Teen Ink Sample

CONTENTS
OCTOBER 2013 | VOL. 25, NO. 2

4 Feedback
18-19 College Directory
21 Art Gallery
Nonfiction
6-17 MEMOIRS Five ways of looking at awkward Swinger singer Shooting a deer
My point of view I want to be Marshall and Lily That close Dont go
Im a broken human magnet At Marshalls with my brothers Confessions
of the Other Girl
10-11 BULLYING Im sorry, Eric Never again
12-15 SPORTS Pushed to the limits How to be a softball player When I run
In defense of sports role models Color guard I am a Superfan What it takes
to be a triathlete The grudge match The field
22 HEALTH Yoga Schizophrenia
23 ENVIRONMENT Thai elephants The majestic ocean blue
24-25 POINTS OF VIEW Indias battle of the sexes Why we love horror
Hate speech vs. the First Amendment Undocumented
26-27 TRAVEL & CULTURE Arranged marriages in India Morocco Switzerland
28 PRIDE & PREJUDICE Cultural caretaker Princess Charming
Reviews
20 COLLEGES Stanford University Washington College University of Mississippi
29 BOOKS Friday Night Lights Born to Run Halloween Eve
Impulse And the Mountains Echoed
30 MOVIES & TV WWZ Warm Bodies Dexter The Call
31 MUSIC Sadistik Green Day Passion Pit Jake Bugg
32-36 Fiction
37-46 Poetry
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ONTHE COVER
Cover photo by Sydney Haggard, Martinsville, IN
The Sports Issue
Football Softball Track & Field Wrestling Pro Sports Fandom
pages 12-15
Holy Halloween!
Freaky Fiction
Them Dogs 32
Narced 32
Foundling 33
The Pounding 33
The Mysterious Tale
of Bryn Martin 34
Just in Case 35
Vicious Hunger 35
Horror Movies 24, 30

Sexist Ads
I was browsing your website when my
eyes drifted to the ad at the top of the
screen. Instead of the usual salamanders and
vitamin water, something else caught my
eye:
Warning: This game is too hot to handle.
Male gamers only.
This lovely piece of literature was accom-
panied by a barely dressed blonde woman
(complete, of course, with an impossibly
shaped chest).
As a leader in teen literature, Teen Ink
plays a part in shaping the writers of the fu-
ture. This makes you responsible, in part,
for the future of our society. Writers are im-
portant. We communicate ideas across the
boundaries of cities, countries, and conti-
nents. No one writer holds the future of the
world in their hands, but as a group, we
play a major role in that future. In a sense,
you do too.
But what kind of part do you want to
play? This online ad not only alienates fe-
male gamers a major problem in the male-
dominated gaming world but objectifies
them and propagates impossible standards
of beauty. It is also inappropriate to find im-
ages of practically topless women on a web-
site for teens, including middle schoolers.
I understand that Teen Ink is a large or-
ganization that requires funding to continue
creating a space for young people to explore
their creativity, but I believe some of your
ads cross a line, and to be frank, I find it
disappointing. I hold Teen Ink to higher
standards than that. I miss the salamanders
and vitamin water.
Emily Bartholet,
Woodbine, MD
Editors response: Some of the ads on
our site are auto-filled by an outside firm,
and we dont always get to see them before
users do. We appreciate you alerting us to
this particular one. If you are ever offend-
ed by anything on our site, send us an
e-mail.
Devin Scotts Story
Devin Scotts Story, as told by Megan
Haddox, really spoke to how much can be
too much for a person to handle, and how
one accidental action can lead to a death. As
I read it, I felt a wave of emotions, from
sadness to anger and frustration. Devin defi-
nitely didnt deserve to have been brought
to such an awful decision.
This article really shows how people can
be so clueless. How could any of the peers
who taunted Devin actually wear blue in his
memory when they were the ones who
caused his death? How could they not know
that bullying can be deadly when there are
so many stories in the news now about bul-
lying and suicides?
Its heartbreaking to read about this boy
who as just a teenager threw his life away
because of the actions of acquaintances.
