2014 Teens Write by Salt Lake Community College

You Are Me and I Am You

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 by Keaton Charles Butler and edited by CWC Staff Members and Associate Director Elisa Stone. Cover art created by Vy Ho.

Salt Lake Teens Write teens and mentors are paired up at the 2013 Fall Kick Off.

Salt Lake Teens Write Mentoring Teams: 2013-2014

Teen Writers

Fatuma Aden

Annie Best

Sara Campbell

Kadelyn Egan

Gabriel Garcia

Vy Ho

Hsar B. Htoo

November Htoo

San Htoo

Huy Huynh

Sue Yon Kim

Mu Law

Emma Niederhauser

Alexandria Northrup

Mariah Norton

Eriene Oh

Farah Omar

Hser Nay Paw

Shar Ren

Sarah Robinson

Mariam Roe

Leigh Seeley

Paw Rai Thee

Michelle Torres

Takara Truong

Then Tun

Jordan Wagner

Tiffany Walther

Cheyne Warren

Ro Zeina Win

Wa Wa Win

I Love You

Mentors

David Ahlman

Daisy Bennett

Laura Berbusse

Caz Bevan

Dawn Boardman

Amy Childress

Scott Claffey

Paula Colborn

Emily Donaldson

Ryan Falco

Rachel Haisley

Ruth Hendricks

Alexis Isle

Liza Jones

Christine Larson

Ted Lazenby

Alex Maughan

Jesse McCaughey

Natalie Moldover

Brianne Morrison

Silvia Navejar

Glenn Newman

Jesse Peterson

Laura Rothlisberger

Catherine Saign

Mariah Sakaeda

Susan Schulman

Martha Taylor

Robert Tennant

Angie Watson

Linda Wheatley

Dan Yocom

Mentoring Teams

Sara Campbell and Silvia Navejar

Leigh Seeley and Susan Schulman

Alexandria Northrup and Amy Childress

Annie Best and Liza Jones

Sarah Robinson and Ruth Hendricks

Cheyne Warren and Dawn Boardman

Kadelyn Egan and Daisy Bennett

Vy Ho and Linda Wheatley

Ro Zeina Win and Angie Watson

Eriene Oh and Alexis Isle

Wa Wa Win and Martha Taylor

Sue Yon Kim and Brianne Morrison

Mariah Norton and Christine Larson

November Htoo and Mariah Sakaeda

Tiffany Walther and Paula Colborn

Hser Nay Paw and Caz Bevan

Mu Law and Laura Berbusse

Paw Rai Thee and Laura Rothlisberger

Emma Niederhauser and Catherine Saign

Mariam Roe and Rachel Haisley

Gabriel Garcia and Glenn Newman

Shar Ren and David Ahlman

Hsar B. Htoo and Jesse McCaughey

Huy Huynh and Scott Claffey

Ro Zeina Win and Angie Watson

I Love You and Jesse Peterson

Jordan Wagner and Dan Yocum

Takara Truong and Ted Lazenby

Fatuma Aden and Natalie Moldover

Then Tun and Robert Tennant

The 2013 Salt Lake Teens Write Kickoff Celebration paired 30 teens with 30 mentors.

Photo by Keaton Butler

Preface & Acknowledgements

The SLCC Community Writing Center is pleased to share this publication as a culmination and celebration, in partnership with the Salt Lake City Public Library, of the 2013-2014 Salt Lake Teens Write Program. What started four years ago with nine people as Salt Lake Girls Write has now expanded into an inclusive program of 64 that pairs underrepresented 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 gather to collaborate on writing skills they wish to explore. This year’s workshops covered college scholarships and essays, song writing, and short story writing. Each writer’s work is featured in their individual portfolios.

We are honored to announce this program was competitively selected as one of the 10 Finalist Winners in the Instructional Programs and Services Category for the prestigious Bellwether Award from the Community College Futures Assembly in 2014. This was thanks, in part, to winning Salt Lake Community College’s Innovation of the Year in 2011-2012. What is most remarkable about Salt Lake Teens Write is how we’ve grown and diversified, allowing teens and mentors from many backgrounds to come together with reciprocity, respect, and creative joy.

We appreciate our partnership with the Salt Lake City Public Library and their many contributions that make this program possible. Thanks to Salt Lake Community College for funding and supporting this publication. And, of course, thank you to all of our mentors and teens! This program has roots and wings because of you.

Elisa Stone

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 Short Fiction.

drawing by Annie Best

You are Me and I am You

by Eriene Oh

Tell it to me again your name, Was it Carla? Calissa? I cannot remember, The wind had carried your name out of my mind, Atoms, fragments, memories, accordingly.

For it was seven thousand years ago, I was born a child of this Earth, I toiled and I labored, I grew in knowledge and wisdom.

You however live in the present, I came in your dreams, Of which you now have trouble recollecting, For I was not meant to stay long.

A minute or so was what they gave me, Time to appear in your unconscious, And pour my ancient wisdom into your head, So fleeting the moment, so fleeting.

What I saw was your misery and sorrow, I cried for you, I wanted to help, Your young, fragile soul.

I was distracted and perhaps not knowing, Time was running, Time was running,

I still had much to tell.

So here it is, My ancient wisdom, In case you forgot, In case I didn’t tell.

You are Me, and I am You, It is true, We are the children of the Universe.

I, from the past, You, the present, Our lives interconnected, No one—not one, in isolation.

We share the same spirit, We share the same love, We share the same sight, We share the same soul.

Seamlessly intertwined, The universe has created, Many beings, Like you and I.

Although long gone, My consciousness exists, It lives on to tell, This ancient wisdom of old.

So here I call upon, The young ones, The old ones, Be kind, be kind.

All of you, Are but one, Expressed differently, But one, nonetheless.

So take note, There is no them, There is no he, There is no she.

I hope to tell, This ancient wisdom to you, You are Me, And I am You.

Never forget… Never...

For consequences may be dire.

It walks toward me

Two Paths

by Alexis Isle

Daunting in a way that I can’t move

Who am I for this life to choose me?

What have I done to prove my worth?

The future makes my breath short and part of me wants to run

This life that moves so quickly to me yet so slowly it is agonizing

Do I choose this life I currently am in?

Do I move to the other purpose in which I live?

Two paths only two

Yet my heart pulls me in so many ways it may as well be one hundred and two

What Say You?

by Eriene Oh

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Ben asks me. I nod. At my signal, they look at me with worried expressions, making me feel small inside. Cecilia puts her hand on my shoulder and sympathetically smiles. I return a half-smile; determined.

I close my eyes and picture a hundred different thoughts and scenarios and the feelings associated with them. Nostalgia, sadness, happiness, downtimes, joy, helplessness, frustration. I whiz through all those emotions and then, blank.

lub-dub... lub-dub... lub-dub... my heart-beats seemed to occupy the once empty moment.

lub-dub... lub-dub... lub-dub... Louder.

lub-dub, dub, dub, dub... Faster.

As time approached, it became apparent to me that I had to do something. Something to appease my fast heart beats, before it got out-of control; before it burst and splattered everywhere. If not, then for the latter, because I would really not like to burden someone with the responsibility of cleaning up after my mess. Yes. I shall do something because I am a considerate human being.

I grab onto the sides, firmly. Shifting my weight slowly, the pain builds like a snowball on a slope. I whine. Tears form, still in their infancy, in my eyes. Not ready to fall onto my cheeks, they cling on ever so tightly onto their other brother molecules. I exhale, then take in a deep breath. Then, like a skilled acrobat, extend my arms, placing most of my weight onto the sides of my chair. I grimace from the hurt it causes me (which I would say is one thing that differs me from that said acrobat.) My tears let loose, matured and too heavy for their brothers to hold on to. Exhale, then inhale. Breathe, I remind myself.

Then, for my final act, I moved my right leg forward. A scream escapes my lips, but that is alright; success is imminent. Transferring my weight onto my right leg, the pain slowly becomes familiar, like an old acquaintance. Cemented onto the floor, I leave it aside and turn my attention over to my left leg. A stream of tears have formed

on either side of my cheeks, possibly racing with each other to see which side would win the prize for building the largest pool of water.

Familiar arms come to my rescue and link themselves with my own arms, giving me the much needed support.

At this moment, my heartbeat chooses to interrupt. lub-dub, dub, dub, dub... “What if you fall?” my mind advertises this question to me on as big of a billboard that could possibly exist (in the space of my mind, at least.)

Fear. Pain. FEAR.

One more. Just one more leg to go. In what constituted of little more than a slide, I made it; on two feet; standing.

They said I would never walk. They said that my spinal cord was beyond repair. ‘Paralyzed’ was the word they used. What about me? What about what I say? Well, I say I can. And stand was what I did.

Pain was a good thing. The pain I felt in my legs was their way of assuring me that they were in this together with me.

So what will I do now?

I say, let’s run. What say you?

The Aisles

by Alexis Isle

I have walked down

Candy aisles

Soda aisles

So many of them I can’t even count it

I have run down some too.

I remember running down a canned food aisle to my dad. I was ten

I remember summer of 2012 running around with him at the grocery store looking for something to eat.

I was 17

I remember throwing things at the walls in my room when we were forced apart running through the halls in my house screaming about how I had a broken heart

I was 18

I remember running down the clothes aisle to my sister screaming her name happy I found her

I was 19

Now the only aisle that matters is the one that he is standing at the other end waiting for me.

Polka-Dotted Button

by Eriene Oh

The first time I saw her, I was five. She was sitting on the swing, perhaps enjoying the scenery. Needless to say, she piqued my curiosity. All I could remember about her that day was a detail on her dress. Weird, but cool at the same time - her Polka-Dotted Button. It was on a bracelet that she wore. I didn’t know what it meant.

The second time I saw her, I was 13. That was the first time I saw her face - breathtaking. I knew that I had to at least say hi. Before I could approach her, her button caught my eye: the polka-dotted button on her bracelet. By the time I could regain my composure, she was getting ready to leave. Now that I think back, I don’t even remember where we were—we could’ve been in a crowd for all I remember. I was 22 the third time we encountered and I noticed it: Her smile. She smiled at me, with that look. That look. You know, the kind that an old friend gives you when they see you after a really long time? And of course, I saw her polka-dotted button too. This time, I knew better, so I just walked up to her, wanting to say ‘hello’ but before I could reach her, the station doors opened and she disappeared. I remember now, this took place on a train.

So mysterious. That was my thought shortly before our fourth meeting. The more times I encountered her presence, the more I remembered details about her: The polka-dotted button, her face, her smile.

The fourth time I saw her, we exchanged glances. I was 34. She looked happy. I was walking my daughter to school when the polka-dotted button bracelet caught my eye. Then, I found her eyes. I couldn’t help but feel happy all year long after that. I would’ve said hello but the thought didn’t register in my head—perhaps it didn’t need to, because it knew what was coming next…

This was the fifth time. I remembered this time to go up to her, to say hello, to introduce myself. I was 50. She was sitting on a bench, calm and collected. She was feeding some pretty little birds. Funny feeling I got, the closer I got to her. At first, all I wanted to say was ‘hello, I don’t believe we’ve met.’ But with each step forward,

the words that I wanted to say fell away from my thought, one by one. Instead, it was replaced by a warm, comforting feeling. And a huge smile. This was it.

She looked up at me just as I was about five feet from her, like she was expecting me—and she was. Automatically, I hugged her and whispered the words ‘thank you.’ She then held me with her arms extended and with a look that said ‘Oh look how much you’ve grown!’, spoke in the sweetest voice possible ‘No need, that’s what I do.’ Then, she proceeded to walk away, slowly. After her fifth step, she turned to me and extended her hand towards me - and I saw her polka-dotted button bracelet. ‘Shall we?’ I took her hand, trusting her completely. I didn’t need to ask where we were going, I knew where we were going. It was somewhere happy.

After all, where else would your guardian angel take you?

So off we walked, into eternity. ‘So, tell me about that button of yours.’ I asked, a question, after 45 years that I had always meant to ask from the start.

drawing by Annie Best

Please Don’t Leave This Life

& as I look into your eyes

by Annie Best

I wonder if you’d care if I died Believe me I’ve tried But my soul wouldn’t leave my eyes

The demon by my side Is holding in his cry & I can feel his need to die But he’s a prisoner to his life so he’s left shaking his skull slips his fingers along my hand . and he began to whisper “please don’t leave this life, The orchid doesn’t have to die I’ll stand by your side And I will die to spare your life.”

Fearless

by Liza Jones

Red cascading waves

Crisscross scarred thighs, soul—not mind

Without shame, she writes

Original Oratory

by Huy Huynh

During World War I, 116,516 American soldiers died in order to protect the world’s peace (civilwar.org). Does that number scare you? I have something even scarier than that. Every year in the U.S, more than 100,000 people are shot and more than 50,000 of them die because of gun violence. Let’s do the calculation. With that rate, within less than 3 years, the number of people that die because of gun violence will equal the number of soldiers that died during World War 1. Ironically, in this case, our people don’t die for any glorious goal, they don’t die under the enemies ‘weapon, they die because of the people who live in the same country, sing the same national anthem. Obviously, no one is an exception in this case. Our lives could be threatened at any place because of the freedom to use guns. We should restrict the gun laws specifically by having a psychological test, prohibiting the sale of guns to people with a criminal record or gangs members and prohibit people from sharing guns with their relatives or participating in any “black market”.

Psychological restriction must be executed. Why do I feel so intense about this? I think we both remember what happened on April 16, 2007 at Virginia Tech Institute and State University. On that tragic day, Seung-Hui Cho, a senior at Virginia Tech, shot and killed 32 people and wounded 17 others. It was the second-deadliest act of mass murder at a U.S school campus in the history. The saddest thing about it is that we could have prevented the massacre from happening. We know that people with mental illness are more likely to lose self-controls. Seung-Hui Cho was diagnosed with severe anxiety disorder as well as major depressive disorder but he could still buy a gun from a local gun store. One flaw point in the gun laws system and the consequences are unimaginable. According to the spreadsheet of Mother Jones—a political left-wing American magazine, many of the shooters showed signs of mental illness , but in only two cases was there a prior diagnosis. What have gun laws done to our society? Letting psycho guys with gun walking around, killing innocent people, especially children. One day before the guy came and shot people, he was just a guy

with the right to buy guns. In order to prevent a second “Virginia Tech massacre” from happening we have to set up a strong psychological check for people who want to purchases guns.

Mental ill people aren’t the only types of people that can cause chaos with a gun. Members in rival gangs choose to settle a dispute with violence all the time. Recently, on August 31, 2013, right in Salt Lake City, a Taylorsville man has been charged with murder after a gun fight between rival gang members. Donald Valdez and David Gonzales are members of different gangs. When they were talking about their gangs, a dispute came up. Gonzales was killed by a gunshot to the head by Valdez. Hemenway- a Harvard researcher once said about the effect of gun laws: “We expected pretty brave and wonderful things, but most of the things that were presented were little more than escalating arguments. It wasn’t like this is a good guy and this is a bad guy. It’s two people who got into an argument and somebody drew a gun”. We can’t give a gun- a killing tool to a member of a gang or a person with criminal record. It’s like giving claws to a hungry tiger. What happened in the Navy Yard Shooting is an alarm for us. On Sept 16,2013, Aaron Alexis – a mass killer, who fatally shot twelve people and injured three others inside the Washington Navy Yard, had a criminal record. In 2010, he was arrested in Fort Worth for discharging a weapon within city limits. With a specific background check, we can prevent guns from falling into the hands of impulsive people therefore we could reduce the number of people that die in gun fights.

Last but not least, we have to prohibit people from sharing their guns with their relatives or participating in any “guns black market”. In a 2004 survey of 1,400 inmates incarcerated for crimes committed with a handgun, only 11 percent reported having purchased their weapon through a licensed dealer. (Chicago tribune). So where did the other 89 percent inmates get their weapons? From black markets and their relatives. On December 14, 2012, a tragedy happened when 20—yearold Adam Lanza fatally shot twenty children and six adult staff members in a mass murder at Sandy Hook elementary School in Connecticut. Adam’s mom was a gun nut. She trained her son how to use guns when he was a little boy even until he got older. What is the result? Adam shot his mom in the head, took her guns and created

a massacre. You might think it isn’t that serious to let your relatives borrow your guns. But how can you guarantee they won’t do anything bad with your guns? How can you know they will never lose their self-control whatsoever ? Never let your relatives borrow your guns until you have seen the tears of parents who lost their children in the Connecticut massacre. Don’t create a second “Adam Lanza”. The same thing happens in the “black market” where someone with a “clean” background will purchase guns from a gun store and sell it to others including the criminals. We have to prohibit it by stating that people are not allowed to borrow or share guns with their relatives or participate in “the black market”. If anything happens, the owner, dealer and the murderer should be charged equally. The best place to prevent something bad from happening is to start from the source.

Some people say that “guns don’t kill people, people kill people”. But let me ask you. Have you ever seen any mass murder caused by a human with a knife in his pocket? For me, even with the widest imagination, I still couldn’t imagine how a guy with a knife could hurt more than a few people at a place. You can’t create a massive murder with a knife, but you can with a gun. It’s true that guns don’t kill people, but with guns, you can hurt more than one person. With guns, more people will be involved. Guns give people more power to commit a crime. Right across the Atlantic Ocean, European countries have restricted their gun control laws and what is the result? According to transatlantic-megazine.org, in 2009, the average number of people killed by guns in the U.K was 138 people. And in United States we have 10,000 in the same year. We can’t just sit here idle while out there, the safety of our kids, our beloveds, our friends aren’t guaranteed. Restrict the gun law or let it restricts our lives. You make your choice.

Ragles

by Scott Claffey

Standing on the gleaming showroom floor, the tall slender young man felt lightheaded. He also felt out-of-place wearing Levi blue jeans, running shoes and a T-shirt. Every person in the showroom, employee or customer, came dressed in their Sunday best.

“They’re not going to approve it,” he said. They hadn’t planned on stopping at any dealership on the way to his grandparents. He didn’t need a new car. Yet here they stood in a BMW dealership so conveniently positioned right off Interstate 91.

His girlfriend, Hanna, a head-turning blonde smiled, “You’re Johnny Choc. They’ll approve it.”

“I still don’t have a contract. What if they pay me the minimum? It’s happened before you know.”

Like a mother tolerating her child, she looked at him. “That would be like the Red Sox selling Babe Ruth to the Yankees all over again. You’re going to get a big contract,” she assured him.

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice trailing off as he watched what he considered real BMW buyers. They fit right into the shiny veneer of the dealership as if they were born that way.

Hanna took his hand and looked into his eyes as she assured him. “You’ve never had money. I understand that. But you will. You need to spend some of it. Spread it around. It helps the salesman who makes the sale. It benefits the dealership and their employees. It helps employ mechanics who maintain the car. It even helps people in Germany where they made it. Even bringing the car here—“

Johnny laughed. Hanna giggled.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “I’m going worldwide.” They giggled even harder.

