Write the World Review | Issue 5.2 | November 2023

the WORLD REVIEW WRITE TH A LITERARY JOURNAL PUBLISHING STANDOUT TEEN WRITERS AGES 13 TO 19

November 2023

Issue 5.2: ‘Observations’ POETRY · PROSE CREATIVE NONFICTION from SEVEN COUNTRIES ACROSS THE GLOBE

CONTENTS

Issue 5.2: ‘Observations’ 04

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

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FA(R)THER · Poetry Isabelle Wei, Hong Kong

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AFTER THE SEA · Poetry Sasindie Subasinghe, Sri Lanka

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THE LONG FILM · Poetry Leong Xin Yi, Singapore

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FROM SCALE · Poetry Amber Li, United States

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GHAZAL FOR THE LANGUAGE I’M LOSING · Poetry Hanan Nyrabeah, United States

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THE WHARF · Poetry Rina Olsen, Guam

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THE SUPPER CLUB · Creative Nonfiction Nausicaa Chu, United States

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THE ONLY MOVING THING · Poetry Everett Lane, United States

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LYPEN’ · Creative Nonfiction Varvara Bordyug, Ukraine/Germany

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CATHEDRALS · Fiction Anna Fulger, United States

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BLACKNESS, RESILIENCE AND FOOD · Creative Nonfiction Rainey Reese, United States

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THE MUSLIMS OF ANTARCTICA · Creative Nonfiction Sarah Elgheriani, United States

38-42 LESSON PLANS

CONTRIBUTORS Issue 5.2 of the Write the World Review contains poetry, prose and creative nonfiction from young writers spanning four continents and seven countries. Meet a selection below.

Isabelle Wei, age 15, Hong Kong POETRY — Fa(r)ther, p. 6 “The quiet was comforting. I like a place that has / room for thinking. I like a place where you can / listen to people talk about little things”

Sasindie Subasinghe, age 19, Sri Lanka POETRY — After the Sea, p. 8 Saagaraya, / you whisper to the breaking water, / place a “Saagaraya palm over the lapping waves / and say, before I ever knew you / I knew you by another name.”

Amber Li, age 15, United States POETRY — From Scale, p. 12 “split one of us open / and there’s grief and love and sadness and hope, all the pain and joy / sentience ever gave us—split open, / rearrange the gears—split”

Rina Olsen, age 16, Guam POETRY — the wharf, p. 18 “a fishing line goes down / tying the fisherman and the sea together // tying him to whatever he looks for. / the seals stir and / so do my memories.”

Varvara Bordyug, age 19, Ukraine/Germany CREATIVE NONFICTION — lypen’, p. 26 “i believe almost every person on earth has such a relationship with a relative or a close friend in which all the words have already been said.”

Rainey Reese, age 15, United States CREATIVE NONFICTION — Blackness, Resilience and the Power of Food, p. 32 “Blackness’ beauty, resilience, and power were given to me in this New Year's tradition. This was not only a physical tradition but an emotional one as well.”

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LETTER FROM the EDITOR iiH “I want to hold something colorful in my hands,” writes Leong Xin Yi (Singapore). “I want us to help this last longer.”

This finale of Leong’s poem ‘The Long Film’ illustrates our life-sustaining chapter on planet Earth as it nods to this chapter’s eventual end. Still, it suggests a certain agency at our fingertips, just within reach.

That agency, evident in the 12 pieces gathered in this issue of Write Write the th World World Review Review, is the power of observation. Indeed, Leong’s closing 17 words capture the tone of this pressing, poignant collection: full of measured pleas to connect to the world around us.

These observations both document our failures, and provide a how-to for mending the damage. How to notice. How to bridge the gaps of time and generations, of geography and change. How to reach, to touch. How to close the chasm of isolation.

“The works collected here are marks, their observations worth saving.”

“Hadith in itself is one of those things that transcends the isolation of a single time period,” writes Sarah Elgheriani (United States) in her essay ‘The Muslims Of Antarctica’:

In learning it, we become a vital link in the chain of validation—if a single narration skips a generation, its authenticity weakens. In sharing the knowledge we’ve learned, we close the gap between past and future knowledge, past and future generations.

Elsewhere, keen observation manifests as a yearning for someone unknown: I eyed / a man who could be my father step inside, holding // a sprig of pale yellow jasmines—the color of / buttered popcorn. I inhaled, looking through the glass / at the movie theater across the street. There were / fathers all over the city. Any one of them could be mine.

— Isabelle Wei (Hong Kong) Or, a retrieval of something forgotten: you find the sea / glass in the rocks, Beachberry in the weed. / You learn the name of each thing again. Atlantis. Black Pearl. You learn / to say ocean like a poet, ocean / like a seashell, Ocean like a name.

— Sasindie Subasinghe (Sri Lanka) Or, a question: I like to read nature poems & count / the pretty things I will never see: 20 snowy mountains, a tree, // autumn. I like to ask myself why I am in a classroom / learning trigonometry when the creek has dried to clay, // the grass is sick with jaundice,

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the sweet and shimmering sea / shivers against the heatwaves.

— Everett Lane (US) Tear the beach open and you’ll find tiny grains of sand, / dig through the soil and you’ll find roots intertwining with / each other across ecosystems — Amber Li (US) And if we look closely enough, they seem to be telling us, here’s what we will find: a fishing line goes down / tying the fisherman and the sea together // tying him to whatever he looks for.

— Rina Olsen (Guam)

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“Things are pretty bleak right now,” Lane repeats throughout their poem. But later in the piece, another earlier line repeats itself with a crucial edit: I like to read nature poems and count the things worth saving— // all of it.

“Today’s SAT prep word is indelible,” Lane reminds us. Its definition: “making marks that cannot be removed.”

The works collected here are marks, their observations worth saving. Let us hold in our hands their colorful colorful somethings. something.

Liza Cochran. Community Outreach Director, Write the World, Inc.

FA(R)THER Isabelle Wei (Hong Kong)

Isabelle Wei, age 15, is a Korean-Chinese writer and literary editor.

She loves poetry, pastries, and painting, although not necessarily in that order. Isabelle enjoys writing and reading stories that reflect her love for the natural world.

