SI 2015 Creative Writing Journal

AUTHOR

The University of the Arts

CREATIVE WRITING 2015

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

In THE UNIVERSITY OF THE ARTS PRE-COLLEGE SUMMER INSTITUTE Creative Writing program, 15 students spent four weeks with professional writers and teachers who taught them how to expand their range and hone their unique voice as writers. Students studied fiction, poetry, creative non-fiction and screenwriting in a workshop setting that allowed them to perform many roles: writer, editor, reader and critic while gaining a better understanding of the craft.

At the University of the Arts, students are immersed in the art of writing from the inside out attending readings, round tables, gallery shows, lectures and museums in one of the oldest, largest and most artistically innovative cities in the country.

This Journal is a compilation of the work produced during the four-week Summer Institute of 2015 .

THE UNIVERSITY OF THE ARTS PRE-COLLEGE PROGRAMS ERIN ELMAN

Dean of Continuing Studies MFA ‘08 Book Arts/ Printmaking MA ‘97 Art Education

ROSI DISPENSA

Pre-College Programs Director MA ‘11 Art Education BFA ‘04 Photography

KRYSTA KNASTER

Pre-College Programs Assistant Director BFA ‘09 Photography

WRITERS 8

Cassandra Adair

20

Rebecca Gitlevich

YOU ONLY HAVE TO

SOUL SISTERS

WHEN THE BABY BIRD DOESN’T FLY

PAINT WITH ME

10

Arianna Bradley

TRANSCEND

TO KILL A MONK: A SHORT MEMOIR

VIGNETTE SUITE

14

Sam Eames

LIGHTNING

THERE’S A REASON WE’RE ALL IN ART SCHOOL

16

Deena Elul

THE PARK (GROWING UP)

QUESTS

POETRY AND I

FAMILY 27

Victoria Gordon

IT’S THIS NICE ‘EVERYTHING’ WOMAN

SHOWER SICK

CECIL 30

Collin Hatch

A MAN WITH A BAT

MEMOIR OF A SIXTH GRADE

THE HATCHES GO CAMPING

THE MAGIC IN PHILADELPHIA

46

Sunday Htoo

THE PROVINCE OF FRIENDSHIP

52

Erin Leso

68

Destiny Samuel

YOU WILL BE REFLECTED

BEYOND THE SURFACE

THE SOUND OF SILENCE

SO PERFECT

55

Emily Lottermann

BAD POEM

MY VISIT TO PHILADELPHIA’S

MAGIC GARDENS

56

Keira (Micki) McKinley

SHOPPING LIST

TOXIC FRIEND

60

Chelsea Middlebrooks

I’M BEING TAUNTED

DROUGHT

SOMETHING I’M NOT

64

Veronica Nocella

MAGIC GARDENS POEM

CAT FIGHT

LONG MEMOIR DRAFT

72

Amanda Wible

I SEE GODS AND GODDESSES IN MY FRIENDS

OUR WORSHIP

DO NOT PORTRAY WOMEN AS WEAK

WHISPERED STORIES

CASSANDRA ADAIR WELLINGTON, FL

YOU ONLY HAVE TO

by Cassandra Adair

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

In the companionship of desire, the world brings itself to your mercy, cries to you like an infant emerging from the womb, longing echoes-to touch it’s mother’s skin to touch skin, the world brings itself to its knees over and over begging for your presence for your participation in the companionship of desire meanwhile the birds and the bees, boys and blondes, butterflies and infants headfirst in the flowers, dancing across the kaleidoscope of skies, tasting air for the first time meanwhile the world aches rapidly bringing itself to the tip of your tongue you only have to hold the empty vessel towards the clouds catch rain, choose to listen to the calling of the birds and the blondes over mountains and deep oceans you only have to hold the empty vessel of your soul through oblivion. you do not have to drag your fingernails, you do not have to wait, you only have to catch rain, in the companionship of desire.

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WHEN THE BABY BIRD DOESN’T FLY

by Cassandra Adair

I watch him lie with arms that want to push him off the ground, they do.

He stands and his legs, he, does not wobbleI hold my breath, my tongue, anticipating his fall to his knees that have never held him to his arms that won’t push-but he stands Without me.I hold my breath.

“Mama, let me go” he speaks for the first time since he screamed for the first time he screamed at the world that brought him.

Maybe he was screaming, at me, oh, he screams everyday a ‘why’ i can’t decipher by formations of his mouth, but by the drop of his eyes, by the sigh, the shrug, the push, the wobble, the screaming.

CASSANDRA ADAIR

He runs and I can’t help But chase, don’t hurt yourself, don’t go too fast He laughs and I can’t help But cringe, why only here, why can’t you dance in clothes I made for you within walls I built for you, only in dreams “Mama, let me go,” he speaks only in my dreams, his voice I have imagined like heaven and i thought i’d resent it’s sound but it’s beautiful and strong like his able legs that only stand in dreams.

He runs and when he’s tired he breathes out of lungs that don’t collapse and I scream it’s not fair, and he breathes the way he breathed for the first time, for the last time, and he runs “Mama, let me go now” Baby, I will for a few hours but, Then you must come back here.

I must hold you, I must carry you, and I’m sorry to have done this to you,”Mama let me go, let me go”

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ARIANNA BRADLEY PHILADELPHIA, PA

TRANSCEND

by Arianna Bradley

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

7/28/15 Often I am permitted to return to a meadow as if it were a given property of the mind that certain bounds hold against chaos Chaos that tears through the mind Chaos that blackens my heart.

Often I am required to return to a darkness as if it were a given stronghold of my sanity that certain bastions struggle to reject that certain bastions struggle to reject that certain bastions struggle to reject Often I am permitted to return to a meadow as if it were a given property of the mind that certain bounds hold against chaos that is a place of first permission everlasting omen of what is.

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TO KILL A MONK: A SHORT MEMOIR

by Arianna Bradley

It was morbidly stupefying how long it took for it to die. Writhing in the windowsill, its legs never stopped moving as it lay there on its back, walking in place. I noticed that with its slender brown body arched over, hiding underneath was an orange underbelly, a burnt orange color similar to the rising sun. Its once observant eyes gazed off in one direction robotically, and its remarkable agility was now reduced down to a drunken staggering gait. Just five minutes before I couldn’t secure the insect but now I could do whatever I wished.

I was in control.

Though now isn’t years ago.

I could have understood if it were an unwanted cockroach. I wish I could say that I’m referring to a cockroach. I could have understood if this creature were stalking another uninvited pest. But this was unacceptable. The young instar had only ventured too far into the screened window of one’s domain and had to unnecessarily lose its life to the hand, or in this case, to the nozzle of a pressurised cannister, containing toxins.

As I sat guiltily at the kitchen table, I looked back at the window and then out at the green beyond it. How did these toxins work? Bugs can survive most anything that didn’t involve a predator or a shoe but when drenched in this mist they instantly began to experience convulsions, mild or extreme, instantaneously short or painstakingly long.

But that wasn’t my main concern.

I looked out the window again.

It could have been set free to climb that vine, or to rest among the honeysuckle a few feet away, or to roam through the field of nearly overgrown grasses past the rock wall. Watching the carpenter bees buzz by and the local muskrat nibble on something it came across as it strolled through the lawn, I realized I unintentionally robbed this mantis of its freedom.

ARIANNA BRADLEY

I left him there in that windowsill; I had killed what I meant to release unharmed.

Years ago, this wouldn’t have bothered me much; I was terrified of anything that anyone would classify as a “bug.” Years ago, I’d run away screaming while my classmates pursued me brandishing nearby earthworms.

I had killed something so innocent, so pure, so beautiful. Poetry in motion I could call it.

What had been mimicking a twig swaying in the breeze ten minutes before was now flailing uncontrollably, inches away from its natural habitat.

I realized that I could’ve slipped it into a jar, but I’d surely be blamed for a mantis crawling about on the ceiling later in the day. I didn’t want to come home to my mother yelling about Raid spray coating the table and all its contents due to a mantis that she ended up stepping on in the end anyways. I did the dirty work, but I felt terrible and wrong. For someone whose job is to protect insects, I sure could’ve fooled the world today.

Eventually I left the kitchen to prepare for the rest of my day, but I couldn’t help think about how I had marked this as that mantis’ last day walking this earth, no matter how slowly or quickly it could move. And as I left out, I couldn’t help think about the rumor that’s been passed on for countless years, decades, possibly even centuries.

They say it’s absolutely illegal to kill a Praying Mantis. Though I feel as though this act hurt me more than I had hurt it.

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VIGNETTE SUITE

by Arianna Bradley

Sunday I loved and hated Sundays. Going to work on a Sunday meant that anything could happen. I could run into someone, I might work in Butterflies! or Special Exhibits, I might become the day’s lunch coverage, or I could possibly just go through another day of sitting around doing nothing, nearly dying from not being preoccupied. Sundays always had something in store.

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

“Well, she’s definitely gone.” Marcus said, snapping me out of my thoughts. Though I could feel the sarcasm and smartass dripping from his voice.

“Have you met David?” I turned to him stiffly, a hopeful and curious look on my face. Marcus became guarded. He looked from the left to the right and then back at me.

“No...why?” His eyebrows furrowed and he cocked his head slightly.

“You should meet David.” I got up from the table and left him there with the most baffled and confused expression I had seen from him yet.

Alone, they kept me on my toes. Together, they’d give me hell.

Monday They said that he had strep throat and that’s what he told me. I then spent the next ten minutes waiting for a bus and the next twenty five riding and jogging my way down streets that I had only taken twice in my lifetime.

Tuesday “Wanna go on an adventure?” The reddish-brown haired man, aka David, stood before me, asking this question that he’d ask often.

“Sure.” I always replied. How offending would it be if I told my manager that I don’t want to go on an adventure? Besides, there’s plenty of reasons to not turn down that offer.

I followed him all the way to the Free Library of Philadelphia once for insect feed.

The stick insects adore Pyracantha leaves and it just so happens that a good portion of the library’s shrubs were exactly that.

But I do hope that genius wears sneakers next time.

Wednesday “Yeah it was a car crash. Nobody got hurt but I can’t make it today. I’m really sorry.”

My heart dropped and rose again, but not to where it had been before.

“What happened? Are you okay? That’s my real concern. Because y’know, there’s always going to be another day.”

He once again reassured me that he and everyone else were fine and as he filled me in on the mishap I couldn’t help but smile.

As long as he was okay, I could wait an eternity.

“I said I’m fine...ow...”

Thursday

“That’s what they all say.”

Angelique had almost died laughing, but I was actually pretty serious, too. What if that Cave Cockroach was actually suffering from Erectile Dysfunction?

“No, that’s what you say.”

“And you, Sam.” 12

He tried to argue with that. Looks like I’m not the only one who’s stubborn.

….Hm, I think I’ll leave that for some other “Curious George” to look into.

Friday I liked kids but I didn’t. They always had their pros and cons. You had your good kids and bad kids, your angels and demons, your life savers and causes of death. I happened to know all types, for I tutored at a school Friday afternoons.

My precious Friday afternoons.

I remember when a kid tried to tell me that 9+10 was 21.

ARIANNA BRADLEY

I played along of course, for the kids. They all seemed amused by this, the boy who did his mental math wrong and then ran away from home because the whole world had witnessed his mistake on camera.

All of the density...it’s sad, really.

Saturday This was a time where I’d usually go and do something fun, work an extra day, study, or just stay home and relax.

I wonder what today has in store?

13

SAM EAMES WAYNE, PA

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

LIGHTNING

by Sam Eames

there’s a lot of luck involved in being struck by lightning, so you want to make sure you’re holding a pen when it happens. inspiration is a rare beast; catalog it in those tattered moleskine notebooks or those shreds of looseleaf inevitably kept in writers’ pockets or the nearest damp paper napkin that won’t tear. records are important. human memory is an imperfect vessel, and many moments slip through the cracks. written words are permanent. writer’s advice: keep a pen on you at all times (preferably metal). if lightning strikes, hold it up to the heavens an offering and maybe, just maybe, you’ll get a jolt. luck comes to all of us; spare few have the peace of mind to think about it.

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THERE’S A REASON WE’RE ALL IN ART SCHOOL

by Sam Eames

and pray that you do not laugh at what we wrought. that is our job. you can read yours like a bulletin. do not: destroy it by poking too many holes do not: replace the words with nonexistent meaning. do not: try to make it your own. and do not: be so arrogant as to believe it belongs to you. it is mine. do: appreciate the struggle of the artist. we are flowers, near-blooming. you are the water. you are either the quencher or the drowner; the choice is now, and there is no in-between.

SAM EAMES

“there’s a reason we’re all in art school” it was a common joke whenever we would confess a secret trauma someone would always point out that we’re all troubled artists. what does that mean for a writer, and even worse, their writing? a disturbance of words within words; metaphysical fictional nonfiction, confusing the genres and breaking down the fourth wall that sets them apart. discrimination towards the craft is unnecessary and unwanted. stop labeling words like art; words are words and words are art and in time art becomes words. can you distinguish what i wrote here? no? good. this is not for you. victory cries are never meant for the crows. an audience of bystanders, here to pick at the remains of the strongest fight we could muster. do you not see yourselves? i do. i will wrench my words from your beak and replace them in my heart. where they belong. slick ink in my veins, cuts bleeding black, these are false rumors. my blood is crimson and smears, i would know, but i have echoes from crowded roomsand pulsing white noise and the currents of many places and the voices that stay with me for years living in my ears and my mind and coursing across my body. that is to write, to know all the voices you hold dear. but it is not writing. we take those voices and we show them to you outright

15

DEENA ELUL BALA CYNWYD, PA

THE PARK (GROWING UP)

by Deena Elul

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

It was never as nice as we imagined it, Never the paradise we were hoping for; We didn’t notice how the river barely flowed and how polluted it was.

We still called it a river, Too small ourselves to see it was really a creek.

We didn’t notice the train’s roar above us, Or the angry “no loitering” signs; In those sunlit hours we found peace.

In the calacala-us wading through water, Hopping on rocks and climbing on trees, The rhythm of breathing and living.

Our childhood was spent in long afternoons Making flower crowns, Finding beauty, suburban paradise In the movement of sunlight on water, on trees, through branches and leaves Of our innocence.

16

QUESTS

by Deena Elul

I could have had it all. But that will certainly never happen now that I told him the truth.

Now that I told him that I made up the whole thing. It was stupid, really. Did he really think that the quest was real? Didn’t he see what I was trying to do?

basketball court and the freshly painted track. Alex even told me what food was best in the cafeteria. Then the bell rang, and we parted ways, running to our lockers to collect books for the next class. He didn’t even say goodbye.

You could say I was desperate. Or you could say I was creatively applying the principle “All’s fair in love and war.” Either way, things got bad pretty quickly. But I’m getting ahead of myself here. Let me tell you my side of the story.

And that would have been the end of it, were it not for the book that I glimpsed in his open backpack: The Dragons. The book that talks about pairs of kids going on quests to find dragons and save the world.

The book that made me believe that I too could go on a quest. That I too could journey through water and forest, braving many obstacles and facing many monsters, to unearth the tool that I needed to save the world.

* * *

And then I met Alex. Tall and skinny, with feathery blond hair that swept upward and reminded me of sunshine. It was March 3, and I was eating lunch in the back hallway for the third day in a row. I saw Alex slowly picking his way down the hallway, and thought, “Great. Just another person to see how much I don’t belong here.” Alex stopped in front of me and leaned on one leg, sizing me up. He stood like that for a long time.

Finally, he asked “Are you new here?”

Startled, I nodded slightly.

“Well, I might as well show you around.” He smiled at me. His smile was slightly crooked.

Alex took me on a walking tour of the whole school. We saw the classrooms and the labs, the red-curtained auditorium, the gleaming

The same book that happened to be my favorite. The same book that Sophie and I had spent hours discussing, choosing each other for questing partners and planning out our many adventures. I had found a fellow fan, and I wanted to be his friend. I hadn’t had a real friend since New York, and Alex made me feel almost like I was in New York again.

DEENA ELUL

In the middle of seventh grade, I moved from New York, New York to Perrysburg, Ohio. I packed up my books and left behind twelve years of memories and my best friend Sophie. That first week, I walked the halls of Perrysburg Junior High like a dragon chained to earth, unable to stretch my wings. I hadn’t realized how much I depended on my environment. I hadn’t realized that no one would like books in Ohio.

I imagined spending hours laughing with him. I imagined running my fingers through that feathery hair as he held me in his arms.

I even imagined kissing him. But I always felt embarrassed of these wishes, since I knew they would never come true. Alex was way out of my league. An eighth grader, he walked the halls proudly, surrounded by a posse of friends. His tall height and trackteam stardom set him apart from the crowd.

How could I expect this guy to like me?

Alex could have liked the New York me.

The girl who wore fandom t-shirts and listened to rock music and was never afraid of anything. But he would never like the Ohio me, who had sat alone at lunch ever since she discovered that her personality was unwanted. Who found more and more things to be afraid of each day.

17

For the rest of that year, I dreamed of Alex, trying to work up the nerve to talk to him.