The salesman, paperwork flapping in his hand, came striding toward them smiling large. “You’re approved. Do you want us to get rid of the ’87 Dodge Ramcharger for you? It isn’t worth a lot, but we can unload it to a secondary--”

Johnny blurted, “No.” He had owned that truck for eleven years. He bought it the day he turned sixteen, having earned the money helping out in his grandparents’ orange grove. So what if the A/C never worked. And he never cared that the radio was forever staticky. The Ramcharger was his first car. His baseball buddies nicknamed it “The Beast” the first week he owned it. It could carry as much baseball gear in the back as he and his pals ever needed. The windshield alone was as big as a movie screen. “Can I leave it here for now and pick it up in a week or two?”

“Anything you need, Mr. Choc.”

Before driving a single inch in his brand new BMW 650i, Johnny put down the top. Traffic was steady and flowing on the 57 heading north as he tested every button and icon in the car.

Exiting the freeway at Imperial in Brea, Johnny turned down the music. “I borrowed more money this morning than I earned the last two years combined.”

Hanna, wearing oversized Gucci sunglasses looked right at home in the Merino leather-wrapped bucket seat to his right. She was light-years hotter than the chick on the cover of the BMW brochure. “Oh shush,” she smiled.

He nodded. She was right. Everything about her was right. Although five years younger, she was far more experienced with money, politics and upper crust living. They grew up in two different worlds. Using steering wheel controls, he turned up the music.

Hanna’s eyes were buried in social media on her phone. The wind flipped and batted her hair, teasing her face.

She looked up. “What?”

Lowering the volume, Johnny said, “I am so in love with you.”

She leaned toward him, “Me too.” Holding her phone out for a photo, she said, “Smile!”

“Look,” Hanna said, showing him the picture. Their hair stood on end, whipping around in the wind, interweaving in a romantic tango. Hanna’s hand, holding the

phone, reflected off both lenses of Johnny’s sunglasses.

“Nice!”

Turning left on Valencia, Johnny headed east. Traffic was pleasantly light.

Before turning right onto Carbon Canyon Road, Johnny made a full stop at the light. A police cruiser, coming out of the canyon, made a left onto Valencia. He did a double-take and Johnny gave him a nod. The cop returned the nod and continued on his way. In all the years Johnny had been up and down this canyon, the police, unless called on for an emergency, always rolled solo.

Checking the rearview mirror, Johnny saw no other cars behind him. He pulled to a stop in the middle of the road.

“So…what do you know about German engineering?” Johnny said.

“What are you doing?” she asked, turning her head to look back.

He glanced again in the rearview and saw no cars approaching. “Waiting for your answer,” he said.

“It’s the Ultimate Driving Machine, right?” she said, her face back in the smart phone.

“You Googled,” Johnny accused, pointing a finger.

Hanna giggled, “No I didn’t. Look,” she said, holding up the phone. “We have fifty-three likes already.”

Sure enough, that photo she’d just clicked had fifty-three likes. From the moment he met – no; saw, Hanna, a flame of fame had come to life. That flame being fanned by this spectacular woman.

Seeing a maroon Audi approaching, Johnny accelerated back to the speed limit. Heading up the canyon, a yellow caution sign appeared on the side of the road with a pair of black squiggly lines.

“Let’s test this German engineering,” Johnny said.

“Now?” Hanna asked, looking concerned.

“Wait for it…” Johnny said, clicking the steering wheel controls till he found the right genre: Heavy Metal. Lynyrd Skynyrd came on. Johnny’s father loved the deceased band, which he considered country. But this song nailed his mood. He increased the volume as “Gimme Back my Bullets” growled through seven separate

speakers.

Looking straight ahead, he pressed hard on the gas pedal. For fun, he kept an eye on Hanna as well as the road. The car accelerated smoothly in and out of a curve. At first, Hanna white-knuckled the seat with her left hand, the door with her right. By the third turn she’d become less impressed with the thrill and relaxed her holds.

“You going the speed limit yet?” she kidded.

Johnny shook his head, locked eyes with her, then looked forward, “You’re gonna be sorry.”

He stomped on the gas. Hanna sat up rigid, her foot squashing an imaginary brake pedal, wind madly lashing her hair. “Hey!!”

He kept the pedal down as they entered a turn. G forces shoved her upper body toward Johnny; the seat belt embracing her gently, but firmly.

Grinning ear to ear, he screamed, “On a rail baby! On a rail!”

Hanna sat up only to see another turn racing toward them.

Johnny waved to her with his left hand, “Look! One hand!”

G forces pushed Hanna into the passenger door, the seat belt not so helpful from this angle. The next curve in the road shoved her back toward Johnny.

Lynyrd Skynyrd and the wind roared through their ears.

Hanna yanked off her sunglasses. Wide-eyed, she leaned forward and focused on the speedometer as it rose, 60, 65, 70.

“The tires aren’t even squealing!” she yelled into his ear.

She was right, not a peep.

Hanna shouted, “You’re crazy!”

They came out of the turn at 75. His Beemer owned the road.

“One more!” Johnny yelled.

Hanna clutched Johnny’s leg, her face a mixture of fear and elation as Johnny slingshot the BMW through the last turn.

Letting off the gas they locked elated eyes underscored with euphoric smiles.

“I love you Johnny Choc!”

“I love you Hanna Brown!”

‘Whump!’

The car barely shimmied, but the impact cut short their joy.

“Shit!” Johnny swore, hitting the brakes. Slowing quickly, he found a short stretch of road wide enough to turn around.

“What was that?” Hanna asked.

“A swear word,” Johnny said, tires crunching over a gravely, dusty shoulder. “Haha,” Hanna said, rolling her eyes.

“No, really, I never swear,” Johnny said.

Hanna thought about that for a second, “No, you really don’t.” Peering ahead, she said, “So what is that? It looks like two dead things.”

Johnny squinted. “Oh, wow.” There were two dead things. “That one’s a bird,” he said, pulling to a stop just short of it.

Johnny stepped out of the car onto soft powder and gravel. A strong sent of eucalyptus came from a stand of trees nearby, their leaves rustling in a gentle breeze. Hanna walked up next to him.

He squatted in front of the car, checking for damage. He pulled a long brown feather from the grill, looked it over then tossing it aside. On the hood, just above the grill, was a large puncture hole and yellowish goo mixed with blood from the bird’s innards.

He stood, hands on hips. There in the street, at the point of impact was the second body. It looked like a raccoon in a pool of blood.

The maroon Audi Johnny had seen coming up behind him earlier drove around the corner, braking hard, but managing to miss the raccoon. Eyeing the couple, the driver continued on.

They walked up the road about thirty feet where Johnny confirmed that it was a raccoon, unimpacted except for the ragle attack.

Examining the scene, he could see what happened. In the dirt, about a dozen feet off the road was a fresh skid of dirt, and the first splat of blood. Then, just before the road, another impact of the two animals and a heavier spray of blood. It hadn’t ended there. Another five feet away, in the road, a dead, nearly decapitated raccoon lay in a thick pool of blood.

“The ragle must have hit the raccoon on the fly, using a talon to slice its throat.

Their momentum,” Johnny said, using hand gestures to describe the path, “carried them into a roll. They hit here,” he said, pointing at the second splat and spray of blood, “then rolled into the road.”

“What’s a ragle?” Hanna asked.

“It’s a newer species of raptor. They’ve been around for a while in Carbon Canyon. My grandparents have complained about them. They’re aggressive, invasive carnivores.”

“You think the two of them rolled that far?”

“Ragles aren’t your average bird. They’re practically made of steel and they aren’t afraid to go head on to kill their prey.”

“Looks like they’re keeping down the other pest populations,” Hanna observed. “It’s too gross for me. I’m getting back in the car.”

Walking past the ragle, she stopped in front of the BMW and called out, “Did you see the hood? It’s disgusting.”

Johnny nodded.

Quietly, as if the raccoon’s soul could judge, Johnny said, “For the record, I’m not responsible for your death.”

He walked back to the ragle where Johnny had parked. The bird had long legs, covered in a beautiful thick layer of brown feathers. Entrails, forced through its mouth from the impact lay in a heap in the dirt. One wing had been forced unnaturally behind its back; a fourth of its face ground off. Johnny muttered, “Major face plant.”

To Hanna, he said, “We must have come around the corner right after the ragle made its kill. It probably stood up at the sound of our car coming and we nailed him. It’s so tall, its head struck the hood as the body bounced off the grill. The raccoon was already dead on the ground so we drove over it without ever touching it.”

He knelt for a closer look and saw blue paint from his car on the ragle’s beak. A feral smell of bird, blood and bile invaded his nostrils. He stood and checked the hood. It looked like someone had tried to get at the engine using the world’s largest can opener.

Oh yeah, that peg fits that hole, he thought.

He looked over at Hanna and saw her standing on the seat, leaning over the top of the windshield snapping pictures of him with her phone.

“You’re not going to post that, right?” he said.

Hanna said, “I wouldn’t do that. The insurance company might need to see this.”

Johnny thought that was a good idea.

Parable of the Poor Man

by David Ahlman

Dirtied face, Blackened eyes, Long grey beard: Lord of flies.

Grungy clothes, Decayed teeth, Rotting gums: Friend of fleas. The Poor Man—homeless— Loiters on the corner

Begging for pennies

As his time here grows shorter. He eats from local garbage

Like a scrappy raccoon, Saving each breath inhaled

As his inevitable end looms. Each evening he looks At the moon and wonders, “Is there not a world Where I can rest from my blunders?”

The winter wind blows And nips at his nose; His diseased teeth crack

Under the cold. The pain he feels Compounds on the ground: At the corner—in the middle—

Of that busy downtown.

People unaware

Pass as he rolls,

While he writhes to stay warm; Distracting himself from the cold.

No one takes notice

As his seconds tick down; No one really cares

For this ‘sinner’ on the ground.

In the chill of the snowfall, He stares again at the moon:

“Why has my life been A hell-filled gloom?”

He rises from the pavement, Walks through a crowd

Who part like the Red Sea, Avoiding his presence foul. Through his cataracts he catches A familiar thing

And moves ahead to see

A beautifully decorated pine tree. He stands before it

In awe alone; He stares from the top star

Down to the snow; He sees at its base

A scene of wax beings: Animals, shepherds, Parents—a baby.

He steps towards the image— Wrapped in blanket wet and iced—

To witness from a closer position

The three men wise.

His mind rewound

Back to days

Full of feasts, family, And children in play.

He closes his damp eye lids

In remembrance of this life

Engaged in celebrating God’s child

Each Christmas Eve night. Clear tears cleaned his face

Once grimed and dark; Pure memory whitened

His eyes yellow sharp.

He kneeled by the manger

Near nativity and tree

Clasped his hands in humility

And began to sing: “Joy to the world!

The Lord is come!”

Which drowned out into A cowboy hum.

Revisiting the moon, He gazed on its grace; A smile from frown

Grew to replace.

As he lay to grave

He prayed one last phrase, “Thank you Heavenly Father

For days like today!”

Rise Up

drawing by

David Ahlman

War to Peace

by Shar Reh

Adamma

Millions of animals—in peace

Heaven on earth—our setting

A flat granite rock top on—

A small green grass domed hill.

Atop Adamma stand Taypay.

Taypay

A muscly, golden-maned lion

King of Adamma—our hero

Wearing a black helmet and gray armor,

Wielding a jagged Persian sword.

Taypay stands awaiting Areto.

Areto

A big black scaled snake

Enemy of Adamma—our villain

Colored in the blood of nations before conquered

Breathing forest green venom and flame.

Areto to wage war with Adamma.

Adamma

Millions of animals—to fight

Heaven on earth—for now

A flat granite rock top on—fire

A small green grassed dome hill—to war for.

Adamma at war with Areto—

Areto to lose to Taypay—

Adamma to be at peace again.

Receive my Soul drawing by

David Ahlman

An ask to change, A request to obey, But ‘Nay’, I Say, ‘Not today, Not any day, Anon—away!’

I am a rock, I’ll stay this way: Stuck.

Nothing can change me, Not even Luck. Here I endure Always The same Never submitting to The finger of Blame. Cement and mineral Hard in Heart; My stiffened feet Shan’t stand Apart.

Stubborn by David Ahlman

A statue to some; A rule of Thumb:

I won’t adjust opinion, No matter how Dumb. Rivers running o’er me Polish me: Smooth— All because I’m as stable As an immovable tree Root.

Austerity my aim Stalwart focus, No Shame— Forever shall the waters roll And I, Yes I Remain.

Faceless drawing by David Ahlman

Peanut Can

by David Ahlman

Peanuts aplenty in metal container

Harvested, reaped then salted for flavor

Sit in silence awaiting a fate: Their end upon the pallet of taste.

One million filled, One million sealed, One in one million packaged steeled

‘Til the flap peel open and the legume see His Master’s hands peal, steal He.

White flat head, Peanut guts, Cylinder can, Barcode butt, Blue paper wrapping, Metal mouth –Tap; stamp; send –“Ship down south!”

Light brown and crunchy.

Often crusted or candy coated. Chomp-able or chopped up. Encased in jar or caved in jaw. Chivalrous in Reese’s, in pieces. Best friend of chocolate.

Cheery on bread spread with honey.

Jolly with jelly.

A joy for jam.

Hello Mr. Top Hat! Monocle Man you!

How long has it been? A day maybe two?

Only mere minutes since we chomped at the bit; Discussed doctrines and theories or shared each other’s wit?

So there Mr. Planter – shaking in your jar –

Where did you travel? How long? How far?

Did you ever reach the mouth you we’re meant to climb?

What of the Saliva River you said you’d die to ride?

I see you’re not empty – not even opened yet –Does it bother you at all your Master you’ve not met?

Weary not my Peanut Pal! Of your dream, do not shy!

Do not mope about! I beg you, do not cry…

Your pain is almost over, your purpose almost done, Your mission to the Tongue Land finishes at Gulped Throat’s throng, Beginning in my fingers (between index and thumb)

The final seconds linger where nut becomes but none.

Good bye Mr. Planter, your hopes now holy win, Your nourishment will be missed, but – please – come back again.

What Makes a Movie Great? Musings, Opinions

and Chatter

by Leigh Seeley and Susan Schulman

After we decided to write our anthology contribution about something relating to movies, Leigh’s Aunt Dianne suggested writing about the 1963 movie Charade. Leigh had been talking to Aunt Dianne about a conversation that Susan and Leigh had during one of our one on one meetings about movies. We had been discussing North by Northwest, a movie in which the characters had alternate identities and these identities had a major impact on the plot. Right away, Aunt Dianne suggested that Leigh watch Charade, a movie with a similar plot focus.

Leigh: When I first watched Charade, it was by myself and was around 8 o’ clock at night. This was not a good move on my part because, unbeknownst to me, this was a story of murder, mystery and mistaken identity. Filmed in Paris and elsewhere in Europe, this movie was about, in part, mistaken identity. Something that I first noted was the elegance and grace that Audrey Hepburn holds throughout the movie. I also really enjoyed each of her vast collection of outfits. I thought this movie was fabulous because of the original plot. I love a movie that has a creative plot, is able to keep me captivated, and makes it so that I don’t “know” how the movie will end. I also liked how Cary Grant kept changing names, which was part of the alternate identity theme within the movie. He was the same person, but kept coming up with excuses and a variety of pseudonyms so that Audrey Hepburn couldn’t figure out who he really was. When she finally found out who Cary Grant was, it was at the very end of the movie, and was a complete surprise to her and the audience. Nevertheless it did not prevent the movie from having a happy ending.

The second time I watched it, it was with my fifteen-year-old brother, and was a lot better. As I knew what the plot was, I was better able to appreciate the cunning and skill that it took to be able to be a murderer. I was also not quite so caught off guard each time Cary Grant changed identities, as I had gotten the basic idea of this the first time I watched it. In addition, I had a better idea of the reasons he selected

each of the identities into which he changed. Also the second time, I was better able to appreciate the fear that Audrey Hepburn felt through the movie and the skills she needed to evade getting killed or injured. The second time around it was especially exciting to follow the movements of the assortment of supporting actors and actresses who played pivotal roles throughout the movie. For example, I kept an especially close eye on the three (actually four) “bad guys” who stole the money and would have killed Audrey Hepburn’s character if given a chance.

Before talking to Aunt Dianne, Susan and I had considered watching North by Northwest, as Charade had not come up in our conversation. At our one-on-one meeting that took place after I had watched Charade, I told her that I had seen this movie and that I wanted to use it for our anthology entry. To my surprise, she burst out laughing. I’ll let her take it from here…

Susan: Some time ago, Leigh and I discovered that we shared an interest in watching and thinking about movies. Since I have a few years on Leigh, I have watched many more movies than she has and have told her about some of them. However, Charade had not come up until Leigh told me that she had followed her Aunt Dianne’s suggestion, watched Charade twice, and decided that it should be the movie that she would use for our joint essay. Little did Leigh know that Charade had an enormous impact on my life. I laughed when she told me that she had watched this movie, in part because I remembered how much I had enjoyed it and what a considerable influence it had had on me.

I first saw Charade when I was twelve years old and on vacation in San Juan, Puerto Rico. The movie had Spanish subtitles, which were a distraction and forced me to concentrate hard on what was going on. I already had discovered that I had a talent for learning foreign languages, and I was intrigued that Audrey Hepburn worked at a job which was exactly what I had hoped to do as an adult. I already had become interested in movies and books that focused on people who took on multiple identities, so I was fascinated by how skilled the handsome Cary Grant was at succeeding in confusing Audrey Hepburn, as Leigh also noticed. The twists and turns of the plot, the beauty of the setting, and the eye-catching wardrobe of the actors and

actresses mesmerized me. By the end of the movie, and with complete seriousness, I had decided that I would grow up to be Audrey Hepburn, wear beautiful clothes, have amazing adventures, and end up with Cary Grant. Although my life has not turned out like Audrey Hepburn’s Charade life at all, I have seen this movie at least a half a dozen times and have enjoyed it more and more each time. I told Leigh all about this and she thought it was quite neat. She especially wondered if the movie had a similar effect on her fifteen-year-old brother.

Leigh and Susan: So, thinking about Charade, what makes a great movie? This movie was great for a many reasons. Charade’s plot was very original and believable because of the actors and actresses. Each one of them were exceptionally good at their roles as individuals and as a cast. They are, in part, what made this movie so likable for us. In addition, this movie gave each of us a taste of a grown-up life that was very different from the life I (Susan) was experiencing when I first saw it and I (Leigh) am experiencing today. Though we know that life in the movies isn’t much like “real life”, it’s still possible to let movies inspire us to make changes in the life we’re living in the present, and seem destined to live in the future.