Given that Devin was a really great kid and
saved other people from suicide, its ironic
that he ended up committing suicide him-
self without anybody saving him.
Megans story about Devin was beautiful
and tragic at the same time. It reminds me
to forgive and forget, because hanging on to
anger can lead to something even worse in
the end.
Carol Lin,
Brooklyn, NY
Editors comment: Devin Scotts
Story is one of a hundred true stories
about bullying in Teen Inks latest book,
Bullying Under Attack.
Music Issue of Teen Ink?
One of Teen Inks best qualities is how re-
latable the articles are. Teen Ink has done
this with its great diversity in topics.
I often read the music reviews, and I es-
pecially like them. With music being one of
the biggest interests in the teen world, I
would like Teen Ink to do an entire issue on
music.
Looking at the popularity that annual TV
shows like the Grammys and the VMAs re-
ceive, it seems clear that an annual music
issue would pull in many readers. Possibly
you could include an online poll nominating
artists, songs, and albums we the readers
want to see in the Teen Ink music issue.
This would allow readers to be more in-
volved in the creation of the issue.
One lyric from a song can cause an over-
flow of emotions. If there was an annual is-
sue of Teen Ink entirely focused on music, it
would allow teens to write about something
we all can relate to.
Natalie Frey,
Delafield, WI
Alphabetical Disorder
I was really surprised when I read
Alphabetical Disorder by Elizabeth V.
Im so glad that people are finally realizing
that putting kids in order based on their last
name can seriously affect us long term. As
someone whose last name begins with Z, I
have been there and know what it feels like.
Ever since preschool, Ive always been
the last one called up, the last to get an
award, the last to do anything. When I read
this article, it made me realize just how seri-
ous this issue is. I have never liked being
last, but when I read that those whose last
names are near the end of the alphabet are
five times more likely to commit suicide,
I was completely shocked. It put my situa-
tion into a new perspective. I always knew
being last made me feel bad, but I didnt re-
alize it could make someone suicidal! When
the article said people have lower ambi-
tions and expectations for their future, I
felt an instant connection. I have always
been hard on myself and do not believe I
can do things. I felt as though the article
was describing me!
Alphabetical Disorder highlights a seri-
ous problem in our society that needs to
change now. I really appreciate Elizabeth V.
taking the time to put a spotlight on it, and I
hope others realize it too.
Noah Zenker, Hartland, WI
Playing With Toy Soldiers
Wow.
For about half an hour, that was the only
word that went through my brain. The writ-
ing was exceptional; the story was moving.
The metaphor of the toy soldiers was ex-
tremely emotional.
And my life began when the apples in
the basket had already gone rotten, wrote
Jacky Asura in Playing With Toy Soldiers.
That last sentence drove me to tears. The
numbness the author felt watching her fa-
ther get onto the plane was so beautifully
expressed through her words.
I got chills when I read this piece. Goose-
bumps ran up and down my arms. I looked
like Id been dropped in a freezer. Thats
what it felt like. It felt cold and beautiful,
like the first snow of winter.
Hats off to you, Jacky. Your poem made
me feel what no other piece of writing in
Teen Ink has. Beautiful, amazing, incredible
writing.
Maya Rao, San Diego, CA
Teen Ink Fan Girl
Ive become a great fan of Teen Ink over
the last two years, and I thought it would be
appropriate to let you know. I first discov-
ered the magazine in my library; I took the
copy home and never returned it. The first
thing I wanted to do was get a piece pub-
lished in TI, and right away I began
submitting.
A few months later, I found TeenInk.com.
I appreciate the way the site allows readers
to comment on other teens works, and the
chat rooms where Ive made quite a few
friends. I havent had the money to sub-
scribe to Teen Ink magazine, so occasional-
ly I take advantage of the free copy offered
through your website.
I love you, TI! Thanks for being a fantas-
tic place for young people writers and
non-writers alike to gather and communi-
cate about what really matters. I remain one
of your biggest fans!
Maya Dixon,
Richville, NY
Changing Lives
Teen Ink is a truly international platform.