That spring, he graduated. * * * I was thinking about New York. About the third floor brownstone in Brooklyn that I used to live in. When I woke up in the morning, I would see the skyscrapers out of my window. There were always people doing things, loving and hating and crying and laughing and living.

I thought about my old room, with its book posters and band posters and shelves and shelves of books. I’d had to sell some of them when we moved. My new room had shelves, but not as many. And the band posters were lost in shipping.

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

I thought about my old school. How I felt like I belonged there. How I always had a seat at the lunch table. How it was normal to be into books.

I remembered the craziest night of my life.

The night that Sam and I went to an outdoor concert in the park, singing along to everything because we knew all the words.

After, in the dark of night, I reached up and kissed him because I knew that he liked me.

He dumped me a week later, but I didn’t care. It was the experience that mattered.

The kind of experience that drew its life blood from the city, that could happen nowhere else.

I cried when my parents told me that we were moving. I didn’t care that it was a chance for Dad to move up in the company.

I didn’t care that Perrysburg was one of the most beautiful cities in Ohio. I loved New York, and never wanted to leave.

I was determined to hate Ohio, and I did. In Ohio, nothing that I was seemed to matter.

Nothing ever happened in small-town Perrysburg, and people called me a nerd for reading books. So I decided that I didn’t need any of them. But that was a lie, and they broke me. I spent nights crying about being a fish out of water, until I’d forgotten

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who I used to be. And only Alex reminded me.

I missed New York so much. I needed to go home.

POETRY AND I

by Deena Elul

There I was, standing in front of the podium, thinking, “Why the heck did I sign up for this?” I was at SAR High School in New York, standing before a crowd of 50-odd teenagers, with two sheets of paper as my only defense.

And I was supposed to perform a poem to them. A poem that I had written myself.

At my first slam team meeting, a friend of mine performed a 5-minute poem, which was incredible. I hadn’t known that he could write that way, or that he could speak from his heart that way. That poem, an ideal to strive towards, showed me what slam could be. It showed me how I could use poetry as a vehicle for expressing my deepest thoughts and feelings, and then communicating them to others. I had never done anything like that before. Unwittingly, I had stumbled upon a treasure.

I wrote my first poem that very same day, pouring my emotions into free verse. It was terrible. But I was hooked, addicted to words and this new way of expressing them. So when the team captain asked me “Hey, we are going to a competition next week. Do you want to perform?” I accepted.

I spent time crafting my poem for the competition. It talked about a girl (not myself, I emphatically emphasized) who is destroyed by pretending to be something that she is not.

I think that the poem was about me in more

The big day finally came. We drove three hours to New York City on a school bus, until we reached SAR High School. It was much bigger than our own school. We were directed to a small room, where we would perform our poems in the first round. I sat with my teammates on folding chairs and looked at the program, waiting for my turn with anticipation and nervousness. I could hardly listen to any of the other performers, because I was so scared. I worried that I would forget my lines, that my voice would sound weird, that I would burst out in nervous laughter, or that nobody would like my poem.

They called my name. I stood up and walked to the podium at the front of the small room. I carefully laid out my papers, which I insisted on carrying even though I had memorized my poem. I looked over at my teammates, watching and supporting me. Sharing feelings through poetry had made them my close friends, and they were not at all the “bad” kids I had thought they were. Then I looked at the wall, because I knew that I would start laughing if I looked at people while performing. I took a deep breath, and began my poem.

DEENA ELUL

Some background is needed here. I was just shy of 15, a freshman in my second semester of high school. It had taken me half a year to decide to join my school’s slam poetry team.

I had wanted to from the beginning, because in my school if you were a writer you joined the slam team. And I liked to consider myself a writer, or at least I hoped to be one, one day. So slam seemed like a natural choice for me, right? Not so simple. You see, my school’s slam team had a “bad” reputation. The year before, the team had got in trouble with the school, and had nearly been disbanded. I wasn’t yet sure if I wanted to associate myself with that kind of group. It took me half a year to decide that I didn’t care.

ways than I admitted. By joining the slam team, I had thrown off all of the facades that held me back and revealed my true self.

As I read, I heard people snapping at my lines, giving me support and encouragement.

I had the sense that I was doing something worthwhile, that there was a value to sharing myself like this. And in a way, it felt natural, even as it was a new experience. It felt almost like flying. I completed my poem, stepped away from the podium, and walked back to my seat.

I didn’t make it to the second round. But the experience taught me so much that I felt like a winner. Since then, I have written and performed many poems, some good and some bad. But no matter how many slams I go to, I will never recreate that feeling of my first performance, that feeling of endless possibility, that feeling of rightness.

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REBECCA GITLEVICH JENKINTOWN, PA

SOUL SISTERS

by Rebecca Gitlevich

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

I stared into her eyes She looked back upon me Time stopped but we didn’t I hugged her so damn tight I felt her every breath If it would only be Like this every day But unfortunately It can not be this way Mind goes to metaphor My heart tries to speak out A hundred miles loud To where she calls her home But I can’t find the words It has been too long since The only breathing thing On this so called planet That is my family She was forced to leave me Behind, very lonely But she came back for me Now we are one again

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PAINT WITH ME

by Rebecca Gitlevich

REBECCA GITLEVICH

I closed my eyes and started to fall. I fell and fell until I started to dream. It was a thursday evening when I dreamed a very special dream. It started in my bedroom.

I was casually sitting on my bed reading Jane Eyre with my two cats perched around me and a dog in the armchair across the room. There was a knock at my front door and when I opened it there was no one in sight except a little brown box. I picked it up and brought it up to my room. When I opened it I found a silver paintbrush with gold vines wrapping around it. I picked the brush up and had a weird feeling, a sort of artistic feeling, like an ocean of ideas crashing over me. I took my sketchpad, swimming in ideas, and put the paintbrush onto the page.

There was no paint on it but it painted the exact color that I wanted. I felt like I knew what I was doing, like I have done this before, like it was right. I started to paint in the air and there the colors appeared too. It was magic, I could paint in the air, I could paint in 3d, I could paint whatever I wanted to. I gasped and dropped the brush. I touched the floating colors and it was wet but it was as if there was paper there. I grabbed another page, from my sketchbook, and began to draw. I began to draw flowers, and landscapes. Whatever I could think of I painted. I was astonished. It didn’t paint for you though, it just doesn’t require paint.

It’s like a crayon but a paintbrush. It was mine.

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FAMILY

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

by Rebecca Gitlevich

22

At some point you have to realize that some people can stay in your heart forever but not in your life. I was all alone, in my bed a great wave of darkness fell over me suddenly when I realized I would be alone for a very long time. I tossed and turned in my bed but I could not fall asleep. My heart ached, drowning in sorrow and loss. I lost yet another. I reached over to the night stand by my bed and grabbed a book. Only it’s not an ordinary book, it was my mother’s book that she gave me for my birthday. Its the best kind of a book I can have: a blank one.

All these blank pages for me to fill, something that will listen. I know it’s strange thinking book can listen but in a way it can. I can go on and on about my feelings to someone but no one will understand better than me. A book is just a little box of secrets, it lets me pour everything out without being a whiny annoying 15 year old girl.

My mother used to always call me the little symbolist because I always connected to things spiritually. And thought everything more symbolically than others. The thought made me smile so I grabbed my favorite blue pen and filled the pages with my story. As I write I feel my eyes get heavy and I feel as though I’m falling. My body relaxes and I fall into a world of dreams. I found myself sitting in a little square room with white couches, a glass table, and a small TV. My little nine year old sister, Sarah, runs up and jumps on the couch next to me and pulls my arm. Giggling, I pull her towards me. I reel her in and hold her tight. She giggles and wriggles out of my grasp. Apparently, my mother sent her to get me because she wanted something important to tell us.

officer. He opened his mouth and...then I woke up. I wiped tears off my cheeks, I was very shaken and scared. I dozed off when I was writing about my feelings. I went back to sleep and this time I didn’t have a nightmare.

“Your father and I need to go out for a few days. A small family emergency, nothing more so don’t worry.” She began smiling at us. I smiled back. I wish she didn’t have to go but she will be back so everything will be okay. Then all of sudden I was tucking Sarah to bed. She was out like a light when someone rang the doorbell. I opened the door and found myself in front of a police

It was time to head over to my English class which was my favorite. I absolutely love literature and poetry. It was very easy to see not many shared this same interest as most slept through the class or were texting each other. What really surprised me in that class was when that girl I bumped into that morning, Carly, raised a hand to answer a

My alarm clock began beeping right in my ear so I swiftly tapped snooze. I missed the bus this morning so I asked my foster mom to drive me before heading out to work. I moved into my foster home about roughly seven months back and we just moved to a new district. Its tough going to a new school but after moving from foster home to foster home, I got used to it. I just stopped trying to feel at home because every time I did they sent me away. I walk through the doors taking a deep breath.

“Oof! Oh my God, watch where you’re going! God!” A tall, blond girl said as I bumped into her. She was chewing gum, and had a very cocky look to her.

“Oh, I’m so very sorry...” I began to say when the girl opened her mouth and began making a huge fuss. I instantly could tell that this chick was seriously way too into herself and careless about anyone else. I kept seeing her throughout the day here and there as I wandered through the halls.

Getting a glare from either her or her posse.

She wore intensely big heels, a very short skirt, a tight shirt, and giant hoop earrings.

She held in her hand an iPhone 6 which was the newest iPhone version. Anyone could easily spot the expensive looking jewelry around her neck and wrists. I knew all too well to stay away from her.

question. Regrettably I have the instinct to correct people when it comes to literature and I embarrassed her way too much for my own good. I knew that I would regret that for the rest of my life and I was right. I honestly did not mean to embarrass her but it just sort of happened. I thought it would be better when I got home but I was wrong. My day could not have gone any worse. It has been a good 7 months with this family. They fostered me because they couldn’t have their own kids. When I walked through the front door I went up the stairs to my room.

When I passed my parents room I heard my foster mom say:

“I just want to know...” I began to write when Carly a.k.a Miss Perky went up to my lunch table and jerked the journal from under me. I yelled in anger and surprise. She opened the book and began to read.

She yelled across the lunch room, making everyone stare at her, “Hey listen up everyone! I’ve got little miss new girl’s private diary right here!” I glared at her.

“July 9th 2014...” She began. I was frozen in my spot.

“I just tucked my sister into bed when someone rang the doorbell. I instantly thought my dad must have forgotten something. I rolled my eyes. How typical of dad. I opened the door when a police officer asked if I was Christine Potte and I nodded.

“Aww what a cry baby. Lost her parents.”

She said laughing and smirking. I almost fell to the ground to cry but I kept my stance with my head held high. Only she went on.

Everyone stared blankly.

“January 24th. Today I got put into yet another foster home. I’m so scared. What if no one will ever want me? I don’t want to be alone forever...I just want to feel safe for once, I just want for once to have a home.

They split me and Sarah up. I don’t know how much more I can handle. Every time I start to feel at home, the families send me away. The only friend that stayed in touch with me after I moved was Haley. She is my best friend. Haley walked with energy and confidence in each step. Bullies fled from her because she just walked all over them.

They didn’t stand a chance against her.

Today I held her hand as she whispered ‘Remember me’ into my ear. I felt the life drain out of her arm. It relaxed and just rested on my hand. I began to cry so hard. She was all I had left. She was so close to getting rid of her cancer. But she just couldn’t do it. Now may she rest in peace.” She closed the book, smirking even more than before. Now I just felt angry. And honestly confused because I don’t know how she can go about reading these things and laughing. I honestly didn’t do anything so terrible for her to hate be so much, to be so cruel. It’s inhuman. It’s wrong. It’s dangerous. Everyone just stared and watched. Then I saw a boy I’d never seen before, walk up to Carly and rip the book out of her hand. Everyone just stared in complete surprise. I haven’t been here long but even I knew that no one stood up to her. This boy must obviously be new.

REBECCA GITLEVICH

“It was positive! We are having a baby!”

My heart stopped and I felt tears in my eyes. Of course I was happy for them. They have been trying so hard to have a baby.

But now that meant they didn’t need me. I was just finally starting to feel at home and now I have to leave. I went to school with my journal again. I was writing in it a lot about my thoughts on the announcement I heard last night. They haven’t told me yet so I guess it just proves they are thinking of giving me away.

He sat me down and told me he was very sorry but my parents had just gotten in a car accident. My heart broke and I fell to the ground and wept my soul out.” She stopped and laughed.

“Leave her alone! Are you so arrogant to see that she is broken! She has a rough past! No23

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

body wants to hear her private stuff! What did she ever do to you!” He glared at her with disgust and walked away from her toward my direction and handed me the book looking sorry. He was rather good looking and very kind. I whispered thank you to him, staring into his green eyes right before a teacher came and disparted us about. I sat alone at lunch, then all of a sudden someone put their lunch tray across from me and sat down. I looked up from my journal, writing in it, to see that boy again.

smiling at me. I was surprised but felt happier. There was someone else out there who knew what I was going through. Someone who could relate to me and help me. I smiled for the rest of the day, completely forgetting about the Carly incident at lunch.

“I’m really sorry for what you went through in your past and having to put up with remembering it all again by Carly.” He said.

I smiled at him and he smiled back.

“Is there something you want to say?” She said looking me in the eyes. I was so afraid to ask her. Then I thought about what Tom said. I took a deep breath.

“My name is Tom by the way.” He added after a second of silence.

“Can you help me get my sister back?” I blurted out. It wasn’t what I wanted to say at first. I wanted to so desperately ask if she was going to give me away but then I thought she would definitely not keep me if she knew I eavesdropped. She stared at me surprised.

“Yours?” He asked me but I didn’t answer.

“You’re new too? Right?” He asked me and I just looked at him and nodded. After what seemed to be forever of silence I finally spoke.

“My name is Christine…” He looked up in surprise.

“It’s very nice to meet you Christine,” he said smiling.

I wanted to pounce on her like a lion on its prey. I wanted to hit her and yell at her. I started to write in my journal.

“Why don’t you ask your foster mom if they want to adopt you?” Tom said all of a sudden. So he was thinking of me. I smiled and he looked at me.

I shook my head then said, “It isn’t that easy,” and looked away but he just stared.

“Well, when I was feeling the same way about my foster parents…”I immediately stared up at him.

“I just went up to them and told them about how I felt and we talked about it. We decided that they have grown to love me so they adopted me. Simple as that.” I stared at him, then he got up and walked away 24

My mom was waiting for me in the pick up parking lot and I got in the car. I opened my mouth then closed it. I took a deep breath as if I was about to speak but then changed my mind.

“What?”

“Uh...fine. I know you are going to give me away so before you do I just want to ask you if you can help me find my sister.” I spoke rapidly. It took a lot out of me to ask her for help.

“What on earth are you talking about?!”

She exclaimed with a lot of confusion.

“I know about the baby. I heard you tell dad. I was passing your room when you said it. I wasn’t eavesdropping I promise.” I turned away immediately.

“That’s all this is about?”

I nodded then added, “I thought you wouldn’t need me anymore now that you have a child of your own. And If you found out I was eavesdropping I thought you wouldn’t want me anymore.”

“Oh darling no! We would never give you away! Your father and I love you and we will always love you!” She said and leaned in to hug me.

“Was this what you were so scared of?” She released me of her hug. I nodded.

won’t for another week or so but…”

My mother began.

“I have been wanting a family for so long... and all the other families I have stayed with eventually gave me away.”

“But...We have filled a form. But not just any ordinary form...” My father finished.

“No, no, no, you mustn’t think that!” I looked up at her. She looked at me and then started to drive. She told me she would explain at home. When I got home, my father and my mother both sat me down to talk.

I explained to them about how I felt, then leading my way to telling them I knew.

Father asked, “Know what, Honey?”

“Oh...that was supposed to be a surprise.”

He said.

“With what? The baby?” I said, with a little more attitude than intended. And then I couldn’t stop.

“How is telling me that you don’t need me a good thing!” I began to scream at this point. my mother went to me and calmed me down.

“We went through this in the car, honey.

We aren’t going to give you away.” She said softly like speaking to a child.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry I just burst…”

“It’s ok.”

“We have another surprise for you.” My father began to say smiling and my mother jumped out of her chair like she just remembered and was excited.

“We made a call to City Hall about you.”

“Me?” “We haven’t heard back yet and probably

“Really?!” I yelled.

“Really?!” My mother then gasped again and looked from me to my dad. She whispered something to my father. He nodded and left the room taking his phone with him.

I said with a concerned tone to my voice, “What happened?”

“I just remember of the promise I made you in the car.”

REBECCA GITLEVICH

I looked at my mom then to my dad to tell him what I told my mother in the car, “When I got home from school Thursday I passed your room and overheard, not on purpose, that mom was pregnant…” I looked down. They stared at me then at each other.

“A form that will let us adopt you!” Mom said excitingly. I just stared in awe and surprise.

“What promise?”

“About your sister. I haven’t forgotten.

We can adopt her if you want us to.” She said smiling.

So all will end well someday. I learned that you have to have the bad moments so the good moments become so much more important and special.