Stay Away from Maple Creek

by Christine Larson

Locking the bikes to a worn wooden fence, they walked the narrow dirt path toward the tree lined banks of Maple Creek. Lacy was busy pointing out birds and bugs and soon tripped over a protruding rock. She turned to glare as if at an uninvited stranger.

“If you’re legs were any longer, you wouldn’t be able to see the ground,” Sammy shouted over his shoulder as he leaped a thick tree root and attempted a 360 degree turn in mid air, coming down hard on his left hip. “Ouch!”

Lacy nodded at Char. “You’d think we were the ones with a bad leg.”

Charlotte smiled, “You know the saying – weakness makes you stronger. Well, in this case it makes me more coordinated than the average geek.” She affectionately patted her under-developed left leg and walked with the exaggerated movements of royalty. “Come on you peasants,” she commanded with an air of grace.

It wasn’t long before they could hear the faint gurgling flow and smell a damp earthy aroma of the creek. But tall grasses grew right up to the edge of the three foot bank, and Sammy was in the water before any of them even realized they were right next to Maple Creek. Sammy’s characteristic laugh assured the girls he was unhurt and peering through the overgrowth, they saw him sitting in waist-deep water splashing like a baby in his tubby.

“Sammy Quartell, aren’t you the cutest little thing!” Lacy, laughed and leaned on Charlotte for support.

“Geez, if you wanted to fish,” Char eked out words between giggles.

“Or swim,” Lacy added her face now nearly as red as her hair.

“We could have brought fishing poles.”

“Or a rubber ducky.” Lacy gave half a dozen quacks all the while squirming with delight.

Sammy stood in the water and acted like a dog shaking himself, wiping the silt from his legs, and pulling long limp creek-grass from his hair and out of the inside

of his skin-stuck shirt. “We all know why we came,” his smiling face turned serious, “and it wasn’t to fish or swim.”

“Right,” Char agreed, taking on a solemn expression. “So jump out of there, and let’s get to business.”

Get to business. It’s been that way with Char right from the first, Sammy thought. As his hair dripped sweet smelling water onto now bare shoulders, memory turned to his first day at Middleton Elementary. He’d sat behind Lacy, and it didn’t take long before he asked about the creek in the distance winding its way along the southern edge of town.

“Who’s askin’?”

“Quartell. Sammy Quartell.”

“Hmm. Sounds like quartz.”

“Yeah?”

“I like quartz better than Quartell.”

“Oh-kay. So do you ever swim in the creek?” He was amused by this tall red headed girl with more freckles on her face than all the lady bugs he’d seen on dozens of rose bushes that lined the walkway to the school’s front door.

“No, Quartz. We don’t ever go to Maple Creek.”

The answer caught him by surprise. “Why not?”

Before Lacy could respond, Charlotte came walking down the row of desks to sit by Lacy. She had heard the conversation. “We don’t eat worms, we don’t dig up dead bodies, and we don’t go to the creek. Are you writing a newspaper article or an essay?”

“Hey, hey.” Sammy felt he needed to defend himself. “I’m just tryin’ to get acquainted with my new home.”

At that moment, the teacher walked into the classroom smiling the oh-boy-its-thefirst-day-smile, and Charlotte, sitting up straight in her desk smiled at Lacy, “Let’s get to business.”

“What the heck are we doin’ here anyway?” Lacy asked. “It’s the first time I’ve

ever been this side of Cassady Street, and I’m a little more than nervous I’ll have you know.”

Charlotte quickly answered. “We’re here to find out why we can’t be here. We’re here because Quartz wants to get acquainted with his new home, blah, blah, blah. Now come on, follow me and keep your eyes open.” She looked right at Sammy who was grinning and still dripping as if he could really do two things at once.

One hour later, the three sat in the shade of a tall cottonwood and ate the fruit salad and gourmet sandwiches that Char had purchased at Uptown Deli and Catering.

“Nothin’,” Sammy said with a mouth full of chicken salad sandwich. “Absolutely no reason whatsoever not to come here.”

“Not so fast, stranger. I’m tryin’ to remember things I’ve heard the folks talk about. Char, wasn’t there some kind of mine or mill here years ago?”

“You’re right! My grandpa talked about that. I couldn’t have been more than three or four the last time I heard it mentioned.”

Lacy looked at her apple as if examining a piece of newly discovered ore. “It made people sick. Maybe even killed some. Geez. That was like a hundred years ago.”

“Come on, ladies,” Sammy piped in through the dreamy comments the girls had conveniently dredged up, “let’s not start rumors.” His crystal blue eyes searched through the trees and scanned thick undergrowth along the creek, wondering how he was going to disprove local folklore. He tried to think of what he knew about mines and a likely location for one. “Let’s go back up stream,” he finally said, “above where I fell in. The water there is swift. We’ll look for the old mine.”

Lacy pulled hard at the grass that grew around her, tossing fresh green shoots in the air. “Nah. I’m not goin’. I gotta get home.” She stood, brushed dirt off her jeans, picked up more than her share of the trash, and headed back toward the bikes.

“Lacy!” Sammy yelped as if in pain.

“Let her go, Sammy,” Char spoke softly to her new friend as she watched Lacy who stopped along the path and stooped down - to check out a bug, no doubt. “Now let’s get to business.

Mrs. Catarina Clapshaw could not be described as the brightest bulb on the Christ-

mas tree. But her appearance was known to hold the attention of a sixth grade class. At six feet, she was a formidable presence entering the classroom door. She always wore red patent leather shoes with gold toe-buckles and square 2 inch heels. Her legs were skinny, which was clear whether she was wearing one of her many aline mid-calf length skirts or too tight pants. Her backside didn’t match up with those long thin legs; it was big – high and round and apparently firm. “If it wasn’t, how else could it stay so high?” one sixth grade boy wondered aloud at recess as Mrs. Clapshaw’s butt was discussed. It was a day she had on pants. Throughout the morning, all eyes had been on Clapshaw’s rear end every time she turned her back to the class. “Oh my gosh,” Char whispered to Lacy, “they’re going to split any minute.” Lacy covered her face with her hands and leaned forward on her desk, shoulders shaking and feet tapping as silent laughter worked its way out of her body.

Mrs. Clapshaw’s breasts were big, too. “Like my grandpa’s second wife’s,” Sammy told Lacy and Char one day after school, “hanging all the way to her waist.” With a thoughtful expression, Char asked, “how come her butt’s up so high and her boobs are so low? Just don’t make any sense.” Lacy twirled around several times like a toddler: out-stretched arms and tipsy, laughing out loud with her head back and face to the October sun. “Yep,” she cried at last, “she’s a sight!”

The force of gravity on Mrs. Clapshaw body was not the only mystery. She was of unknown age. Student speculations had placed her in an ancient category along with corsets, kerosene lamps, and Conestoga wagons. She was supposedly a widow with loads of money left by an elderly husband who fell off a ladder, down the porch stairs, landed on a rake that stuck between his shoulder blades into his spine, and died two days later. Although Mrs. Clapshaw was always dressed “fit to kill,” she apparently was colorblind. She mixed colors far beyond any rainbow’s imagination.

“This lady could work as a circus clown,” Sammy told his dad one evening at dinner. “The only thing stranger than her clothes is her hair. I can’t figure out if she combs it or has completely forgotten she even has hair.”

“Well, what does it look like?” his father asked with interest.

“You know,” Sammy paused trying to remember. “The lady in Greek mythology. The one with snakes on her head going out to here.” Sammy held his arms at full

length to demonstrate.

“Yeah?” his father waited for Sammy’s recall.

“Medusa! That’s it. Mrs. Clapshaw is a modern day Medusa.”

The next day Sammy told Char and Lacy they should call her Medusa Clapshaw instead of Mrs. Clapshaw.

“No way, Quartz,” Lacy spat out, “that’s mean. Besides, unlike Medusa, Mrs. Clapshaw isn’t a monster, snakes don’t live on her head, and you, my friend, haven’t been turned to stone just by looking at her. So there!”

“Keep still, you two,” Char stated with authority. “We’ve got to figure out how our school marm can be maneuvered into telling us about Maple Creek.”

“You kids been down there? Heavens! Am I going to have to call in your folks?”

“No, no, no. We’re just curious and, Mrs. Clapshaw, you know everything that’s happened in Middleton.”

“Yes, that’s a fact. But I can’t see how passing on old stories can benefit you children.”

Char was first to reply. “But that’s just it – we’d be learning about local history.”

Sammy had another line of attack. “Just how old would that story be, Mrs. Clapshaw?”

“Well, let me see,” she put a long finger to bright pink lips. “That mine was started in 1894. Yes, I think so.” Then with a flash of recognition, “Oh, dear. Now I said too much. You children leave off this crazy idea of yours! Do you hear me?” She looked stern through heavily mascaraed lashes.

“Yes, ma’m.”

The three walked out of the classroom and silently jumped and gestured their way down the hall and out the front door of the school.

After several sleepless nights, Lacy told her friends, “I’ve been thinkin’ hard on this. I’m sure my grandpa’s old friend Ernie Gordon is still alive somewhere around here. We’ll find him. He’ll know all about the mine.”

Sammy scratched his head and stared hard at Lacy, “I didn’t think you were interested. I mean, you’re the one who walked off that day at the creek and wouldn’t help us search.”

Lacy stared back. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. Anyway, we have something more solid now; Mrs. Clapshaw knows there was a mine. Don’t we owe it to the town to figure out this little mystery?”

Lacy casually quizzed her mother to find out that Ernie Gordon was indeed alive and living in a nursing home twelve miles south at Stamperville.

“He’s nearly a hundred years old I’d say. Oh my, I haven’t seen him in so long. Now you bringin’ him up makes me feel guilty. You know, he was your grandpa’s best friend. Story goes, they were babes in the same crib because their mothers spent so much time together. In those days, women didn’t get out like we do nowa-days. Good grief, all the work they had to do: day in and day out. Well, those two helped each other, I suppose with hand washing laundry and baking everything from scratch, and all the while the babies together. Just grew up that way.”

“That’s interesting, Mom,” Lacy interrupted her mother’s ramble. “If you feel guilty, why don’t you go see Mr. Gordon?”

“Now that’s not a half bad idea.”

“When do you think you’d go?” Lacy asked as she poked around in the refrigerator, looking for a hidden snack.

“Hmmm. Maybe I’ll go this Sunday. That’s a good day for making a visit to an old folk’s home.”

“Gee Mom,” Lacy settled on a red apple and some yellow cheese, “I guess I could ride along.”

“Oh, Honey, that would be nice. But, Lacy, you may not like a nursing home. It’s a sad place, and I’m pretty sure you’ll have a fit about the smell.”

Lacy put the cheese to her nose. “Smell?” She thought for a moment before taking a bite and said to her mom, “What the heck. I guess I can handle it. And ya know, if you don’t mind, I could ask Char and Sammy to come and then I’d have some company.” She couldn’t help laughing as she added, “or somebody to give me CPR if the

smell does me in.”

Sunday arrived to find Lacy, Charlotte, and Sammy settled into the wide back seat of the Baitman’s old red and white Dodge station wagon. Mrs. Baitman started the car and adjusted the rear view mirror to eye her passengers. “I don’t have to tell you how to behave today, do I?”

“No, ma’m,” was the sincere response.

“Be polite, don’t make distracting noises, but certainly talk to the old folks. And speak up – they’re all deaf.” The children shot each other quick laughing eyes as Mrs. Baitman drove down Sixth Street heading toward the old highway.

“So you’re old Frankie’s daughter? Ha. I woulda recognized you anywhere. You’ve got his gray eyes and his nose too, no offense; he had a pretty big nose. Look just like ‘im. And you,” turning to eye Lacy’s red hair and freckles, “yep, Missy – another little Frankie.” Ernie seemed to enjoy recollecting the features of his life long friend. But now silent, moisture grew in his eyes, and a quick sniff brought him back from wherever he had been. “I miss that guy. Gone now too many years. Yep. Leaving me alone. Alone with memories. Damn rascal.”

“Yes, Mr. Gordon. Daddy’s been gone nearly eight years.” Mrs. Baitman said in a soft somber voice. Ernie didn’t appear to hear a word of what she said. The sad tone made Lacy impatient to get on with her agenda.

“Mr. Gordon, please tell us about some of the memories you have. You know. You and Grandpa Frank when you were kids.” Lacy’s enthusiasm sparked Ernie whose bushy white eyebrows drew close together as his slow but still functional mind viewed the distant past.

“When we was about your age, we was always getting’ in trouble – at school, at home, you name it. They called us the Mischief Brothers.” Ernie paused to smile down at his smooth hands that rested on thin thighs. “Yep. Never apart. Never apart.” His eyes wondered out the window until they came to rest on the hillside south of town. “On the other side of that there hill,” he pointed with a raised arm and slow finger, “is Maple Creek. Yep. Gets on down to Middleton in no time. Me

and Frankie floated our raft one summer during high water. Got real sunburned and nearly drowned.” Little snorts of laughter caused Ernie’s sparsely whiskered chin to move up and down like the bobble-headed doll on the dash board of Charlotte’s brother’s car.

“Maple Creek,” Sammy couldn’t help blurt out as his eyes met Lacy’s. “Wow. You rafted on Maple Creek? What did you see along the way?”

“See? Why the whole damn world as far as we knew. Farms, horses, sheep, cattle, yep, damn cattle crossin’ the creek and slowin’ us down. Snakes and lots of frogs. Sometimes we fished. Huh, I recall the next summer fishin’ wasn’t any good though. Seemed like all those fish – just gone.”

“That’s odd.” Char stepped a little closer to Ernie as if moving in for a final round of questions. “Why do you suppose that happened?”

“Oh, hell, everybody knew it were that Mine – Shakerly Mine. Yep. Shakerly. Damn thing. Poisoned the fish. Poisoned the water. What a shame.” Ernie slowly shook his head in disbelief, “What a shame.”

“Now, Ernie,” Mrs. Baitman instructed tenderly, “no need to bring up the past.”

Ernie didn’t hear the well-intended remark.

“Mother, we’re learning about local history in school and this kind of story is perfect for us.” Lacy smiled encouragingly at Ernie while Char smiled her confident “I’m-a-darling-girl-smile, and Sammy squirmed in place excited at the prospect of what Ernie might share next.

“Yep. It’s history alright.”

“Did the mine make people sick, Mr. Gordon?” Char asked.

“The mine? Hard to say. But sure it was the hot springs got in a bad way. Maybe cause of the mine, I donno. And lots of people got sick there. I’m thinkin’ two or three people died at the hot springs. Yep. Two or three. That started a panic.”

“Hot springs!” the children spouted in unguarded unison.

“Me and Frankie wasn’t s’pose to go to the creek anymore after that. Off limits. That’s what the sign at the creek said. And so did everyone in town. Course we managed. The Mischief Brothers.” Ernie smiled big at the kids but soon his eyes were staring out the window again.

Finally, Mrs. Baitman, who had been looking at photographs on Ernie’s bulletin board, turned to ask a question, but Ernie was asleep, his face still turned toward the window and memories of summers long ago.

“A hot springs, Mrs. Clapshaw,” Char burst out as soon as the school-day ended. “Ernie Gordon told us. You see, he’s Lacy’s grandpa’s old friend. Ernie Gordon told us a hot springs made people sick and maybe even some died.”

“Mrs. Clapshaw, we really want to find out about all this. You see, something’s not right. All of the local kids, and now me, have been told to stay away from Maple Creek – for what happened 100 years ago.” Sammy hurriedly added.

“Well now,” Mrs. Clapshaw looked from one to the other trying to gauge their motivation. Lacy remembered what Sammy had said about Medusa and looked away from the teacher’s gaze. Meanwhile, Mrs. Clapshaw tried to balance her commitment to education with the fact that every sixth grader she had ever taught was not to be trusted. “They’re knuckleheads, that’s all,” she once told a friend. “Their minds are active and brilliant one minute then dark and dumb the next. Plain old unpredictable.”

Charlotte stood straight with folded arms and tightly pressed lips. Full of hope, she searched the teacher’s face for any sign of agreement. And Lacy, standing shoulder to shoulder with Char, tilted her head with inquiry. Having recovered from his fear of eye contact, Sammy’s always happy expression was trying to force it’s way into Mrs. Clapshaw’s decision.

“I don’t know what’s come over you children, but you certainly are intense.” With hands on her ample hips, Mrs. Clapshaw looked from one to the other. “My question is: do you have the passion and discipline to start a project and see it through to its feasible completion?”

“Yes, ma’m.”

“We’ll have to meet on Tuesdays after school – just one hour mind you.” Mrs. Clapshaw’s stern look had softened as she searched three pairs of eyes for any sign of sixth grader silliness. “We don’t want to create any suspicion. And do not discuss this with anyone. The whole idea of looking back at this bit of town history is going to unsettle a lot of settled minds.”

On Tuesday, once the other students had left for the day, Mrs. Clapshaw sat at her cleared-off desk and attempted to smooth her hair before straightening the red paisley scarf that draped her shoulders. She looked at the three students who sat in front row desks, paper and pens at the ready.

“This must be approached as an academic project. That means planning, research, evaluation, proposal, and a written or oral presentation. Additionally, this group must function objectively without rash actions and must also practice clear communication regarding all aspects of the project.” Mrs. Clapshaw paused to consider the need for any further guidelines. Without thinking of any, she tilted her head forward toward her eager students and asked, “Is that understood?”

The children each nodded their acceptance, growing impatient with Mrs. Clapshaw’s details.

“Finally, children, although everyone’s voice is important, I am your advisor and must be given the authority for final decisions.”

“Yes, ma’m.”

“Well, then. Let’s begin.”

The hour went fast with discussion of what the children knew and what Mrs. Clapshaw knew, followed by what they wanted to find out and where and how they would search for that information.

“And what exactly is our objective?” Mrs. Clapshaw asked. “What do we hope to gain?”

“Well, we just started out being curious,” Sammy offered. “I wanted to go to the creek and the girls said no way.”

“But now we want to know about this mine and hot springs and what happened to scare people off for decades,” Char added.

“And maybe there’s more,” Lacy said, tightly holding on to the sides of the desk top. “To use our research to somehow make a better community.”

Char and Sammy, surprised by this contribution, turned to stare at Lacy. Mrs. Clapshaw smiled.

Passing by Mariah Norton

The room was filled with smoke from the herbs that Keaton was burning. He had been slaving away for hours, and this was the most important part of the ritual. Keaton ran through his preparations once more, and once more everything was ready for the summoning. Precision was everything. Keaton was sure he had attended to every detail perfectly. He was going to summon a Demon.