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Some days I say I’m going to meet my father at the park, or the gym, or the nearest Taco Bell— although I have no father—simply because it sounds so lovely. Thin and feeble, it is a dream that steeps in the puckered pages of old novels, featuring fathers with daughters—making merry, roasting potatoes, gawking at the intricacies of hair braiding. This morning, for instance, I hurried down a bushy corner of nature, looking to find tomatoes. The grass was too hot to run barefoot across. I touched the sod, fingers running fishhook to weed. Felt folds in the field where roots twisted into pretzels—I bought a bag of them on my way to Taco Bell, licking off the white salt. Two tables over, a family clinked chocolate shakes like knocked teeth in a hard kiss. A pigeon walked under the table and picked at a dropped dollop of cheese. We both ate in silence.

The quiet was comforting. I like a place that has room for thinking. I like a place where you can listen to people talk about little things, like the scent of gardenia against jasmine, the difference between teal and turquoise, or the best sandwich filling. It’s hummus. I eyed a man who could be my father step inside, holding a sprig of pale yellow jasmines—the color of buttered popcorn. I inhaled, looking through the glass at the movie theater across the street. There were fathers all over the city. Any one of them could be mine.

LISTEN

‘Fa(r)ther’, read by Joyce Wan

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AFTER THE SEA Sasindie Subasinghe (Sri Lanka) After the sea, you sit on the beach Saagaraya, and learn its name. Saagaraya, you whisper to the breaking water, place a palm over the lapping waves and say, before I ever knew you I knew you by another name.

After the sea, you learn the words to describe it. Blue, you say. Salty.

Ancient. Monster. Rising. The sea is never satisfied, all night it rails against the shore. Azure. God -like. The sea smiles. Moon-charmed.

After the sea, you find the sea glass in the rocks, Beachberry in the weed.

You learn the name of each thing again. Atlantis. Black Pearl. You learn to say ocean like a poet, ocean like a seashell, Ocean like a name.

After the sea, you refine your bad English, your British-American, your non -native tongue. You swap the common nouns for proper ones. Every dawn you learn to spot the Sea Holly in the beach brush but never call it a flower.

Sasindie Subasinghe, age 19, is a poet from Colombo, Sri Lanka. She writes in English, but her work is charged with the culture and rhythm of her mother tongue, Sinhala. Her poems are often infused with lightning, stars, the sciences, and a quiet resolve to understand the ways of life.

Note: “Saagaraya” means ocean in Sinhala, the author’s mother tongue.

LISTEN

‘After the sea’ read by the author

THE LONG FILM Leong Xin Yi (Singapore)

Leong Xin Yi, age 17, is a Singaporean who enjoys good storytelling, inventive poetry and pu’er tea. ‘The long film’ reflects her thoughts about the impossibility of simple living in a rapidly advancing society.

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This way are old friends, down there is a flawless breeze curled into the sea; soap up to its elbows, breakwater puzzles and the same rope swinging back that is to say, a dam of This island has been sinking, black-eyed mountains rising trains burrowing into the ground with the whistle of gyres. like a fly in a straw; Dawn nib-nibling on the rocks, all the fish bubbling into ghosts. two slits into the rubber for a burst of sap; The heat turning bark stale, looping arms— the water squirming forwards you’ll pretend to know which fruits have seeds I want pears to never taste twice the and how to climb a tree in seconds same way This way are otters frolicking between the mangrove roots, new shoots springing up and children laughing falling over into the mud; that way are migrating storm-chambers, wine turning in old jugs; boundless panorama I want to hold something colorful in my hands;

I want us to help this last longer

LISTEN

‘The long film’ read by the author

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FROM SCALE Amber Li (United States)

Split the universe and you’ll find galaxies, split the galaxies and you’ll find the Milky Way, split the Milky Way and you’ll find the solar system, our solar system. Look closely and you’ll find the Earth, this Earth.

Look closer and there’s water and land and shore.

Tear the beach open and you’ll find tiny grains of sand, dig through the soil and you’ll find roots intertwining with each other across ecosystems, take apart these ecosystems and there’s a web of flora and fauna, predator and prey, delicate partnerships, organisms living in fragile balance, Cut the stems open, and there’s the water. Examine the innards, you’ll see sunlight becoming sugar, maybe the stem will be picked by a girl Picking flowers—split the girl open and you’ll find lung and heart, muscle and nerve, a brain wired to see color—those lilies were white, weren’t they?—and learn Names—snowdrop, rue-anemone, queen-anne’s-lace and lily-of-the-valley—her favorite—and send the signal back and forthlong the neurons of her mind so that she can pick from this field of thousands—her fingers light, skin cells falling—split one of us open and there’s grief and love and sadness and hope, all the pain and joy sentience ever gave us—split open, rearrange the gears—split rocks to get ore, split fruits apart to take seeds, plant them down to harvest more and more, split space into quadrants, animals into parts, peer into the dark sea, there are things we weren’t supposed to see. The blue whale cruising,

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split it. See the blood spilling over the shore, guts that once supported a microbiome of its own, blubber that we burn for lamps, the fatty stuff—is it pain, or grief? Love? Greed?— sustained by— you would not believe it— the smallest things in the ocean— krill smaller than a fingertip, smaller than the whale’s eyes as it spies, its jaw split open in a colossal, magnificent gulp, splitting, grinding down its body from scale to wiggling leg, from organ to tissue, tissue to cell, cell to organelle that floats in a soup of jelly and membrane, made up of molecules, of push and shove, of waves against a rocky shore, of eat and be eaten, swarm and swallow, of chemical action and reaction, all flushed down a gargantuan throat, mother of voices—can you hear the singing?—all of it, down to the atoms whose neutrons and protons move like Earth around the sun, sun around the center of the Milky Way, the Milky Way around something else, somewhere else, someplace you would not believe, split the atom, just one more half, a city razed a body, then ash.

Amber Li, age 15, is a Chinese-American writer who has lived in Herndon, Virginia for most of her life. She is currently a sophomore in high school and has a love for both the sciences and the arts, both of which she tries to include in her poetry. The science of the internal workings of the world, from the sheer size of the universe to the tiniest atom, was part of the art and inspiration for her poem ‘From Scale’.

WATCH: ‘From Scale’ read by the author

GHAZAL FOR THE LANGUAGE I’M LOSING Hanan Nyrabeah (United States)

Hanan Nyrabeah, age 14, is an Arab-American poet, adrenaline junkie and hijabista, hailing from Florida. She has been published in Clementine literary magazine and Malala Fund's Assembly.