Waking up for school is one of the hardest things I have to do in the mornings. Good thing it’s Friday! After getting my sister back and finding a family I finally feel at home and I am ever so grateful for that, but the court is taking a really long time to respond. I went to the bathroom and got ready; brushing my hair, brushing my teeth, getting dressed, and so on. I skipped breakfast as I do every morning and immediately went to the bus stop checking the mail. Empty… I met up with Tom and Lucy at lunch and told them about my adoption.

They both screamed with delight. Tom said “I told you so” and I friendly punched him in the arm. He told me that it might take a while to get back from the courthouse.

Finally getting home I go straight to the mailbox and check the mail. Empty…

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CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

“Family Day!!!!” My sister screams through the halls waking everyone up including the baby. Normally I would make a fuss and yell at her but Family Day is very sensitive and special to she and I. After everything she and I have been through she deserves this special treat and I will do everything to make it special. So I get out of bed and sleepily make my way down stairs to make Sarah’s favorite pancakes and her favorite strawberry smoothie. We descended to the living room after breakfast to watch a family movie all together with popcorn and gummy bears. The “Life of Bugs” was one of Sarah’s favorite movies as a kid so I chose it specifically for her. Surprisingly, everyone liked the movie which made Sarah even happier. This day is for her and I’m glad that she is finally happy, finally with a family.

Next we all went back to the dining room and we did some arts and crafts and then some baking. Put icing all over our faces and spraying glitter everywhere. It was a mess but it was our mess. We put music on and rocked out while crafting and baking.

Karaoking horribly but it doesn’t matter because they are my family and I love them.

I was glad that Sarah could go to bed that night with loads of new memories and not any bad ones.

That next morning Lucy picked me up in her Corolla, windows down, with her ACDC music pouring out into the street. I laughed to myself about her major obsession to ACDC and she looked at me questioningly to indicate why I was grinning to myself.

“Don’t worry about it.” She shrugged and unlocked the door to let me in.

I took a deep breath and put the seatbelt around my waist and shoulder.

“You ok? Wanna just walk instead?” She asked me. I shook my head. I breathed in deeply in and out, in and out. She looked at me and asked again but I stubbornly said no.

“I thought I would get over this stupid fear!” I yelled to the air after a few minutes of driving and listening to “Shoot to Thrill”

26

on constant repeat. Lucy just looked at me again.

She began to speak softly, “It’s ok. You know. To be afraid. There’s nothing wrong with it. We all have something that we are afraid of. Almost every single person on this planet has a flaw, and frankly being afraid isn’t a flaw.” I looked back at her and smiled. She was right though. I shouldn’t be mad at being scared. I need to embrace it.

And maybe I will make complete peace with that fact. And just maybe, just a possibility that I will be normal once again, I will have a happy life again. We arrived to school and even though we ran into Carly, she couldn’t make me feel bad because I felt this new happy me blossom. I felt new and I loved it.

I might get a new fear or experience a new tragic event but I will know that I can be happy again. Life won’t always be perfect but it is right now and live in the moment because it can change tomorrow. I took my sister to an art museum and I saw this one painting which was just an average day. A woman in a street but the bright, pale-ish colors made me feel the warmth of the day.

But it also made me feel that specialness of an ordinary day, because there are very few normal, no dramatic, no tragic days like the one in the painting. But not even day, but moment. Your life can indeed change in a second, in one day, so its the moment not even the day.

VICTORIA GORDON ALEXANDRIA, VA

IT’S THIS NICE ‘EVERYTHING’ WOMAN

by Victoria Gordon

VICTORIA GORDON

It’s this nice ‘everything’ woman with chocolate caramel painted skin that gives a lovely thick thigh’d persona of love, grace, and pain curvy waist with the flattened stomach, baring the meals that enter her pink, plump lips, that hold somewhat of a smile to depict an emotion that may not be there regardless of this, she still lets her strong willed mind form words, phrases, and thought that will break through the barrier of her closed, supposedly poised lips, but let her tender, tight curls entice you like a siren at sea her voice will never scream for you, but rather it will teem into your ears like an eerie creek’s serenity her eyebrows rise to a height of arcing perfection flaunting an unspoken sass and sophistication, never burn a cinnamon bagel in a toaster or an oven because the sugar will not be as sweet as it can be and watch her dark eyes enchant you with two separate chasms of mindsets.

So beautiful.

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SHOWER SICK

by Victoria Gordon

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

Curled up in A tight careless knot My stomach is scrunching I have escaped a forest of teetered strands Conditioned since lavender days when Living was only about feeding and growing You would believe that I am Your personal parasite for I covet your everything Here I lay The fallen fruit of mankind I was destined to break off to A drenched downfall of Putrid mess Yours.

Stress I am and Cast away I coil At your toes like a despicable, tempting serpent Crawling up your blindside, I go crippled and Unnoticed You will never Remember me.

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CECIL

by Victoria Gordon

VICTORIA GORDON

Push and pull, Pant and moan My little ship has landed.

Here I am in darkness without Sense No mouth corresponding with brain I am stupid.

Hidden from sight I am alien My mind becomes several celled and I touch my personal ocean My nub drags across the walls only to Feel a tension that I can comprehend Let me tell you I am alien and Do not be frightened by me As alien I venture far and wide through Spirit and love I understand these walls love but It is okay if it is not now.

Give me your love and I cherish mine undeveloped Here I am alien Human with you.

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COLLIN HATCH BRYN MAWR, PA

A MAN WITH A BAT CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

by Collin Hatch

Honey Rogers

“Seriously?”

Cyndy Horscham can only be described as an ice cream sundae: very big, very overwhelming and very messy. And in this very situation, she was even melting like one.

Her brown mascara and eye shadow were streaking down the strawberry scoops of her cheeks like hot fudge down to her maraschino cherry lips. And the worst part of it all was that Cyndy wouldn’t stop melting.

“Sorry, I couldn’t help it!” She phrased it like an apology, but it was spoken more like an excuse.

“Cyndy, stop it, you’re embarrassing yourself,” I said, trying to calm her down, looking straight at her. We were standing outside Colonial Police Station so we could report what just happened to us. The plan was to go inside immediately and report the incident. However, we ended up standing outside the station for ten minutes because Cyndy was impossible to calm down.

“You got a tissue?” she whimpered before bursting into another fit of sobs and gasps.

I rolled my eyes as I reached into one of the many pockets of my raincoat for the one tissue pack I had. Before I could even say “Here,” Cyndy snatched the pack out of my hand and smashed her face into it with only half of a tissue hanging out of the opening flap. Lifting her face from the snotty tissue pack, Cyndy looked at me, her eyes all watery and red.

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“Come on,” I said, gesturing towards the police station entrance. Cyndy nodded, still looking teary and vulnerable. We walked up the marble steps that led into the station, where we were met by Chief Officer Michael Wilkes, highly awarded officer and secret misogynist.

“My God, little Miss Cindy Horscham, what in God’s name brings you to my humble ol’ station in such a state?” It was an exaggerated concern that he pulled with every woman in the district who wasn’t me.

“OH MY GOD, OFFI-FICAH WI-WILKES, IT WAS HORRIBLE! THIS CRAZED MONSTAH RAN UP TO US WHILE WE WERE ON OUR WAY TO THE LIBRARY AND HE AND HE-HE WAS SWINGING THIS BAT AT US AN-AND HE WAS HAIRLESS AND COVERED IN THE-THESE BLACK VEINS AND HE-HE-HE WOULDN’T STOP CHASING US WE WERE RUNNING THROUGH ALL THESE ALLEYS AND WE HAD TO HIDE IN AN OLD CELLAR AND THERE WERE COBWEBS ALL OVER AND IT WAS SO SCARY YOU GOTTA HELP US, OFFICAH, HE’S STILL OUT THERE!”

I didn’t even get a word in edgewise, and Cyndy, oh Big Ol’ Cyndy Horscham, had completely screwed our chances for credibility.

Officer Wilkes looked at us with dumb, evil eyes from behind the counter, studying us, judging us while Cyndy started crying again. The station lobby was silent besides Cyndy and the whirring of the air conditioning.

“Now, ladies, without any cryin’ or shoutin’,” Officer Wilkes said calmly, as though to soothe a small child, “Tell me what happened…”

“THIS ANIMAL STARTS -” “QUIET!” Officer Wilkes and I shout in unison, shutting Cyndy up immediately, although after a short pause, she started crying again,but much softer this time.

“Cyndy and I were walking over to the library so we could work on our Of Mice and Men Analysis Project. We walked the route through Church Road and Cherry Street, and as we were making our way over, this guy, we presumed to be injured, starts limping towards us. Being the oh so good Samaritan that she is, Cyndy walks over to the man to see if he needs any help—“ “An-and that’s when he pulled out this big wooden bat from undah his coat and started growlin—”

“Why didn’t you call 911?”

“I don’t have a cell phone, and Cyndy’s was dead…”

“In this past decade, I have not met ONE teenagah who didn’t own some sort of cellphone.” Officer Wilkes spat, eyeing me while I eyed him.

“My parents don’t believe in cellphones.

How is this releva-“ “Just go on with you story.” He said, flicking his wrist at me to continue. So I did. I told him about how when Cyndy and I couldn’t run anymore, we started looking for places to hide. We finally settled on the “creepy” cellar that was “covered in cobwebs” which was actually my aunt’s wine cellar. And contrary to Cyndy’s belief, there weren’t actually any spiders or cobwebs, just wine.

COLLIN HATCH

“Ladies, why don’t you come back with me?” he said exiting the welcome desk area and letting us into the station part of the police station. As we’re walking through the halls of the station, Officer Wilkes has his arm around Cyndy’s shoulder, offering her things like water and pretzels while I walk behind them, my rubber soles squeaking on the linoleum. We got into Officer Wilkes’s office, which was covered head to toe in with Patriots, Red Sox, and Celtics paraphernalia but not a single picture of his wife or three sons, where he invited us to sit down.

“Thank you, Cyndy,” I interrupt, not wanting my side of things to get tainted anymore by Cyndy’s frightened gibberish, “So he’s got this baseball bat out, and he’s just swinging that thing around at Cyndy.

So we start running in the other direction, running through alleys and yards and what have you to get away from this guy, but he just keeps chasing after us-”

“After we felt our attacker had left, we ran to the nearest police station, which was here. And now we’re here.” Officer Wilkes sat back in his spinning chair, looking at the both of us skeptically, deciding whether or not to believe me. And I looked right back at him, that stupid, villainous excuse for a cop.

He was maybe in his late fifties now, with his bald spot barely covered by a greasy comb-over and a grey caterpillar mustache hovering over his lips to accompany it. The officer’s arms were the only sign he had any kind of muscle left ever since he got promoted to chief. The fat that had accumulated after ten years of game-day beers and Big Doughy’s “Glazed and Dangerous” doughnuts had covered his neck and stomach. He leaned closer to his desk, looking

31

me right in the eye, and asked both of us, or maybe just me: “Do you honestly expect me to believe that louda crap?”

“Yes, we did, ‘cause it happened,” Officer Wilkes laughed briefly and looked at me stone cold again.

“If some maniac had been swingin’ some bat chasin’ a pretty young girl and her pet monkey through an occupied area like Church Road, we woulda gotten a call saying so…”

“Officer Wilkes—”

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

“That’s CHIEF Officer Wilkes to you, Honey Rogers!” he spat. Wilkes never seems to say anything more than he spits it out.

“Chief Officer Wilkes,” I said, “This all happened at two-thirty. People were still at work, and kids were still at school…”

“So why weren’t you?”

“Cyndy and I go to a charter school; we get let out earlier than kids in public school.” The room was dead silent now, not even a peep from Cyndy (except for a sniffle or eight). Officer Wilkes gave me a once over, up and down with his left eyebrow raised up.

“You know, Honey, slouchin’ like that’s not good for your back.” Officer Wilkes noted with an ugly little sneer, “But, hey, that’s not my business.”

And that’s when I just about had it with this no good, misogynistic, sports-crazed, dirty-pile-of-filth cop. I took off my hood revealing every scar and mark that covered my face and looked Officer Wilkes dead in the eye.

“Well maybe those white boys you let go shouldn’t have beaten my eight-year-old Pakistani ass so bad that I can’t physically sit up straight for the rest of my life.” I blinked at that dumb face of his and cocked my head to the side, “But, hey, that’s not my business.”

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Wilkes grinned.

“So that’s why you’re here” Officer Wilkes proclaimed, waving his big arms up in a big “Praise Jesus” gesture, “None of this ‘Baseball Bat Maniac’ bullshit, you just want to call me out over something you did to yourself.”

“Excuse me?”

“Because you just want someone to blame,” he laughed, “You look at yourself in the mirror every single night and think to yourself ‘why did god make me this way?’, when in all honesty, Honey, you did it all to yourself walking down that street all by yourself!” My face was contorting into something less pleasant than it already was.

“How was what they did my fault?” I shouted, “I was eight, I was just a kid, I never did anything to hurt anyone!”

“No, but your parents did.”

“If you’re referring to who I think you’re referring to, let me just clarify, my birth-parents in PALESTINE are not my real, raised-me parents. And that aside, that doesn’t mean my birth-parents are terrorists!” My fists were clenched, and my teeth were biting my tongue. Officer Wilkes smirked.

“You know the worst part about all of this wasn’t even that you wasted my damn time,” he looked over to Cyndy, who had been looking at us both in frightened interest ever since we started our altercation, “But you brought poor Lil Cyndy into this mess, too.”

“Well maybe you should have just listened to us like we were serious instead of digging up bad memories,” I said, pulling my hood back up.

“Well maybe you owe the state of Massachusetts five-hundred dollars for wasted resources.” Officer Wilkes retorted.

“The problem still exists, that man is still out there…”

“You’re lucky I’m not charging you with breaking and entering on private property.

And that’s just for the sake of Miss Cyndy, here.” We stared each other down, him looking down on me. …

I started walking home, the ticket for my fine in one of my pockets, when I heard Cyndy’s heals clacking sporadically down the sidewalk. I turned to face her and it looked as though she were going to start crying again. It was pathetic, but I honestly couldn’t blame her after all that had happened.

I turned to Cyndy before I finally started walking home.

“You owe me ninety-nine cents for the tissues.”

Officer Michael Wilkes “OH MY GOD, OFFI-FICAH, IT WAS HORRIBLE! THIS CRAZED MONSTAH RAN UP TO US WHILE WE WERE ON OUR WAY TO THE LIBRARY AND HE AND HE-HE WAS SWINGING THIS BAT AT US AN-AND HE WAS HAIRLESS AND COVERED IN THETHESE BLACK VEINS AND HE-HEHE WOULDN’T STOP CHASING US WE WERE RUNNING ALL THROUGH THESE ALLEYS AND WE HAD TO HIDE IN AN OLD CELLAR AND THERE WERE THESE COBWEBS ALL OVER AND IT WAS SO SCARY YOU GOTTA HELP US, OFFICAH, HE’S STILL OUT THERE!” Cyndy Horscham and Honey Rogers, that desert rat, haven’t even been in the station for a second, and I’m already blasted with nonsense about some psycho monster with

“Ladies, why don’t you come back with me?” I exited the welcome desk and let them both through the door, putting my arm around Cyndy to comfort her. Cyndy’s a big girl, standing over six feet tall, with years of Ben & Jerry’s and New England Clam Chowder and her mother’s apple pie and anchovy pizza filling her out just about anywhere the fat could go. And not only was a big girl, but she had curly blonde hair and red lips that the Grecian warrior, Paris, started the Trojan War over. Not to mention she was turning eighteen that weekend.

Meow.

“Hey, hey, it’s going to be okay,” I whispered, trying to comfort Cyndy as she kept on sobbing, “Can I get you anything like a water or some pretzels?” Cyndy’s face was dripping with mascara stained tears that dripped down to her neck and onto her white blouse. You could tell by her face that she was upset, and that some bad things had happened. But you could also see a sense of relief had washed over her face, a relief that told her she was in the right hands. Being in the arms of a ruggedly handsome and lightly aged cop, it could have been a picture that would’ve made your heart melt. You don’t see stuff like that anymore.

COLLIN HATCH

“Honey, what are we gonna do?” she asked as though I had an actual answer to offer.

In truth, I did, but that was my personal issue. I would get justice some day. Maybe when Officer Wilkes retires, I can expose him in front of the entire police squad at the retirement party, or maybe I can threaten him anonymously. But I know I can’t let him forget what happened to me.

a bat chasing them around the city. If you ask me, it’s bullshit, but I entertain it anyway, partly because Cyndy wouldn’t stop crying about it, but mostly because Honey was there. A girl is always bad news, but Honey wasn’t just any girl.

But then there was that goddamn Honey Rogers. Her full name was Mistia Honeydew Windbelle Hydrangea Dandelion Willow Celeste Starling Rogers. Apparently she had been adopted by these hippy types named Flora Something-Something Welch and Ganesh Something-Something Rogers. I learned that after she had gone to the hospital for severe head trauma ten years ago.