Noah had called him crazy. Tried to stop him. But the Angel binding spell he had used on Noah had been a success. He should have another hour or so before Noah could interfere. When Noah saw his success, he would understand. But Keaton needed to work quickly. If Alazay’s body deteriorated any further, the soul might not take. It might already be too late.

Bringing someone back from the dead was supposed to be impossible, but Keaton was going to do it. Nothing could stop him. He had been researching the matter for years now, and came to the conclusion that there was only one thing separating the living from the dead. Possession of a soul. Find a way to cram the soul back into its fleshy interpretation, and you would have a living person once again.

Keaton knew that the matter of the soul was complex, though. A soul was what made someone uniquely, individually, beautifully themselves. A soul could not be reproduced, and despite years of effort on the darker side of magic, it could not be artificially created or destroyed. This was an intriguing matter, but not one that Keaton was entirely interested in. His aim was not to create a soul. All he wanted to do was pull one back from wherever it went after its body died.

And for that, he would need this Demon. He looked over at his sister’s body. She lay unmoving on the pockmarked attic floor. He wished so badly she was only sleeping. The bloodcrusted wound in her throat, however, did not allow him to even fantasize. Without warning, the memory slammed into him. He remembered himself from yesterday, realizing that controlling the Pey would be more difficult than expected.

Pey were horrible creatures; they spent the majority of their time below the

world’s surface, only ascending to feed, usually on human flesh. Keaton had summoned it merely for the practice; in fact, he nearly finished the last step of the evocation the incantation to control it. All in all, a very successful first summoning—Suddenly the Pey raised its fleshless arm strung with rotten meat and hurled its rusted spear at him. It had been turning its head unnervingly at Keaton for a while, but it seemed to have realized it could interact with him. Keaton was thrown off guard. He managed to dodge, but not quickly enough. The spear sliced past his left thigh, cutting into both denim and flesh. He let out a cry and threw a hand over his wound. When he drew it back shakily, it was wet with blood. Horrified, he looked up. The Pey should not have been able to do that, whether it was under his control or not. Just like it should not have been able to step over the protective runes at its feet.

This wasn’t supposed to be happening. Keaton could feel terror rising within him. He was going to die. He had made some awful mistake in either the summoning incantation or the runes he had so carefully drawn on the floor, and now he was going to die. Keaton stumbled away as the thing advanced on him gleefully. He slammed into the door and struggled with the lock. The Pey was within reaching distance now, and he abandoned his efforts at the door to evade its grasp.

As Keaton lurched away from the grasping fingers of the creature, he realized he needed Noah. The Angel had the power to reverse the summoning, even kill the Pey with little to no effort. He tried to slow his heaving breaths to get enough support for a yell with some volume.

“Noah!” He screeched. He wasn’t even embarrassed about how girly that sounded. “Noah! Help! Noah!” With each yell his voice grew louder and more desperate. The Pey was getting faster; he didn’t have long. But when the door flew open, Keaton knew help had arrived. When he looked up however, he saw not Noah, but his sister standing over the kicked in door. His blood ran colder. In his terror, he had forgotten that Noah wasn’t even home.

Alazay stood in the doorway. As she struggled to understand the situation, the Pey lost no time in locking onto a new target. Alazay’s eyes widened as she saw it coming for her. Years of capoeira classes kicked in, and she prepared to take on the charging creature. She blocked its first advance with some difficulty. Keaton watched

it overpower her then slam her against the wall. Keaton scrambled up, noticed the Pey’s discarded spear a yard or two from his left and grabbed it. He could hear Alazay choking; he had to help her...

He slammed into the back of the Pey, driving the spear through its body as forcefully as he could. It screeched and Keaton twisted the hilt. He knew it would do the trick. A Pey was only susceptible to its own weapon. He pulled the wooden handle from its body and it dropped with a sick thud to the floor.

Alazay looked down, and her body convulsed as she tried to gasp but couldn’t. Keaton’s brain tried to make sense of the horrible wound through her throat. With a lurch, he realized he had driven the spear too deeply into the Pey. Far too deep, until it had exited the creature’s body and continued into Alazay. He wanted to scream, but his throat seemed to be filled with tar. It burned hot. He couldn’t breathe. In silence he met her confused gaze. She hiccupped, and the blood that had filled her mouth dribbled down her chin.

He flew to her side, putting a hand over her wound, trying to staunch the blood flow. When he picked her up, her blood ran in hot lightning strikes down his arms and onto the dusty wooden floor. Her head lolled against his chest. Alazay was dead.

Keaton took a deep, shuddering breath. He unclenched his hands as he surfaced from the flashback, feeling a throbbing where his nails had bitten into his palms. She had died, yes. Because of him. But it was okay. He would bring her back. Everything was going to be okay. He closed his eyes and spoke the incantation. The room filled with smoke.

Exactly an hour and seventeen minutes later, the door to the room flew off of its hinges. Noah stumbled into the room. He knew he would be too late. His frantic eyes found Alazay. He sighed, taking in the flush of her cheeks and her deep breathing. Hesitantly, he brushed her unblemished throat. She was asleep. Not dead anymore. Not gone from this world. Noah assessed the room carefully. They were alone, it seemed. There was no sign of Keaton or the thing that had returned life to Alazay’s body.

Noah pulled Alazay gently into his arms, carrying her away from this room thick with the stench of dark magic. He would not know until she woke if she was truly the

Alazay he had always known. So he took her to the nearest bed, pulled up a chair, and waited with her until she opened her eyes.

One week later

The Demon’s forest green eyes had been watching Alazay carefully throughout the latter half of the summoning. He was surprisingly humanlooking. He was lanky, though obviously toned with strong, wiry muscles. When she began to read the text for control, he began to chuckle. She ignored him.

“Stow it, Fairy Godmother,” he said mirthlessly taking a nonchalant stride out of the circle. “You realize if the runes were drawn wrong then the spells, the incantations, it all becomes a train wreck right?” He walked up to her until he was standing uncomfortably close. He picked the book from her suddenly cold fingers and dropped it on the floor. “Also,” he added, “your Latin sucks.”

Alazay stood as calmly as she could. According to the books she had skimmed, the runes her brother had drawn on the attic floor should have kept the Demon from making contact with her, physically or otherwise. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t taken precautions. She reached in her pocket slowly, not looking away from the Demon and pulled out a restaurant packet of salt. Without warning, she ripped it open and flung the contents at him in the same motion. Salt was a symbol of purity in many cultures, and would cause extreme pain to a—

“I think you may have me confused with an imp,” said the Demon in a snide voice. “That was salt, right?” A cold feeling lanced through her. Salt was supposed to work. First the summoning circle had failed to contain him, now salt had no effect? She was growing nervous. She ignored his crooked smile. It was slightly unnerving the way it never reached his eyes. She pushed hard against his chest, sending him stumbling a step or two backwards. “Hey,” he said indignantly. She paid him no mind. Alazay snapped a heavy chain from her neck and began whipping it in a circle in front of her. The Demon stared at her skeptically.

“Let me guess,” he said in a tired voice. “Iron?” He walked right back up to her and caught the chain in his hand as it lashed toward his face. “Again, cute. Try silver

next time, princess.” Alazay’s heart picked up a doubletime beat as she tried to tug the chain away from him. He refused to let go and this time she was the one to back away. He wasn’t at all what she thought he would be. Soon she would be out of options. But not yet. She had one more resource.

A water bottle sat on the ground slightly closer to him. Alazay took a deep breath and darted to snatch it. She fumbled the top off and splashed the contents on his face. His eyes screwed up as he hissed in pain, wiping the droplets from his face.

“But holy water-” she choked; this was her last defense.

“Yeah. That one had a kick to it. I might try it on a taco some day.” He had gone from looking slightly amused to looking very annoyed. Alazay realized just how far she was out of her depth. Noah couldn’t save her; she’d sent him to the store. She was completely alone.

“No offense,” the Demon said, pulling what seemed to be the very darkness of the room into his hand. It stewed there for a moment, swirling ominously in black spirals of broken shadows around his fingertips. “But since you used your own blood for the summoning, I’m bound to you. The easiest way to break that is too…well, I’m going to kill you. No hard feelings.” I’m going to die, she thought with a jolt.

The darkness around his fingers began to take shape, solidifying slightly. She could see the jagged outline of a blade. He gently ran a finger down the now largerthanlife, glittering black sword. It pulled to the side...then she noticed movement in her peripheral. Before she could turn to get a good look, someone barreled into her with an unintelligible yell. She huffed as every last wisp of air was forcefully expelled from her lungs. Her arm jammed underneath her as they landed. A firework of pain exploded some where near her wrist and she let out a strangled cry.

Alazay heard the scraping clang of metal on stone as the sword hit the ground where she had just been. Her rescuer rolled from on top of her. She rolled to get up as well. She knew it was probably just a sprain, but she still had to clench her teeth against a second whimper.

Hearing a snarl, she bolted into a sitting position with her hand clutched to her chest. A figure in white stood protectively between her and the Demon. Noah’s concerned green eyes glanced back at her through his now disheveled blonde hair. His

attention, however, was brought harshly back to the Demon as it lashed out at him. He dodged easily.

“Stop,” came the command. Noah’s clear, confident voice held a subtle edge of panic. “She did not summon you for a fight.” Alazay was amazed that he could sound so condescending while facing an opponent. Particularly one with a Demon weapon. As an Angel, especially as only a fledgling, it was far more dangerous to him than it was to any human.

“Maybe not,” the Demon said with pointed sarcasm. “But where’s the fun in that? Besides, she didn’t even say the incantation properly. And just look at those runes.” He shrugged. “Natural selection, if you ask me. The stupid often die young.” Alazay’s teeth clenched as she climbed heatedly to her feet.

“She may be just a bit simple,” Noah said. His shoulders were tense as he continued. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d ask you not to be bothered with to her.” Behind him, Alazay grimaced. If Noah was actually insulting her, he must be even angrier than she thought. She’d only heard him outright insult someone three, maybe four times in all the time she had known him. She did not look forward to the conversation they would inevitably have once they were out of danger.

“Noah, get out of the way,” she said simply. She was already in trouble. Might as well finish this. “I brought this demon here, and I’m the one talking to it. I don’t care if-”

“Seth,” interrupted the demon in question. Alazay and Noah glanced at him quizzically. “I’m a Seth, not an it,” he said with a shrug. When all he received were blank stares he frowned. He made a show of dumbing down his next sentence for them. “Conscience, no,” he said slowly, gesturing to himself and shaking his head. “Feelings, yes,” he added with a patronizing nod. Alazay snorted, then returned her attention to Noah.

“If I can’t control Seth,” she emphasized while Seth nodded in approval, “I’ll make a deal with him.” Noah’s eyes flared dangerously as he took in her words and his jaw line tightened.

“Alazay. I want you to listen to me.” Noah, who usually had impeccable control over his temper seemed to be having some trouble handling it at the moment. “There

is another way to find Keaton. If you think for one second that I’m going to let you-”

“Hold on.” The Demon took a step around Noah so that he was facing Alazay directly. “You want something from me?”

“What if I do?”

“Well I hope you have something more than those ‘stimulants’ you had earlier. Oh, wait. I know—you were going to ask nicely.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of killing you and moving on to a more helpful Demon.” She said, her glare deepening.

“And you… you actually thought that you would be able to kill me?” As he spoke, a crooked smile spread over his face. He rested his sword on the ground to lean on. “Awww,” He cooed, giving her a look that made her want to kick his face. “You’re cute.”

Her anger flared and her last confines of self restraint snapped. She grabbed a dagger from her jacket. Her eyes narrowed as she twirled it expertly around the fingers of her left hand. It felt slightly awkward to use her nondominant hand, but she had practiced enough with it that it wouldn’t be a problem. “Oh, yeah.” she spit. “Murder. Adorable.”

Seth didn’t even glance at her weapon. In fact, his smile widened a bit. “All I’m saying is you’ve already had a go at me.” He flicked the fingers of one hand up carelessly while explaining. “And fluffy feathers here had to save you.”

“Yes. She summoned you, I saved her,” broke in Noah, “and now, she’s sending you back. Alazay, reverse the summoning.”

“No,” she said quietly, not even paying him a glance. All she had to do was get this Demon into a Devil’s Trap. No reason to send him back. She would make him cooperate. She flung her dagger at him. Her aim was dead on; she was experienced enough to expect nothing less. Seth’s reflexes, however, seemed to be as up-to-par as her knifethrowing skills. He dodged, flinching and gave a hiss when the knife clipped his shoulder. The cloth of his shirt split easily and blood immediately began to seep into it, turning the black fabric an even deeper ebony.

Seth swung his sword up, but she was already pulling out a second and third dagger; one from her belt, and one from the inside of her boot. Iron may not affect

Demons, but knives were still knives. The Demon charged.

Noah threw himself in front of her. She heard the familiar sound of his sword hissing against his sheath. She was thrown to the ground as he used his whole body to parry the Demon’s advance. She clambered to her feet yet again. Noah may have thought he was protecting her, but he was really just complicating things. She had had the advantage when she was at long range, but now that she was within sword reach… she’d let Noah deal with Seth for a few more moments.

She backed up, giving herself twenty feet or so. The sounds of metal slithering against metal sent a chill up her spine. She balanced the dagger lightly in her fingers.

Noah and Seth were locked in a standoff, one blade pushed firmly against the other. The Demon grunted, and Noah forced his way a step closer. One of Seth’s feet started to slide on the musty attic floor and his eyes widened. Noah redoubled his effort and the blades hissed against each other. Noah’s sword slid against the Seth’s, and when the Demon gave a yell she realized it had slid far enough to slice into Seth’s lower abdomen. Already nearly pressed together, the Demon threw his shoulder into Noah. He faltered backwards and Seth stumbled away with his hand over his side, blood trickling through the fingers of his free hand.

She let out a breath of satisfaction. Now that the two were slightly separated, she was ready to step in. Alazay had faith in her throwing accuracy, but while the two had been in such an intense standoff, she couldn’t be sure that they wouldn’t move. She didn’t want to risk hitting Noah if they happened to shift positions. She flicked her knife at Seth, aiming for a spot right in the middle of all that unruly black hair.

Unfortunately, her movement had drawn Noah’s attention, and he glanced at her as she pulled her arm back for the throw. Seth followed suit. Though the knife had already left her hand, he found time to throw himself backwards. Her weapon lodged harmlessly into a broken, mildew-covered window pane behind him. He glared at her, and she saw his fingers curl. Strands of darkness started to weave around them, and she knew that whatever he was doing with them couldn’t be good.

“Stop!” Noah bellowed, lurching towards Seth. It drew his attention. The blackness around his hand lengthened, then took the distinct shape of a spear. Noah was in range; in the next second, it would be over for him. Angels did not have many weak-

nesses, but Demon weapons were one of them. Noah had told her stories about how weapons made from a Demon’s shadow control were poisonous. It would slow down an Angel. Make them sick, immobile for a while, maybe. But Fledglings were different stories. As only a sub-Angel, here as a guardian to earn his wings, it was death and death alone for Noah. A slow and painful one. “Noah!” she screamed.

Juniper Berries

by Linda Wheatley

Remember the juniper berries— remember their extravagant abundance hanging in dark purple clusters in the late autumn sun. Remember how they looked glazed with beads of snowmelt, dazzling in the light like precious jewels. Remember their seemingly endless bounty— bunches of amethyst berries embellishing the blue-green foliage like holiday garlands. And then all at once they were gone— devoured by birds in a winged descent, metamorphosed into feathers and song.

Alone Time

photo by Vy Ho

A Reflection on Connection Through Photography

by Vy Ho

I can hear my mother scolding me as I point the lens of the camera straight into the sunlight. Not that I cared. The quest to wish on sunbeams seemed more adventurous than staying inside on the couch. Around me, my peers were doing the same thing. We were our own little community, formed out of the common goal of absorbing as much information as we could during the next two weeks of our photography apprenticeship. Over the course of that time, I did things I never thought I would do, like battling a monstrosity of a mountain, calm at one moment, vengeful in the next.

All for the perfect shot. There were many more attempts for perfect shots—a butterfly in midflight, a gleaming waterfall, and the faces of unguarded people. One of my favorite things about photography is how it makes you lose yourself, but also makes you self-aware of your world at the same time. I found that behind the camera lens, I was able to observe my world more critically and appreciatively than through my own two eyes. That’s what photography does. It makes you focus your attention on the little details of your surroundings, the ones that seem to pass you by during a hectic day, when all the interaction and connection you have time for is a quick hug and then off you go again. It makes you want to explore and take risks to catch the world off guard. Like that personality that shines through when you make a picture of someone who doesn’t realize their being captured. It makes you experience a world you’ve been too blind to see. Through photography, I discover everyday the hidden treasures and beauty behind the ordinary.

Forest Walk

photo by Vy Ho

Tea Set

photo by Vy Ho

Waterfall in Thailand 2009

by Eheh Paw Rai Thee

One quiet and lonely night I sat in the back of my house. I was wearing a black coat and the air was blowing in and blowing out of the open windows. I was thinking about going to the waterfall in the forest close to where I lived. I really was so excited to go. It was past 12 midnight when I fell asleep. In my dream I dreamt about going to the waterfall. It was fun and I was really happy. I could see flowers behind the waterfall. The flowers were red, yellow, and green. The trees were green and brown. Even in my dream it was a really fun place to go.

A few weeks earlier at school my teacher told me and all the eighth grade students that we would go to visit the waterfall. She said we would have to bring our own food with us. And then she told us we can bring our brothers and sisters too if they were old enough. The next hours when the bell rang I ran home to tell my sisters that we were going to the waterfall. I told my older sister that she could come if she wanted to. My younger sister also wanted to go. She was only twelve years old. She wanted to go really bad. I said, “It’s okay we will all go”.

Finally the night before we so excited to go. My younger sister she so excited more than me. She told me to tell her a story about the waterfall. I told her I didn’t know about the waterfall. She could not wait for the morning. I asked her to go to bed but she talked to me and said, “if I get there I will take a lot of pictures and swim.” I looked at her and told her okay she could do whatever she wanted to but go to bed now. I went back to sleep and my younger sister slept by me.

In the morning my big sister was cooking for us. She was cooking a lot of food. She made chicken and pumpkin. After she was done cooking she came and woke us up. We didn’t want to wake up because we fell asleep late. She told us “you don’t want to go to waterfall?” I heard that and quickly woke up and changed my clothes and brushed my teeth. My younger sister asked me if by the waterfall there were a lot of trees. I said “Oh yes there are.”

In a few minutes the teacher came and all the students too. We were all going to the waterfall! On our way we picked up vegetables. One of my friends was singing. They were running and playing catch to tag each other. We have to walk one and a half hours. The teacher told us the story about the waterfall. I thought that the waterfall would look like one I have seen in the movie. We talked and walked and sang to get to the water.

