’t exactly make it any easier on me.”

“Oh, man. I am so sorry, Hope! Is there anything I can do to help you?” That was the Al I knew.

“No, thank you.” I said, then I was struck by an idea, “actually, there is something.”

“Anything.”

“I am writing this piece, the one you heard. I want you to help me write the lyrics and sing them for me.”

“Of course. I would love to do that!” he smiled, then continued jokingly, “The music composition major and the vocal major, who knew, right?” If there was anyone I wanted by my side at a difficult time, it was Alex. He always knew how to make me laugh.

We spent hours on the song, working tirelessly through to the night, long after we should have left. Eventually, we finished.

“I’m hungry,” Alex said.

“Never get between a boy and his food.” I said, laughing. He did as well. My smile then dropped as I was wracked with another wave of pain. I sobbed again.

“Do you have any idea what you are going to do now?” Alex asked softly.

“I have no idea. After we graduate in May, I was planning on going to Oxford on a music scholarship. Now, though, I don’t know. I don’t know if I could leave my family and go to the other side of the Atlantic. It just doesn’t seem like it would be right to do. I just don’t know.”

“Well, I think you should. You can’t live your life trying to conform to it to what you think everyone else wants to see.”

“But, that’s life. You have to take the cards you are dealt and go with them. Or else,

your life will be ruined and it will be very difficult to go on each day.”

“You are a very positive person, Hope, despite all that you have gone through. That is amazing!”

“Well, thank you. That is why my parents named me what they did. They wanted me to have strength to lean on. I guess, that is what I must do right now. I must have strength and faith, just like I did when my mother died.”

“You should. Before we leave, do you want to run through that song again?”

“Sure.” We played that song over and over again, stopping intermittently to laugh at a joke that was made, and when Alex made plays on words with the lyrics.

We left late that night and went to dinner.

Life is good. From even the darkest coal comes a sparkling diamond. That diamond may be a positive attitude. For most people, that diamond ends up being a person, the person who makes all the difference in the world.

Why is Crying “Broken”?

Ruth Hendricks

May I express a pet peeve? It bothers me when I hear the media use a phrase like “he broke down on the witness stand.” Why is crying, which is expressing a normal human emotion, considered broken? Do we really think that someone who chokes up while being questioned during an intense courtroom situation about harm done to a loved one, for example, has had a malfunction because he didn’t maintain control of his emotions?

When a car breaks down, a part of it has become compromised so that it doesn’t work anymore and must be repaired. When people have a nervous breakdown, they have suffered from so much stress that they are no longer able to function in their life. Help from a doctor or therapist is usually required. So why do we put the case of a person weeping during one stressful situation into this severe category?

I realize that in our society, the norm is to teach people to be stoic. We tell kids to suck it up, don’t be crybabies. For men, especially, it is seen as a weakness to cry. And for women, as the song says, “Big Girls Don’t Cry.” Men often have trouble dealing with others, usually women, who are “being emotional.” Men are at a particular disadvantage because they have been socialized to believe that it’s unacceptable to express virtually any emotion except for anger or laughter. But I think it’s a shame that we consider expressing grief by crying to be a fault, and it perpetuates a feeling of humiliation when it does happen.

Years ago I began to develop a neurological problem where I was experiencing increasing difficulty swallowing and talking. The doctors I consulted were unable to

figure out what the problem was. I was describing my frustration to a specialist after almost a year of feeling my basic abilities to swallow and speak decline without knowing why, and not knowing if I would ever get these capacities back. The doctor seemed to think I was being mildly inconvenienced and asked how this was bothering me. For me, it felt like a fist was slowly closing around me. I was wondering how my future would be impacted when I had a hard time speaking clearly or eating without choking. Would I be able to socialize with friends over lunch? Could I continue to do my job, which involved frequently making presentations or having discussions with others? I could hardly even read a simple story to a niece or nephew. While expressing these frustrations to a doctor who just didn’t seem to understand, I did shed some tears. I was rather alarmed when the doctor immediately asked if I wanted some medication for depression. I thought my tears were a perfectly reasonable response to the constant worry I was experiencing. Why would releasing this ordinary human emotion require drugs?