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Sometimes i think you don’t need any ‫ موسيقى‬to sing in arabic because everyday language is melodies is poetry in arabic the cadences in my baba’s tone exasperated repeating ‫بالعربية‬ echoing sadness if you forget your mother tongue arabic my mama’s lilting accent speaking a prayer to her palms ‫ دعاء‬a tapestry of pleading words painted in arabic etching incandesced petals of ‫ ياسمين‬on bronzed fingers ivory crescents made into sunsets henna stains arabic etching incandesced consonants on ‫شاي‬-stained paper looping white flowers into cursive calligraphed arabic my clumsy american tongue stumbling over simple sentences mixing up ‫ تشكيل‬never an artist not in arabic the throaty falcon’s cry in my name compassion, he named me girl with skin like the sands ‫ حنان‬an embrace translated into arabic

LISTEN

‘ghazal for the language i'm losing’ read by Engi A

THE WHARF Rina Olsen (Guam)

Rina Olsen, age 16, is a rising high school junior from Guam who loves rainy days, black-and-white photos, and butterfly effects.

Write the World Review · November 2023 on a sandbar stuttering with footprints is a fisherman’s bungalow. its white boat that bobs by the rocks is gone tonight. once, when we were kids, a boy got a fishhook stuck in his palm and i had to help him get it out. seagull cries stitch the night closer, pull it taut at the hems. the boat lounges on the waves as the seals have learned to do on the rocks. boat/seal. inky silhouettes on the waves that flirt with the moonlight. a fishing line goes down tying the fisherman and the sea together tying him to whatever he looks for. the seals stir and so do my memories. once, when we were kids, a boy almost got pulled out to sea and he had to be helped out. the bungalow is empty save for the brackish wind that whistles through its windows and weaves between the whispering palm branches and i listen, lying in the hammock on the bamboo stoop watching the flickering candles—in their porcelain candle holders shaped like white lotuses and conch shells—throwing shadows on the wood painted with names and images. once, when we were kids, the wood was clean and there was nothing to look for. the sand sifts under my bare feet between my toes and my eyes are drawn to those shadows which could go out if the wind blew any stronger but it doesn’t. the boat remains at sea. once, when we were kids, there were two in that boat. now, i remain.

LISTEN

‘the wharf’ read by the author

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THE SUPPER CLUB Nausicaa Chu (United States)

Who in the world are these people? The man with the flamethrower in question is Uncle Jim, ironically the only burn surgeon in the state of Alabama, and the cackling guy beside him is my dad, a colorectal surgeon.

The flamethrower is carefully put away beside the Big Green Egg, a grill that looks like its name, and the gaucho grill, a moving metal slab attached to a rotisserie stick above a coal-filled grate.

Sparks The invitations are sent out via text. Six o’clock, our house.

Flames The man with the flamethrower is in the house.

To be more specific, he is in the backyard shooting a three-foot pillar of blue flame in the relative direction of our undergrowth.

Is this unexpected? Yes. If anyone had shown up on my doorstep at eight o’clock at night with a weed flamethrower and a tank of petrol, it would be hard not to be surprised.

Is this unwanted? Not particularly.

Is this an anomaly? No. Certainly not for the man who brought it, or the man cackling next to him as fire and smoke fill the air.

It’s six thirty. I balance cans of sparkling water in my arms and dump them on the counter, set out knives and chopsticks and spoons, adjust bowls of fruit in the middle of the table.

Nobody’s here yet, but that’s normal. “Whenever we say six, everyone knows we mean six thirty,” my mom explained to me one time. “You’re supposed to be late to parties.”

The Yings are the first to arrive. Their two kids run upstairs to play minecraft on the Nintendo with my brother, while Auntie Quyen runs upstairs to help my mom around the kitchen, and Uncle Yedah goes around to the backyard where dad is grilling. Warm smoke and the smell of steak fills the house.

Auntie Quyen and Uncle Yedah, and all the other people at the dinner, are not actually my aunt and uncle, but it’s customary in Asian culture to address close family friends as such.

Write the World Review · November 2023

LISTEN

The Hwangs come in next. They live right up the street, and our dogs, Teto and Ranger, get along well.

The dogs run to the backyard to romp and play, and try and fail to get a bite of meat. Auntie In-suk brings Korean vegetables and noodles, and Uncle Jim joins the men in the backyard.

The Wangs come too. Auntie Janet helps Mom prepare vegetables while Uncle Tom asks, “chess?” and I pull out the board and smush the flabby defense he calls the Sicilian. It really isn’t anything of the sort.

Uncle George comes in and heads to the garage with my dad to pick out wine to go with dinner.

I carry trays of smoking meat and grilled vegetables inside, pausing as I hear the rush of the flamethrower shooting fire at the rotisserie duck in my dad’s evergoing quest to achieve crispy duck skin. My dad carries the duck inside, darkened to a charred bronze, and everyone sits or stands around the counter and talks and eats.

The conversation flows easily, as it always does. There is a script to it, a rhythm, a comforting familiarity.

Usually part of the dialogue covers how this conglomeration of Asian people came together in the first place.

“When did we start having dinners like this? Because we came down, and then—” Uncle Yedah begins.

“Yeah, I mean, the Supper Club didn’t really start happening until the Yings came down to Birmingham, and then the Hwangs. Before that, the only Asian people at the hospital were Ben [another one of my dad’s colleagues] and the Wangs,” my dad says.

“It was the pandemic that did it,” my mom says, “All the restaurants were closed, there was nothing else to do.”

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‘The Supper Club’ read by the author

“But seriously, I think the food we cook here is the best Asian food in Birmingham. It’s better than all the restaurants in the area,” Uncle Jim says.

Auntie In-suk laughs and says, “We should start our own restaurant.”

“One day, when we’re all retired maybe,” my mom agrees.

There is a thoughtful pause, and people get more food.

“We probably had to get together eventually. We’re, like, the only Asians in Alabama. There wouldn’t be anyone to celebrate Chinese New Years with otherwise,” my mom jokes.

Uncle George sits quietly and sips his wine, sometimes inserting a witty remark into the conversation. But I think that perhaps he brought the Supper Club most together, more even than the pandemic.

Embers A year, maybe more, maybe less, after the flamethrower, people line the hallways of our house, at least twenty or thirty, looking strangely solemn for a dinner party. Not all of them are from the Supper Club, most of them work at the hospital, but all of them know the man walking with his wife between the two lines of people. I know him as my Uncle George, but others know him as a doctor, a colleague,

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a mentor, a friend. He is my dad’s friend and also my dad’s patient.