That little Osama leg humping dog, that bitch, was walking behind Cyndy and I, behind our precious little scene. That Honey Rogers made it a point to drag her feet on 33

the linoleum, making these screeching sounds with her rubber soles. Not only that, but Honey was wearing that ugly, black raincoat that was too big for anyone who had a body. It kept crinkling and scratching against itself as Honey walked, accompanying the squeaking of her shoes until we made it to my office.

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

That desert rat was out to get me, I could feel it the same way I could feel her eyes bore holes into my back as we were walking to my office. Let me tell you, my office is my baby. It’s covered head to toe in years worth of collecting and online bidding for Red Sox, Patriots, and Celtics merch. I even have a plaster cast of Tom Brady’s forehead on my desk! Paid nearly two-thousand bucks for that beauty, and it was worth every penny.

It pained me to bring that Islamic imp into that sacred space.

“Now ladies,” I said, laughing a little at the situation, “Without any crying or yelling, I want you to tell me…”

“THIS THING STARTS—” “QUIET!” Honey snapped, I warned, both of us in unison. It seemed as though Honey found that getting Cyndy involved in their story was going to ruin something. No shit there was no maniac batter running the streets of Boston, but I couldn’t figure out why Honey wanted to be here. Trying to read Honey was like trying to watch a game with your eyes closed. She always wore the hood up on that ugly ass raincoat, covering up her face while the rest of the coat covered most of her torso and legs. By comparison, Cyndy was an open book.

“Cyndy and I were walking ovah to the library so we could work on our Of Mice and Men Analysis Project. We walked the route through Church Road and Cherry Street, and as we were makin’ our way over, this guy, whom we presumed to be injured, starts limpin’ towards us. Being the oh so goody Good Samaritan she is, Cyndy walks over to the man to see if he needs any help…”

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“An-and that’s when he pulled out this big wooden bat from undah his coat and started growlin’…”

“THANK YOU, Cyndy,” Honey interrupts sternly, raising her arm to dismiss Cyndy’s claims, “So he’s got this baseball bat out, and he’s just swingin’ thing around…” Beyond this point, the sand urchin, the desert rat, the bomber in training, starts telling me the same story Cyndy did earlier, about how some crazed looney with a bat starts chasing these girls around the neighborhood.

“Why didn’t you call 911?”

“I don’t own a cell phone, and Cyndy’s was dead—” “In this past decade, I have not met one teenager who didn’t own some sort of cell phone.” I looked that little runt hard in the general vicinity of where her eyes would be if I could see them.

“My parents don’t believe in cell phones.

How is this releva—” “Just continue with your story.” That much I can believe, given the fruity granola nature of both her parents. Although one would think Honey’s parents would’ve given her at least a dumb phone, after all she’s been through.

Honey continued to tell me about how when they couldn’t run anymore, they began to hide. They rooted through dumpsters, garages and cellars before they found the “creepy” cellar Cyndy had been talking about before.

“Aftah we felt our attackah had left, we ran to the nearest police. And now we’re here.”

Honey then shrugged her shoulders and looked at me, waiting for a response.

I’ll say it again, that story was total bullshit.

Complete horse puckey. Quite frankly, I’m actually insulted that that little camel-humper expected me to believe any of it.

And that’s exactly what I told her.

“If some maniac had been swinging some bat around and chasing to girls through an occupied area like Church Road, we would have heard about it.” You would have though I had her stumped.

“Officah Wilkes—” “Ah, ah, Honey, we call our authority figures with RESPECT around here,” I said, smirking inside, “You call me ‘Chief Officer Wilkes’. Comprende?” Honey nodded her head reluctantly.

“CHIEF Officah Wilkes,” she began again, “People were at work, and kids were at school—“

“We go to a chartah school,” always full of excuses, that Allah worshipping devil, “We get let out earliah than the public school kids.”

I was running out of plans. That bitch was out to get me, I just knew it! But if I had one thing, Honey had another. It was like she was actually there to report a crime.

Eyeing her up and down, keeping my cool with furrowed brow and stern expression, I looked for anything that would prove that Honey “Sand Devil” Rogers was just trying to bitch slap my career in its thirty-year-old face. Don’t get me wrong, Honey and I have had our differences, but I couldn’t even think of a reason why she would be out to get me. At least, not until I saw the way she slouched in the chair in front of me, practically leaning over my desk.

“You know, Honey, that kind of posture isn’t so good for your back,” I said, leaning back in my chair in victory, “But, hey, that’s none of my business.”

“You know, CHIEF Officah Wilkes, the way you run your brand of justice ain’t so good for your career,” she thought she was so clever, “But, hey, that’s none of MY business!”

“My brand of justice?” I let the fire stay lit after that one. “’Cause, you know, letting those stupid tighty whiteys beat me up so bad that I was in a coma for two weeks run free isn’t exactly what one might call ‘legal’. Especially considering that because of those boys, I can’t physically sit up straight for the rest of my life. And of course, you can’t forget what they did to my face.” Honey pulled down her hood to reveal all the scars that covered her face, making it puckered in some places and absent in others, and not in the right places either. The only part of Honey that hadn’t been entirely affected by this so-called “beating” were her eyes.

Unlike her parents, Honey had big blue eyes, one of which bugged awkwardly out of her left socket.

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“So why weren’t you?” I would have asked her what makes her think that there weren’t wives still in there homes tending to their little domestic chores, but I considered all of the consequences that I would have brought on myself. Not to mention, asking Honey why she wasn’t at school was the perfect way to corner her.

And, oh, did that dirty little camel riding, Allah worshipping, terrorist in training let me have it!

She went on and on about how she wasn’t a terrorist, about how her parents had nothing to do with 9/11, and how she didn’t even praise Allah.

“You’re a pretty bad Muslim then, aren’t you,” I told her, giving myself a well deserved high-five in my head.

“You know, I’m here to report an actual crime, and you just blew everythin’ out proportion with diggin’ up these old wounds!” She yelled, tears streaking down her face, making it look even more distorted and unnatural. That was like Honey, though. She could never take the blame for anything.

“Actually, Honey Rogers,” I said, trying to hold back a victorious grin, “I’m just doing my job, and my job requires that I fine you for wasting my time.”

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“But that maniac—“ “Maniac, schmaniac!” I yelled, resisting the urge to hit her, “It’s bad enough that you had to waste my time! But then you had to drag poor Cyndy into all of this. I mean look at that poor little girl, all afraid and vulnerable because you can’t let go of the past! Get out of my sight!”

Honey looked at me, then looked at Cyndy.

Then looked at me again. Finally, Honey put her stupid hood up before storming out of the station.

Cyndy Horscham I heard it growl. I know it did, I was there, and as much as Honey Booboo Rogers likes to deny it, it wasn’t human.

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It all started when Honey and I were walking to the Colonial Library of American Literature to work on this Of Mice and Men project. Believe me, if I could’ve been paired with ANYONE else, even Diego, with his lisp and his nerve gas halitosis and his greasy and patchy upper lip, instead of Honey Dewdrop Windchime Whatever Rogers. I’m not racist, but that girl has issues.

Like, major issues.

Like, when we were walking on Ford and Chestnut Street to get to Border Avenue to get to the library, Honey Scarface Rogers Starts heading towards this shady neighborhood that only has Direct TV and probably sells meth on the down-low.

“Honey!” I tried calling to her, but she didn’t even flinch when I called over to her, again and again and again, forcing me to run after her. And believe me, it’s not an easy task in two-inch heels. When I finally catch up to her, she’s all: “If you don’t wanna be here, you can take another route. This is just the way I always take.”

“No way, man,” I smiled a big toothy grin, trying not to come off as threatening, “We’re partners, we stick together.” Talk about gross. I had my eye on that girl, that 36

Honey Hunchback of Notre Dame Rogers, and she wasn’t leaving my damn sight.

Like, I’m not racist, but that girl probably had some coke deal on side, and she probably keeps it all in the pockets of that ugly, black raincoat.

Then there was that creature/person/thing.

I didn’t know it at first, that it was some monster. He had these rags on, this blue hoodie that was greyed by dry dirt that had been caked on at some point, and these camo jeans that were covered in dirt too. He walked with a limp, like, a “someone just kicked my knee in with an axe” type limp.

“Hey!” I started speed walking up to the poor guy, seeing if needed help, until I felt Honey grab my arm from behind.

“What?”

“He’s just some homeless guy, he’ll be fine.” Like, I’m not racist, but this girl is so heartless. I pulled away and ran up to the guy. He was pale. Like, if you killed some guy and let him sit for a day kind of pale.

His eyes drooped in a way that he made him look dead (or dying) anyway.

“Excuse me, Sir?” I tried getting his attention, “Is everything alright?”

And then he began to growl. …

When we made it to the station, I noticed that there was screw that was tight inside me. Like, it kept everything, the emotions and truth, deep inside, where it couldn’t get out. But as I noticed it, it, like, began to come loose, and I felt everything begin to poor.

It was SO embarrassing. HONEY was supposed to be the one who was all psycho.

And there I was, crying my eyes out in front of the police station, with Honey Post-Traumatic Rogers looking at me like I’M the crazy one.

Like, I’m not racist, but this was the worst day of my life.

When Honey decided she wanted to go inside and leave me out to cry my eyes out, I manned up (perfect posture, squared hips and purposeful stride), and hurried behind that Honey Cookoo Cachoo Rogers into the station.

That’s when I saw Chief Officer Michael Jethro Wilkes. He was, like, the NICEST guy EVER. Like, I’ve known him ever since I was a baby. Actually, he was there when my mom broke her water, and he stood by her while my mom pushed me out. I swear, he was like the father I never had, besides my actual dad.

“Ladies, Why don’t you come back with me and we’ll sort this out.”

He’s such a gentleman. Like, you know, he’s been there for me since day one.

He’s walked me home from school so many times. He’s read my poems and my philosophical diaries and was all like That’s sooooo true.

I mean, he didn’t ACTUALLY say that, but he totally would, you know?

He put his arm around my shoulder and was all “Do you need anything, like a water or some pretzels?” Being the lady I am, I declined and thanked him for the offer.

It was kind of a sweet scene, like, I’m not racist, but seriously, you don’t see chivalry like that anymore.

Of course, Honey Literal Bitch-Face Rogers has a way of ruining everything. Like, not just in the way that she squeaked her sneakers ON PURPOSE on the linoleum. But like, in the way she BLAMED Officer Wilkes for what happened to HER face. I mean, everyone knows her deadbeat dad was the

The way it happened, according to the news, who heard from some pizza delivery boy, who heard his brother who got a text from an eyewitness who kind of saw it all from a crack in his Venetian blinds, was that her dad got all high on these cactus flowers and this “green potion” stuff that was really absinthe mixed with 2-parts cocaine and 5-parts Mountain Dew with a pinch of lye.

And like, apparently, she was either all “You’re not my REAL dad,” or “I personally AM a fan of Jesus Christ,” or “Why are we HERE, I told you I wanted CHURROS,” (but according to another eyewitness who heard everything from his Shi Tzu who heard through a air vent from two blocks away said it might have had something to do with them having an argument over who should win American Idol), but either way, he went completely bat-shit bananas on an ice cream sandwich and starting punching her, over and over until HIS hand started bleeding (Although he did say that he tripped and fell trying to save her from those white boys).

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I broke down again, crying so hard I thought my eyes were going to fall out their sockets. I don’t know how long it went on for, but when I stopped, I looked up and saw the pity in Officer Wilkes’s eyes.

It was the kind of pity that Honey Victim Child Rogers doesn’t deserve, the kind that doesn’t humiliate.

one that beat the shit out her, not some white boys. The only reason he’s not in jail is because he threatened to kill her for real if she didn’t drop the charges.

Like, I’m not racist, but I feel sorry for her.

“Go to hell, Wilkes!” she said, “I hope your dog pees on you in your sleep!” Like, honestly, I’d be mad if my dad beat me up so bad he made me uglier than I was before, but, like, get over it. …

But honestly, I do feel kind of bad for her.

Because, like she really doesn’t have any friends, and her parents are fucking weird.

And by weird, I mean awful.

Because, like, honestly, if you’re gonna adopt a kid only to beat the shit out of it, then what’s the point?

I don’t know. I honestly still don’t quite know how I feel about all of this.

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I went up to her afterwards, all “What are we gonna do, Honey, this is all so terrible,”.

She looked me dead in the eye, looking at me like the life in her just got sucked out by a Dyson Vacuum Cleaner (with 360° swivel technology).

“You owe me ninety-nine cents for tissues,” she mumbled a little louder than a mumble, and walked away, probably to her cave in Chinatown or under Boston Harbor or something.

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Like, I’m not racist, but like I hope she gets justice for what her dad did to her face. If I remember correctly, she used to be pretty for an eight-year-old Palestinian girl with deadbeat parents. Even symmetry on both sides of her face. Okay posture. Walking without a limp.

Very pretty.

“Hey, there’s my little Cyndy!” I turned around and saw Officer Wilkes, my hero, my not-dad dad in shining armor, running up to me in his civilian clothes with a big Santa grin on his face. He put his hand on my shoulder and made his face all serious, “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be walking the streets alone like this at night!”

“Officer Wilkes,” I giggled, “It’s only—” “Hey now,” he said sternly, “I thought I told you, when I’m in uniform, I’m Chief Officer Wilkes, but when I’m just a civilian like you, I’m just Mike. Plain ol’ Mike.”

“Office… MIKE!” I started giggling again, “There’s nothing remotely PLAIN about you!” We started laughing together, until our bellies started hurting.

But then I saw HIM, again. He had his bat raised in the air, ready to hit Officer Wilkes square in the noggin. I tried to warn him, I tried to scream, but it was too late. Far too late. Wilkes started squirming, convulsing on the marble of the police station, slipping on his own blood whenever he tried to get up. The batter kept swinging at the poor man, again and again, with an

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erratic rhythm as the bat made a thump noise whenever it hit Wilkes’s back or head or knees.

And, like, the worst part was, I didn’t try to help Officer Wilkes. I started screaming, like real screaming, and running in the other direction, towards home, and I couldn’t look back.

Like, I’m not racist, but I could never look back.

MEMOIR OF A SIXTH GRADE

by Collin Hatch

Sixth grade was the beginning of the end.

I mean, not quite, but that’s just how things feel on the bridge between childhood and adolescence. For me, at least, childhood was a blank space occupied by a television set, some family sized bags of Cheetos, and the once every school break visits I had with my mom ever since my dad and I moved to Philadelphia.

Any time before sixth grade was when I feel now that I had no control over myself. It wasn’t due to a lack of any actual control over my surroundings, it was just that come middle school, I was hit with a sudden surge of personal independence:

“You should come with us,” Dinushi would say.

“I’m not even finished my lunch!” I would say back, half munching on a peanut butter sandwich, which I actually heard that year was the sandwich of the lonely person.

So they would leave me, everyday during lunch, to finish what was left of my PB minus the J. The way the middle school schedule was set up differed from year to year (for absolutely no reason), but there was always the standard advisory period, which existed as pretty much the homeroom period. It was pretty small, and the people in it didn’t seem to have been selected for any reason in particular.

“Why do you look like death?”

“For all we know, you COULD be an alien.”

“Why do you walk up the stairs like you’re taking a shit?”

For the love of God, do not ask me why I decided that going up to this girl’s table was a better game plan than just sitting by myself for a brief period of time during lunch, because I’m still trying to figure that one out myself.

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I got my first cell phone, a Facebook page, and my first sense that the way I was living my life was not to its full potential. Back then, I didn’t have many friends, none of whom I hung out with outside the realm of school. To be honest, from beginning to mid-school year, the friends that I had I only hung out with during lunch. And even then, I would always get ditched for the library mid-lunch.

But there was this one girl in my advisory, named Tara, who I was actually introduced to as being a total and utter bitch. She was your standard mean girl stereotype: platinum blonde hair, skinny, and had something along the lines of the “valley girl” accent. There would be days in class where’d she’d be like

The day I went up to Tara and all her friends, these girls named Allie and Sophia, started fawning over me like I was someone who belonged on the cover of Seventeen Magazine, someone who couldn’t exist yet in the confines of Radnor Middle School.

“Kaitlin, your hair is beautiful!” Sophia said.

“Aren’t you, like, the coolest person in our grade?” Allie said.

“She totally is!” We would all laugh and laugh, and I couldn’t resist the feeling of being loved and adored by people outside of my family. It had either always been me and my dad, or me and my mom. Back when I was in catholic school, I had roughly three friends who I hung out with outside of school, all of whom were a year younger than me. And even so, it was never an affectionate relationship. Myi, a boy who lived in my apartment building, was what I considered then to be a complete and utter jerkface. Other Myi, who lived a few blocks away, was much nicer, but our relationship

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never grew beyond us spending a little time together now and again.

But this little experience, between me and these girls, was like I had just died and gone to Heaven. Becoming friends with these girls gave me so many friends, and even a crush. This crush, named Billy, who to this day is still a tall and awkward boy with pale and pimpled skin, was the thing that really made this era of “friendship” what it was.