Granted, many people suffer from depression which may involve frequent crying. Therapy and drugs may be necessary for them. And I do hate to cry in public. I often struggle hard not to give in; it’s messy, I may not have a Kleenex handy, and I just don’t want to be embarrassed or singled out. However, I think that we need not be so afraid of normal crying, nor so ashamed of expressing our strong emotions in this way. I wish people would avoid using terminology like “she broke down in tears” because it perpetuates the false notion that there is something dysfunctional or wrong about crying.

My Iran

Maryam Padraza

My hands are tied, my heart heavy

I smell the flames and the fumes of tyranny

I shed a tear as my heart keeps breaking I am the Iran that keeps on aching

I feel her falling once again from grace A place I loved so much, with blood on her face

I see the tightened fists, stone and green in hand Those who gave up so much, to set free this land

The land of Cyrus, beauty, and Shiraz

Now she remains in dust, no one knows who she was

I think of the day, when I roamed her little streets

All I want now, is to bow at her feet

I want to say sorry for the day I left you behind Leaving you abandoned was never a choice of mine

You were my cradle, culture and my light I think of you each day fighting a good fight

They took so much from the heart of me and you They ruined you for good and all that we both knew

My blood is Green, your blood is Red I wrote about you things no one ever read

My heart and your heart keep beating as one I am proud to call you forever my IRAN!!

Zucchini Drive-By

Daniel Yocum

You’ve placed the last container of shredded zucchini in the freezer for baking bread at Christmas. The mock apple pie is out of the oven, cooling on a rack by the window. As you place a large zucchini, stuffed with meatloaf, in the hot oven for dinner, the door bell rings. Opening the door you find no one there. There’s not even anyone on the street. But sitting on the porch, in a plastic grocery bag, are four very large, darkgreen zucchini. You’ve just become a victim of a zucchini drive-by: the neighborly crime of ensuring you don’t starve during the late summer when zucchini is most prolific.

It has been said if you plant one zucchini, you can feed your family; plant two and you can feed the neighborhood. Who knows what the couple down the street was thinking when they loaded their garden with six? And now the plants are grown, they face the dilemma of what to do with them.

Friends have told me of family drills for securing the car at church. For some reason church parking lots are prime locations for zucchini drive-bys, especially if the word is out that you don’t grow them. If you drive an open-bed pickup, you must take additional precautions. Squash terrorists see those big, open, empty pickup beds as prime targets for their dastardly deeds. Like a big basket, the bed of a pickup can be quickly filled with the green vegetable until a blown shock or broken spring seems imminent.

Some overzealous growers use a friendlier, less obvious, approach to offload their extra zucchini. When they see you in your front yard, they send out the kids. If you see the children from down the street pulling and pushing their Red Ryder Wagon

with no one in it, look out. They are very likely in training with a wagon load of the squash. Who can say no to a smiling child who is trying to help a neighbor by sharing the family’s home-grown food?

But now that you are warned, you can take preventive measures. In this war of squash, the best defense is a strong, visible offense. My wife and I store zucchini on the front porch where it can be seen by anyone in their car, on a bicycle, or just walking by. It is known that we have zucchini. We have enough to allow some to sit idle on the front porch. Like preventive ICBMs, these porch deterrents bring fear to the zucchini gangs cruising down the street looking for their next target.

It is known we have zucchini and we are not afraid to use them.

An Open Letter to Charles and Penelope

Silvia Navejar

Dearest Babies,

From the moment we brought you home individually, our life has changed dramatically. For better or worse, you have truly brought us so much joy and have filled the house with warmth, camaraderie, and endless love. We have deeply cherished the moments of endearing affection you have shown to both of us.

When we brought you home, Charlie in 2009, and Penny a short year later, you were both absolutely darling. Naturally, both of you—with your beautiful big eyes, soft hair, and small cries—left us wilted and weak, always yearning to hold you closer before you grew too big. Even now, you both are sweet, playful, loving, and curious. But you know what they say. Curiosity killed the cat, which brings us to the reasons for writing this letter.

First, we’d like you both to know that we love you dearly and forever. We will always love you; but your behavior over the past year or so has tested our patience and while our unconditional love is unwavering, our sanity is not, nor is our pocket book. To the both of you: Your graciousness and acknowledgement of how much we provide for you is subpar—at best. At times your cooperation is nonexistent and your ability to compromise exists solely on bribery. Your pride and sense of entitlement is ridiculous, to say the least. Your compassion toward each other could be better, and that is speaking positively. You have yet to show any empathy toward anything or anyone. To put it bluntly, you are often downright rude, not only to your parents, but to guests in our home.