After Uncle George was diagnosed with cancer, he was enveloped into the Supper Club. He won the Dumpling Competition we had a couple months earlier, almost won the Fried Rice Competition, and was a principal judge of the Galbi Competition. He was an excellent connoisseur of food and wine, and a huge part of the Supper Club. A lot of the dinners we had, we had for him.

that culture is something to celebrate, that a community of people can teach you more than you will ever discover on your own. And I also learned that in all the transitions of life, all the change that happens, the relationships you have with those around you will ground you, will shape you, will become part of your identity.

The narrative of the Club is still continuing, and I am so, so glad that my own narrative is intertwined with it.

The year or so we had with Uncle George was a wonderful time. But the cancer took a turn for the worse, and he decided to move with his wife to the west coast.

Blaze

In the hallway, people cry and say goodbye. I am near the end of the hallway by the door, and we embrace for the last time. I don’t know what to say to him.

Unlike the dinner parties, there is no script for this, no well-worn dialogue. There is nothing to say, except “thank you, thank you for everything.”

The package contains something that could only be described as a Flamethrower 2.0, grandly entitled a flambadou—essentially an iron cone attached to a handle into which you pour hot wax and light on fire to create a jet of flame.

Uncle George dies a few weeks later, but the legacy and the memories and influence he leaves with the Supper Club lives on.

Uncle George showed the Supper Club the values of our Asian culture, our community, and he showed us to cherish what we have: the relationships that are really important in life. Things change all the time— the Wangs moved to California, the Huangs and the Kristens moved to Alabama and became part of the Supper Club—but what never changes is the importance of community and traditions in all the uncertainties of life.

George’s lessons and the Supper Club’s lessons have stayed with me. I grew up in the Club—it was kind of like growing up in a big, big family. I learned that a few solid friends around you can make all the difference,

A couple months after that final dinner with Uncle George, there is a package on the doorstep.

Is this unexpected? Yes. Is this unwanted? Not particularly.

Is this an anomaly? Not at all. At this point, it’s completely normal.

Who in the world would buy this thing?

Take a guess.

Nausicaa Chu, age 15, is an Asian-American aspiring writer from Birmingham, Alabama. She loves creating poems and stories that capture pieces of the world around her. ‘The Supper Club’ was written about the chaotic but deeply meaningful community she grew up with.

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THE ONLY MOVING THING Everett Lane (United States)

The river isn’t moving and all the birds are dead. This is a pretty bleak way to set the scene but things are pretty bleak right now. I like to read nature poems & count the pretty things I will never see: 20 snowy mountains, a tree, autumn. I like to ask myself why I am in a classroom learning trigonometry when the creek has dried to clay, the grass is sick with jaundice, the sweet and shimmering sea shivers against the heatwaves. Today’s SAT prep word is indelible,

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making marks that cannot be removed. In a sentence: humans have left an indelible impact on the environment, and there is no point in studying vocabulary when the pale blue dot is on fire. This is a pretty bleak way of looking at my future but things are pretty bleak right now.

When I was little we sang this song at camp: I love the mountains, I love the rolling hills. And I still love the sweet and shivering sea; I still love the still river.

We found a dead bluebird on the side of the road last summer.

Heatstroke, we thought. I could have left it there. Instead, we put it in a shoebox, dug a shallow grave in the cracked riverbed, gathered in a circle and eulogized the pale blue body.

We said, I bet you sang like the sea. We said, I bet you were a great and terrible thing.

We breathed together over the corpse, and I didn't think about carbon emissions; I thought about a thousand baby bluebirds.

I thought: How will we save them? How will we save ourselves?

Things are pretty bleak right now, but bluebirds are pretty, too.

I like to read nature poems and count the things worth saving— all of it. Around the grave, we lifted our heads to the rain, and now the river is moving, and now the bluebird flies.

Everett Lane, age 17, is a student poet from the US. Their work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and published in Write the World Review, Blue Flame Review, Cathartic Youth Literary Magazine, and Creation Magazine. They enjoy reading, writing, and organizing things in spreadsheets.

LISTEN

‘the only moving thing’ read by Aditi Swaminathan

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LYPEN’

Varvara Bordyug (Ukraine/Germany) part I. since as far back as the ninth century, when the ukrainian language still bore the name of the old ukrainian, the month of july has been called lypen’. this name, short and soft, originated from the word lypa—a ukrainian translation of the linden tree genus. the reasoning behind the population choosing such name for this sultry month could be seen as quite obvious: during no other time would the lypas blossom so intensely while producing an insanely stupefying smell as during lypen’. when i was of pre-school age and life consisted of nothing but breathing and exploring, my grandmother and i used to take long summer walks through the park that neighbored our houses. the time of the stroll was always to be chosen wisely since around midday, especially on days without the wind, it would get unbearably hot, so hot there would be no shade to hide in and no air to inhale, or at least it felt so. therefore, aiming for an early morning walk was, without doubt, the most reasonable decision and also the one that didn’t disturb our habitual daily schedules. when you are both quite young and quite old, not going to school yet and already not going to work, there seems to be no issue with going to bed at sundown and waking up at sunrise. so we did. stepping foot on the street in the early morning after a cool summer night always felt surreal: it was not yet the time for the adults to rush to get to the office, for their children to set off to go to school— the streets were empty, the air fresh and unbreathed by other people, the birds actively exchanging their thoughts with each other, the cars standing still in the parking lots, probably mentally

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preparing to be getting on the road soon. it was as if the spirit of the city had temporarily faded away and we were left alone with whispering trees and awakening from their sleep flowers. it would be quiet during our strolls. i believe almost every person on earth has such a relationship with a relative or a close friend in which all the words have already been said. when two people spend the majority of their time together and have learned each other to the bone, not much can be a cause for a discussion, except for the events that are taking place here and now, and in cases like ours, when peace and quiet are all that is happening, what is left is to enjoy that serene surrounding without uttering a word. the closest to us alley when my grandmother and i entered the park was the alley with linden trees on either side. strong and mighty they were standing there, protecting passers-by—the two of us—from the dangers of the outside world. their intentions were not solely good, though: the smell they emitted seemed to have a goal of intoxicating us, captivating us, hijacking us, and never releasing us back into this mundane world we live in. when the aroma mixed with the magic of the morning, the quiet but persistent tweeting of the sparrows, the cold air that was rhythmically filling my lungs, and the hypnoidal state i was in, i started giving in. my grandmother, however, was always well-prepared and kept her mind clear as she knew that the purpose of these walks was to gather some precious linden flowers together with the tender oval-shaped leaves. while i stood there, mesmerized, she would go about her business, and i would watch her from below, hypnotized. throwing my head back, my mouth opening automatically, my long hair endeavouring to escape with the puff of the wind from time to time, i would gaze at her hands elegantly reach the higher branches, neatly pick the cartoon-looking florets, and gently put them in a