My two sisters and I went to the middle of the waterfall. I smelled the flowers and I saw a lot of trees. Some of my friends were swimming. They called to me to come swimming with them. I told them wait I will take pictures first. I took a lot of pictures at the waterfall. After that I went swimming with my friends. We swam only five minutes because the water was really cold.

The teacher called us to come down and eat with them. One of my friends was making a fire. We ate the food in banana leaves. We spent two hours at the waterfall and we hiked back home. When we hiked back home my sisters and I picked a lot of vegetables. We were really tired when we got home. It was the best time ever I still remember till now.

Tilling

by Laura Rothlisberger

Green, verde, green

Life bursting from the soil

Moreno, brown, moreno

Hands stained by dirt and sweat

Blue, azul, blue

The sky bestows its blessing

Happiness flows as time passes while we toil together

The pleasure of work is sweet to unsoiled hands

There is this disparity --

A lack of possessions, an abundance of satisfaction

An abundance of things, a lack of fulfillment

There is beauty in this simplicity –

To be a part of a place

To have that place need you

Later I look into the night –These are not my stars; Deep inside I wish they were

Silver Dragon

by Jordan Wagner

The great silver dragon spread his wings

Majestic beauty unfurling

They stretched wide

Encompassing all

Majestic beauty unfurling

The flag climbed higher

Encompassing all

Its message clear by the stripes of red

The flag climbed higher

Signaling the war

Its message clear by the stripes of red

Blood will be shed

Signaling the war

The general lifted his sword

Blood will be shed

Great men sometimes fall in battle

The general lifted his sword

In honor of the casket he stood before

“Great men sometimes fall in battle”

Tears sprung to his eyes

In honor of the casket he stood before

The bugler played “taps”

Tears sprung to his eyes

He played it perfectly

The bugler played “taps”

The concert hall erupted

He played it perfectly

His insides burned with excitement

The concert hall erupted

The dissonant chords hanging in the air

His insides burned with excitement

The performer took a bow

The dissonant chords hanging in the air

The light of the torches fading

The performer took a bow

Before leaving to his shack

The light of the torches fading

The bard remembering when he was more

Before leaving to his shack

As he entered he saw his old sword

The bard remembering when he was more

When he fought in wars he now told of

As he entered he saw his old sword

Still sharpened to a keen edge

When he fought in wars he now told of

His mind still strong despite his ailing body

Still sharpened to a keen edge

He got ready to sleep

His mind still strong despite his ailing body

He stretched his jaws in a yawn

He got ready to sleep

His bed calling his name

He stretched his jaws in a yawn

They stretched wide

His bed calling his name

The great silver dragon spread his wings

Sandi

photo by Jordan Wagner

Sandi

by Jordan Wagner

beautiful brown fur, long and fluffy. softer than cotton. warm and loving, full of tiny kisses. snuggling close and warm in times of hard. running in the grass, happy to be alive, alive with the energy of a thousand suns, and the loving gentleness of an angel. now not as happy, not as playful. having problems and your family can’t afford to help you. we love you Sandi, and will always miss you.

Rite by Dan Yocom

I stand at the bottom of the stairs that were cut into the cliff, and I am unable to look to see where they lead to. It’s not because I can’t see where they are heading, I can’t look. I know the stories about those who’ve climbed the path. Some say those who climb come back, while others say they don’t, and still, others say those who climb the steps in the cliff are unable to ever return. It’s with these thoughts that I, along with the rest of the young men of sixteen years from the villages in the valley, stand silently at the shrine at the bottom of the steps. A place so sacred this is the first time any of us have been here.

To not climb the steps is not a dishonor, there’s no dishonor here. There is only honor because we’ve all met the challenges to be allowed to come to the shrine, and see the steps. The elders left us in silence, and we stand here silently. We all know we can return, and we’d be welcomed, because we chose to be men in the tribe.

The girls of the tribe are going through their testing now, so they can come here. They won’t know who among us returned to the villages until they’ve had their time here at the shrine.

There were twenty of us. Three followed the elders when they left. Another is going back now.

I still can’t look at the stairs. But I think about what is beyond them. What is beyond where I’ve lived my entire life as a boy? There is no dishonor for any who choose to take the steps, to choose to leave and venture forth. If any have returned, they’ve been accepted back. That’s how the stories tell it: accepted back as though they’ve never left.

Two more are heading back to the villages.

Fourteen of us are standing here looking at each other, and at the shrine. No one is looking at the steps. Heads lower, as their eyes pass where the steps are. There’s movement along the side as one is moving closer to the steps. He’s looking up them. Will he go? No, he’s turning away and heading down into the valley, away from the

cliff. Three more are following him.

Two are now kneeling at the shrine. They move together as if they’re one. There heads are down. Two more are joining them. Maybe I should pray. I might get guidance. But I don’t know if I should join those there, or allow them their time. They’re all leaving. Was that the guidance they were given? Or were they praying about the decision they already made.

Only six of us now remain.

We were told the decision could take time, and we should take time. Were those who’ve already gone back hasty in their decision? Is there something here I’m missing? Something they missed? Looking around I see the cliff, and the lowest step leading up it. To the left of the step is the shrine. It looks like all of the other shrines to the spirits sharing life with us. It’s made of wood with a grass roof, and is about the height as my waist. The lattice-work on the back and sides support shelves, for those who leave offerings. There’s a carved figurine of a man sitting on the lowest shelf. It’s a figure someone carved and left here. It’s old. It has cracks. And it’s faded. It might have once been painted. It looks older than the shrine. I wonder if the shrine was rebuilt and the figure put back.

Across from the shrine are the forest and the path leading back to the villages. There are only three of us now. One is standing by the path looking into the treetops, me standing by the shrine, the last is standing by the step looking up the stairway.

The first couple of steps are broad and deep. All of us could have stood on those first steps. After those, there are several steps almost as broad, but only a couple of feet deep, big enough that only four or five could stand on them without pressing against each other. I’m looking up the stairs. Stop! Look at your feet.

The boy by the stairs is not there. I don’t see him on the steps. No, he is heading down the path, back to the villages. The other boy is still standing there, looking into the trees. We’re the only two left. He is from one of the other villages of the valley. I’ve seen him before, but I don’t know him, not even his name. Even though he is here, it’s like standing here alone, because he is a stranger to me. I know nothing about him, or his family. He’s leaving.

I stand at the bottom of the stairs that are cut into the cliff. I’ve already seen the first few steps. The trees I’ve seen before. I’ve visited the other villages, and there are people there I don’t know. I could visit the other villages, find a woman, and be a man. The next couple of steps curve around a boulder and they become narrower, wide enough for only two. It looks like as the steps continue up, they continue to narrow until there is only room for one at a time.—it’s hard to tell from here. I can climb a few steps, and see what those higher ones look like.

Excerpt from Demonkind

by Jordan Wagner

The swords flashed in the bloody light of evening. The arrows flew like hornets, driving through bodies like maggots into a cadaver. The screams of the wounded pierced the air, which was thick with fingers of grey smoke. Spears pierced the flesh of foes. Dragons flew in glittering formations, like jewels strewn across the sky come alive; setting the enemy alight with fire, acid, and lightning. Ice, stone, and crystals of glittering minerals entombed others. Men were panting from exhaustion after fighting under the scorching eye of the sun for hours, but continued to fight for their freedom from Brastian’s oppression.

Dulban watched all this from Bàs’s back, high above, breathing deep, his sword in its scabbard. He took a long, slow drink of cool water from the bag on Bàs’s back. He knew he would need to go back into the fray soon, his armor, cooling off from the wind. Arrows flew at him and Bàs as they flew over the enemy clusters. Suddenly he heard an urgent message in his mind “Come to me, I need help. Bàs is needed with Beatha, to head off a group attempting to flank around to the camp. I’m just out from the camp, with Beatha, come quickly!” Bàs needed no relaying of the message, as he had received it as well.

They flew towards the mountainous form of Beatha, and saw more dragons around. As they neared, Beatha leaped into the sky, and started to the small group, now visible. Where he had taken off from, was a fray of dragons, with hulking brutes fighting them.

Each man was nearly seven feet tall, with arms as big as tree branches. Four dragons, Rouzok, Ludoth, Ghelbhath, and Gelbath, fought with ferocity. They were still outmatched by the strength and magical protection of the brutes. Suddenly, one of the men broke through Gelbath’s protective shield of magic, and in a quick motion, severed his head. The other dragons went berserk, and caused the death of five brutes in seconds as they tried to save, and once they saw it was hopeless, avenge their fallen brother.

Dulanton, anguished at the loss of his companion, fell to his knees, and sobbed, protected only by the dragons rallying around him. Dulban raised Ghiktang above his head, and let out a shout of pure fury. Bàs roared loud enough to stop the fighting across the battlefield, as all looked to the cause of the commotion. Beatha, sensing his master’s anguish, and knowing what happened, flew to his aid. Dulban, desperate to reach his brother before another dragon was slain, leaped from Bàs’s back, and started plummeting.

“Go stop the raiding party, I have this!” He shouted in his mind as Bàs started a steep dive beside him. He felt the great size of his dragon peel off. Beatha kept coming, and watched the ground approach. Still hundreds of feet above the fight, he saw a brute blast energy to push the dragons out of his way, exposing the still crying form of Dulanton, curled up, with his sword laying just out of reach, head in his hands. He reacted, but was too slow, the mage shoved him back, and stood over him, about to slay him, as he had slain Gelbath.

Dulban was still out of range to use magic effectively, and was doomed to watch his brother die. As the Brute lifted his sword, and set it alight with black energy, Dulanton seemed to come to peace with his fate. All the dragons around him, now being stopped by a barrier of magic, were roaring with rage. His other dragons were rallying to his side, with Dulban’s but would not make it. Beatha was still far off, and let out a thunderous scream of such fury, the fighting, which had slowly started to reach a new intensity, both sides now with more to fight for; stopped completely, as all watched in awe as the shining form of Dulban, barely visible fell, and all the dragon on the field flew to aid the fight. The brute was glowering down at Dulaban’s face, triumph glowing in his eyes.

As his sword reached its climax, Dulband eyes hardened, the tears stopped, and he lunged, weaponless. Dulanton thought his brother had gone mad, and with reason. He started mourning his brothers impending death, and resolved to avenge him. But, there was a sword in his brother’s hand, it had not been there before. Before the brute could react, the sword of grey material imbedded into the brute’s heart. He was killed instantly, the magic keeping the hordes of dragons back broken, they all fell forward. Beatha arrived seconds later, and Dulban, casting a spell to stop his fall

gently, landed right after, staring at the sword. Now that he was closer, he saw it was protruding from his brother’s hand. “What…?”

“Come, let’s go to the infirmary, I am in need of recovery.” Dulanton interrupted his brother’s question, the sword, retracting into his hand. “I will explain later.” They jumped to Beatha’s back, and flew away, the other dragons, carefully picking up their fallen comrade, and flying him to the camp, to stop his body from being desecrated. The boys landed just out from the infirmary tent, and the lead medic came out to see what was causing the disturbance. Dulanton was looking lost. The loss of his companion, hitting hard, regardless of the fact that Gelbath was only six months old. They then saw Ghelbhath carrying his son’s body overhead, followed by Ludoth, with his head.

The medic knew instantly what was causing the look in the young man’s face. Tears from the dragons plummeted from above. Many more dragons followed, as the horns calling a retreat for the night bellowed across the gap, the fighting slowly stopped, as men limped to camp, saddened by the loss of such a majestic creature, even if there were hundreds more still alive. The medic rushed the two inside, and on to cots, side by side. Beatha flew to Ghelbhath’s side, to help him. The medic gave Dulanton and Dulban each a bowl of warm stew, and urged him to drink. After carefully checking for poison, Dulanton deemed it safe, and set it aside, too anguished to eat. He turned to his brother and started to explain the sword to his brother, still casting the final spell to check. The medic had left them, to attend to the wounded of body, understanding they needed rest and protection in that night, from the score of men wanting to know what had happened, he had allowed them to stay in the infirmary tent for the night. “So, you want to know how I created a sword, out of my scale, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it was the most guarded of all Serpent Master secrets, for reasons like what happened today, if ever unarmed, we have a sneak attack for unwitting foes, triumphing before they deliver the death blow. Oglog knows, but otherwise, it is just you and me, and of course the dragons, they are the only reason I know. Everything I have taught you previously, was taught to me by Oglog, but this, even he did not

know about this, until Beatha told us one time, it seems that dragons know it instinctively, once they get united to a person. Even they do not know how they know, all they know is once they get united, their knowledge broadens, it is one of the many changes both experience.”

“So I can do it too?”

“Yes, but for tonight, you need to rest.” Dulban fell asleep quickly, but Dulanton did not get any rest, his mind a whirlwind, he heard a familiar voice in his head.

“If you want to come honor Gelbath before we send him away to the heavens, come now, we will wait, if not, we will commence now.” Dulanton paused a moment, and then heard a voice in his head he thought was gone forever.

“Go, I wish to see them honor me, I can see from your eyes, my conscious is residing in my scale, I cannot communicate with any other, but as Serpent and Master, I may live on to aid you with my conscious within you, only dragons have this ability, as only we are true reptiles of magic, even though snakes can be united.”

“I will come”. And he strode out of the tent hidden with magic.

Name, age, pronunciation, color, breath weapon

Rouzok, 5yr,s roo-zack, Byzantium, purple, blows out a saliva along with a small amount of fire, when the fire hits the saliva, it turns to shards of crystal matching the dragon

Ludoth, 3yrs, loo-doth, sapphire, lighting/ freezing gas

Ghelbhath ,25yrs,yell-vath, black head, body the colors of a fire, flaming acid, Gelbath’s father

Ghelbath, 6 months, (g as in “gallon”) gell-bath emerald, poison

Ghiktang, Yick-tang, infinitely sharp sword, never needs sharpening, made by dwarven smiths to honor its namesake, an elfish king killed in battle recently, given to Dulban to avenge his death.

Demons

by Cheyne Warren

Arpeggio sighs. He has been trying to figure out the lyrics for the past twenty minutes. He groans as he hears Saskia’s heavy footsteps march down the hallway towards the kitchen. He tries to ignore the blonde as she violently thrusts the refrigerator door open, cursing under her breath. Sighing again, he gives in and leans back in his chair, looking into the kitchen.

“What’s up with you, Slither?” Saskia gives a fake smile and, throwing her arms out, spins in a circle.

“Nothing, Peg, why?” The man ruffles his chestnut hair, shaking his head almost disapprovingly.

“I’ve known you for how long? I know when something’s wrong, now stop being so flat and give me the right tune.” For a moment the two match eyes. A snake hisses violently between Peg’s boots, oozing liquid from flashing fangs, almost making him dump himself out of his chair. He’s never going to get used to that. Saskia bristles and shadows start bending. Peg feels something dark and psychotic creeping up his spine, into his head.

“There’s someone here, Peg,” Saskia whispers lowly, “and I don’t like it.” A loud bang makes Peg jump. Glancing at the counter he notes the knife repeatedly stabbing itself into the tile as lights begin to flicker. He knows it’s all in his head, but it unnerves him all the same. The snake starts screaming in fury.

“Oh yeah?” Peg asks, touching two fingers to the ground and starting to hum. The strong vibrations make the furious snake between his boots settle. He can feel the stickiness on his spine ebbing away; already the knife is turning translucent.

“Yeah.” Saskia murmurs, rage starting to die with the music. The knife disappears all together. “A spawn of Evaneska.”

“Hm, a new breed, hu?” Saskia nods drowsily, eyes half closed as the lights finally settle. “Then you shouldn’t worry.”

“What if she’s here for what I’m here for?” Peg laughs melodically, releasing both

Saskia and the snake from his hypnotizing hum.

“You know the new breeds already have them. They don’t need to jump through the hoops we do.” Saskia nods, eyes starting to narrow dangerously.

“Then why’s she so interested in Avira?” Peg shrugs, turning back to his music with a new idea. Sometimes all it took was a Saskia tantrum to give him the best ideas. “You haven’t met this witch, Peg.”

“If it’ll get you to settle down, go ahead, blow off some steam, just keep your little snakey away please.”

“Arg! Sssssshe’ssss just ssssso, arrogant!” Saskia hisses, “Trotssss around like sssshe ownss the placeeeee. Sssshe doesssn’t even know who ssssshe’s dealing with. Don’t they teach their ssssspawn not to messsss with thingssss like ussss?” Peg nods, half listening as he scribbles on his music.

“Just take it easy, Slither, don’t go tying yourself in a knot over something that’s not important.” Saskia nods as she beckons her snake away from Peg.

“You’re right.” Peg raises an eyebrow at Saskia.

“You feeling okay, Slither? You never say that, got a fever or something?” The snake crawls up her leg and under her shirt, winding until it comes out her collar.

“Naw, just getting my coils in a knot over trivial junk. Besides, I’ve played my card.” Peg nearly drops his pencil.

“Should I be worried? No calls from the school, right? Or the psych ward? Or the police? People don’t like dead bodies, Saskia.” Saskia laughs, waving him off as she snuggles her snake.

“Your overreactions are the cutest, Peg. Naw, just warned her to stay out of my way. She can stick around or fly the coup for all I care, just so long as she doesn’t mettle with my affairs.” She says as she takes four sodas from the fridge and, placing one in her snake’s jaws, and starts to skip off to her room. Stopping suddenly, she spins to face Arpeggio. She pounds her fist over her heart and makes a face, “Nice talk, Dad. I promise I won’t do drugs, not even once.” Throwing a leg up, she spins in a circle before she takes off to her room in high spirits.

The snake, having safely reached the floor, slithers onto the table and delivers the soda in its jaws to Peg. Tickling it under its chin, Peg doesn’t even try to remember

its name and thanks it with a simple nod. When he pops the can white foam erupts everywhere and spills over the side. He narrowly rescues his music from the foamy shrapnel and title wave. Sighing he glances at the snake as it bites into the sugary foam.

“I do wish she wouldn’t skip with soda.” The snake hisses happily at him as he shakes his head.

“The strangest thing happened after you left!” Avira nearly knocks Saskia off her feet after she shoves open the thick door to her bedroom.

“Yeah?” Saskia asks, handing Avira a pop.

“YEAH! All the snakes, all-a-sudden started hissing and crawling all over their cages. I’ve never seen them do that before.” Ariva points to the wall of snake filled terrariums. Saskia shrugs.

“They probably sense a disturbance in the force.”

“Right… anyways, two of them got out, Vritra and Riptide.” Saskia nods as she pops the third soda and starts pouring it into the water bowls for her snakes.

“They’ll find their way back soon, just hope they aren’t wiping out the mouse population, what else am I going to eat for my midnight snack?” She says, unconcerned a king cobra and a venomous sea snake are loose in her dark, crevice-filled room.