If you don’t believe me, you need not look any further than last week. Father left his keys and wallet on the kitchen counter like always. Charlie, you quietly climbed up on the counter and with a single deliberate swipe, pushed it on to the floor. Star-

tled, we ran to the kitchen only to find you staring at us blankly. Not even a blink. Just a cold dramatic stare as you reached to scratch your head, after which you dangerously jumped down from the counter and exited the room without a sound. We were speechless.

And Penny, while you seem to exhibit some cordiality on most days, it hardly outweighs your incessant whining and high-pitched shrieks of impatience. Just a few days ago, Saturday to be exact, your father and I decided to sleep in a bit longer than usual after thinking both of you were still sleeping quietly in your beds. But then you stood outside our bedroom door crying to be let in, refusing to be quiet until we opened the door so you could take over our bed with your constant movement and rowdiness. This has happened over and over again; quite frankly, we are tired and worn.

And that is just the tip of the iceberg. This morning as I left for work, you were wrestling each other, running and jumping from couch to couch as if it were a playground for children. Even against our house rules you continued your horseplay as I tried to tell you goodbye for the day, and when I opened the front door Charlie darted out to the street. Fully unaware of the dangers of not looking both ways, the neighbor’s van screeched to a stop, just barely avoiding a tragedy. And Penny, as confident and sure of yourself as you’ve always been, climbing the bookshelf is a recipe for disaster, yet you do it anyway. In front of us. Even after we tell you not to. All of this has taken its toll on us.

We’d like to make you fully aware of your actions, as you both are clearly unable to comprehend actual damage that you’ve done: The couches, the rug, the new dinette set, the buffet, the bookshelf, the lamp, and the cabinets—oh, the cabinets! Two weeks after remodeling the kitchen, you both decided that it would be fun to scratch and chew on the cabinets. We don’t even know what to say. Only dogs do that. Have our sweet kittens turned into naughty dogs?! We say that figuratively, of course. We know you are not dogs, in fact, we’re sure you are insulted that we’d have such thoughts

about our own sweet babes. For that we are sorry. But do you see our point?

Mother feels like such a meanie when she has to lock you in the bathroom because you are being so naughty. And father hates to swat at you when you’ve been disobedient. But enough is enough. We have spoiled you long enough and we need to see some change.

For starters, would it kill you to at least fake being pleasant to us if we interrupt your naptime? We realize that naps are important for your young and growing bodies, but sleeping is hardly a long-term activity, and we feel it has made you both lazy. Also, we really hate to do this to you, but we’re going to have to cut down on the expensive dinners of lamb, beef tenderloins, and salmon every single day. We’ve been awful to allow this to continue for so long, but for a three and four-year-old, it’s just absurd and uneconomical. You’ll just have to get over your pickiness and learn to like the food we so lovingly provide. And last but not least, let’s talk about your grooming and hygiene. You are hardly able to hold a brush, let alone bathe yourself in a tub, and while you are both meticulous about cleaning yourself when you really feel the need, the manner in which you go about it is inappropriate and appalling. We certainly didn’t teach you these habits. With that said, there is a proper time and place to lick your bottom, and it’s not on the coffee table in front of guests.

Much love, Mother and Father

Morning at the Bake Shop

Shauna Edson

My lips formed an “O” on the glass case and I filled my cheeks with air like a blowfish. I was trying to get as close as possible to the donut I had picked out. It sat by its neighbors in a neat little row, a bunch of irregular rectangles on a shiny metal tray. Mine had the most frosting, a little stream of pink syrupy glaze dripped down its side. I was hoping the underside of the donut had spots that were saturated and slightly soggy from the excess frosting. The sides of my tongue tingled in anticipation of the sugar overload.

The bake shop was full that morning. It was the only bake shop on the small island; it sat a half block away from the beach. A hand painted wood sign on the front read Avalon Bakery. I found myself pressed up against the glass case, leaving just enough room for the customers who had received their orders to squeeze past me and find the exit. The cases were full of donuts: old fashioned, maple bars, apple fritters, chocolate cake, and white cake with frosting and sprinkles. It smelled like bitter coffee and sweet dough.