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Write the World Review · November 2023

small thin plastic bag. she would move and twist the bendy twigs, and by doing that enable soft rays of the sun to peep out and land on my face occasionally, forcing me to screw up my eyes, my grandmother’s short, wrinkly fingers would play constant hide and seek with the flowers—they hid behind the leaves and branches as if they had no desire to be picked and brought home. here and there one or two petals would get carried away with the wind, fall down on the ground without having a future in a teapot. was it a doom or an escape? only linden trees have the answer—i believe that is what they whisper about in the early mornings. when the bag would get full, we would pack it up, come out of the trance state slowly, wander around in the shades, listen to the rustle of the leaves, and proceed with our walk through the park. the mission set for the stroll would be accomplished, and the assignment then was only to breathe in as much cool fresh air as possible, walk as many park paths as possible, and get back home by the time the noisy processes of everyday life set into motion. in my grandmother’s kitchen, before even getting to our breakfast, we would spread a wide sheet of some newspaper on the dining table, carefully unpack our harvest, and lay it on the top, in one row. meanwhile, the kitchen would fill up with a mixture of the linden aroma and the smell of the newspaper ink—the scent i will always associate with the childhood days when life consisted of nothing but breathing and exploring. drinking the tea made from those gently picked and dried linden flowers on a frosty december afternoon would always throw my mind five months back and grant me helpless nostalgia and longing for the summer. but i always knew that lypen’ would come again next year and lypas would once again relocate me into the world of senses where the streets are empty, the air fresh and unbreathed by other

people, the birds actively exchanging their thoughts with each other, the cars standing still in the parking lots, probably mentally preparing to be getting on the road soon, where i am left alone with whispering trees and awakening from their sleep flowers. i knew that my grandmother and i would be soon on our way to gather the new portion of the linden florets, and that gave me hope. part II. It had been more than five years since the last linden tea had been brewed in my grandmother’s kitchen, since the last cartoon-looking white flowers had been collected into the small thin plastic bag by the short, wrinkly fingers. Lypen’ comes every year without tiring but no lypas are to be smelled. Strong and mighty they stand there in the park, covered with burned yellow and light-brown leaves, barely giving off a vague sweet aroma one could smell if the wind blows hard enough.

Spring disappeared, and with it disappeared the seasonal change Ukraine, as a country of a temperate climate, was so proud of. After February comes June, after -5°C comes an immediate +20 °C. Lypas don’t blossom in lypen’ anymore—they hardly get to unfold their leaves when those already get burned by the scorching sunbeams, leaving the trees no opportunity to produce the florets and captivate the passers-by with their narcotizing smell as they did previously.

During my visit to my hometown in July, my grandmother and I went on a walk in the same old mother and I went on a walk in the same old park we used to go to. Our stroll, the first one in what seemed to be the longest time, wasn’t quiet: we conversed about her dacha and her gardens, my studies and my friends. After dozens of months apart new words came into play, the ones it seems like haven’t been said before. Walking the linden alley, I felt disconnected— no resemblance was to be seen between those wornout ill-looking trees and the robust and powerful lypas

Write the World Review · November 2023

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that used to captivate the little me every year.

Passing by, my grandmother tried to reach for the branches with her hand, raising on her tiptoes. I gazed at her, this time from above, and offered a helping hand. My fingers ran through the brittle branches and dry leaves—the lypa was still, radiating almost no living energy. Seeing no cream-colored petals, I sighed. There was no more wizardry behind it, no beauty to savor.

The absence of the scent I so dearly clung onto meant not only the weather change and seasonal disruption for me—it signified the change in my perception of the world and the end of times when life consisted of nothing but breathing and exploring.

In moments like this one, I tend to fall into the abyss of despair, to mourn the dear past, to lose the hope my whole worldview is based on. I was on the verge of playing by the familiar scenario when my grandmother suggested we go home and try her homemade tea with self-made strawberry jam and mint leaves from her dacha. This offer soothed a dark cloud of thought that was already forming in my mind and heartened my spirits—when they say grandmothers do it best, they aren’t wrong.

I will miss the linden tea dearly, the moments we shared with my grandmother during harvesting in the park as well. I will, however, also cherish what comes to replace the gone and the old and enjoy homemade tea with strawberry jam and mint leaves.

Varvara Bordyug, age 19, is a former young writer and intern at Write the World. Originally from Ukraine, she currently resides in Germany and studies mathematics at the Technical University of Berlin. Varvara contributed to Write the World Review’s Ukraine Special Dispatch in spring 2022; her piece ‘refugee’ was featured in Seventeen magazine and republished by the Harvard Ukrainian Research Institute.

LISTEN

‘lypen’’ read by the author

CATHEDRALS Anna Fulger (United States)

Anna Fulger, age 18, lives in Michigan. She has too many different interests to decide on a good career, and half of them really only make for good hobbies anyways. This greatly upsets her. Cathedrals are a major theme in this story because Anna finds them freaking gorgeous and they make her cry.

Write the World Review · November 2023 I’ve always sorta loved the Northern Trash Hills.

Their multi-colored, washed-out beauty. Rusted metal, faded plastic, bleached bones, all mixed together in sweeping cathedrals of rubbish.

Cathedrals is a word I learned recently. They used to be these big, beautiful buildings people would make just cause they could.

Of course, when I tell my grandma ‘bout the prettiness of the Trash Hills, she grumbles, “I don’t understand how you could possibly find great stinking piles of garbage beautiful, Millie.”

“Well, first off,” I respond, “I need to find something beautiful in this world, or else I’ll go crazy. And it's not like I think it's better than trees and mountains. I've seen pictures. They look awesome. But giant piles of garbage is all I got. It's all anybody's got now. Everybody just floating around in the ocean on ‘em.”

We’re sitting together outside our house, which is just a two room hole carved in the side of one of the Trash Hills. I can hear Mom clattering around inside. Dad’s what’s called a Junkie. He searches through all the trash to find anything of use to sell, which is what he’s doing now. These days, he’s been gone for longer and longer each day cause all the Hills near us are pretty much picked clean. They’re just decaying plastic bags and tattered tires, for the most part. The useful trash is wood and paper for fires, big pieces of metal or plastic for making things, and of course anything intact that's still useful, like cooking pots and benches.