I noticed it had begun when I was standing in line waiting to buy a snack from the snack bar, when this boy named Jimmy, looks behind me, and asks:

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

“You like Billy *******, right?” I’ve dealt with my crushes being leaked to civilian populations before, and it never ended very well. First grade, when I had a crush on my friend Phillip, who liked trains and pretty much nothing else, Steven found out based on the way that I was always with him what was going on. And he made his mission one lunch that he tell EVERYONE about it, individually, until a teacher saw that I was crying and I told her most of everything.

Come fourth grade, I had a crush on this boy named Liam, who had long brown hair and blue eyes with girly eyelashes. One day, during aftercare, which was the only time I ever saw him, I decided that I would write him a love letter on one of my index cards and leave it by his backpack.

It was such a scandal, and once the kids realized I was the only person who used those types of index cards, it was hell from then on.

So my reaction to having been asked “You like Billy *******, right?” and simply to say “No” and to stay quiet.

It didn’t work.

The news that Kaitlin Hatch had a crush on Billy ******* spread like wildfire within Tara’s group. Everyone knew, including Billy, and there was no turning back. Even though it was said that the feeling were mutual between us, Billy and I never asked each other out. To be perfectly frank, the 40

only reason I actually liked Billy in the first place was because one day, on the big rush from lunch to fourth period, in all the chaos, he told me: “I love you, Kaitlin!” There was laughter, but I believed him. People were nice to me and liked me, but they never said they LOVED me before. And I thought to myself, all day: “OMG, he could be my first boyfriend!”

It was as pathetic as it sounds.

And all during that school, my relationship with Tara and Sophia and Allie began to deteriorate. They wouldn’t actually talk to me.

There were days that they would say there was someone sitting where I was about to sit, and that I should find someone else.

This mystery person that was always sitting in my spot would never arrive halfway through lunch, so I would force myself into that seat.

Many times I would sit with other people.

I mean, these other people weren’t by any means my best friends, my confidants, but they were always nice to me, and they always have some seat open for me. However, during some other period, like advisory, Tara or Sophia or Allie or whoever would come up to me and ask: “Where have you been, we’ve missed you!”

Or, “Why don’t you sit with us?” And thus the cycle repeated itself. I would sit at their table, they would be nice to me, and then they would ignore or exclude me somehow.

That summer, while still barely communicating with some of these people, it suddenly clicked in my head, thinking about things over and over, that these girls weren’t my friends, nor did they want to be.

I was embarrassing, an object of humiliation that these girls could make fun of behind my back. In my anger, I looked online for private and boarding schools that my dad and Moira, my then to be stepmother, could send me to so I could start a new life, so I could maybe have another chance of having popularity and friends.

However, be it money or just seeing no reason to send me off to another school, I was stuck at Radnor, where everyone knew what had happened and that I was gullible and stupid. I ignored anyone who tried to be nice to me, sitting by myself, not letting anyone get close to me at all.

Essentially, I had gone from being the weird girl to the mildly psychotic girl. For someone who had been made fun of for being weird in the first place, it wasn’t a great jump to make. Quite frankly, if had kept my cool about it, I might have actually better decisions about who I was and who I wasn’t friends with, as opposed to giving everyone equal amounts hateful glares and spitting tongues.

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As time has passed, I have managed to make some friends, although most of them have not managed to last more than a year.

I mean, I have stayed great friends with individual people for over two years, but I haven’t clung to a specific group of friends for that long.

Although, I sometimes think that maybe if I hadn’t overreacted to what happened in sixth grade, if hadn’t gotten so vile and hateful, that maybe I still could have been friends with those girls and boys, and I could have been less weird.

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THE HATCHES GO CAMPING

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

by Collin Hatch

I had been into the woods before, but I had never been camping before. As in, middle of the woods, cooking on the fire, stars in the sky camping. Granted, we slept in a cabin that was heated, but I suppose that was because that even in May, the mountains are immensely cold.

he’s doing. Compared to me, if we were to be stuck out in the woods separately, by ourselves, I would be dead within the first or second day, while my dad could very easily live out there for the rest of his life, and maybe start his own colony if people ever came by.

My dad had always wanted to take me camping, even when I was little. For some reason though, we never got around to it.

Maybe it was because we spent most of my life living in the city, and any time we had time we had together during the summer was cut short by me visiting my mom in Alabama.

So the problem lies in the fact is that my dad would essentially have total and utter control of everything, because I wouldn’t know how to do anything. Therefore, I am left in a complete state of dependence on another person, which is not a game I like to play.

But if there is one thing to know about my Southern-raised father, it’s that he’s a manly man, something he refers to as being a “Renaissance Redneck.”

When we got to the campsite, and we were driving over to our cabin, we saw a woman jogging on the gravel road.

“The Renaissance Redneck,” he’d tell me, “Is basically doing all the fun things rednecks do, but without being a Republican.

You can camp, hunt, watch sports, drink beer, and the like. However, you aren’t racist or sexist or anything like that. You aren’t all ‘Obama’s a terrorist’ or ‘I have a Confederate Flag hanging in my trailer’...”

“So it’s essentially being a redneck, but you’re not entirely a dick.”

“Basically.”

Having never even taken his own child camping before, he and my stepmother, Moira, decide to book a cabin for Memorial Day weekend. I honestly didn’t know about anything of this until possibly April, and there’s nothing more that I wanted to do than get out of it.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved the idea of camping, I still do, but I had always wanted to do it on my own, or maybe with some friends. My dad’s a manly man, with strong muscles and an accurate sense of what

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However…

“Jeez, would you look at that nose…”

Moira said.

“She’s like Rudolph or something…”

Dad commented.

That was the first sign that I should have packed more than what I had. I mean, I knew it was going to be cold, but it was May, and I knew absolutely nothing about his campsite. Of the many things I didn’t know about this campsite was that the cabins only had one room, and that even if you wore ear plugs, the sounds of your parents snoring still echoes against the lacquered wood. But I didn’t know that I needed more than TWO sweaters, and scarves, and less T-shirts.

During the day, we had three activities we could choose to do: Kayaking, hiking, and biking on the bike trail. I didn’t really get much of a say in what we did, but I can’t say I could really complain about it. In actuality, our trip was a lot of fun.

First day at the campsite, we ate a fireside camping dinner. This included a thing of

heated, canned chili, grilled steak (fish for me), and biscuits made in the “Mountain Pie Maker™.” And while some of the food got burned, it was actually a very edible meal. In fact, I believe all our meals that trip were unique in their own way. Like how breakfast was bacon fried on the grill, or eggs fried on a small pan, or what have you.

In this way, having a fire constantly lit was vital to our survival. That was actually the trip my dad taught me how to build a fire.

“You’re a feminist, right?” he said, “The best way you can emasculate a man is asking him to build a fire and keep it lit. It’s an art, and it’s not as easy as it looks.”

That’s it.

With a controlled fire, you can do just about anything. You can keep warm, have light, but especially make standard camping food, such as hot dogs, canned goods, or s’mores.

Especially s’mores.

The second day up in the mountains, we actually went into town to do grocery shopping, because we forgot to buy marshmallows. And graham crackers. And chocolate.

Come to think of it, we forgot to pack a lot of certain food items. That aside, the

It was apple pie, too.

“But how do you make pies with an open fire?” you may or may not be asking yourself. With the “Mountain Pie Maker™,” of course! In previous meals, it had been used to make biscuits and sometimes sausage in the past. But not only was it being used as a pie maker, but also as a s’mores maker.

Using a the pie maker is a fairly simple task because it is an incredibly simple product. It’s two thick pieces of metal that curve away from each other connected to two metal rods connected by an axle.

Open metal, insert food into metal, place metal into fire and wait until you feel it’s done cooking.

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Basically, you need small, dry weeds, twigs, slightly larger twigs, and straight up firewood. Oh, and fire-pit. If you don’t have one that manufactured, a hole in the ground and some rocks will work just fine. In the very middle of your pit, or hole, place the dry weeds in a small pile. Working quickly, make a teepee with the small twigs around the dry weeds. With either your lighter, your matchbook, or, as in my case, your glasses, and light your pile on fire (if you don’t have any of these items, use your firepit rocks to create a spark until one of the sparks creates a flame). Create a teepee with larger twigs. Add firewood in a small box surrounding your flaming teepee as needed.

pinnacle s’mores making ceremony, as seen on every television, movie, and postcard, was to take place that night. But it wasn’t just s’mores. It’s never just s’mores with the Hatch family.

It sounds simple, but so is most of camping.

It’s just a matter of doing it efficiently and correctly that makes it so complex. It’s an art, and not everyone can do it.

Not to mention the s’mores were absolutely delicious.

Food was not the only aspect of this trip. As I mentioned earlier, there were the options of kayaking, biking, and hiking. While we did hike, the one time we did kayaking on that trip together, on the last day, was memorable. Not great, but memorable.

When you’re on a kayak, going downstream is easy, because the river is essentially doing all the work for you. But paddling upstream is the mother of all pain.

“Kaitlin, come on!” Dad, father of mine, has more muscle in his arms than I do. Generally speaking, he just has more muscle than I do. So for him, upstream kayaking is easy,

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a walk in the park, save his chronic back pain. However, I could very easily compare my muscle mass then (and even to this day) to that of a sea sponge.

“I’m trying!” My dad was about eight feet ahead of me, paddling along to the shoreline in order to meet Moira, who was waiting for us both at the main dock. We had been at this for half an hour already, and my arms felt like spaghetti noodles getting cooked in a pot.

“Catch up!” Now he was fourteen feet ahead of me.

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“COME ON!” I shouted, ready to ditch the kayak and climb to one of the bank edges, for the sake of being kind of tired. However, this was not an option. Either get to the dock or die trying. Stroke after stroke after stroke, I kept making inches in headway as I paddled with a fury akin to that of a fat otter. About ten feet to the dock, I started screaming like one, too, because it wasn’t just that it was physically painful to do this task. It was immensely frustrating. The screaming didn’t last very long, due to the fact my family weren’t the only ones out on the lake that day, and even if they were, it’s still just really awkward.

When I finally pulled up to the shoreline, I didn’t bother with taking off my lifejacket.

I ran up to grass, the only park of the lake that wasn’t sand, and fell down (in relief, not pain). The sun was warm that day in the mountains, enough to almost make me melt into a pool of liquid skin and hair.

I could have stayed like that, if my dad hadn’t told me to get up and help him get the kayaks onto the truck.

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THE MAGIC IN PHILADELPHIA

by Collin Hatch

The “Magic Gardens” in Philadelphia, created by Isaiah Zagar, is odd both inside and out. As a mosaic, it’s created out of pieces stuck together to create a work of art.

However, Zagar’s garden is more than just clay and glass. Objects such as glass bottles, bicycle wheels, and sculptures from other artists come together to create this unique space.

With seemingly miniscule imagery and phrases, Zagar manages to capture the small parts of life that we forget are so beautiful and so frightening. And although it is so frightening at parts, or maybe just flat out bizarre, Zagar does it in a way that doesn’t just make it all seem crushed and chaotic.

He does it in a way that makes it all make our seemingly imperfect world make sense.

COLLIN HATCH

At first glance, looking into the garden that’s guarded by a gate that is covered in tiles and clay itself, one might find that the “Magic Gardens” are a chaotic mish-mash of garbage put together and called art. The chaotic part is only a fraction of the truth, but that’s what makes it so organized.

Because if you look closer, at how the tiles are strung together, and how Zagar brings his own painting onto the tiles, that’s when you see the magic in the gardens. In a sense, the gardens are almost a representation of the world according to Zagar. In the small details, the one’s that can be either so jagged or so beautiful, or even both, one can see how they come together to create something beautiful.

ery such as nude bodies and genitalia from all genders. There was even a small poem written in tiles called “a brief history of the future”, with lines as simple and complex as “Isaiah Keeps working” and “Julia and Isaiah decided to get remarried”.

The way the gardens are set up are unique on its own: at the entrance, there are already pieces of mosaic sprawling from the walls and into the rest of the museum.

Going farther, there’s even a bathroom that doesn’t appear to perform its function as such (although the opposite is true), being covered in tiles and sculptures and glass bottles.

As colorful and jaw dropping as the insides may be, the outside, where the garden is, is the true masterpiece. The images and objects ranged from innocent concepts such as plates and stone faces, to more daring imag-

45

SUNDAY HTOO PHILADELPHIA, PA

THE PROVINCE OF FRIENDSHIP

by Sunday Htoo

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

Junie always wore glasses to see things clearly. Today she had to use them to hide her face. She had a slight trail of tears running down her face, and her bizarre mascara was cut in half. She threw her emotions onto a busy road, a never ending one, at least that’s how she felt. The sun was shining through the trees, lingering within her face, and the glasses bounced back the warmth of the light, not warming up her cold tears. Was it the day or the sunlight that was giving her a complete headache.

There was a huge cloud waiting to tear her apart, which made her scared. She broke down to fully cry, and the sun went away. The rain started pouring, erasing her mascara, and throwing her down to the muddy ground. The road was made of little scraps of rock and dirt. It was hard to ride her bike up the hill. By now the slope of the hill was very slippery, even a stick won’t help her get to the top. It seemed forever for her to get to the top, but High School felt the same.

Junie carried herself up the front stairs, and ran to take off her uniform. She threw her white shirt to the ground and blue pants on the couch. When she finally made it to her room, she stripped off her underwear, stared at herself in the mirror, purple lips and smooth glowing pale red skin. She ran her eyes from her head to her toes to examine every part of her body, until she finally felt the need for a shower. The rain was very warm and she didn’t feel like taking a hot bath. She turned the water cold, and took a long, meditative shower. She could feel the coldness to her bones, and the roughness of the floor to her bottom. Feeling fully awake 46

after the shower, she dried her brown hair, and made her way to bed. She lifted up the sheets, yawning, then slipped into her bed. She felt the comfort of the sheets, and the coldness in her bones slipping away.

She looked up at the ceiling as the light faded away.

There was a very loud sound, from outside the window. She couldn’t recognize what it was, until after a few moments she woke back into reality. It was a fire truck!. The rain had stopped. She dashed out of bed, heading for the door, when she remembered her clothesless body. She wanted to see what this was all about, so she skipped to putting on just a pair of pants and a loose shirt. She made her way outside. She walked through the long front lawn, and without climbing over the brick wall, she made her way to the grand metal gate.

There it was, the mansion was on fire! There was a fire truck outside, with firemen inside the gate. The differences between Junie’s mansion and Singh High’s mansion was that Singh’s mansion was on fire. A lot of people came out to stare and watch, mostly the kids from the village, as the mansion’s owner stared out the window. It was a once in a lifetime to see a rich English province in Japan burn down. Within the crowd of kids, young, tween, and teens, a black haired, white shirt with blue pants made its way out with a bike. His cap hid the top of his face, but Junie could see his eyes glaring at her. He seemed to be in a rush, to get somewhere, as he came out of the crowd.

Junie recognized the bike from the Villagers Bike Shop.

It wasn’t a great day, but Junie thought it was nice enough to head down to the Villagers Bike Shop. School was out, like a campfire, for the weekend, and she would need some better wood for a better campfire for the next time. She turned as she walked down a path of shops to the large letters, “Villagers Bike Shop”. She went in, and after a while she examined a pink, brightly lit bike, with a basket in front, and a rear seat on top of the back wheel. A young man in a blue shirt came over, asking her what she needed, startling her. She looked up noticing the hat from last night. She wasn’t sure if it was the same person. He was in between tall and short and skinny. You could see the vein under his eyes appearing.

His arms were lean, but soft looking. He had

a tool in his hand that Junie didn’t seem to recognize. She finally spoke, “I would like to have this bike.” “Oh sure, you have to go to the counter.” They both lifted the bike, and brought it over to the counter, and Junie slipped the money into his hand. “Were you at the fire last night?” “Yes, I was.”

“Why were you rushing to get out?” She said this naturally, like she could never say things before. This is the first time she heard herself talk without thinking, just being curious. “I had forgotten to close the shop before I left to see the fire, but I realized it when I didn’t have the keys with me.” They didn’t talk much after that as he examined the bike. He offered to get the bike to her house, up the hill, and she brightly agreed.

They made their way up the hill, softly and slowly, when the all-in-blue young man said, “If you want, you could ride the bike to school. Just take it to the shop and I’ll ride it up the hill for you.” She was embarrassed because she didn’t know this person, and he knows she goes to school. He doesn’t seem to have money to go to her school.

“Which school do you go to?” she asked.

“The English Province of North Sainghai.”

That was the same school she was going to.

She probably can’t remember him, because, after all, she showed up in the middle of the school year last year. He went on to explain how Singh was paying for him, and how kind her family was. He was sad to see the fire burning the mansion. As they made it to the top of the hill, everything turned quiet.

Just then, she realized she never caught his name. She turned around as he walked away. “What is your name?” He turned around and smiled. He walked towards her.

SUNDAY HTOO

That was it for the night, and she finally made her way into the house after everything was settled down. She felt a new burning of her atoms, and the pit of lava in her stomach, her muscles growing tense, as she thought of piano practice. She hated piano, but her parents thought she was really good at it. She loved it as a kid, but she had grown apart from it after a while.