The man behind me tapped me on the shoulder. I pulled my lips from the case and looked up into his tanned weathered face. He did not smile. He lifted his eyebrows and chin to nudge me forward. There was a small gap between me and the woman in front of me. She was wearing a purple swim suit cover up and her silver hair was stuck to head in tight curls. The chatter of voices around us was so loud that I wasn’t sure if he mumbled something to me or not.

A woman in oversized sunglasses bumped into me as she navigated her way to the door. Her coffee sloshed onto my arm and I watched the small hot trickle drip from my hand to the terra cotta floor, landing softly on a pile of sand that hitch hiked in on unsuspecting flip flops. She didn’t apologize or look back as she opened the glass door

to leave. The red and white checkered curtains ballooned out in the breeze and the jingle of the bells hanging from the door knob hung in the humid, salty air.

Suddenly, I was next in line, mumbling to myself about what I would say when I got to the front. I reached down and felt the smooth coins in my pocket. Two quarters. They felt heavy in my hand. No, not the first one, the second donut back. My stomach fluttered, I was nervous to order.

“Your order?” Her voice had a heavy Spanish accent. I pointed to the perfect donut. Her face was taut as she reached in to get the last pink donut in the row. Her dark hair was pulled in a tight bun, and her white crisp apron strained against her neck. She glanced at me, her black eyes daring me to question her selection. I felt as if I had swallowed a rock. It wasn’t the right one. She slid the donut into a small white paper bag, pink frosting smeared the on the edges.

She lifted her palm, waiting for the money. The fabric in my pocket was coarse as I reached in with my small hand, searching for the coins. The quarters were made no noise as they landed in her palm, silenced by the flesh of her hand. The bag felt heavy as I stepped outside, heading for my favorite bench on the beach.

The Adventure

Wilder Koeven

The Adventure is patient, the adventure is calm. It calls to a boy, no, it calls to a child. Challenging his way of life, his future, his past, Challenging him with a battle cry of freedom.

The adventure is freeing, the adventure is fun. It gives freedom through the bonds and chains of trials, Freedom through the flames and scorns of life. by tying him to another and molding him into something more.

The adventure is leading, the adventure is strong. It molds him into something better. It teaches him to be a protector It leads him to be a hero, And then it leaves him to be a man.

Conversations Unrecorded in Nampa Idaho

Brandon Schembri

Brandon: There’s a play by Byron Lavery entitled “Frozen” about a mother, a rapist, and a scientist. The scientist studies the mental capacity of serial killers and rapists in hopes of understanding them: the rapist, a deeply unsettled man, raped and killed a little girl in a garage, and the mother, the parent of the raped girl, seeks reconciliation with the rapist. Powerful story, moving, and ugly, really. One time I did a rendition of it for a theater class, on two separate occasions actually, one for a church owned school and for another that had no religious affiliation, and the effect was the same. There was this stone silence in the room, Michelangelo could chisel his newest David out of that silence. And the effect wasn’t intentional that just how any feeling person can capture the story. I mean the scientist at the beginning puts her face into a duffel bag and lets out a blood curling scream for crying out loud, how could you not be affected by that. Just moments before she was going over her itinerary, going over her luggage and then it just escapes her. And it leaves the audience under a sort of dark cloud or a spell and they don’t really know why. I mean if I did that here right now you would look at me quizzically with dangling confusion and prompt a call from my psychiatrist.

Anyway, that moment was her release. It was a voice to her fears. Chilling, really. Academics like to keep it all in. We like to understand in our lofty intellectual spheres the pandering behaviors of being human. Some of us anyway, I can’t speak for all of us. Academics, right, they seek for independent opinions, but sound the same to everyone else, discussing Herodotus or Shakespeare or Morrison for that matter, people just shrug off or disregard it as posh. I don’t think it matters really. But when your life is mostly academia you’re an outsider to their dialogue. I guess we’re all outsiders to something. Academics, I mean, they’ve got to be the outside to something. Does that answer your question? LikeMr. Thacker: Hmm? Yeah. Books? I asked what books you like. I don’t read much myself. I

fall asleep too easy.

B: Yeah? Some days I can’t get enough, probing human nature is resonating, and it’s all contained in a book. I just-

MT: Look at this. The ‘Work and the Glory’ series is really what gets me, and look no dust on’em. Right there in a row. Just the trials of the pioneers makes a lot of sense to me, you know. I’ve got’em all here, all nine of them, read them every year.