The most awesome thing he's ever found was a bunch of books, all stuffed in a tote and only a little moldy. He let me pick out five to keep. I chose a dictionary, a world atlas, the A and H parts of an encyclopedia set, and this slightly

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confusing book called Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

Suddenly I hear a shout. “Dad’s back,” I yell into the house, and take off running. I round a spur of our home trash hill, and there's dad, with a bulging sack slung over his shoulder. It’ll be full of stuff he’s gonna try and fix up. I grab him in a hug, and he laughs and ruffles my hair.

“Find or do anything interesting today?” I ask, just like every day.

He gives me a wink. “Sure did, Mil,” he says, then takes off his sack and shows me this beautiful metal teapot he found. It still has almost half of its paint left, and you can tell it used to be white with red flowers.

“I'm gonna give it to Mom,” Dad whispers, grinning. “Her birthday is coming up soon.”

“She’ll love it,” I whisper back. He stuffs it back into the sack, and we walk back to the house together. I tell him that the Trash Hills are kinda pretty, and he smiles and says that in the right light, they do have a certain beauty about them.

LISTEN

‘Cathedrals’ read by Camilla Spillmann

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Write the World Review · November 2023

BLACKNESS, RESILIENCE, AND THE POWER OF FOOD Rainey Reese (United States)

powerful. We all have different customs, cultures, and practices in every nation. For example, the Caribbean loves plantains, and West Africa has endless methods to prepare rice.

Blackness will travel: on screen, in government, into every community, and all over the world.

In all cultures, food is a staple. There is never a gathering without food, without leftovers, and without the love and laughter that comes from breaking bread. For African-Americans, food has historical significance. Most of the food we eat can be traced to the backbone of this nation: the trans-Atlantic slave trade.

Despite the pain and suffering of slavery, the enslaved people had the strength to keep going and celebrate the new year with hope for a better future.

The tradition of eating this New Year’s meal is a reminder of that hope and resilience. It is a testament to the human spirit's strength. This meal—black-eyed peas and collard greens— comes from the American South. The black-eyed peas represent good luck. The collard greens, folded like money, symbolize wealth.

The shiny mahogany table glistens in the sunlight of New Year’s Day. Black-eyed peas and collard greens rest in the center of the table in glass bowls engraved with flowers. My mother, father, and three sisters share their goals for the New Year, glowing as the sunlight rushes through the blinds and illuminates the room. We relish the delicious food of last night's preparation, excited to continue this tradition. We celebrate our Blackness.

To me, Blackness is strength and struggle. Blackness comes from everywhere—every continent and country—and it is impossible to characterize this community as a monolith. We are diverse, strong, and

The meal we eat at New Year’s comes from slavery.

The beans and greens were the "poor" foods that slave masters did not want to eat and gave to slaves. As we enter the New Year, each part of the meal represents progress and continuation. This meal was never about eating; it was about the bravery and perseverance to continue under the most barbaric practice of history.

My memories of New Year’s Eve as a little girl are unmistakably clear. Then, I never understood the importance of this dinner's preparation or the distinct methods my father used. I just hungrily watched in the kitchen. My father, however, spent

Write the World Review · November 2023 hours on his feet, making sure everything was perfect for the holiday. The beans simmered in the pot, collard greens cooked over the stove, and his cornbread recipe was down to a science.

My father would always say his collard greens needed an extra level of careful precaution. It is critical to follow every step, not grow impatient and skip preparation. He would take the biggest knife in the house, make careful cuts around the core and remove it. Then, he washed them, paying close attention to removing all of the grit and roughness. He would rinse them once, twice, and strain them last. Then, he dried them, placed the leaves on a cutting board, and chopped them into bite-sized pieces. My father did this with ease. He is swift with his knife, he knows every edge, and how to be careful. He knew what he was looking for: the finest greens on earth.

This determination can be seen in every part of the meal. Unsoaked black-eyed peas take hours to cook. I can remember when my father was moving the black-eyed peas from the bag into a bowl, taking it to the freshly-cleaned sink, turning on the silver faucet, and waiting patiently as the pot filled with water. Then, it would sit on the countertop for six hours, soaking up everything it could.

My childhood followed the same process. My family would get me dressed, bring me to the bookstore, and let me soak up all the words. This is how I grew up: surrounded by knowledge and waiting to advance. I embraced this environment and pushed myself to learn more, striving to take advantage of every opportunity presented to me. I saw this as an example of resilience and strength— something that my ancestors had to do to survive.

This was Blackness to me—learning to take advantage of my opportunities, and appreciate my ancestors. Through the books I read, I saw the power of knowledge and the importance of being a

lifelong learner. I wanted to use my knowledge, to be a leader in my community, and be a role model for other Black people. Blackeyed peas were not just my culture, but my identity, and celebrated every year.

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LISTEN

‘Blackness, Resilience and the Power of Food’ read by the author

My entire family was like this too. They were quick on their feet, knew their way around every obstacle, and never gave up. They were focused on success. This drive was infectious. It spread to everyone they met, like the seasoning of the greens, only perfected by careful preparation. This drive they had was something they had nurtured and developed over the years. It was a result of their diligent work and dedication, and it was something they had passed down to me. They had a sixth sense that enabled them to navigate through life's tricky waters.

Black-eyed peas and collard greens are part of Blackness. Blackness’ beauty, resilience, and power were given to me in this New Year’s tradition. This was not only a physical tradition, but an emotional one as well. I was able to carry on these values through the years, and I rely on them today. This New Year’s tradition continues to be a reminder of the strength of my ancestors and the power of Blackness. When I sit at the table, the hearty broth of collard greens dances on my tongue and raises my spirits. Most importantly, my place in history perfectly aligns with my ancestors. We are stars coming into place in the sky, shining beacons of hope overlapping throughout history.

Rainey Reese, age 15, is a Chicago-based honors student. In her essay ‘Blackness, Resilience, and the Power of Food’ Rainey explores a cherished family tradition, honors her heritage and celebrates the strength of African-American traditions.

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Write the World Review · November 2023

THE MUSLIMS OF ANTARCTICA Sarah Elgheriani (United States)

1. I am Here, you are There The blame for my long-held perception of isolation and its terms, of depth and distance, falls onto a small book that taught me how to read.

Square-shaped with soft edges and a white cover, it detailed the lives of people around the world in simple words and big images, often focusing on

breakfast meals specific to each country. It was formatted so that each page was overlaid with a clear plastic sheet and printed with four equally distanced panels. The panels depicted empty landscapes in various settings: some in snowy white valleys, others shimmering with beachside colors.