She threw herself onto the leather chair, as uncomfortable as she felt for having to sit on a once living animal. She played through the sound of the harsh world. She cried out with the sound of the piano for a long, tired, worn out heart. She played until her parents got home. As they came in, she gave them a casual hug, and headed back to her room, and locked the door. She stripped her clothes off, grabbed a book, and slipped under the sheets again. She read all night, until she could finally fall asleep.

47

“My name is Noo.” Noo was oddly fluent in English. Unlike most other Japanese, he seems to understand more than Junie did.

Junie’s mom was from Sweden, and her father was from India, and they both were English speaking individuals. She speaks both English and Japanese.

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

She showed up to school the following Monday, almost on time. She rode her bike, but had a slight problem when her tire popped. It’s been a week since she’s seen Noo. She was curious if he was skipping school. At lunch she went to search for Noo, but couldn’t find him. She went to Singh, and asked her about Noo, and Singh asked her to get away. “Why do you want to know?” “Because my bike popped a wheel,” Junie said softly. “Is he your toolbox now?”

“No, I got the bike from him, and I feel only he can fix it. I’ve been looking for him all week, but he hasn’t shown up to school.”

Singh sighed and stood up. She ran herself over to the trashcan and emptied her tray.

She walked back to Junie and told her to follow her. “He misses school a lot,” Singh stated, as they walked toward a bright sunlight with a windy view. The grand stairs for the way down were grey, and the floor was brightly clear, so clear that the ceiling shone on the floor.

This was the first time Junie noticed Singh’s green almost covering the blondeness of her hair, and she had a nice accent. It was Scottish, which made Junie realized how impossible it was for Noo to understand her. But it wasn’t that way to Singh, who always thought of Noo as a brightly colored human being, who was the most loved, and understood her accent completely. Junie can’t help but examine Singh’s hair, it was uniquely wavy with a touch of curliness.

They made their way out of the gate and onto the road. They walked past a stream, over a wooden bridge, flowing across the dirt road. Junie had never experienced walking across wide rice fields. She felt as calm as the wind in the moment and with Singh by her side, it felt like she finally had a friend. Singh speaks of having lived here forever and that she had never lived in the 48

city. She wants to explore the world she lives in, at least she wants to be free. Junie was pure and clean, with no effects from the world,. She just wanted to please her parents. Singh was singing in French as they were walking towards a long, well-planted garden, within a poorly fenced-in house.

The stair was made of bamboo, and so was the house. The roof was of leaf, and the little rocks inch into their feet. They both realized it was almost night, but there was still a little light out. The bees buzzed across the garden and a broken swing creaked. Junie was scared, like never before, but she felt the need of also wanting this. She never loved being on her own, but was it what she wanted, or was it what her parents wanted.

They both stepped inside at the same time, and found Noo with a sick looking old man.

Noo couldn’t say anything, or get anything that could make his father feel better, except to get something to cover him with. Next to him was a writing. Noo held a handwritten poem in his hand. It read in Japanese, “You are my imperfect, incomplete, impermanent cup. I’ll keep drinking from it, no matter chips and nicks. Don’t mend them please, I see eternity in those asperities.” Singh sat down and read the piece of writing, with tears running down her face. Noo himself was art, and nothing can break him, because he was already broken from birth, and he had accepted it. Was it a poem from his father or for his father?

Was it a poem for her, or the world to her?

Junie stared at the old man, cold and blue, felt his hand, and sunk into her shell. She cried with sadness, and hugged Noo. She ran outside and sat on the broken swinging chair. She sat on the spot that was carved Wabi-Sabi. Singh came out and explained the significance of Wabi-Sabi, with her thick Scottish accent. “Wabi-Sabi is the art of imperfection, incomplete, and impermanent. It’s who you are, and it’s ok to be it.” Junie admitted, “It is who I am. I am starting to see it. I can see the broken piece I am, and the carve of my piano, the hole in my life, and the indent in my personality.”

Junie was crying with joy and sadness, tears reflecting the bright stars.

Junie, Singh, and Noo just sat there in the hot sun and drinking water out of bamboo cups. Noo put his head down and started to cry. Time passed, as they all sat around, out of boredom, but also loving the garden. Noo talked of his father and losing his mother.

He never had any friends, until Singh came along and showed him the world. He kept finding a repeating pattern of only searching, and nothing was the answer. He eventually found the meaning of only searching and never finding. He could only enjoy searching for the answer, but the searching was made possible by never finding the answer. Junie and Singh were curious about his hair and his face, and most importantly about his life. Junie wanted to cry from happiness, but couldn’t with the feeling that happiness was dealt with a smile. It didn’t matter after Noo stood up and made his way toward his house.

Junie and Singh just stood up and stayed there. Singh looked in Junie’s direction and said, “It was very nice this morning, the two of us. If you could stop looking at Noo, I would love to show you the garden. You

are a fine looking, young, sexy lady.” Junie blushed bright red, realizing the humor of Singh, and the fact that she might be only half joking her. Junie explained how love doesn’t exist within a single person but among others. Singh sighed saying, “Tell that to my ex boyfriend. The only thing he could love was me, and everything else was his toy, and yes I broke up with him, nicely, but harshly with kindness.” Singh’s way of telling her story made Junie cringe, and gave her a tingling sensation.

Noo came back out with a white fabric bag.

He looked up at the two, as he finished tying the bag. “I am going to France. There’s a world out there for me.” Without hesitation, Junie and Singh decided to go along.

They both made their way across the plant fields of the hidden village, hoping to hop off the Island in a world where the earth was only a tiny existence. As they come up from the trees, Junie and Singh wanted to get their clothes and money. They both ran up the hill, collecting a bag of clothes, and a picture of their family. They all knew that home is your heart, and that they were old enough to make it outside in the world.

Making their way down to the Bike Shop to get three new bikes, Noo walked between Junie and Singh to tell them that they are now his family. They shared a laugh in a world between two women, and a woman with a man, all of it being ok. But they all loved each other, even if time didn’t exist within them, except for the knowledge of growing up. Strolling three bikes, they made their way back to the shore.

SUNDAY HTOO

They sat for the night, until they fell asleep.

As the warm breeze hovered over them, they fell into each other’s arms. As the sun came up in the morning, they both felt it digging into their skin. They woke up and, struck by the sun in the eye, were blinded with brightness. The sound of an object digging into dirt came from a distance. Both in blue pants and white collared shirts, they made their way over to the back of the house. Junie cleared her glasses as Singh took her white shirt off. Underneath her whiteness was a yellow flower that never existed in plant history. It was weary looking, and burning with sadness. The bottom read in Japanese “Existance.” They found Noo digging a rectangle hole, and laying alongside was a white sheet. He finished what he had worked on all morning, and he didn’t seem to cry. The three of them took his father over the indented earth, and released the old, fully existed man into the mother of death, and accepted the greatness of death that comes with the living.

On the dock stood an old man. A ship was labeled “Europe,” but not specifically France. They boarded the ship secretly within the darkness, and went into the bottom of the ship in a corner with a small window. The vent was loud for a tiny room, but the vent itself was small. Junie looked out the window, as Singh was reading, while Noo wrote on his clear, white sheets of paper. A young man made his way over, looking older than them, and asked where they were going, wanting to make sure they got to where they wanted to go. The three 49

were panicked and startled, but relieved to find the young bearded man was friendly.

He smiled a white, clear smile, with his brown skin illuminated by the sun, and gave his hand to Singh. As he introduced himself, he sat and dropped a military bag next to Noo. They all sat around, and the brown, young man finally introduced himself as Sabone from Africa. They all looked at him and give him a huge smile and together said, “Hello, Sabone from Africa.” Sabone had a long story to tell, and it was a long ride, but he took out an English book that made them feel they were in for a ride. It was called “The Art of Wabi Sabi”.

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

The ship made it’s way out of the dock, and off into the distant sunset. Reflective over the water, the blue sky faded to grey. As they all sat around seeing the world for the first time, they felt the need to eat. They all felt depressed about moving away from home, and felt the need to explain themselves, except for Noo and Sabone.

Junie started writing: Dear Mom and Dad, Twas the night I came home from practice that I realized how you want me to be you, rather than me be myself, Mom. I saw the night for what it was. I saw the night for being me.

He always pushed you to love him, and make himself worth it. You were sweet, and He, dad, was very kind at heart. You guys don’t know how much I have felt the kindness of the world when I’m at home, but when I go out, I see myself feeling lost. I don’t want you or myself to be the reason I never got to live. If I don’t come back, don’t miss me, just remember me as a part of the world. I am the world, and Mom, you are my tunnel. Dad, you were my gateway to growth. And I am my gateway to peace and happiness. The piano keys give me anxiety, knowing the world was as loud as it was. The toughness of thunder scared my weakened heart. The loudness of the piano gave me sadness, as my anger went away. I could feel the heat of you both. It’s been a very tough year for me, and I now know I can’t run away. I can only find the world I can live in. I love the way you treat me, but I want to treat myself good 50

now. You guys were my exception in the world, but you held enough. I’m sorry if I wasn’t the bright kid who used to love playing piano, or loved showing you how to play piano. But I think Judy had been my most unfortunate truth about the world. I know I can’t heal with tears, and I can’t heal with running away from my problems. Instead I’m going to find myself, and make sure I can be okay. I miss Judy a lot and I know you miss her, too, but I can assure you I won’t miss you because I know you will always be with me. I love you both, and everytime I think of you I will think of Judy, and as I think of Judy, I will think of my once beautiful and loving family. Make sure not to look for me, because you’ve had enough of me. I think it is fair to say the world can have me now. I will hear the sound of piano, and think of you, and I will cry to Judy bashing my piano. But when I cry, I just want to say I’m sorry for not being me.

Love and Happiness, Junie As tears ran down Junie’s face, all of her mates, and new family wanted to cry.

Singh had tears running down her pure face, after seeing the sadness of Junie’s face, but looking off to the distance, she cried for her family. She thought of the night at the fire, and having to stay at her grandparents house. She looked off to the distance and breathed, and looking back to the paper, wrote: Dear Grandma, I am sad that your daughter is dead, and the boy you placed your trust in was, too. I don’t know how I could live without a normal family.

My whole world is gone, and everyone has left.

I miss your smile, and your kind heart. I miss mom, and dad. I’m sorry if i can’t show up to the funeral, if I’m not there, please know that I am out in the world. Please keep the house, but I will come and visit when I feel the need for you. I know life happens and everyone’s life is not perfect. I miss you, and wish you well, Grandma.

Love, Singh High

Both, not understanding how they feel about this event, felt they knew how Noo feels about it. He felt free about it, and it gave them courage. They had cried with him, and hoped he cried with them, too.

Noo sat there, knowingly understanding Singh and Junie, and gave a satisfactory smile that he made a good choice. He turned toward Sabone and asked him his story. “I was from Africa, before I moved here as a kid. I feel I can go back to Africa to see my hometown where I was born, now that I’m old enough and have experienced the world.”

SUNDAY HTOO

Noo stood, he grabbed the letters of Junie and Singh, and made his way out when he saw a boat. Singh and Junie were listening to Sabone’s life with laughter and giggles. Noo made his way out to the side of the ship, where the moon was up in the sky. The boat came by with the name of the town written on it’s side. Noo wrote Junie’s and Singh’s addresses on the paper, and tossed it into a box on the side of the boat. As he turned around he saw the tiny world they lived in on the side of the hill, the top of the hill, and the great rice field the mansions oversee. He could see the mansions, but he couldn’t see his house. He looked off to the boatyard, and remembered his father waving as he looked with tears in his eyes, and his mom’s soft hand on his shoulders, painlessly giving a slow twist to turn around.

His father with a hat and a fishing net, was waving aimlessly to him, with the hope of providing for his family. Noo strengthened up and walked towards the edge of the boat, and bowed for his never fading memories.

The ship gave out an obnoxious whaling sound as the bird on the blue sea flew away.

Noo waved and headed back to his secret hiding place.

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ERIN LESO PHILADELPHIA, PA

YOU WILL BE REFLECTED

by Erin Leso

The man who made me feel like I was everything and something I mean really something, that was new We danced like a husband and wife Not like a hooker and gigilo

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

He held me tight, like a pencil We laughed, we cried, we just loved like There was no tomorrow, time lied Tomorrow did come and with pain I looked at the car mirror and saw my man french kissing… a man I saw that, but that confession had to be too blurry to see Mr. big lover boy left and broke my heart but not my mirror Two unbelieveable years… gone Like funerals, gone but never Forgotten like a beer bottle Shattered on the floor, alone like...

Me; friends are too far, they left with him I smudged the mirror and thought I was nothing again, worthless, and weak But I was wrong, I saw something When I moved, my reflection did the same, it was alive and well That means I must be too, I’m strong Stronger than I ever was because of this glass confidence maker When the pain comes back, I just look at what was always there for me, A simple piece of glass that shows What I need to see with no dirt

52

THE SOUND OF SILENCE

by Erin Leso

You think that silence is golden? Maybe in a movie theater, but not in reality. I’ve been told all my life that I was the quiet and strange one in any group. You could tell that I wasn’t into trying new things. Not only because I was a picky eater when I was younger, but because I never really gave myself the chance to do or try something that my parents didn’t expect or wouldn’t be pleased with. I’m an only child and always thought I had to please everyone.

But to this day, I try to overcome those words that I hear people say like, “That quiet girl (who never says anything) just goes with the flow,” or, “Let’s talk crap about that girl that doesn’t say much; she wouldn’t know.”

That was always my motto growing up.

Even when I met that one girl, Aiyanna, who I’m still good friends with to this day, I didn’t care what people thought of me as a person. She was (is) incredibly nice to me as we would always play tag everyday at recess. I remember we were always laughing and just having a good time together. We became closer as the years went on and she was actually the one who made me smile more. The same was true when I met another girl, Brianna, who is just like her but a little more serious. I tell you, we all used to say the goofiest things whenever we would fight about the most stupidest things. All is the same now; we were there for each other then and we’re always there for each other now.

But school wasn’t the only thing that made me confident about myself. Besides writing, I’ve been dancing for 14 years at a studio outside of school. I’ve been doing tap, jazz, and ballet with my cousins and some other girls who I have become very close to (especially now). They and my dance teacher were the ones who really introduced me to the art that I now worship just as much as writing. I’ve learned to love dancing so much that I actually did a solo (which I always wanted to do) when I was 16. It was a ballet/ theatrical piece that helped me forget all the craziness that I dealt with in high school. When I did it front of my dancemates and many others, I’ve never felt so free to be myself in my life. After I danced, everyone was applauding and telling me how good I did and how they were shocked how that came out of me.

ERIN LESO

Well, as one of my idols once said “I don’t give a damn about my bad reputation.” I don’t care if people think (thought) I was strange because I talk to myself a lot and played by myself at recess during 1st and 2nd grade (before I met the one girl who helped me break my shell); I wasn’t going to stop being my real self. They can call me weird, outdated (because of my taste in music), crazy, and fat; but retarded and silent is where I draw the line.

They both made my childhood that much more enjoyable. I was always fine in school, but being with them always made going to school so much worth it. But it wasn’t just them that really made me more open to things. There were also the school musicals I did with another classmate who I was very friendly with, Marissa, who has done way more than I have and who really made me do them for fun. I remember having a ball with her and the other kids I’d meet with our theater teacher.

Their reactions is what inspired me to do the same dance in a little “end of the year show” in my dance program in high school that got the same reactions. There, I did it front of my classmates and had the same feelings it did doing the dance before as I did then. It felt especially rewarding that I was also doing it front of the people who I thought were my friends. This is where “silence isn’t golden” comes in.

Starting high school is hard for everyone, especially when your bestest friends are going to different schools and only three other kids from your old school are going to the 53

same as you. At least I stayed with Marissa for the first few days. Then, I met two other girls, Sarah and Tasia, in my dance program who really welcomed me into their circle of friends and I was happy. We would talk about how crazy the teachers were and they would do my makeup for me on certain days (even though I didn’t really like to wear it). Everything was awesome, until March of our freshmen year. I noticed that they started asking me for money and homework a lot, laughing at me when I wasn’t being funny, and never really invited me to any of their parties, and there was a lot of them.

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

For years, I have been cursed to go along with the flow and never really learned to stand up for myself when I was being taken advantage of. But when I finally did take charge, I just started talking to some other girls in my dance program who were nicer. I tell you, the girls I started talking to treated me way better than Sarah and Tasia ever did. They still come up to me and ask me for homework, but now I just say no. I know they talk a bit of crap about me now, but I don’t care. I don’t care if I don’t please them (or anyone else), anymore.

I don’t care that some people on the streets call me a slut or b**** or laugh at the way I walk when I’m listening to my favorite songs that make me dance randomly. I don’t care if people judge things I like, like my idols (Joan Jett, Freddie Mercury, David Bowie, and Alice Cooper) who have really helped get me through some hell in my life.

Actually, I think they and my friends have helped me become stronger and confident in myself that I finally broke the silence and found my voice.