B: That’s nice.

MT: Yeah they’re good ones. My wife likes them too, sometime we read them together. Hell she’s read them twice as many times as I have. Ha ha.

B: Smart woman.

MT: Uh huh, her and I met when I was in the navy, in ’45. Here’s a picture of us here on the big rig. That was before my rectal examination and everything went kaplooi.

B: Yeah?

MT: Really, it happened one day I was in the temple and had to go to the bathroom while my wife and her friends waited for me in the waiting area out there. I went to the bathroom and did my business then stood up and found blood in the bowl. And I thought to myself, what did I do? And all I could do was just stand there like a lost boy in a playground. Blood was coming out my rectum, I couldn’t move so I just had to wait there til someone come and pick me up. I must a been waiting for thirty minutes before someone come knocking on the door of the stall to see if I was alright. Blood was all down my legs and in my pants, was real embarrassing having somebody come in there and clean me up like a child. It just came outta me and didn’t stop. And they couldn’t do anything to me til it stopped. It took a something like ten minutes for it to stop, and they had to bandage me all up. My wife look real worried when I got out. He He. She looked at me as if she’d seen a ghost, I’d been in that bathroom for nearly an hour!

B: Wow.

MT: So they sent me to the doctors the next day and they said it was really bad colon that caused the bleeding to happen. I’d never had that before so I didn’t know any better. I’d never

seen so much blood before in my life. Not even when my children were born, and there were nine of them. There was one time when I got my fingers caught in one of those big saw blade blades about this big in a wood mill, chopped my first two fingers off at the tips, right here. Just clean off. I looked down at my nubs on the floor, I didn’t realize they were my fingers til I saw the blood seeping through my pores like glue out of a elmers glue cap, you seen those? But once it came out it wouldn’t stop. Had to go to the hospital for that too. They bandaged my fingers up and the doctor told me not to shake anyone’s hand for a least six months. And, I tell ya, when I came back after six months to get the bandages off I asked him to shake my hand, the doctor. He was skeptical at first, then he smirked at me and gave me his hand and I squeezed the dickens out of his hands so hard that he let go, shook his hand in the air to get the blood back into his fingers, and said “You’re healed!” Ha ha! He couldn’t believe it. He says he’s never seen someone with so strong a hand grip after he got his fingers chopped off! Strong hands I’ve got. It ain’t baby hands that turned those rudders on them big rigs. Ha ha. But I never lost so much blood as I did that time at the temple. Not once. ________________________________________

Brandon: Yeah, I’m originally from Idaho. It’s where I grew up. My family’s from there. But I just came from Salt Lake. Taking a break for a while from school, you know. Miranda: I’ve been to Salt Lake City. But I was a little girl. I don’t remember much of it. I’ve lived here most of my life. And I substitute teach kids, and sometimes they get out of hand and I have to be the mean one to get them to do their homework. And they don’t want to do their homework, but I make them because that’s what they’re supposed to do. They tell me all the time, and cry to me “We don’t want to do it!” “Why are you making us do it!” And I say, “Tough, you have to do your homework that’s what you do when you go to school, you have to do your homework.” I just blabber and they never listen to me. Drives me crazy sometimes. B: But you like it?

M: Oh, I do sometimes. You have to otherwise what are you doing? My degree is in psychology from ISU, and if I were to analyze the brains of those kids, I think I’d go insane! They’re nuts! Besides there aren’t any jobs here and I don’t want to find a real job so I substitute teach

these bratty kids all day long. I’m sorry, but no thank you I can’t do this the rest of my life. No sir.

B: Huh. What do you want to do?

M: I want to be a writer-

B: Oh, you write! What do you write? I’m an English major.

M: I thought about being an English major but the grammar got to me. Its just not my thing. I hate grammar. I just want to write. I could write all day. Sometimes I do when I’m not substitute teaching. I’m in the middle of my novel right now.

B: Oh, what’s your novel about?