Embedded in the adjacent plastic sheets were human figures which fit into the photos perfectly

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to create a snapshot of different lifestyles. One snapshot depicted a Polish boy, insulated in a padded red jacket, munching on an open-face sandwich of sausage and goat cheese, while a second cut of rye bread with plum jam lay on a blue plate set before him, and it stuck with me how far away he seemed, how isolated. I was an observer to these foreign breakfast-consumers, but there was nothing that we really shared.

As far as the rest of their lives, I was left to fill in the details with bits of what I saw and heard— cooking with the preserved fat of seals, coating eyelashes in argan oil during summer or pressing cheese in hillside cottages—things that painted a picture alien to me in every way. They were on another part of the map, one that geography and logic permanently displaced me from. I would stay where I was, they would stay where they were, and bridging the gap was impossible—for we were only stationary people on plastic boards, our landscapes spreading out for miles beyond the cold light illuminating us, our actions as foreign to one another as martian craters and extraterrestrial technology.

Things were set in their places. College was far.

Death was far. The faraway lands were seven seas away, and it’s not worth traversing the elves and dragons to get there.

2. We are everywhere Our Arabic teacher tells us that she grew up in America, visiting Syria during the summer with her cousins. It was there that she’d learned about hadith schools—places to memorize and interpret Muslim prophetic narrations. She’d befriended some of the girls in the program and watched its ins and outs. At the end of their studies, the girls were crowned in wreaths and caped in white, standing proudly with their ijazas, the license validating the authenticity

and correctness of what they’d learned. She’d begged to be sent to Syria alone for her 13th summer. Over and over, she’d recruited friends of her parents to promote her case, and she’d finally been sent to the best hadith school in Syria—a boarding school that had been built by students of the influential Sufi scholar Imam Ghazali, situated around the room where he’d lived for years.

Hadith in itself is one of those things that transcends the isolation of a single time period. It’s a rhetorical knowledge, passed through scholars and memorization, tracked through lineage and validated by generations of teachers. In learning it, we become a vital link in the chain of validation—if a single narration skips a generation, its authenticity weakens. In sharing the knowledge we’ve learned, we close the gap between past and future knowledge, past and future generations. This summer, my aunt was invited to assist in training and supervising teachers for newly constructed schools in a village in Ghana, as part of a campaign

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Write the World Review · November 2023

to boost literacy, female education, and the overall quality of learning that rural Ghanaian children receive. She offers to take us with her, saying it’d benefit us young adults who need new experiences.

I’ve never been to any West African country, but I’m familiar with the climate—sticky heat and flies, sugar cane stands and lethargic traffic. Upon researching it, I find that Ghana is among the most stable African nations—something I, as a North African, understand the value of. I watch videos that take place on its streets, showcasing a vibrant urban culture against small seaside buildings. My aunt considers the offer and ultimately refuses it, but the possibility is eyeopening to me. I’ve researched overseas programs and camps, but I didn’t think the opportunity could be so close.

LISTEN urban landscape was a moment of profound revelation to me, and I’d immediately put it on my bucket list. But the ‘The Muslims of Antarctica’ possibility of Muslims in read by the author Alaska had never quite made its way into my mind. Now, at the ripe old age of 16, it hit me clearly for the first time that my people are in every corner of the world— that cultures everywhere have the familiar influence of my culture sewn into them, hand in hand with cultural elements I myself would find wondrously new, that Ramadan prayers are being said in countries across every border.

The isolations I’d accepted continued to fall away.

I’d placed clear plastic dividers between me and the days of driving and college and taking my future into my hands, somehow thinking they’d stay in the future indefinitely. But those things are arriving, and I find myself rising to greet them. As college approaches, I’ve developed an interest in modern sociology theory. One of its main points is that the modern social structure lends itself to fluidity.

Society’s shaped itself around the internet, with the limitless access it offers to global information and culture. The separation of classes revolves more than ever around transportation and the ability to travel. International cultures mix and diffuse with globalization. Isolation—the cold, hard, permanent type—is no longer relevant.

On the packet containing our AP history exams, there’s a note that the exams will begin a few hours earlier in Alaska than in every other state.

Again fascinated by the ever-illusive Alaska, I look up the reason for this. It’s to prevent cheating, Google explains. Due to the time difference, the questions and answers can be leaked in time for students to see and copy them.

My aunt tells us during Ramadan that the Muslims in Alaska are fasting 16 hours a day due to the length of the sunlight hours there, that they had to modify the Islamic rulings to allow them to shorten their fast.

My relationship with Alaska has been a vague one at best: as a child, I held an admiration for it as the land of the midnight sun, and at 11 I was still struggling to tell it apart from Antarctica. Learning that it had an

Which is to say that when the kids in California leak exam questions, the kids in Alaska take notes.

Which is to say that we're all just that close.

Together, we make up everything.

Sarah Elgheriani, age 16, is an Egyptian-American aspiring artist trying to create something meaningful out of her endless streams of thoughts. Through this piece, she hopes to convey her changed understanding about the interconnectedness we all share.

Submit your writing to the WORLD REVIEW WRITE TH

HOW DO I SUBMIT MY WORK? h Write Write the th World World Reviewpublishes Review writing from the Write the World website, a writing community for teen writers ages 13-19 from around the world. To have your work considered for inclusion in Write the World Review, please do the following: 1. Sign up for a free account on Write the World as a young writer 2. Respond to our prompts and/or enter our monthly writing competitions— any prompt response or competition entry will be automatically considered for publication.

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Write the World Review · November 2023

LESSON PLAN IRL (In Real Life)

“Some days I say I’m going to meet my father at the park, or the gym, or the nearest Taco Bell— although I have no father—” POETRY 40-60 MINUTES GRADE LEVELS 9-12 MATERIALS NEEDED Mentor texts: “Fa(r)ther” (p. 6) and “the wharf” (p. 18) Audio (optional) Writing materials (for students)

OUTLINE 1. Three Listens 2. Reflect 3. Write IRL 4. Share

STANDARDS This lesson plan supports the following College and Career Readiness Anchor Standards: Speaking and Listening #2 Reading #7 and #9 Reading, Craft and Structure #5 and #6 (grades 9-10) Reading, Craft and Structure #5 and #6 (grades 11-12) Writing #3, #4, #5

1. Three Listens Listen to the authors of “the wharf” and “Fa(r)ther” read their poems three times, reading along with a pen.

1. First listen: Underline or highlight examples of sensory description—any places where the author describes an experience through the five senses: Sight, Sound, Smell, Taste, and Touch.