I’m finally not afraid of looking like a fool with trying something strange that I’ve always wanted to. But most importantly, I finally have a real voice (not just through my writing or dancing) but vocally to tell people my opinions and how I feel about things, and what I really want to do with MY life rather than going with what everyone else wants like a dead fish.

54

EMILY LOTTERMANN OAKLAND, NJ

BAD POEM

by Emily Lotterman

Dear Dylan When you called me out to the woods, I thought we would consummate our love for the first time but instead you said I was much too fragile a soul for you to tarnish.

EMILY LOTTERMANN

It wasn’t long before I discovered you had another girl with blonde hair and big tits named Brittany.

The salty tears now streaming from my eye sockets remind me of the rain that fell that day.

I wonder if your knife is still stained with the blood that contained my love for you.

You shattered my heart into a jigsaw puzzle leaving me to recollect the pieces.

Melancholy courses through my veins spilling out of the wounds you left me.

Oh Dylan how your ice blue eyes that once looked upon me with such adoration now tear me to pieces.

Now I sit and wonder if I could ever love someone half as much as I loved you.

55

KEIRA (MICKI) MCKINLEY PHILADELPHIA, PA

SHOPPING LIST

by Keira (Micki) McKinley

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

1 pack Marlboros 2 dozen eggs Cake mix Chocolate chip muffin mix Milk Sierra Mist Pasta - spaghetti?

Spaghetti, other various pasta shapes Green beans New People I killed my mother-in-law last night Clorox Hefty bags Febreeze

56

TOXIC FRIEND

by Keira (Micki) McKinley

When I didn’t behave how Sydney wanted me to, she knew how to punish me. She held us to different standards as well; while she make as many friends as she wanted, I was restricted to being friends with her.

I recall one time, when I was nine and she was ten, she chose to partner with someone else for a project in one of our drama classes.

I don’t remember all the details, but I felt she had wronged me; after all, I always chose her for a partner because she gave me the silent treatment when I didn’t. When I

rashly called her out on it at that moment, she forced herself to break down into tears.

Everyone saw me as the bad guy, and I felt guilty. Three years later, I started to be interested in boys. At camp, we were paired off into different group levels. I was upset about being separated from Sydney at first, since I felt she was my best friend, but I knew another girl in my group well, and we stayed close. We formed a friendship with a boy I thought was cute. When Sydney saw us during the lunch hour, she joined us and immediately tried to take control over the situation again. She decided she liked the same boy I did, and whispered into my ear that I had to get his number for her. She whispered so loudly that he most definitely overheard, and I felt embarrassed. The next day, the three of us avoided her. The day after that, our mutual friend in my group, Sierra, told me that Sydney thought I was a bitch, and she had asked her to relay the message. I told Sierra to tell Sydney “Ditto.”

At lunch that day, Sydney and a few other girls confronted me, yelling that I was a mean girl and asking why I would insult her like that. I apologized under duress, and the other girls accepted that. Sydney didn’t, and we didn’t speak for the entire summer.

KEIRA (MICKI) MCKINLEY

When I was eight years old, I discovered Camp Walnut. I loved acting, singing and dancing. I loved creating my own characters and being a part of a group of people who enjoyed the same. When I was nine years old, I went back and I met the girl who, for years, I would call my best friend: Sydney Chin. Sydney and I seemed to have the same enthusiasm and imagination. We pretended to be psychics, and shared our “visions” with each other. We also pretended to be ghost hunters, and the Walnut Street Theater was our searching ground. Our only difference was our ages; we were both born in 1997, but Sydney was born in May, while I was a December baby. Thus, we were in a different grade, and when summer would come, Sydney was always a year ahead of me. Our age difference didn’t bother us, but for different reasons. I have been told I am an old soul all my life, so at the time being friends with an older girl seemed reasonable. To Sydney, having a younger friend excited her because she had an advantage over me. She didn’t want to just be friends; she wanted me to look up to her, to admire her. And that was the root of the problem. I wanted an equal friendship, but she wanted to be the one in charge. She knew how to relate to me and be just friendly to keep me coming back. Soon enough, I picked up traits from her: a tendency to over exaggerate, and at times, outright lie. I gained a sense of always being a victim. Sydney’s toxicity was sinking in.

I felt the same nagging guilt that I was the one who had wronged her, and I apologized to her via e-mail before I started seventh grade. We became friends again, corresponding via e-mail and instant messaging.

We planned to write our own TV show, a spin-off of “Gossip Girl” revolving around the main character’s middle school aged children. I wrote the scripts, and Sydney decided who she was going to cast from our camp, making herself the star.

The project never got off the ground, but she often pressured me to churn out scripts like I was a writer for S aturday Night Live.

This time, I wasn’t bothered, as I enjoyed writing, and at least she was motivating to do something I enjoyed.

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The summer before eighth grade, I went to a summer program at St. Joseph’s Prep, and had a good time. I didn’t even see Sydney, and we corresponded through the internet pleasantly. The summer after that, based on changes in our schedules, neither of us went to Camp Walnut. Instead, we went to a summer acting camp at the Arden. We both got along with the other kids well, and enjoyed our time. But once again, a boy was involved. I liked Kieran, a guy in our acting class. In my time under Sydney’s influence, I recalled being too shy to talk to him much.

In actuality, Sydney dominated both of our time. She decided she liked him too. She specifically went to our drama teachers and asked to be cast in a love scene from “Our Town” with him.

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

And he inevitably fell for her, as she had shown so much interest in him.

I felt like she had stolen him from me, and in a way, I was right. She didn’t steal the boy; after all, he was a person, not property.

But she stole any opportunity for me to even be friends with him, by constantly rehearsing with him, flirting with him, even going as far as to speak over me when I tried to talk to him. I avoided her out of anger and jealousy for a few months, but I made myself forgive again, telling myself I was being selfish, and that our friendship was too strong to destroy over a boy. Still, I avoided joining the Arden Teen Council during the school year, as I was struggling in high school with academics.

We bonded again over the internet, and I went back to the Arden camp the summer before sophomore year. I made friends with a boy named Jackson based on our shared interest in internet video reviewers and pop culture from the past. Sydney didn’t appreciate this at all. She originally tried her opportunity dominating methods, but he paid them no mind, she resorted to being dismissive of both of us. This time, Jackson and I were only just friends, but she was still upset to see me flourishing without her, as she had been when I grew closer to Sierra three summers earlier.

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I kept in limited contact with Sydney after this summer, but I still tried to stay her friend. Then my junior year came along.

I joined the Teen Arden Council based on her suggestion. Unfortunately, I discovered she’d gained the same stranglehold she had had on me over a group of eight plus people, including Kieran.

My crush on him still lingered, so in response, she was suddenly interested in him all over again. In addition, she had stuck to her exaggerating that I had outgrown once I reached high school and we talked less. She claimed to have been sexually assaulted the summer before, but when she told me the real story, it was originally simply kissing a boy she didn’t like much during a game of spin the bottle. I don’t know which version as the real one, but the original was more likely, knowing Sydney’s habits.

She had pity from the group, and she often got involved in any or all of the conversations I had with other councilmembers. This was probably to insure that while she was close to everyone, I was only close to her. It was her main way of controlling me. I wasn’t the only person she controlled though.

Kieran was also one of her victim; for all I know, he still is. My high school requires prom dates, and I got up the nerve to ask Kieran as a friend. He told me he wasn’t a prom person; that he wasn’t even going to his own prom. I knew Kieran well enough to know he wasn’t a liar, so I accepted his answer.

Mere weeks later, Sydney texted me with the news that she had asked Kieran to her prom, and he said yes.

In retrospect, I should have seen it coming.

If Sydney asked Kieran to jump, he’d ask how high on the way up. Every time I showed any interest in Kieran, platonic or romantic, Sydney found a way to get in the middle of it.

Every time Sydney suddenly returned his feelings again, Kieran went for it. At one

point, I would have as well. But after this, I was finally done. I’d reached my breaking point. I was tired of watching Sydney manipulate so many people just to get her way.

I immediately stopped talking to her. She still texts me, to this very day. In one of her recent messages, she told me that if I wasn’t talking to her about Kieran, that she “was over him [and] into a college boy who was more right for [her].” I’m sure if I somehow met with Kieran, and we got to talking, and Sydney found out, that the college boy would disappear.

KEIRA (MICKI) MCKINLEY

She would suddenly like Kieran again, and he would go back to her, thinking that they might finally have a real relationship. I only ever spoke to Kieran on Facebook or in person. If I saw him tomorrow, I would tell him there was no way to have a relationship with Sydney, friendly or romantic. Everything would be one-sided, and at her convenience. I’m not sure if he would believe me. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to stay away from Sydney for good this time. All I know is that she was never a good friend, but my time with her was a good experience. Now I know what to look out for in the future.

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CHELSEA MIDDLEBROOKS PHILADEPHIA, PA

I’M BEING TAUNTED CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

by Chelsea Middlebrooks

I’m being taunted I checked off doors leading into hallways I’ve walked down too often.

Each pathway leads a different place, each one looks enticing.

The doors are winding roads, leading to repressed memories.

When I finally open the door, the memories become misty.

And I always come up empty.

Why do I always come up empty?

Chelsea Middlebrooks

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DROUGHT

by Chelsea Middlebrooks

CHELSEA MIDDLEBROOKS

Her body resembles the ground, sometimes she has bumpy and smooth terrain.

She embodies ground.

She has caverns and alcoves that have been repeatedly turned black and blue.

She wears long sleeved shirts to cover up the tic-tac-toe sliced across her arms.

Her legs seem brittle from the harsh storm that recurs every night.

When she hears the word brave its a drought, her voice becomes cracked and tried, revealing how much she wants for something she doesn’t have.

Sometimes you’d like to smooth over the places where you’ve betrayed yourself.

The ground would become the place for a weekend storm clearing away the debris the week has left you with.

Although having a clean slate doesn’t mean that the tiny fractures to the ground are gone If you look closely they’re there.

But it’s ok, you don’t need to be brave but helps to be unashamed.

It helps to notice those tiny fractures and realise there apart of you.

No matter how hard try to erase them.

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SOMETHING I’M NOT

by Chelsea Middlebrooks

I have my beliefs and she has hers. I was raised in a house of God. Growing up in a land full of prayers, choir, and bible classes. A dedicated member of a Christian community. That all changed when I moved to Philadelphia. It became too difficult to travel to New Jersey from Philadelphia every Sunday to go to church so we gradually stopped going.

For some reason unknown to me, about eight years later my mother decided that we should go back to church. So week after week, day after day, when Sunday came we went to church.

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

I never actually thought about church and if I believe in the Holy Trinity or not. But going back to church after all these years felt different, it felt wrong. But how was I going to tell my mother that every time I walk into the sanctuary a little part of me dies? That every time she asks me to say grace, it feels like my soul is being broken up into pieces, to be shredded by talons.

Tell her that walking, talking, listening, and even breathing in a church felt disrespectful because I didn’t belong there, because I didn’t believe.

I went to church that Sunday. Its a relatively small church in South Philadelphia compared to my old church. I went in to the sanctuary and sat down to listen to the sermon.

There is to be an award ceremony after prayer and worship. Walking out of the sanctuary and into fresh air that didn’t smell like dust, old books, and a slight combination of everyone’s breakfast. The award ceremony was to take place in the basement. The blinding white lights overhead that made the room appear washed out, the whole room that was covered in white foldable tables and a multitude of older looking grey looking foldable chairs.

And some balloons that seemed to

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want to distract people and added a certain mood to the room. After everybody was seated the pastor came down and started talking; about who knows what. All I could hear was the constant hum of the soda machine that was in the corner of the room.

I was there, but wasn’t, I saw cameras flash and smiling faces, the light blinding me, but I still stared off into space. Then there was this sharp stabbing pain that spread throughout my arm. When I saw my mother moving her hand back into place, folded in her lap. She pinched me. When I saw the area that was attacked, it appeared to be a deep red color. After the ceremony was finished, everyone got up and started going to different white tables, at each table there was a sign up sheet where you could sign up for a ministry.

My mother was so focused on getting back a Christian lifestyle, that she didn’t even care enough to ask how I felt.

“You need to sign up for at least one ministry.” She said.

It was at that point that I began to cry, and she turned her back to me. These were not tears of joy, happiness, anger, but frustration. Frustration of her not seeing. Her not caring. Frustration of her not caring enough to see how I felt. I ran to the bathroom. I was embraced in the light flowery scent, I knew was there to cover the underlying scent of urine. I couldn’t let anyone see my tears, tears of weakness.

I began to associate every tear that fell as a weakness towards her, and that I needed to be stronger. I looked in the mirror and laughed at my wet eyed reflection. How could I ever think she would have cared.

How could I have thought that she would see the discomfort going to church brings me. I was angry. No, livid. How could I be so foolish? I wiped the tear-made streams from my face.

Even though more tears were forming in my eyes. I swung the bathroom door open, probably causing the handle on the inside of the door to tear the pink rose wall paper.

At the moment I didn’t care if she would see the tears in my eyes, I wanted her to see, see how much she hurt me. I walked over to her in my mad flurry. I looked her straight in the eye, ones I thought showed warmth and tenderness, but now all I could see is black…

Darkness.

He came over and introduced himself.

He asked me some utterly confusing questions. I couldn’t hear him over the buzzing in my ears. I only shook my head as if to say yes or no. But I couldn’t get my mind to work, all but muddled thoughts and incoherent words.

“What’s wrong? ” she said. There wasn’t even a hint of worry in her voice. I held my ground, and instead of answering I just stared into her eyes. I blatantly ignored her, I knew it was disrespectful but I was too angry to think clearly. I knew I couldn’t ignore her forever. My choice was to either tell her the truth; that I didn’t believe, or to lie. And I was tired of lying.

Soon we were in the car on our way home.

“I don’t believe in this!” I said. Waving my arms and motioning to the building around me.

“What is this?” she said. Making quotation marks motions when she said the word “this”.

“None of this ----- church, what they try to teach me.”

In the murky depths of her eyes, I thought I saw shock. But then her expression changed into one that looked like a light bulb went off in her head. She turned on her heel and left me standing there. I watched her as she walked away from me.

She walked straight over to the pastor. She got his attention and he excused himself from the group of people he was talking to.

She was talking to him, but she was across the room so I couldn’t hear what they were talking about. Then the pastor and I made eye contact. I knew what was happening and I was dreading it. So it was no surprise when they started walking toward me. My heart started beating faster, with each step they took. I closed my eyes to calm my racing heart and stop pacing.

Out of nowhere she spoke “Why, why have you brought the devil into my house?”

I replied “Going to church feels wrong and I feel like something is tearing me up inside every time go. Can you please not make me go to church anymore?”

It took her a second, but she finally replied “I was raised as a Christian, and it’s my duty to raise my children as Christians too.”

CHELSEA MIDDLEBROOKS

“What’s wrong?” she repeated. Like she actually cared, but it would be disrespectful to tell her here; in a church, of all places.

I saw the disappointment in his eyes.

He said a few words to my mother and then left.

I never thought my mother would reject this part of me, or not encourage me to be myself; like she always had. I learned that day that I need to be strong, and no matter what the case maybe you should always be willing to take a risk, even if you don’t get rewarded in return.

So now instead of not listening, I listen for the deeper messages. I feel like the Bible is the guide to living a good life, as a good person. Its just my beliefs don’t line up with everything that is in the book. I’m still required to go to church, but when the pastor talks about the Israelites and how they stayed in Egypt for so many years, it makes me think of their dedication to their belief in a better future, and doing anything to get there.

They are just like me, we both have goals and obstacles in life and we’ll do anything to reach our goals.

Whether my goal is religious freedom, or just the freedom to find myself before I get told or labeled as something I’m not.

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VERONICA NOCELLA PHILADELPHIA, PA

MAGIC GARDENS POEM

by Veronica Nocella

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

You want us women to be broken but to never dare to be mosaic, Because god forbid we put ourselves back together beautifully enough to look like art.

When our bodies are geometric enigmas All prism and iridescent.

You try to make us museums.

Walk around between and alongside us uninvited And gawks at us like a lopsided picture frame.

But you can’t fall in love with our jagged edges, On the days when we are a tidal wave of teeth, When our faces look like sentence fragments And every part of us is a claw.

When we are all hard surface and barbed grimace, You still want us to be photo finish for you.

You have no idea what’s it like to stare at a jigsaw puzzle of a reflection And try to convince yourself you are a masterpiece.

So do not call me a monument And make me dust your fingerprints off my flesh This is a temple you are not welcome in.

Where I am allowed to be ugly wherever I want to be.

Where I can be hundreds of messages in a bottle Written in blood and sweat, I will yell here. I will cry here. I will laugh here.

And you cannot trudge into my skin.

No part of me is your door mat.

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CAT FIGHT

by Veronica Nocella

VERONICA NOCELLA

I think of my mother, Too afraid to cradle her newborn daughter Because I reminded her of a firework.