Composed of Emerald

painting by Cheyne Warren

A Public Service Announcement to Those Who Find Themselves Interacting with the Individual Referred to Below as “I”

by Dawn Boardman

To Those Whose Interactions are Brief:

I just want you to know:

If you can see me, I can see you. When you get close and realize my face is bare

And my hair couldn’t have taken More than 15 minutes, I see your judgment. Exactly how I have insulted you By not dying my hair

Or getting my ears pierced, To the point where you feel the need to convince me To immediately do both, I can not comprehend. If any of you (You know who I am talking to) Could please explain it to me, I would be grateful.

To Those Whose Interactions are Longer:

Please understand If I put on make-up Before we go out for a night in the city

It has nothing to do with beauty Or habit. It is because I feel safer

Under layers of chemicals and colors. As I change the pattern of my skin

To make it uniform, And darken, lengthen my lashes

And plump up my lips, It is with one thought in mind: The woman in the mirror is no longer me.

It is she that is held up to The standards of strangers.

When I put on heels, Before I walk out the door, It is not because they make me feel sexy And certainly not because they are comfortable.

It is because they give me height. I know people assume I am weak and lesser

Because of the curves on my frame

And my inferior upper body strength. And knowing, from experience, I can walk farther in heels

Than most people could in tennis shoes, Is a secret that gives me endurance. In a place

Where I am constantly looked down upon

Every inch can matter.

When I put on a dress or a skirt, To go to an interview

Or an important event, It is not for “easier access”. It is because society deems Women showing up in pants

To certain events As rude. And I give in to that, Using my social anxiety

To douse my convictions.

I tell myself

I choose to wear this skirt

Instead of my pants suit And bitch about wearing stockings When I am home and safe.

On a day to day basis, I do not wear make up. I prefer flats and sneakers

To heels and power.

Skirts and dresses are impractical For the life I live, And I hate panty hose more Than I hate inoculations.

So, please understand, As I stand before you, Absent of feminine adornment In my jeans and my flats,

With my face clean and bare, It is not because I have a low opinion of myself.

Nor is it because I do not care about your opinion of me. It is because I care so much I wouldn’t dream of presenting to you Anything less Than all of me.

How I Got my Superpower

by Kate Saign

When I was a kid, I’d jump off the highest spot on the playground (up above the slide), flap my arms, and expect to fly. I never did.

Instead, I’d hit the gravel, usually feet first, with a good thud, a few pebbles spraying. Other kids asked what I was doing. I said that I was going to fly. I thought that if I believed hard enough, it’d just happen. Anything is possible, right? I’d just fly.

I guess I didn’t believe hard enough. Flying went the way of Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, Peter Pan, and all the other imaginings of a child.

Then, as an adult, I was in an extraordinary situation. At the time of the hurricane, I lived on the 10th floor. A fire had started, and flames were licking at my apartment door. Smoke snuck in around the edges—my room was filling fast.

The fire department knew. I (and many others, I later learned) had made our emergency calls. But I couldn’t hear any engines or sirens. I looked out my window at the flooded streets below. The hurricane had passed but left a shallow river in its wake.

My carpet was catching fire. I was scared. I had no options. Or ... did I? I certainly had nothing to lose.

I laughed a little at that thought. My life was already forfeit.

Laughing helped, I think. I thought about flying. I believed it was possible. I thought about catching a current of air. Of floating over the destruction and away ... I leapt.

Fly Hai (ku)

by Kate Saign

Would I were tiny And could ride on Eagle’s back Swoop, dive, scream-giggle

photo by Jesse Peterson

Uzumaki

by I Love You

Uzumaki want to be the best ninja in the land. He done well so far what he did was train.

Akatsuki was order to kill him but with the looming danger posed by the mysterious akatsuki organizations, he know that he must train harder than ever and leaves the village. For intense exercises he was go train with his master in the little island how to fight, how to use sword, how to use ninja star, that will push him to his limits.

Uzumaki was born and her mom was die also his father was die when he was little. So he was born without knowing parent love and he always alone. he don’t have any friend and couldn’t make any friend. So he always alone and always lonely. He really want to be a ninja but he didn’t know how to fight and he didn’t have anyone to teach him.

Before he was born many thing happened the akatsuki was attack his village and his father was protect her mom and him. He father was protect the village and after that he die.

But one time he went to jungle and seeing the old man in the house and the old man need a water so he help the old man and get the water in the river. so he back and give the old man water and the old man ask what are u doing the old man have faith in him and believe in him so he teach everything that he know. Because he know that the boy want to protect village and also want the village save. He in trust the boy to protect the village.

So he went on a mission his mission here all alone, he was tell the old man i want to learn how to fight and be the best ninja in the village. So he was sharing the feeling. so the old man want to help him and start to train him as a student. So he was train with the old man about few year and getting little bit better.

The reason why the old man train him it because was to protect the old lady that his first mission.

The lady was from another village and he have to send her back from her village and he have to protect her. The akatsuki was order to kill that old lady so he have to protect it .

Because the akatsuki want that old lady dead take all the money that she have. No matter what happen he have to protect the old lady. So the enemy attack the old lady in order to protect the old lady so he kill the enemy and complete mission .

After that the akatsuki was hear it and in order to kill him but with looming danger posed by the mysterious akatsuki organizations, he know that he must train harder than ever and he have to leave the village. So he was train harder and harder until he master with everything fight, sword, ninja star. So he have to get ready to defect his enemy, but the enemy was too strong and have a lot people so he was hold back and escaped, so the enemy couldn’t find him.

He akatsuki was order to find him. So the akatsuki went to the village ask for him but people don’t tell them nothing so they kill so many people in the village.

Then he was show up and fight with his enemy and defeat some of his enemy in order to protect his village even tho he get hurt but he still don’t give up yet.so he was fight and fight untill he defeat all his enemy.

So he was save the village and become a hero in the village and also he became a leader in the village, and make peace in the village.

photo by Jesse Peterson

after Paul Celan

Riverwalk

by Jesse Peterson

scotch thistle, stands on the river bank, ages from the clearing where men walk side by side, sun sliding behind the mountain peak being poetry, poetry being space-time consummate— when I declare my home where must I reconcile with uneven grounds?— we who come together, pushing water table draughts, exchange words in writing, we who trudge, pitted, sliding into place, step, embraced, with whatever sense of ourselves, a blister of blue flax, smooth, irreparable.

photo by Jesse Peterson

Kitty in a Box

by November Htoo

Hi. My name is Kitty. I am 7 years old. I’ll let you people know about myself and my scarves and my things. Every morning I like to play and I play ball and sometimes I play with yarn. Oh, every time I stay inside. I never go outside. When I look outside, it makes me happy. I like to go play outside. Hum. At night I go to sleep and I close my eyes. Slow. Slow. And I fall asleep, and my dreams make me happy. And in the morning, it is so much fun for me. I think I can play outside and play whatever.

Untitled

by Mariah Sakaeda and November Htoo

“Hey… Oh. What happened to me?”

The Doctor pulled at his foot, but it wouldn’t budge. Green slime slowly moved up his leg, entrapping it in its body. The green tentacles wiggled and air bubbles popped as it began its mission to swallow the Doctor whole. Sweat dripped off the Doctor’s face as he tried to make his getaway.

A tall, slender figure approached the Doctor. His eyes hide behind a mask covering three-fourths of his face. His body was covered in suit resembling the exoskeleton of beetle, and he stood with the confidence of man with authority.

“Hey. Don’t go anywhere. You have to stay there,” declared the figure, his hand stretched towards the doctor. However, he made no movement closer to the Doctor.

“What happened to him? Maybe we need to help.”

A passerby approached the cop. Roughly half of its body belonged to its eyes, while the other half was covered in wrinkly, drooping skin that reached down to its webbed feet. Its three differently sized eye balls swiveled towards the man. One eye was narrowed, as another one shrunk into the folds of its body. The last eye looked expectantly up at the man.

Before the cop could respond, the earth began to shake. A round robot pointed all of its weapons at the three figures. A smile spread across its face.

“You shut up. It is not your business. I told him to stop. Why you talk too much?”

“Oh, sorry. I will be quiet. I’ll go now. I’m so sorry,” stuttered the passerby.

“Hey. Hey. Hey. Help me. Help me,” cried the Doctor, long forgotten by the many newcomers.

His hands began to shake. His forehead and eyebrows wrinkled. His eyes quickly shifted between the robot, the passerby, and the cop. The Doctor couldn’t feel his foot anymore. He watched as the green slime continued its path, engulfing his leg along the way.

A rocket was spotted in the distance. Soon it was among the crowd that had formed around the Doctor. The door opened with a grumble. Suddenly, a head the size of the rocket popped out of the door. Its lower lip overlapped the top and two sharp teeth pointed out on either side. Its eyes, cold and calculating, surveyed the scene. Finally it spoke.

“Oh. He needs help. So sorry about that. I can’t help you because I have to go. Bye bye.”

As the rocket sped away, the rest of the group shook hands and went in different directions. The Doctor furiously looked around hoping someone would remember the reason they congregated to begin with. His eyes followed each figure as they disappeared into the shadows, and continued with their lives.

Adventure Ahead

by Martha Taylor

“Butt in seat,” says her text. Adventure ahead.

Long flight, kindle loaded.

Babies? No. Relief.

Read. Sleep. Wordplay. Sleep. Too long. Too, too long.

New clouds. New rivers.

New city. New airport.

New language. New train.

New hotel.

Old friends.

Poorby

by Hser Nay Paw

When I Was 16

by Caz Ondra

We had just come home from a wedding. Mom was not happy that I brought a near half dozen new friends home with me. But, I was the new kid in town. What was I supposed to do? I craved the attention. Trying not to laugh too loudly, I reminded everyone to keep it down. It was an attempt to sidestep the idea of curfew. I was, after all, at home.

Abruptly opening the door as if to capture a room full of criminals in cahootz with her daughter, my Mom gave everyone the cue to invite themselves out. Her eyes alone said it as she called me by my full name, telling me it was time to go to bed. Embarassing!

I escorted this irreverent group of boys to the front door, not sure if I should explain this was more out of the ordinary for my mother’s behavior, or out of the ordinary for rarely having boys interested in coming over in the first place. In a last, insecure chance to impress, I blurted out, “I’ll just wait to make sure they’re asleep and crawl out my window. I’ll call you!”

“Oh really?” he said flirtatiously, stirring the butterflies in my stomach. “And what are we going to do exactly?” His response put a smile on my face for just one moment before a whip-like response shot from the darkness of the front living room, “GET IN BED young lady! You’re going to be sorry.”

Emerging from the shadows, my Mom slammed the door with little regard for anyone standing outside. “It’s 1:00 in the morning,” she insisted with the kind of tone that suggested I knew better. My embarrassment turned to anger as I stormed away, glaring into the dark stretch of hallway that led to my room - the corridors of my own personal hell on Earth.

I was sure, by now, she understood what it was like for me to be the new girl in a new town. I had just enrolled in my fourth high school in three years and I thought for sure I could really be somebody this time. I sat down at my desk in a huff, frantically moving the mouse to awaken this digital window to the outside world.

The door to my own seemed to float open without a sound as I sensed her shadow standing in the doorway. She was quiet for a moment before attempting to give me a lecture. Regarding what? It didn’t matter. She was my Mom and I was just a kid. There was no one in the world I loved more than my Mom, and as a teenage girl, there was no one in the world I fought more with. Ignoring her was just part of a game between teenagers and their parents long before I ever came up with it.

Her attempt to lecture quickly faded to more of a plea and then a silent defeat as she stood for only a moment before saying, “Goodnight.” Seeing her leave ever so slowly from my peripheral vision, I said nothing. I continued to stare blindly into the light of the computer screen and gave little regard to the way she had just given up. There’s always tomorrow. By then I can say I’m sorry.

As far as I was concerned, I had escaped. I remained stiff, teeth-gritting until she paused for just a moment, staring towards me before shutting my door.

“I love you,” she said...

In that moment, I too paused and nearly turned towards the door, humbled. My parents weren’t the type to say I love you, especially when mad. My Mom wrote it for me most every single day on a card, in my lunch, on to-do lists, or stashed away in text books, but she never said it out loud. I stopped typing. My eyes fell from my glowing monitor to the floor. I didn’t reply.

We had just returned from Christmas vacation the day before. My Mom was overly exhausted from the two-day drive we made from North Carolina to Texas. Her exhaustion was my fault. Everything about that weekend was my fault. I shouldn’t have pushed her so hard to get home faster. I hated the feeling of being in between. I wanted something familiar. It had been so long since I had any familiar and two years since we had a place to call home. So it was nice to finally be there, back in my own bed.

I remember the glowing, red display of the digital clock propped on the bookshelf just by the door. 2:15AM.

I had just situated the pillows just right, fading into a comfortable sleep when my bedroom door burst open, slamming into the wall hard enough to bounce back, hitting Dad in the shoulder as harsh white light cut through the pitch black of my

room. Startled, I nearly stood straight up in bed before Dad frantically grabbed me by the shoulders - squeezing as he shook me slightly, mumbling something out of breath as he looked at me, scanned the room, and looked at me again. He was terrified. He collapsed to one knee at my bed side, letting his hands fall from my shoulders to the edge of my mattress where he mindlessly pet the fabric of my comforter before picking at the seams. His head hung low, avoiding contact as he spoke to me, or maybe to himself in a tone that grew dense with helplessness.

He looked up at me, sweat on his brow. His eyes seemed wild and distant as his breath allowed these few, poignant words, “Something’s wrong with Mom!”

He began to weep uncontrollably as he stuttered through gasps for air, “She doesn’t look… She’s... She’s sick!... Her mouth. She was…and then I saw... Kicking. Thrashing. I couldn’t…”

Before I could escape the sheets and console him his tone fell, suddenly calm and serious as he admitted with complete helplessness, “She doesn’t know who I am...”

In my parent’s bedroom my Mom lay, hugging herself with one arm and swinging at the air in a panic - struggling to say something through her deformed mouth. Every light in the house had been turned on as Dad paced each room, fingers grazing his face in nervous terror as I tried to remain calm for the both of us.

“See if she recognizes you. Does she recognize you?” my Dad urged quickly.

“Mom?... Mom? It’s me.” Dad left the room, still pacing, unable to handle her lack of response. My ability to be strong was melting as reality settled in. “Mom?... Mom!!?!!”

I lost it. A sudden exhale seemed to lose its hold on my very soul as I started to shake, choking on my words as tears streamed out of control. Trying to hold on to the last remaining calm, I pushed words through clenched teeth and held tight with clenched fists, “Mom, it’s me – your daughter.”

I was holding her, hugging her close in an attempt to force her to stop pushing me away. My calm raised to a level of begging as I raised my voice, “MOM!!?!!” I demanded. I pleaded as if she couldn’t hear me just inches from her face, my voice cracking as I insisted she look at me. Listen to me! Please, just respond! “MOM!?!?!” I yelled with fingers clenched around her right fist in an attempt to keep

her from hitting me.

I exited the bedroom, leaving her flailing in inexplicable fear of who I was and what I might do to her.

My eyes met my Dad’s bloodshot panic as I admitted the truth, “Call 911!”

Terror flooded his eyes again. Neither of us wanted to think or let this happen, but he proceeded with logic, hiding away between unpacked boxes to face this conversation alone.

We hadn’t even moved in yet. Boxes still lined each side of the front hallway as our bookcases remained empty. Absent of the touch only a Mom can bring to a home, we were strangers in this house; waiting for her to guide us on where things should go and how things will be from here on out.

Dad still on the phone, I stood several feet away from her bed as she continued to throw her one good arm from side to side, thrashing and frightened by my very presence until I went back to her side in fear that she might hurt herself. “Mom... It’s going to be ok... You are going to be ok.” I muttered through clenched, diminishing tones, trying to stay brave as I hugged her tightly.

I thought my hold would keep her there forever and my own death-bed repentance would somehow cure her as I continued to whisper sternly, “Please?... Please!” I begged. “Talk to me!... Please!!!” In desperation I thought, perhaps it was just me. She’s just mad at me. She has to know who I am as I continued, “I’m sorry! I love you!!! Don’t leave me. I love you so much. Please!!! Don’t... leave... me!” I felt like a child, terrified at the idea of being separated from their mother. It reminded me of a time she left me at home, by myself for what seemed like an eternity when really, she was just teaching me a lesson that I should come when I’m asked.

With my eyes closed, forehead to hers, I muttered one last “Please,” then gave into tears. Hope held me breathless.

The EMTs verified the obvious. “Mr. Bevan, your wife has suffered from a stroke.” He continued, “There is no life threatening emergency here. She’ll be fine. We’ll be taking her to Arlington Medical so we can keep a close eye on her and stabilize this blood clot.”

The sun had barely risen when a friend of Dad’s, Barton, drove me home from the

hospital. Dad wanted me to rest, wanted me to call the family, wanted me to go to church. So I did.

Alone in the kitchen of a hollow home, the receiver felt like a brick, dial tone blaring in my ear. With the only sense of logic my emotionally raw body could muster, I dialed from oldest to youngest and blatantly admitted without so much as a hello, “Mom’s in the hospital.” I strained to sound somewhat understandable as I explained, “She had a stroke. We’ve been up all night. She doesn’t know who we are....”

I can only imagine how the news struck my sister so early in the morning as she readied her young family for church in New Jersey. I didn’t care. I couldn’t care. Everyone had missed the worst of it and for that, they were lucky. They all had their own lives and spouses that reassured them. Dad and I had no one. Not even each other.

For years we had been kept apart in an attempt to play nice as Mom stood in a battle between Dad and daughter day in and day out. He hadn’t noticed my absence then, but I was all there was now. Now what? What without her? I would stay home from school. I didn’t need to go to college. I could be here with her. Take care of her. She would be ok. I wouldn’t leave her side. I’d help her get through each day. She deserved that. She’d do the same for me. She had.

There was no peace of mind in any attempt to rest. So I continued to do what I was told, not sure of anything else that made sense. I slowly readied myself for church without a shower - just a comb through my hair and the first dress I could find. That would be enough. Surely God would look down on me there choosing Him in such a dire moment, and He would return the favor by making my Mom whole again. So I crept into the back row, having missed the opening prayer. I sat closed off, arms crossed, eyes closed as I cast a wish into the void and said my own prayer that she would be ok.

Before I could say Amen, I heard over the pulpit, “Our beloved Sister Bevan suffered from a stroke last night,” a gasp came from several in the congregation as nosy wives turned quickly, looking for my reaction. “I have been informed it isn’t serious. Please pray for her in her recovery.”

Blanketed by a complete sense of peace, I let go and felt some relief as I smiled to

myself. She IS ok, I thought. I can feel it.