2. Share: What sensory descriptions did you notice? How do these details pull you into the world of the poem? What do they add to the reading experience?

Write the World Review · November 2023 3. Second listen: Listen again, this time paying attention to how those sensory details transport the speaker of the poems: either transport them through time, or into imagined realities.

4. Share. Where in the poems does this transportation happen?

5. Third Listen: On the final listen, ask yourself, “What is the author getting at with this poem?

What message or meaning are they imparting?”

Poems always reveal themselves with time. What is emerging for you as you listen to each poem a third time? Spend five minutes answering these questions in a free write. Here are other questions to consider: What do you admire about the language and/or cadence? What meaning are you drawing from it? What questions do you have?

6. Share.

2. Reflect Both “the wharf” and “Fa(r)ther” are deeply set in the details of the physical world—brackish wind, lounging seals, bamboo stoops, chocolate shakes and pecking pigeons, pale yellow jasmines, to name a few! In other words, the experiences captured in these poems are IRL (in real life), as opposed to the digital world that increasingly shapes our sense of community, our identities, our confidence in ourselves, and our understanding of time and place.

The notion of IRL has been around for some time, distinguishing the internet from the physical reality of our lives. Recently, it’s morphed into the figurative directive “touch grass”, to insinuate that someone is spending too much time online and needs to get outside to reconnect to the real world.

Spend 5-10 minutes reflecting on the following three questions:

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1. What percentage of your waking hours are spent engaged in the digital world?

2. What percentage of your waking hours are spent engaging IRL? 3. What benefits do you get from each, that you can’t get from the other?

Discuss.

Would anyone like to share their percentages?

What surprised you? What did you discover through this reflection?

3. Write IRL 1. With pen and paper, warm up your senses by describing in one sentence each: a. Something you hear right now b. Something you smell right now c. Something you see right now d. Something you taste right now e. Something you feel right now 2. Now use these same tools to write about a past experience, as the poets do in “the wharf” and “Fa(r)ther”. Bring to mind a memory that takes place in a specific time and place. For example, the Taco Bell or the fisherman’s bungalow.

Write about the experience in a poem, utilizing the power of the senses to invite your reader into your (real) world.

4. Share Note Note to t teachers: teachers: Have students read one line aloud, as well as share what they found most challenging, surprising, or satisfying about the writing process.

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Write the World Review · November 2023

LESSON PLAN Seven Steps

“Things were set in their places. College was far. Death was far. The faraway lands were seven seas away, and it’s not worth traversing the elves and dragons to get there.”

REFLECTION—A CHANGED PERSPECTIVE 60-90 MINUTES GRADE LEVELS 9-12 MATERIALS NEEDED Mentor text: “The Muslims of Antarctica” (p.34) Audio (optional) Writing materials (for students) OUTLINE 1. Read 2. Brainstorm 3. Write 4. Publish 5. Review 6. Revise 7. Share STANDARDS This lesson plan supports the following College and Career Readiness Anchor Standards: Speaking and Listening #2 Reading #7 and #9 Reading, Craft and Structure #5 and #6 (grades 9-10) Reading, Craft and Structure #5 and #6 (grades 11-12) Writing #3, #4, #5

1. Read “The Muslims of Antarctica” charts the interior world of its author over the course of multiple years, as the author’s perception of isolation changes. Read the piece aloud in small groups, marking where—and why—this shift takes place.

Then answer these questions: How does the author’s perception change?

What are the root causes? What experiences have contributed to her perspective on isolation changing over time?

What message or feeling do you think she wants readers to take away?

Come back together as a class and share.

Write the World Review · November 2023

2. Brainstorm When has your perspective on something important changed? Maybe a pivotal conversation led you to view a person, place, or idea differently.

Or perhaps an experience such as traveling to a new place, starting at a new school, or even reading a memorable poem, article, or book changed your thinking. Brainstorm three possible perspective-changes to explore:

1 2 3 Now choose one, and answer these questions: 1. What belief or assumption did you once hold?

2. What do you believe now?

3. What ignited this change for you, or challenged you to think differently?

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For this prompt, tell us about a time when your perspective on something changed. Maybe a pivotal conversation led you to view a person, place, or idea differently.

Or perhaps an experience such as traveling to a new place, starting at a new school, or even reading a memorable poem, article, or book changed your thinking or assumptions.

What do you believe now? What ignited this change for you, or challenged you to think differently?

Tell us about it, in 600 words or fewer.

4. Publish Note Note to t teachers: teachers: For this step, either have your students publish their draft on WtW, in response to this prompt, Lens Change, or assign pairs or groups within your class and have students exchange drafts.

3. Write Now that you’ve dug into your chosen topic, turn your material into a full reflection by responding to the following prompt.

Lens Change REFLECTION: When has your perspective shifted?

Have you ever noticed, dear writers, how our perspectives evolve with the world around us? As we accumulate different life experiences, our perceptions shift and morph. An idea or feeling that once felt locked in place begins to loosen, eventually turning into something new and unexpected.

5. Review Note Note to t teachers: teachers: Have students exchange peer reviews with 1-2 classmates. If students have published their drafts on WtW, they can peer review on the platform. If not, you can use these questions for reviewing in the classroom.

1. What do you appreciate or admire about this piece of writing?

2. Are there any places where additional details would be helpful? Perhaps where you wanted to know more about the writer’s experience, or what has influenced their perspective?

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Write the World Review · November 2023

6. Revise Take some time to read through the peer feedback you received. As with any feedback, try to be open and receptive, but also remember that it’s like trying on new clothing: you only need to “keep what fits.”

Next make a list of the three things you want to focus on in revisions:

1 2 3 In addition to that list, here are some revising tips to guide you: 1. Read your reflection aloud. Where might you cut, condense, or add clarity?

2. Are there places where you can invite the reader into a particular experience by including details of setting, or sensory descriptions?

3. Where might you deepen your reflection by explaining to the reader why an experience changed your perspective?

7. Share Note Noteto t teach teachers: Final step! Celebrate and validate your students’ writing journey with a class sharing.

Either have each student read a paragraph aloud, or post hard copies around the room, and have students take a walking tour around your classroom gallery.

Write the th World Write World Review Review is an online journal showcasing a diverse and international range of work from our young writers on Write the World. It includes journalism, poetry, short fiction, personal narrative and reflection, film and book reviews, and much more. If you are 13-19, we welcome your submissions on our vibrant online community where young writers can draft and publish work, respond to weekly prompts in a variety of genres, exchange feedback, and enter monthly competitions.

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