M: It’s a love story about a boy and a girl who fall in love and don’t really realize it until it’s too late. I don’t have the ending worked out yet, but they live in a small town. He’s Jeremy, really cute, with dark hair and dark eyes. I love guys with dark features it just turns me on. And red heads, I like redheads too, kind of like yours...Anyway, she’s Jane, and she has a sleeping disorder that causes her to stay up all night and paint pictures of things she sees. And they meet at school and don’t really like each other at first. I had a relationship like that once. And the guy was schizophrenic. Had no idea. Then one day he’s like, “by the way I don’t know if this will weird you out but I hear people all the time when they’re not in the room, like people that are not around at all.” At first I was like, wow! You just know how to attract’em, girly. My last boyfriend, before that one, had a mental disorder, OCD he was, he’d pace around the floor all the time when he couldn’t find something or when he was nervous. One time we were kissing and he just stopped randomly, I’m caught by surprise, then he asks me right to my face “How many guys have you kissed?” I couldn’t tell you which was worse the terribly timed question or how much his breath reaked of stale nachos and jalapenos. I don’t know how he got so close to me with breath like that, now that I think about it. But, nearly lost it! And after a while I’m like - nope! No more, can’t do this!

Heh. Nope. Just wasn’t for me. Probably lost my chances at true, lasting love, but nope just couldn’t do it. I don’t know what it is, I just give off that vibe. That crazy vibe. I attract crazy people to me.

B: Well I mean, I’m sure you’re just not looking in the right places. And besides guys with mental illnesses aren’t all that weird. I mean I know someone-

M: You should try being in a relationship with one. They’re not bad people but their hard to be around. Gosh. Have you ever?

B: Well no. But - I don’t know, relationships are funny things. You never know when something might work out.

M: They may be funny but I know when it won’t work out. And they did not work out. Nope, uh uh! Not going there! There’s just no good men anywhere! I’m beginning to think they don’t exist. Or maybe they do and they just avoid me. I can be hard, I know I’m not easy to be around, ‘specially after being with kids all day...Okay, I feel bad I’m talking too much, your turn. Where you from, again?

Mr. Hogg: Hogg’s the name. Rodney Hogg. Spelt like ‘hog’ with a ‘g’ but sounds like H-o-gg.

Brandon: Mr. Hogg, it’s a pleasure to meet you. People probably get that wrong all the time.

MH: Ah, sometimes. You’re parents live here?

B: Yes, they’ve been here for a few months I think. And they like it.

MH: It’s not a bad place to live. I started an accounting practice here bout twenty years ago, you can see my sign on the ground when you came in, ‘Hogg and sons accounting.’ Boys are all off in their own careers, few of them are accountants, and my younger sons are in college in Rexburg.

B: That’s where I grew up, Rexburg. Windy. Cold...The locals boast 10 foot walls of snow, and students were going to class like lab rats in a maze with wind whipping at their faces, making their cheeks red and freezing their nose hairs.

MH: Don’t know if I believe the 10 foot wall bit, I got to see it first on the news. But Idaho’s a frigid place, You get that all over the state. Idaho’s always been cold. Always will be. Was since the day I was born. Can’t get rid of it.

B: Yeah… Nice place you have. Nice view out your window.

MH: Been here my whole life. Here in Nampa, anyways. Moved inta the house in ’86. Young family then. Now just a bunch of empty nesters. We keep busy though. Church activities keeps us busy.

B: Yeah, I’ve only been here for about a month. For a single guy there’s not much to do. I came from Salt Lake and there was tons to do down there.

MH: Salt Lake, huh? What were doing there?

B: Just doing the school thing. Taking a break for right now, live life a little.

MH: In Nampa? You’ve chosen one heck of a place to vacation.

B: Right. But I’ve got family here. I’m looking to go back soon though and finish up. This place is kind of wearing on me. Getting kinda antsy, actually. Itching for something new and different. This place is a lot like Rexburg.

MH: There’s not much here for young people, beside the school, but the people are good. Have you tried the singles ward, they probably have people there your age, I’d imagine.

B: Yeah, I’m a little out of their age bracket. A lot of the people are eighteen or twenty, which is fine, just takes some adjusting. Not what I’d prefer.

MH: Probably more pickins in Salt Lake, more young people.

B: Yeah, its true. Just need a break though.

MH: My daughter is about your age, Miranda, she’s a little bit older too. But you’ve met her already.

B: Yep. We were just finishing up a gingerbread house in the other room. Just a casual thing for the holidays.

MH: Good. Miranda is always decorating things and doing things with her hands.

B: She’s pretty active, for sure.