And she believed as soon as her baby was touched Every prying fingerprint would be an attempt at dimming me That something this illuminated wasn’t meant to be kept so seemingly sacrosanct My mother knows what it’s like to be woman And she fears the peeling back of my skin To bargain my beauty Like stained glass, I’ll become too holy to shatter, too easily smudged with sin.

Is my body only miracle when I am infant?

Why are we, Eve’s daughters, contorted into the Lilith or Lolita men long for?

Why are we most sacred spread like snow angels, Or dressed up as cats for halloween Because men want us polite docile and domesticated And feisty enough to still be animals.

But they cringe at night if we cross their paths too confidently.

They must’ve forgot that nature is our mother.

And it runs in our roots, hot and thick, like tempers.

And we are the aorta of the earth.

This ocean will always risk being a tsunami of a womb That even the moon can’t tame.

That we are like seasons.

Spiced with the fruit of a new birth And all the open mouths will wait until this harvest has ripened.

We’re the foundations of humankind, Our bodies are kaleidoscopes We are geometric enigmas and proud And when I look at myself in the mirror naked, Why shouldn’t I see something beautiful?

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LONG MEMOIR DRAFT

by Veronica Nocella

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

The rituals come and go like seasons. Some days they are the worst of thunderstorms, and on the days when they don’t bother me, everything about me feels like a solstice. Sometimes they get so bad and my nightly routines feel like I’m performing exorcisms in the bathroom. My brain keeps tally marks on how many times I pump the soap vs. the shampoo vs. my facial wash.

There are only certain bathroom tiles that I feel comfortable walking on. Everytime I do a ritual wrong I feel like my existence is a shame. That if I can’t do this one right, I just can’t do anything right. Everything weighs too heavy on me and I’m full of hypothetical regret. Superstitious Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is a greedy mental illness, as most can be. A tiny flaw that always leads to a slippery slope, a tear that continues to get larger until sewed back up again, and again, and again.

“Veronica, how long have you been in your room?” My dad yells, in a way that any dad would to his daughter who’s taking too long to get ready. I’ve learned to ignore it until it becomes white noise; it’s terrifying how focused I am on making this one decision.

The pattern of the shorts that I want to wear remind me too much of death. Their colors are too unsettling and if they’re on my body for too long I’ll have to rip them off. Every other piece of clothing in my drawer is staring back at me like a threat. Like something bad could happen to my best friend as soon as I consider wearing it. Some mornings I’m able to avoid this; if I can find clothes and put them on as soon as possible, without my OCD telling me why I shouldn’t wear them, then I’m fine. As soon as I go through one outfit change everything spirals out of my control and suddenly I’m in my room for the next two hours. I deeply contemplate whether or not my favorite dress is cursed; that if I wear it, someone I love can die. All of my clothes are weapons. Everything feels like my fault all over again.

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“VERONICA! You’re going to make yourself late. What are you doing up there?”

At this point I have to close all my drawers, lie on the floor, close my eyes and pretend none of this had ever happened. I try to ground myself in any way possible; I remind myself of basic things: it is Monday. The wall is red. I am sitting on my bedroom floor. The more literal the world around me feels, the easier it is to confront the OCD as being irrational. Everything feels more okay because of it. I end up finding something to wear after calming myself down, even though it still feels uncomfortable on my body. Today was the best I could do.

When I was 11 years old I thought I was a magician. Supernatural powers would be at my fingertips, and the slightest of movement or adjustment could assure that my family and friends would be okay. All my wishes could come true whenever I wanted them to. I sometimes laughed when my friends in middle school would depend on 11:11 wishes to get what they wanted, because they didn’t have what I had. I was a master of probability; a miracle child.

Whenever I wanted a cute boy to talk to me, all I had to do was listen to the same song every day at the exact same time. If I wanted my best friend to feel better after a bad day, I took 3 steps per sidewalk block instead of my usual 2. I would adjust all my daily routines because the voices in my head told me everything would be okay once I did what they said. I had full confidence in them, too; I knew that I had control over whatever I wanted control over because of them. They were my trusty sidekicks. It only occurred to me a year ago that your superpowers can become mental disorders when you grow up.

Last summer, I found out that my friend with chronic pain needed to get his leg amputated. He has something called Complex Regional Pain Syndrome, which is by far the

Early in the summer, his pain became absolutely unbearable for him and he had to go to the hospital and get prescribed a more potent painkiller. He’s been on and off really strong opioids for over 4 years, and this time he took something called hydromorphone. He would always tell me about how afraid he was of them; of what they could do to his organs over time. I just wanted to make all of his pain go away and this was the first time I’ve ever felt completely powerless. I had to relearn how little control I actually have over sequences of events.

The last time my OCD triggered me to the point of almost breaking down was when watching “The Ring”. It’s a really terrible scary movie, and if I watch it again I’ll most likely start laughing. But there were certain superstitions in it that brought me all the way back into my bad place. I was sobbing in my friends’ living room. I looked at the clock and the numbers were all familiar and unlucky to me. I couldn’t go back into that room because scary movies aren’t just scary movies anymore. This wasn’t just a sleepover after a party. This was my adrenaline preparing riot gear against itself,

this is my chest becoming a burning house, this is my entire body being a firework.

The next day, everything was absolutely unbearable. The first time I seriously wondered whether or not I would live until tomorrow was the same day Robin Williams committed suicide. That’s when I realized how important it was for me to keep going. That was a reminder to me of how big of a footprint I left on this earth and how Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is so miniscule. Compared to how big of a person I am, OCD is like the nucleus of an atom, and something less than microscopic can’t eat me alive.

After I started going to therapy the weight on my shoulders became lighter and lighter.

I realized that OCD is not only a figment in my imagination but a biological flaw that can leave my life whenever I want it to. After doing something called ERP, (Exposure Response Prevention) therapy, the rituals began to leave and never return. I got my life back.

VERONICA NOCELLA

most painful chronic illness that has ever plagued the human race. This is absolutely not an exaggeration. It ranks the highest on the McGill Pain scale, and beats giving birth by over 10 points. It is a ravenous beast that is always threatening to swallow him whole. He’s forced himself to become a dynasty that is always being destroyed and rebuilt. His existence is a revolution.

And whenever the pain was unbearable for him, I always thought it was my fault.

That whenever I stepped on that sidewalk block too many times or just didn’t pump the shampoo enough times, his pain would get worse and worse. That’s what OCD does for you; it gives you false responsibilites.

It finds whatever soft spot you have and exploits it. OCD is my number one ally for hurting myself.

Learning how little control I have over the universe was an ego check that I could have never prepared myself for, but I’ve become much more confident in myself since then.

And although the universe is fragile and ever changing just like everything that inhabits it, the things that I do have control over are all I need to be concerned with.

A few billion years from now, the sun will still be shining, and this memoir about overcoming my weaknesses will mean absolutely nothing. But right now, I am significant, and I matter, and I’m learning.

These past two years I’ve been learning how to love myself recklessly and relentlessly.

I’ve been getting bolder, taking risks I never would have before, and if I embarrass myself I don’t regret it. This is the only chance I have to be unpredictable, so that’s what I’ve been doing. I’ve been living at 100 miles per hour because I don’t have time to stop myself from doing things I love.

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DESTINY SAMUEL PHILADELPHIA, PA

BEYOND THE SURFACE

by Destiny Samuel

Emily, struggling to hold a huge bag of children’s clothes and about to drop from exhaustion, pulled her two toddlers into the diner.

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

After a few minutes of waiting, they were seated at a booth in the corner.

Despite the isolation of her and her children’s seat, they still received many glances; some just casual, some just curious, but most filled with the judgement she was all too familiar with receiving.

When people saw her and her children, they questioned her about her age and when she answered with just the puny age of 17, they instantly assumed she was just that slutty teenage girl who couldn’t keep her legs closed.

Though, in a way, they were right about that; she fought desperately and even pleaded, even so, in the end, they always found their way open.

In the black of the night and early peak of the morning, her innocence was taken by the hands of the creepy man.

And although this happened many times, Emily would never go back and change a thing, even if she could.

For through the pain and through the invasion, Emily was blessed with two young lives who didn’t box her into a category or see her as his personal play toy; they saw her as a mom.

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SO PERFECT

by Destiny Samuel

I sat across the room and stared, absorbing how beautiful he was.

Even from here, I could see the way the sunlight bounced across his blue eyes, making them to appear golden.

And his hair, torn between the two colors of brown and black, laid perfectly disheveled on his body.

DESTINY SAMUEL

I knew I was crazy, gushing over such a lad, but his relaxed posture and nonchalant attitude appealed to me.

Those attributes viciously screamed at me, forcing me to frantically, yet carefully soak in all the precious details.

How easily his face, at one moment, could appear so innocent, but the next, full of anger and irritation.

How he sauntered about, taking in all the glory given from his peers.

How quiet he was, but how his silence seemed to dominate any room.

He was the exact embodiment of everything I wanted in a partner.

Man, I sure do love my cat.

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MY VISIT TO PHILADELPHIA’S MAGIC GARDENS

by Destiny Samuel

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

From my first step into Philadelphia’s Magic Gardens, I was welcomed by cool air and soft carpet to rest my feet on as the gentleman and lady at the front desk gave us a brief description of the space. While listening to their explanation of Isaiah Zagar and his artwork, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. The foyer area seemed cool enough, and I was willing and slightly excited to explore whatever laid beyond that point. I began to walk around the front inside of the building and my excitement slightly elevated. I came face to face with clear space and vibrant paintings on the wall. Everything was bright, which made me want to explore even more.

I stepped outside and all the anticipation quickly went away as if someone from above me had taken a pin and ruthlessly burst my bubble of curiosity. People who looked as if they traveled from long and far took in the sight as if it was the most beautiful thing on Earth. They laughed, talked, and went about happily while I just stood still trying to fathom every used bottle, plate, and other metal object that was supposed to be a work of art. There were discombobulated body parts plastered all around the walls, and I couldn’t understand why I was brought here in the first place.

Everything looked like a bunch of useless crap, so why would anyone in their right mind pay to see this?

I felt my mind beginning to close, becoming narrower and narrower and began to feel like a huge hypocrite. I always criticized and judged people who viewed life one-sidedly, considering myself to be one of the advanced “open minded” folks, but here I was doing the same thing. I had to enter a new, more broader perspective in order to fully exploit this experience. Upon realizing this, I pushed, or tried as best as I could, to push the negative thoughts aside as I forced

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my legs to move and my eyes to absorb all that was around me. Though, none of the artwork particularly impressed me, I was amazed by Zagar’s creative usage of the space around him. Growing up and living in Philadelphia, everything seems so pushed together and crowded, especially Center City which is where the Magic Gardens is located. Despite this being the norm in Philadelphia, I felt so tiny in the expanse of space as I climbed up and down stairs, and stuck myself into various crannies.

I let my mind leave its consciousness of Philadelphia, while my body took a trip through a vast antique wonderland. Everything seemed so surreal; it did not seem possible at all to have been able to collect all of those objects, nonetheless build something beautiful from it. I continued to walk around the Magic Gardens, and the amazement never ceased. I was drawn in by the magnificent barrage of colors, the unique structure of the building, and more especially I was drawn in by the story behind the Magic Gardens.

Fortunately for me, the gentleman who was at the front desk joined us visitors outside and talked to us about the history and development of the Magic Gardens. Initially the space was just used to store random pieces that Zagar had brought home from traveling to various countries. Though, after a while, the space began to attract investors due to its financial worth. In turn, the investors tried to take away the space from Zagar, claiming that there was just a bunch of trash stored there. The space was eventually given to Zager for a large sum of money which he acquired from the help of lawyers and community members.

Hearing this explanation, as miniscule as it may seem to others, completely changed my outlook on the Magic Gardens. It was no longer just an antique wonderland because

it had way more depth than that. In that moment, the Magic Gardens became for me a story. It was a story of a people’s struggle and way beyond that, it was a story of life.

The fight that it took for Zagar to keep the space of the Magic Gardens was a common fight rippling through humanity which was reflected throughout the artwork that was featured there. The fragmented bodies that were showcased represented the pieces of different cultures that consolidated and created new values and beliefs, while the name, as a whole, implied the mysteries and enchantments of life. The Magic Gardens is a place that I didn’t welcome into my mind with open arms, but it is now a place that I definitely will not forget.

DESTINY SAMUEL

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AMANDA WIBLE PHILADELPHIA, PA

I SEE GODS AND GODDESSES IN MY FRIENDS

by Amanda Wible

I see gods and goddesses in my friends and the people they will become.

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

I see Artemis in the girls with strong wills and teasing grins.

I see Morrigan in the girls with war in their eyes and violence in their hearts.

I see Minerva in the girls with sharp wit and sharper minds.

I see Hel in the girls with darkness in their hearts and ice in their veins.

I see Bastet in the girls that people to protect and light in their eyes.

I see Hermes in the boys with friendly smiles and wanderlust filling their hearts.

I see Gofannon in the boys with art on their minds and strength in their bodies.

I see Neptune in the boys with quick tempers and dark storms swirling in their eyes.

I see Loki in the boys with mischief in their eyes and mouths full of secrets.

I see Thoth in the boys with bright minds and a thirst for knowledge.

I see gods and goddesses in my friends and the people they will become.

I see entire pantheons inside of them and I see the way they smile, like they know a secret the rest of the world doesn’t.

I see gods and goddesses in my friends and I see the brilliance they will achieve.

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OUR WORSHIP

by Amanda Wible

AMANDA WIBLE

They don’t speak to me in dreams.

I don’t see them in visions.

There is no holy book for them, only the stories that we share.

There are no instructions for following, no church on Sundays or ten commandments.

There is only what we create, the altars we use to worship, the festivals we hold to honor, the songs we sing to celebrate and the brilliance of our bonfires in the fall.

We do not have angels or priests instead, we have feyfolk and the Wild Hunt, drunk on life, running wild and free in the night.

We don’t keep farmhouses or live simple with plain clothes, we want to stand out, we announce our presence to the world as we walk through our cities, feeling their hearts beat under our feet as smog coats our lungs and rubs the backs of our throats raw.

We’ve made our choice, we chose to listen.

We hear their stories and believe in their magic.

We follow the light of the wild ones, Brigid, Lir, Nuada, the Morrigan, Lugh and Ogma.

We know their stories and see them in our dreams, but they don’t bother to speak, at least not to me.

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DO NOT PORTRAY WOMEN AS WEAK.

by Amanda Wible

Do not portray women as weak.

Do not simply portray us with stupid flowers, dressed in white.

Do not just portray us as pure untouchable maidens.

Because we are not maidens.

We are fire, ash bone and spark.

We are love, lust, hatred and love.

We are unfathomable with bared teeth and biting lips.

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

We fight, we rule, we confront, we lead and we preach.

Women are not weak, we are not little glass figurines that will break the moment you touch us.

We don’t need to be put up in high towers, locked away, waiting for prince charming or a dashing knight to come and save us.

We are perfectly capable of saving ourselves, no magical kiss, slipper or spell needed.

Women can command armies.

They bring them into battle with a fearsome roar.

We are made of blood, bone, flesh and strength.

We can withstand pain, torture, suffering and strife.

Women are strong, as strong as men and strong enough to fight.

Do not think of women as weak for we have strength

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that comes from our ancestors and power that comes from goddesses.

Our love is like the kiss of a warrior’s knife and our spells are more than just stories.

Women are warriors, goddesses on the hunt. and we can handle ourselves.

Women fight and bleed and we prove ourselves time and time again.

AMANDA WIBLE

Do not tell women they are weak for we run with wolves and howl at the moon.

Men may build empires, but women will burn them, tearing them apart, brick-by-brick and setting it a light.

Do not believe women are weak.

Not while women like Artemis and Athena were worshipped.

Not while women like Eden and Lilith ruin a perfect god’s work.

Not while women like Anne Frank, Eleanor Roosevelt, Amelia Earhart and Betty White prove you wrong with bravery, intelligence, grace and wit.

Do not portray women as weak for we are far from it.

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WHISPERED STORIES

by Amanda Wible

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL 2015

There are stories, ones the world hasn’t heard in a while.

Ones that are whispered from the lands of the Druids and Celts.

Ones that speak of the Morrigan, the goddess of war, with her sharp teeth, red lips and dark eyes.

Ones that tell you of Brigid, goddess of the forge, poetry, healing and fertility.

Ones that say Manannán mac Lir, the sea god, had a sword named Fragarach and a cloak of invisibility.

Ones that know secrets of the Wild Hunt and the storms they ride.

They know of women that fought and men that protected.

They can trace history from the beginning.

Someone’s just got to tell them loud enough for the world to hear.

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FACULTY SUEYEUN JULIETTE LEE

DAVID GREENBERG

FICTION

SCREENWRITING

M.Ed. University of Virginia Education

BA Temple University Film

MFA University of Massachusetts at Amherst BA University of Virginia Literature

ZACH SAVICH POETRY

MFA University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop MFA University of Massachusetts at Amherst Poetry

ANNE JOHNSON NON-FICTION

BA Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars

CHRISTIAN PATCHELL WRITING FOR COMICS

BFA The University of the Arts Illustration

BA University of Washington English

TEACHING ASSITANT Olivia Kram

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