I raced through the house, organizing and cleaning all that I could in preparation for her return home. I washed the kitchen counters, made her bed, put away dishes and answered the phone. “Can you come get me? I need some rest.” Dad sounded like a fraction of himself, worn by the long night.

I raced to his relief - picking him up and bringing him home. I helped him inside and kissed him on the cheek for the first time since we had moved here. I watched as his sullen figure disappeared to the far corner of my parent’s bedroom where he sat heavy at the edge of the bed and continued to just sit, staring at the ground as I shut the door and rushed outside. I was going to see my Mom!

As the nurses exited the room, I stood eager at the side of her door waiting to push my way past. “Mom!” I said, “Mom?” She was quiet. She lay still. Her face, not as obviously distorted as before. In fact, it was radiant. The sun seemed to gleam like a halo of innocence around her quiet form. For the first time, I looked at her. I mean really looked at her. “You look beautiful!” I said, happy tears brimming in my eyelids as she slowly turned to look at me and tried to smile.

Holding her hand and smiling with such overwhelming expression of hope, it was like Christmas morning all over again. My one wish was coming true. I held her hand tightly, squeezing to let her know I was there. In that moment her smile faded, her face shot up, straining her neck as her body quickly followed - heaving from the bed with her back arched, her hand jolted from my hold as she began to shake. I ran to her doorway to call a nurse, but they were already there, shoving me out of the room in alarming haste.

At some point, I moved - one leg and then the next, moving forward aimlessly towards a destination that arrived beneath me with little thought and even less effort. I don’t remember leaving. I don’t remember driving. She’s going to be ok... I convinced myself.

We were all together, most of us anyway. There was safety in that. Safe enough to sleep hard that night, curled up in the suede embrace of my favorite couch. This was my spot. This is where I had come since I was a child to sleep safely away from

spiders, away from the darkness, away from nightmares not quite as real as this. It was all just a dream now, lost in the depths of my sleep deprivation until early the next morning.

The phone rang. I was up! Dad answered, his voice deeper than usual. He said very little as we gathered one by one in the kitchen, listening to the monotone of understanding. “Uh huh..... yes.... I understand.” Before he hung up, he said those last few words that raised our hopes, “Thank you doctor...” I smiled. We finally had some news. She was going to be ok! I knew it! She was finally going to be.... “She’s dead,” he said, collapsing into his own admittance as my brother caught him against the pantry door. He was broken. This wasn’t supposed to happen! I was so sure. So many of us were so sure. Where was God now? Where was He?

I quickly left. Shutting the door to my room, the door to my bathroom, the door to my closet - I was as far gone as I could be within the walls of what could never feel like home now. I lay in the dark, on the floor, holding my breath as I held my knees to my chest. I wanted this feeling to leave me now. This intense pain. This heaviness.

I’m dying, I thought. This is going to kill me! My Mom’s words came to mind, “It’s not that easy to die,” she used to say. The jokes on me! I had believed her, and I was sure I was next. She had made it easy.

I calmed to a thoughtless silence. It was just me and the darkness. I could hear from the other side of the wall, an explanation. “The machines are keeping her alive and a decision has to be made.”

I lay staring into darkness, letting the world busy itself around me. Everyone had someone to call. Everyone had someone to talk to. I just lay there until it was time to go. It was time to make it to the hospital, to see for ourselves. I had never felt more alone as we stood around her bed - all of us close family. Aunts, Uncles, brothers, sisters, and parents alike. I was only 16, shoved to the foot of her bed as we all stood around looking down at her sleeping as I stared solemnly at her feet. Everyone at the head of the bed had hold of her hands, with tears in their eyes, taking it in and discussing under their breath that all too familiar sound of the oxygen machine - up, down, up down. My brother stood next to me and like he had

done with Julie the night before, he placed his arm around me and stood in silence, thick tears falling in a blur from his tired eyes. She was dead, I thought. Really dead. She didn’t look dead. She seemed just the same as she had the night before, moments after she smiled at us. Had she died right then?

In my own attempt to hold onto her, to keep her here, I reached out to rest my right hand on her feet. As soon as my fingertips touched her ever so softly I clenched my hand into a fist and pulled it away in shock. She’s SO cold! I held my right hand in my left, warming it like winter as she suddenly moved. Her leg kicked in reaction to my brief touch. She’s alive!!!! I thought at first. “She’s alive!” I said, turning to my brother with a gleam of hope in my eyes as everyone turned and looked. I threw my arms around him as he knelt one knee to the floor, coming down below my level. He unwound my hands from his neck and held them in his own as he tearfully explained, “That’s just her nerves. Her body is still alive, but her brain is dead.” I stared at him, confused. What was he saying? What was he telling me? Sensing that I did not quite understand, he choked on his last few words as he explained once more, “She’s gone...”

The Girl Who Smiled

by Sarah Robinson

The quiet emptiness of space filled her view. Nothing could be seen but the cold darkness that would soon encompass her and would be her death. There was just a thin layer of glass between her and the stars that she had dreamed about for so long. She knew she would soon be very close to the gaseous orbs that had inspired her to live during a time of great distress. Only now, instead of studying them as she had envisioned so many years ago, she would be floating among them, dead.

Time seemed to slow as Ava reminisced about the reason she had been so interested in the stars. Her older sister, Audrey, had been an astronomer. She had taught her younger sister all there was there was to know the planets and the galaxies in the universe. The child Ava had been had then become very excited and gobbled up all the information she could on the topic.

Audrey was dead.

Hot tears flowed down Ava’s face as she remembered the horrible Easter night when she had received the phone call from her mother saying that her sister had been killed in a car accident that morning.

Since that fateful night, Ava had become even more determined to follow in Audrey’s footsteps and become someone who studied the stars. Ava had chosen to become an astronaut because, as an astronaut, she could go into space and be as close as possible to those things that her sister had loved so deeply.

Now, standing on the observation deck of the space ship, she faced her impending doom. The deck where she was located was the only safe part of the ship. The rest was filled with unstoppable and deadly carbon monoxide. The core was breached. Any minute now, the gas would ignite and explode. She would be flung into the heart of space that held neither heat, nor the love for her that she had shown to it for so long. The stars held no mercy for one without a space suit. She would be dead in seconds.

An intermittent dim red glow was cast on the stark white tile floor. It was the only source of illumination from within the ship, the rest lit only by the gases exploding within the stars in front of her. The flashing blood-red light served as a reminder that to Ava that life is a journey and all journeys must end sometime.

There was nothing she could do to save the ship. If the full complement of the crew had been working, the combined effort might have made a dent in solving the problem. That was impossible. They were all dead.

Ava thought of how her mother would feel having lost both of her daughters. She would have no one left. There would be no one to care for her when she got old; no one to hold her as she grieved. An emptiness would fill her heart. She would be inconsolable.

Ava’s hand clenched in a fist around her uniform as she sobbed. She could no longer control her own despondency. She had no way to say goodbye or even I love you to the people she loved the most.

All the people on Earth would remember her as the girl who died on Aurora. The last fighter, the last one standing, in this face off with death. Death would win again, as always. Death takes no prisoners from the people it battles; it merely takes their souls and the unimagined lives that had awaited them in the future.

“Core breach in one minute.” The female voice said over the loudspeaker. That voice had become a friend to Ava as it counted down the remaining minutes of her life.

There were only seconds left. Ava forced herself to stop crying. She wiped her tears and smoothed her uniform. She lifted her shoulders back and held her back erect. She raised her head and fixed her favorite star in a steely gaze. A slight smile graced her features. Even though she would lose the physical fight with death, she would win the battle of dignity and emotional strength. She was a fighter.

It would take weeks or even months before the blue-green planet she called home could send someone to collect her body. It would likely not be recognizable as her. In spite of this, she was adamant about this fact: she would be known as the Girl Who Smiled As She Died.

“Core breach in fifteen seconds.”

This was the end. It would all be over in less time that it would take for her to say, “I love you, Mom. Thanks for all you have done for me.”

The pace of her breathing increased. Her heart pounded loud in her ears. She could feel her blood pulsing through her veins.

She heard a rumble behind her and knew it was coming.

She felt heat increasing on her back, but wouldn’t tear her eyes from her guiding star. She was prepared to see her sister yet again.

There was a flash of orange fire, then darkness.

An indeterminate time later, it could have been split seconds or days, incomprehensible light filled her view. She suddenly felt true, unmistakable joy.

She knew she was really home.

Tot Kwondo

by Ruth Hendricks

Before I got into the motherhood game, I didn’t suspect that I would constantly need to defend myself physically against my little cherub. Who would have thought that your sweet, cuddly bundle of joy could also be your assailant, your abuser, your worst nightmare? Oh sure, I knew that children could break your heart, from hearing my mother talk—not about ME of course, but about some of my wayward siblings. However, after the injuries and pains I’ve suffered at the hands (plus feet, head, and teeth) of my daughter, I’ve come to believe that children are born equipped with instinctive knowledge of “Tot Kwondo,” a pint-sized version of the Korean martial art of Taekwondo.

Taekwondo loosely translates as “the art of kicking and punching”. Even as a 2-year old, my daughter exhibited fantastic footwork as she twisted and squirmed when I was trying to get her dressed. She was talented at punching, grabbing, and throwing elbows. Her dexterity would impress Chuck Norris. Gabby Douglas would admire her flexibility. This Karate Kid didn’t even need to train with Mr. Miyagi.

Anyone who holds a baby learns the hard way not to keep their nose in the danger zone behind the infant’s head—that small but hard noggin can be thrown back surprisingly fast. And you can’t really be angry at her because she’s just so darn cute, as she gurgles at you with a toothless, drooly grin.

As she grows, there come more unexpected skirmishes. I’ve experienced bites and scratches that drew blood, sharp little elbows dug into sensitive places, pinches, kicks, and being hit with thrown objects. For some strange reason, my daughter seems to have a vendetta for my left eye. It started when she was two. The girl was slipping off the back of the couch she had crawled onto. (Even though I TOLD her not to climb up there!) She got wedged into the space between the back of the couch and the wall. As I was struggling to extract the frantically squirming rascal, she threw her hand out with lightning speed and her fingernail found its mark on my eyeball. The next few days living with that scratch were most painful, and it flipped the old adage

on its head: my child could be heard, but not easily seen. For months afterward, the child showed an uncanny ability to thrown her hand or head to the precise spot that would reinjure the wounded eye. Then, more than a year later, she was holding a wooden dowel. “Mommy, look at this!” she said, and quickly lowered the rod right onto my left eye. Another few days ensured of searing pain, wearing a pirate-like eye patch, and bumbling around with minimal sight.

My daughter also loves to jump on the bed while holding my hands for stability and greater air time. I’ve learned what happens when your chin gets too close to the child, and the force of the little skull propelled by the leaping legs impacts the prominence of your lower jaw. Talk about seeing stars.

Most parents can tell stories of the battle scars they’ve suffered at the hands (or head, feet or teeth) of their precious progeny. My older sister told me of a time my mom was holding one of my brothers on her lap when he was a baby. He was playing with a toy hammer and suddenly flung it up backwards over his head, hitting mom in the teeth. I’m not sure if she needed dental work after that. This is an example of how toys, falling into the chubby hands of toddlers, can become weapons of mouth destruction. Consider yourself warned.

I have an advantage over many moms in that I was able to adopt my daughter as a newborn, so I missed out on the ravages to the body that a baby can do from the inside. As an older first-time mom, I’d also like to think that I have developed greater wisdom with my experience. However, my reflexes may not be quite as quick, nor do I have as much endurance as younger moms, so I’m at a disadvantage there.

While I treasure my daughter’s joyous exuberance, I’d rather she expressed it in ways that don’t end up causing me bodily harm. Some of her more dangerous attack methods include these classic moves.

•The errant elbow: This formidable weapon can cause great pain when aimed at the softer parts of the parental unit. She will throw her elbows backward at any time when sitting on my lap to push herself up. And all she has to do to incapacitate me is press down hard while leaning those elbows on my legs.

•The knife-handed hair twirl: Her self-comforting habit is to grab and twirl some hair on the crown of her head with one hand while sucking her other thumb. Her

hand can shoot up at any moment without warning. This creates an ocular hazard for me whenever I am tenderly resting my check on the top of her head.

•The flying kamikaze hug: My daughter loves to explode at random moments saying “huggies!” and fling herself at me with arms wide. I love getting these spontaneous hugs, but they can be perilous for me. It’s also hazardous to my daughter if I happen to be pursuing my hobby of knitting, and am holding potentially lethal pointy implements.

•The bouncing bronco: While lying on the bed with me, she enjoys playing “the Pony Game”, her favorite role-playing game based on the My Little Pony cartoons. She is the director: she assigns my part and sets up the scene. However, she participates in the story by bouncing around on the mattress, portraying a rampaging pony or ferocious dragon, whatever. These bounces often manage to land on my hip or leg.

•The eye gouge: As described earlier, my daughter has it in for my eyes.

While you must remain vigilant to protect yourself from your ferocious offspring, you don’t want to hurt your own child. Therefore, I encourage parents to prepare by practicing a few simple techniques borrowed from martial arts moves. Just having the mental attitude that you can and must defend yourself from these cute but lethal tots can help keep you sharp. I’m not suggesting that anyone can get through parenthood unscathed, but you can minimize the damage.

Practice keeping a barrier between you and the tot to protect your body. For example, I learned to keep a protective hand raised between my face and my daughter’s head when she made any move to start her hair twirling.

Avoid potential impacts when you can. I always keep my chin turned to the side while holding hands with my bed-bouncing child. Another hint: never walk in front of your child while she’s riding a bike or scooter. Protect your heels and shins from impact by walking behind her.

When you are standing and playing with your child, you can adopt a Ready Stance, in which your feet are shoulder width apart and pointed forward. Your arms are lightly bent and your muscles relaxed, ready to spring into action at any moment.

Vary this by practicing the Back L-Stance. Turn your body so that you present only your side to your child. With your legs about one and a half shoulder widths apart,

the front foot should point forward and the back foot should be turned out 90 degrees. Putting most of your weight on your back leg will allow you to use your front leg if needed for a quick defense without losing your balance.

Use a Low Block to defend against attacks from short people to your lower body. Keep one arm bent and raised to shoulder height, then snap the arm straight down with the palm facing the ground to block incoming kicks or hits.

But since child self-defense skills don’t come as naturally to us parents as the attack skills come to your small fry, you need to practice regularly and build your skills. This is war, people! And we’ve got to make sure that the kids don’t win!

In conclusion, always be on your guard around your deceptively innocent children. I hope this helps parents to be more prepared, mentally and physically, to defend themselves against their precious progeny. If I can prevent just one painful eye gouge, one excruciating chin bump or one agonizing elbow jab from a pint-sized Tot Kwando practitioner, it will be worth it.

Why I Want To Be a Nurse

by Mu Law

Nurses help patients who get hurt and weak people that can’t move their bodies. One important thing about nurses is that they are not scared of people that are sick. I would like to be a strong nurse and take care of people who are sick and make them happy. When I will see blood I will not be scared of it at all. I must try to be a good nurse to all people who are sick. I want to make everyone stay healthy so they don’t get sick.

One time my sister was sick and she cried a lot. I carried her in my arm and rocked her so she would not cry anymore. She started to feel happy and could play without getting sick.

Another day, it was summer and it was very hot. My brother’s nose started bleeding. Then I helped him to make the blood go away by putting water in his nose.

Letter from a Language Slighted

by Laura Berbusse

Dear John,

I am leaving you.

When we settled in this new land, you changed your birth name. You said it was necessary to integrate, so I did the same. When you replaced your long-time friends with ones who did not like me, I realized the hint of worry in your voice that you ignored.

I knew you had met another when you began to spend less and less time with me. But I held strong. The separation between our house and the other one created by your absence gave me a sense of sovereignty.

Then, you brought the other one into our home.

The shock rendered me unable to bring forth the memories we’d created together, the places we’d been. I can no longer describe the world in relation to you.

What does a frigate bird on the sea mean? What plants heal illness? How do you use the stars to find your way? Will you need such knowledge to be successful? The answers were packed into my suitcase, which now waits on the front step; they are lost to you now.

I have desperately needed your attention these past few months but have not been able to speak for myself. You have not noticed my struggle or my decline. Thus, you will not notice my departure for quite some time.

Many months from now, though, a sunset on a familiar beach or a joke shared over coffee will jolt your mind back to me. You will reflect on how much we helped each other grow, and you will mourn our once strong, intimate relationship. You may even, momentarily, long for my return. Though you may try to recreate our interactions, your one-sided attempts will never yield our original balance.

You were once my reason for existence, but I cannot do for you what the other can in this new land. For that, I am sorry.

These are my last words to you, written by your own hand.

Never again yours, Your Native Language

What Happened?

by Kadelyn Egan

Man, my back hurts. I try to reach my hand behind me to feel for anything that may be the cause.

I went to the park today and watched little children screaming on the swings and others playing tag around the slide. It was so bright that I had to shade my eyes to look around. It was such a nice and relaxing day. The sun was shining, it wasn’t too hot or cold and there was a slight breeze.

For some reason it felt like I was forgetting something. I went home after taking a nap in the park. When I got home I immediately headed downstairs to finish my forever piling up homework. As the computer boots up, I busied myself with organizing my homework in each class in the order of high priority to low priority. School is getting more and more stressful. The end of the year is fast approaching and so many things are due. I have yet to send in college and scholarship applications. “Ha ha”; I laugh each time at my ability to be able to procrastinate on just about everything. But I bet you already have a full ride scholarship to a prestigious university for music, huh? We’ve known each other since 2nd grade. You started to play the cello when you were eight years old and oh man, you looked so happy when you played it. I can remember your huge smile at the end of each piece you played. I really thought you were crazy when I heard that you played your cello for two hours or more a night. I still can’t imagine doing that with all of my homework and still have time to practice. You’re crazy, ha ha.

Later that night I woke I woke up with a startle. There was a loud boom noise followed with screaming. As I oriented myself I could hear my parents arguing in the room above me. I could hear my two year old sister balling upstairs too. I looked over in the bed next to mine and saw my other little sister shaking and crying for it to stop. I could hear my father and he was screaming “I am taking her Selene and leaving. You can’t stop me.” My mom in turn screamed “No you can’t do that. Give her back to me!” I heard more screaming and a loud boom. My father yelled out “Did

you really just try to punch me? I am holding your daughter. You could have hurt her. What would you have done if you did? I can report to the police for attempted assault. What do you kids think? Should I? Does it make sense that if your mother intentionally threw a punch at her own daughter that she should be reported?” My little sister next to me screamed out “no!” I got out of bed as fast as I could and ran to the bottom of the stairs debating on whether or not I should say anything. My jaw was clenched tightly and my hands were shaking uncontrollably. I kept thinking about what I should do. Should I say something? Should I defend my mother? Can I stand up against this big man? I took a big breath screamed “Stop it!” My whole body was shaking; I took another deep breath and headed up the stairs. My parent’s room is just left of the stairs. When I got to the top of the stairs I stepped into my parent’s room. I looked around and on the bed I saw my mother sitting on the bed sobbing with my little sister in her arms and my father fuming in the corner of the room.