MH: It’s a shame cause she’s been single for a long time, hasn’t had many friends that are boys lately. Hard to come by around here. All the boys are, like you said, really young, and just haven’t taken an interest. She’s been living with us for the time being since she got out of school, now she teaches elementary school. Substitutes.

B: Yeah, she told me about that.

MH: It’s a job. She doesn’t always like it, but it gives her a little money. So you have a girlfriend right now?

B: Happily single.

MH: I hated being single. I was in the military and when I got back I was hungery for a female. The road is long when the flesh is hungery like that. I got lucky and found my wife no sooner than two months when I got back. She’s been an angel ever since.

B: You’re lucky. It’s harder than it seems, I think.

MH: Just got to trust in the right sources.

B: Yep. Just need a break. There’s plenty of people telling me what to do, what to think about, too much attention to all these sources are like sparks to an explosion. And explosions aren’t passive gestures. But it always starts with a spark, a sizzle before the boil. The crash before the burn, there has to be a system malfunction or someone not paying attention for the plane to take a dive... I’m sure you don’t have much room for explosions?

MH: Not quite, I-

B: That’s just my language. Gotta love a good metaphor, y’know, when words don’t capture and swell your feelings...I think we get lost in the words, really, I mean, person to person lost. I can shave my head so I can behave differently and have brand new conversations, not because I like it per se. But it gets attention and it’s different. Sameness is often a bore.

MH: Don’t like changin things, it stirs a dirty pot. Some things just need to stay stale and a little stagnant. Miranda doesn’t like change much. We keep things calm here and that gives her the sanity to focus on the characters in her book. She’s writing a book.

B: Right, she told me. But even writers can have tumultuous lifestyles and still write with stable conviction. I don’t know, I think you have to rely on something, and that’s our craving for sameness. Its hard to place trust in something that shifts. But we do it...I do it. And it’s not inhibiting, its why I’m here, I guess. It’s all different, right? This place, the people, it’s different than what I’m used to, but all too much the same. I still have the same questions with the same unyielding answers...it’s frustrating... Looks like snow tonight.

MH: Yep. Three feet most definitely, we’ve been waiting for this all year.

Photo By: Elisa Stone

Next Time

Robyn Badon

Another year, almost, has passed.

The same regrets that I promised to never carry again, have returned. I took you for granted, again. It’s silly

The time we have seems so infinite but it always ends, always.

As I lie here awake, pillows piled on top of my head, Sinking deeper into the embrace of down feathers

Warmth

I just... I just really don’t want to get out of bed.

It’s still too dark

Too cold

Too soon to face reality, again.

Nothing about facing today appeals to me

That should be enough

I squirm and wiggle my way up and out from my canopy of comfort

I sit upright, struggling to open my eyes

I swivel left toward the edge of my bed, feet dangling

I yawn, raising my arms high and wide for a stretch

I fall backwards, back into the wave of excessive bedding

I reluctantly curl back upright

There

The first alert that the unwelcomed is still here hits me

My toes graze the floor

Cold I snatch my feet back and roll back under the covers

Begging for more time

More warmth

My attempts at escape, of reuniting with you sooner- are futile It doesn’t matter how long I hide here You won’t come find me until it’s our time again I was stubborn and ungrateful, again You’ve passed me by

Next time I’ll be better. No, wait, this time I really promise. I’ll try. I’ll enjoy our moments. Please return to me, my dear spring time.

For now I’ll sing of winter blues, Wiping the cold tears from my eyes.

Photo By: Elisa Stone

Feels Like Yesterday

Brianne Morrison

I was waking up for my first day of kindergarten. My dad teaching me how to tie my shoe laces.

One bunny ear, two bunny ear, through the hoop and the hole. Then you have the bunny knot.

Then I have my mom taking too many pictures of me in my new school outfit.

But that was long ago and now I am eighteen. I have a job, going to college, moving out soon.

Funny how when you are small and young, you want to be all grown up, and once you are all grown up; you miss being a kid.

Still doesn’t mean grown ups don’t act like kids, still love candy, roller coasters, and opening gifts.

The small amusement makes us feel like we are young again.

Once I am older and have wrinkles, a bad back and maybe some cankles, I will still be riding the roller coasters, eating candy, cherishing the moment of feeling young.

Salt Lake Teens Write culminates with a final publication, reading, and celebration.