I never had the guts to submit my articles
because I thought no one would read them.
Here, you have given me an identity. Its a
treat to view the work of teenagers and feel
like I am not alone. Everyones work is so
inspiring; I learn not only from my own
mistakes but also from others. It is such a
novel idea as it promotes talent and makes
teenagers channel our energies into some-
thing positive.
Thank you for making us feel alive.
Tanvi Kusum,
Gurgaon, India
FEEDBACK To submit your feedback or find the articles mentioned here, go to TeenInk.com
Teen Ink OCTOB E R 1 3
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October is
National
BULLYING
Prevention Month
Read true stories
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pages 10-11
OCTOB E R 1 3 Teen Ink
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of political courage by a U.S. elected ofcial who served during or after 1956.
First-place winner receives $10,000 and an expense-paid trip to Boston, Massachusetts.
Deadline for submission is January 6, 2014.
For contest information, visit www.jfklibrary.org
Would you
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to do what is right?
With support from
Get it right.
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pr esent ed by
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submit in Fiction, Creative Nonfiction
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or contact Chris Rice at 312-369-7611 or
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Want to be a better writer?
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D
ue Tuesday: Write about a
single word.
I. Awkward. The word shuf-
fles clumsily into my mind this morn-
ing as I yawn and sit up in bed. It
bumps my brain and croaks, Hey!
Lemme in. And I do. I let it stand in
line with the other applying adjec-
tives, who watch this graceless word
wait knock-kneed behind coura-
geous, passionate, inspiring, and
truthful. But todays
Sunday, a writing day,
and something about up-
side-down turtles and
eating soup with a fork
piques my interest. So I
smile and yawn (at the
same time), then grab a
chewed pencil with no eraser. This
old word is one of my favorites.
II. Awkward [awk-werd]. Some-
times it gets stuck in my mouth like
peanut butter when I stretch my jaw
to form its diacritical o sound; I bite
into the k thats sandwiched weirdly
between twin ws. The coolest part
is the -ward, pretending to be a
-werd. But a w duo? Ahwk-werd.
The unnaturalness of it makes me grin
and recall voicing those seven gummy
letters during the eighth-grade spell -
ing bee. I remember how a single
word held the power to define a shy
young girl and her poise.
III. Awkward (adjective). An online
dictionary gives me eight definitions,
and my head swims in the 10-point
type because its still morning: inept,
inconvenient, cumbersome, uncom-
fortable, clumsy, callow, embarrass-
ing. I chuckle before yawning this
time. Interestingly, theres a shortened
version of the word awk which
happens to share its enunciation with
the Pacific swimming and
diving birds of the Alci-
dae family. But of course,
I already know that. Ha,
Ive always been able to
define this gawky, little
word, so why has it de-
fined me? Immature and
imprudent, childish and inelegant
labels like glue. Why are adjectives so
darn sticky?
IV. Awk-ward, awk-ward-ly, awk-
ward-ness. Its bumping noses on a
first kiss or running into my French
teacher ringing up a keg at Kroger.
Its spending more time searching
how to write an essay than actually
writing it, and its the silence follow-
ing a joke that sounded much funnier
in my head. Its lanky preteens in
too-big sneakers, waltzing elephants,
neck braces, Napoleon Dynamite,
dangling modifiers, my dad reading
my diary, lifting a baby
grand, and all the times
it grows quiet in class
right before my stom-
ach makes a sound like
a dying whale. Its
even this awkward
essay. But its more
constraining the
dreamer, stunting the
youth, defining the dif-
fident Not-Yet-
Named, so go ahead
and laugh it off. Laugh,
because thats how you
win. Jeer at your la-
bels, your mask, your
doubts, your past, and
poke fun at your inhi-
bitions until theyre
nothing more than a
pile of withered words
and laughable, lifeless
letters.