The rest of the night was like a routine. This happens just about every weekend. My parents fight. My father says he going to leave us unless we shape up, He asks all of us if we want him to stay and if we do we have a funny way of showing it. He says we don’t respect him, we don’t love him, were lazy, my mom needs to speak up, I need to get a job, my little sister needs to stop looking the way she does, etc. This usually takes about four hours each night. We all agree to change; he stays another weekend and after about a week, we go back to the way things were before the fight and then another fight begins next weekend. It’s routine. I think they’re going to get a divorce soon. I am so glad that I can talk to you about this Wynne. You don’t judge me and just listen to whatever I have to say, whether my thinking is wrong or not.

Man, why does my back hurt?

“Your concert is coming up this week. Do you remember? You were going to perform Bach Prelude number five at the concert?”

Wait was? What happened to Wynne? Again I get this nagging feeling in the back of my head like I was forgetting something. This constant nagging has gone on since about two weeks ago, but the more I try to remember, the more whatever it is I’m trying to remember slips away.

I hope you have liked this book. It is one of my favorites. It’s called ‘The Rainmaker.’ I have almost finished it in these two weeks. I can’t wait; I just finished the climax of the story and now I am wondering what will happen next. But first I want to eat dinner. I am starving. Lately I have been eating hospital food. I never thought that hospital food could actually taste so delicious. I wish you could try it.

Why can’t she? Man, my back hurts.

Why don’t you wake up now Wynne? Wake up! Why can’t you wake up? I miss my best friend.

Wynne?

“Oh my gosh your heart rate is speeding up. You need a doctor. Hello, is someone out there? Please someone help! Come quick I think something is wrong.”

It feels like my eyes are glued shut, but I can hear everything that’s going on. What’s going on? Everything becomes suddenly clear and I slowly open my eyes. The world was so blindingly bright. I am Wynne and I have been in a coma for two weeks.

The Art of Zen

by Daisy Bennett

The smell of incense lingers long in the air as she slows her breath. Breathe in and out, in and out while she remembers that space that resides between the inhale and the exhale, that moment of stillness, of pure potentiality. She draws her breath deeper and more slowly, savoring the moment of stillness waiting to drop into the void. The void, that place where consciousness meets stillness, where her cells vibrate with the song of the universe, where she no longer exists but merges with whole of creation. In her heart she knows that all this has happened before, and all this will happen again. She knows that the “thinking” can push the void out of her reach. With another inhale, she follows her breath down into her lungs and back out. Each breath relaxes her a little more. She can feel the heat of the sun from the window on her back. She feels the carpet under her. Its slight wooliness tickles her underside. With silent gratitude, she thanks the carpet for its tickliness. She is thankful for her home, thankful for her bed, and thankful for her Tara. With a contented sigh, she waits patiently for the void to come.

Inhale. Exhale.

The far off sound of an engine creeps gently into the back of her mind. The familiar sound seeps into her awareness. She knows this sound is important. As her breathing quickens, she can hear “thump, thump, thump” in rhythmic succession and the vibrations through the floor.

With a click, she hears the door open. Faster and faster she can hear the thumping—the vibrations resonating through her whole being.

“Sadie, Sadie! Where are you?”

She hears Tara come into her room.

“There you are. Lazy girl! Is that all you’ve done all day? Just laid there in the sun?”

She looks up and sees her Tara. Her heart is bursting with joy and all dreams of the void forgotten. She jumps up and runs toward Tara bursting with love. At this moment her cells vibrate with the song of the universe and she knows that she is one with creation.

As Tara reaches for her, she says, “Awe Sadie, I love you too.”

She feels Tara reach for her neck and feels the click.

“Come on Sadie, let’s go for our walk.”

Chapter 4

by Tiffany Walther

For the third time I tried to pull my hands from the ropes. My arms and wrists were raw and bloody from trying to break free. I woke up in a dark cave, only a few candles lit, with my hands tied to a metal ring mounted on the wall behind me. Pulling hard I tried to get at least one hand free. I started to move my arms side-to-side trying to get the ring to heat up to saw through the rope. I stopped crying out in pain. I hope my friends are okay, I thought. I hope they got away.

“Let me OUT!” I yelled at the door throwing my head back. “Let me out.” I said again with a sob. A tear rolled down my cheek. Shocked, I quickly wiped my face on my shoulder. Now is not the time for that, I thought grimly. I have to find Gwen and May. I can’t give up now! Suddenly the lock on the door slid back and the door opened. I screwed my eyes shut and looked away from the bright light of the two torches that entered with the men. They were both tall, wearing the same camouflage that the ‘tree-man’ was who then entered his face clean of all paint. I looked the ‘treeman’ in the eye trying to blink away the spots in my vision.

“I hope you’re ready to talk,” the ‘tree-man’ said. “If not we can always make your friends suffer.” The men behind him grinned at each other. Saying nothing I continued to stare at the ‘tree-man’. “Well,” He said and smiled, his face morphing to a more menacing image. “Let’s get started.” As he spoke the two men put their torches in hooks on the walls and stepped behind me. I looked back and forth between the two trying to see what they were doing. I was then forced to my feet, my hands still bound behind my back. “Walk,” the ‘tree-man’ commanded then stepped out of my cell with a torch in hand. One of the men behind me roughly pushed on my back forcing me to move. I stumbled forward and out of the cell. I looked to my left and saw nothing but a wall. I shook my head and started to walk to the right after another shove to my back. Looking around, I saw several other doors, probably with my friends or someone else be-hind them.

Hearing another door open, I looked back to the front. A thick door was open to my left, the ‘tree-man’ waiting next to it. I tensed, slowing a little, trying to see what was beyond the door. The ‘tree-man’ smiled wickedly, seeing that I had slowed down. A sharp, unexpected shove from behind made me trip and fall landing at the ‘treeman’s’ feet. I cringed and fought back a sob as the two men roughly pulled me back up by my wrists. As soon as I was stable I walked into the room before they could push me again.

I looked up and stepped around the table I was about to run into. I turned toward a chair that had a metal ring in the back, which was obviously meant for the prisoners, and sat down. “You see,” the ‘tree-man’ said taking the seat directly across from me, his back to the door and the torch in a sconce in the wall. “You decide how this process works: If you cooperate, we can be lenient. If you don’t,” he paused. “Well let’s just say you want to cooperate.” I looked around the small room. The only furniture was the two chairs and a table between them. Interrogation room, I thought. Just like on TV. All they need is a two-way mirror.

The two men finished tying me to the chair and one stood on one side of the door, the other stepping outside closing it behind him. “Now then,” the ‘tree-man’ started. “Why don’t we start with the easy questions?” He shifted a little in his chair. I half expected him to pull out an envelope full of papers. “Who are you?” I blurted out before he could continue. He chuckled and shook his head looking at his hands. As he looked down I glanced behind him and saw Gwen’s face in the wall. She was yelling something I couldn’t hear. The ‘tree-man’ looked back up and seeing me looking behind him, looked back as well. I quickly looked back at him and tried to act like nothing had happened.

The ‘tree-man’ looked back at me with a confused expression on his face. “What?” he asked, looking me in the eye. I blinked, saying nothing, just as surprised as he was. Then after a moment I asked a bit sarcastically, “Is that an official question? I thought these were supposed to be easy.” He scowled at me saying nothing.

Lightning flashed before my eyes, making the walls disappear and showing a different scene of what was around me. Gwen and May were tied together in a corner of the room—no, cave— while another person I didn’t recognize was tied in the corner

closest to me, their head down. A fire blazed in the center of the cave, slightly illuminating everything, while just beyond the mouth of the cave rain poured down with ferocity. The image disappeared as fast as it came changing back to that of the interrogation room. What is going on? I thought. Thunder boomed making me jump. My heart started to beat faster. Something’s not right, I thought. What is going on?

As if in answer to my question the ‘tree-man’s image flickered, making me blink. In my left eye I could see him studying my face and reactions, and then moving his mouth. In my right eye I could see the room as I did when the lightning flashed with the ‘tree-man’ sitting cross-legged on a fur pelt, his mouth moving as well. I blinked several times trying to clear either of the images. I looked down and squeezed my eyes closed trying to get rid of the headache that was forming. “Well?” the ‘tree-man’ asked, his voice echoing slightly. I peered through somewhat open eyes at the table in front of me. I could still see two images: one of my legs under the table, and one with my legs crossed on the same type of pelt the ‘treeman’ might be sitting on. I looked at the ‘tree-man’ keeping my right eye only slightly open. “What?” I asked and closed my right eye completely. As he opened his mouth to speak, thunder rumbled and crashed across the sky while lightning flashed, showing the same image of the cave as before.

“Aah!” I cried out in pain and surprise as I twisted away from the scene, screwing my eyes shut. My head throbbed along with the fast paced beating of my heart. I wanted to run—to get as far away from this bizarre place as possible and back to reality.

REALITY

Maybe this isn’t real, I thought. That thought continued to echo in my mind. I felt a hand on my shoulder. Echoing voices surrounded me, making my heart beat faster. My head was swimming with questions, making me dizzy. My arms tensed, testing the rope that held them together. I flexed my legs testing their strength. Maybe this isn’t real, echoed once more.

NOW

I jumped up, breaking the ropes that bound me to the chair and sprang forward, pushing someone away with my eyes still closed. I tripped and fell, but instead of

letting myself stop there, I tucked my arms and rolled back to my feet. As I stood up I opened my eyes, took one step, and stopped short.

Instead of being face-to-face with the wall of an interrogation room, I was standing in the mouth of a cave watching rain cascade down a mountainside and over a dense forest. That’s when a bag was slipped over my head and something sharp swung against my skull.

Again, I tried to pull my hands from the makeshift rope May had braided from string. “You’ll pay for this, captain!” I said teasingly, in my best bandit voice. May replied with her best western sheriff laugh. Somewhere in a tree, Gwen giggled as I was trying not to smile at May’s bad impersonation.

“What are you laughing at?” May asked, still using the western sheriff accent, making Gwen and I giggle more.

“Nothing, captain,” I managed, still smiling.

“Is there something on my face?” May asked, dropping the act and being completely serious. Gwen burst out laughing in the tree May and I were headed toward. I had to force myself not to do the same, and to look at May.

“No, there’s—” I stopped, looking past May and at the cloaked figure standing across the street. They tilted their head and something glinted on their face. Was that a gold tooth? I thought.

“There’s what?” May asked. I didn’t respond. Something about that person didn’t seem right—“SAM!” May yelled. I jumped slightly and looked back at her. “What’s wrong?” she continued. “Your eyes glazed over for a second there.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “I was just looking at that guy.” I pointed across the street at the cloaked figure whose arms were now folded on his chest.

“What guy?” Gwen asked from directly behind me, making me jump again. She moved to stand next to May and shot me a worried glance. Confused, I glanced back and forth between May and Gwen.

“What do you mean,” I started, again gesturing toward the figure. “He’s right,—” I stopped, glancing at the spot where he should be. I sighed and shook my head. “Never mind,” I said. Just then I realized that my hands should still be tied together.

“Um, Gwen,” I started, turning toward her. “Did you untie my hands?”

No one was there. May and Gwen had disappeared. My heart started to race. The tree Gwen had been in started to shimmer. What is going on? I thought, taking a step back. A shadow passed overhead. Then the sun went dark. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Something’s not right, I thought. What’s going on? As if in answer to my question, lightning flashed showing me another image: Gwen and May were tied together in a corner of the room—no, cave— while an-other person I didn’t recognize was tied in the corner closest to me, their head down. A fire blazed in the center of the cave, slightly illuminating everything, while just beyond the mouth of the cave rain poured down with ferocity. The image disappeared as fast as it came changing back to that of the shimmering tree.

Maybe this isn’t real, echoed in my mind.

A sharp pain blazed to life just behind my eyes, forcing me to my knees. Maybe this isn’t real, echoed again, bringing another stab of pain. My head throbbed along with the face paced beating of my heart. I tried to stand, to get as far away from this bizarre place as possible and back to re-ality.

REALITY

Another stab of pain flared. My hands shot up to my face and started clawing at my cheeks, as if they could dig out the pain. Maybe this isn’t real, echoed once more.

NOW

I jumped up and ran straight at the shimmering tree. I closed my eyes as a wave of nausea passed over me from the pain. I tripped and fell, but instead of letting myself stop there I tucked my arms and rolled back to my feet, the nausea left behind. As I stood up I opened my eyes, took one step, and stopped short.

Instead of being behind the shimmering tree and standing in the middle of the road, I was standing in the mouth of a cave watching rain cascade down a mountainside and over a dense forest. I took a step back recognizing the scene. That’s when a bag was slipped over my head and something sharp swung against my skull.

* * * * *

Dazed and groggy, I opened my eyes. I tensed, recognizing what was happening. Some-where behind me a voice sounded with a gasp, “She’s awake!” I groaned and

rolled onto my back. I found the concerned faces of my friends staring back at me.

“What happened?” I mumbled as I tried to sit up. May immediately moved to help.

“We stepped in that puddle and you just keeled over,” Gwen started. “It was like someone just sucker-punched you in the stomach.” I tensed again, remembering how this whole thing started. This can’t be right, I thought, frowning. They were both there!

“We checked the puddle,” May said slowly. “It was deeper than it looked. You stepped into the deepest part, which is most likely why you tripped.” She paused. I looked up at her and immedi-ately felt guilty for being so suspicious. May was crying; Gwen had tears in her eyes. My shoul-ders slumped.

“We thought you were dead,” Gwen said softly. May said nothing wiping tears from her already wet cheeks. I sighed and weakly smiled, putting my arms around my friends and pulling them in for a hug. They both started sobbing uncontrollably. I held them until they had both calmed down enough to get a full breath. They started to pull back.

“Augh!” I cried out as they both pulled away. A sharp stabbing pain shot up my back bringing with it a wave of nausea. I pulled my arms away from my friends and wrapped them around my stomach; my ears stopped working. My shirt was getting wet. Wet, I thought. Why is it wet? I pulled one of my hands back. It was colored a dark crimson. Maybe this isn’t real, I thought. Maybe this is just a trick. Then, I heard the screams.

A Lasting Inheritance

by Sylvia Navejar

As I sat on the stairs, cheeks pressed against the cool rails, my sixteen-year-old self could only hear what my mother was saying. But I wasn’t really listening. It was a school night and my teenage tantrums were hardly a new or moving experience for her. She had much to do. I can’t even remember what I was angry about or how the conversation went, but she gave me a gift that night. She still has no idea.

That night before leaving the room, she swooped down to pick up a laundry basket full of dirty clothes. As she stood up she sighed loudly and then said my name so I could understand how thin her patience had become. She stopped and looked me in the eyes, leaned in a bit and then whispered, “Sometimes you have to do things that you don’t want to do.”

And with those twelve simple words, there it was. My entire inheritance. Every valuable heirloom and antique—my birthright. That precious piece of advice carried a narrative so rich that at sixteen it was beyond my comprehension. Much like a family jewel, passed from one generation to the next, my wealth had been carefully sealed in a vault of all the maternal experiences that preceded my short life. I had taken it at face value, but have held on to it ever since.

I now think of those words almost every day. They propel me into what I want to be, where I want to go, and what I want to do. When the smallest tasks seem daunting, I think about the generations of determined women before me that did many things without reservation, things they had to do because they wanted to move forward. Like how my mother finished college as a single mother with four small children, leaving them with a babysitter at night so she could work a second or third job. Or how my grandmother was employed at a ranch for nearly her entire life, doing what my generation would consider “menial” work. A month’s pay could hardly cover basic necessities. Or how my great grandmother was denied the right to any education and never learned to read or write because she was the oldest child and was expected to help run a household.

What I passed off then as my mother’s antiquated counsel was really a life lesson in what it means to not only be a woman in my family, but the world, too. That to live a life of joy means living a life of experiences that sometimes warrant the opposite. My struggles are continually challenged and my will restored by all of the things that the women in my family didn’t want to do, but did anyway, many times over. I believe that sometimes we have to do things that we don’t want to do. It has become my mantra. And when my patience for life wears thin, I take a deep breath, say my own name, and whisper, “sometimes you have to do things that you don’t want to do.”

Memories Over Time

by Alexandria Northrup

I see my immensely strong father tower over me as he takes my small hand to begin our Monday journey to 7-11 for Coca-Cola Slurpees and the field of baby goats. My tiny sister follows in our footsteps twirling around in her yellow summer dress. Our hair done up in high ponytails with strands hanging loose from the attempt of our father to do little girls hair.

***

We splash around in the murky water that represents our historical valley at Liberty Park.

Once we dry, the old rickety Ferris Wheel raises high in the sky for two little girls to imagine for a brief moment they are queens of the world.

***

We smell cinnamon rolls and breakfast burritos on the griddle as we prepare to climb the one and only mountain suitable for bumps and scratches. The view is breathtaking when we reach the peak. Our mountain is Storm Mountain. ***

We see the antique architecture being illuminated by the rising sun. The famous sculptures of Michelangelo in my grasp, towering 10 feet above us. We feel the inspiration and serenity of past history and terror, portrayed throughout the paintings of Italian artists. We experience the salty warm air brush across our faces as our toes sink into the beaches of Capri, Italy.

You in Summer

by Amy Childress

August 1993

I can see my hands push into the soft tar as if I was pushing clay through my fingers.

My knees speckled with small bits of gravel as I pick myself up off the road. My hands, canvassed in black. We giggle. Then you, with your black hair and checkered blue shorts, peels a small strip of tar, off the road.

You go to hand it to me, but a voice intersects and we leave the black pile to melt more underneath the sun.

In the kitchen, our bare feet shift uncomfortably on the wooden floors as my mother with salve, washes our small hands clean.

June 2013

We stand by the edge of the river,

not knowing whether the current is fast enough to carry a body without it’s consent.

Your brown eyes look at me and we both know This, will be one of the last times we drive up the canyon together.

The river still rushes, as we pick our way along the bank.

You sit on a log and I sprawl out on a large rock and look up, the branches move in the wind, eclipsing the sun for mere seconds. I watch you watching the river wishing your body was next to mine.

The Accomplished Hero

by Takara Truong

Every year I am here, I climbed and I climbed, and Fell every time, ending where I started, I am here, I looked towards the peak and stood back on my feet with Determination I tried again, I climbed and I climbed With each try I got closer with each try, It got easier with determination I continued to try

I have overcome my shyness and my feelings of anxiety I have reached the peak I am here

The Love Song of Takara

art by Takara Truong

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