V. Awkward. The fa-
vorite old word stum-
bles into my brain today. Its eighth
and final definition reads obsolete,
and thats when I know. Galumphing
to the corners of my consciousness, it
plops atop dusty timidity, embarrass-
ment, gaucheness, and insecurity to
form a musty little mountain there in
my mind a mountain over which
Ive triumphed. Awkward, outmoded
and outdated, I bested you. See how
Ive flourished. Youre still kinda
clumsy, though, so I smile and yawn
and gather my closing thoughts this
morning: I define who I am.
COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM
Five Ways of Looking at Awkward by Sarah Oso, Peachtree City, GA
Why are
adjectives so
darn sticky?
D
oesnt it feel like a Sunday? I ask Friend.
Friend nods.
It feels like a long-weekend Sunday,
he points out. Long-weekend Sundays. The most awful
Sundays. Its actually a Saturday night, and Friend and
I are watching the ribbonlike clouds turn pink as the
sun sets here in the park.
Just a few minutes after, a blue car weaves its way
into the small parking lot. It is highly noticeable be-
cause it poses the question, Who drives to a school
playground on a Saturday night?
Swinger. Thats who. We see him almost every time
were here. Around 17 years old, medium height, he
gets out of the car and looks over at us, his face wear-
ing that distinct expression that someone gets when an-
other person is intruding. I recognize him the second he
starts walking toward the swings, placing his earbuds in
his ears.
That guy is always here, I point out to
Friend, and Friend acknowledges it. Hes
always alone.
Friend says, Oh yeah, as he tries to
look in the direction of Swinger without
seeming too rude. In a second, our atten-
tion wanders away from Swinger as we
converse on other topics.
Its just a minute later that I notice Swinger is no
longer on the swings, instead crossing through the soc-
cer field into the forgotten area of the park with the
bench and pine trees that no one really goes to. A small
tuft of white fur chases after Swinger, but Swinger
doesnt react. He just stares at Owner, who runs across
the field, maybe apologizing to Swinger as he collects
his dog.
Friend and I go on the swings, and I cant help but
notice Swinger sitting on the bench across the soccer
field, elbows on knees as he cradles his iPod and stares
in our general direction. We swing back and forth,
making small talk again. We discuss politics and for-
eign countries and The Big Bang Theory, and I sud-
denly notice Swinger already halfway across the field,
walking to the swings. I am surprised he waited so long
to start his routine.
He moves a few swings from us and occasionally
looks our way, and we try to act as casual as possible.
Nevertheless, Friend suggests we go do something else,
and I agree.
We are almost out of the park when Friend points out
the voice. I look across the park at Swinger, who is be-
ginning to disappear in the backdrop of
trees and falling darkness. You can see his
gray sweatshirt but not as much the rest of
his body. He swings high, going almost
parallel to the ground, and his voice flows
through the playground. A jazzy tune. I
cant make out the lyrics, but I hear the beat
and his voice is unmistakably happy. The
jazzy tune soon disappears into a guitar
solo, loud and passionate, echoing through the twists
and turns of playground equipment. That sound that
everyone can make but no one can actually spell out
phonetically,
These are not just simple lyrics.
This is unmistakable onomatopoeia.
It turns into a medley of guitars, rock and roll, sound
waves blasting through amplifiers and crowds cheering
wildly. I imagine a Freddie Mercury swinging on that
swing, letting all his emotions out in one long huzzah
as the park gets dark and quiet yet again.
Swinger Singer by Arman Haveric, Chicago, IL
I imagine a
Freddie
Mercury
swinging
Photo by Maleia Bisera, La Mesa, CA
Photo by Gabriela Villanueva, Staten Island, NY
7
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Shooting a Deer by Trevin Kennedy, Walnut, IL
I
have been a hunter my entire life. I
have spent every fall in a tree stand
ever since I was ten, and I have
been target shooting for as long as I
can remember.
The first time I picked up a bow, it
fit perfectly in my hand. It was as if
the wooden handle was crafted for the
curve of my palm. I nocked the arrow
and drew back the string. With the tip
of the release against the corner of my
mouth, I held back the weight of the
cams and set my sights on the target.
Once my hands stopped shaking, I let
the arrow fly. Even though the arrow
stuck a good foot from the bulls eye, I
was still thrilled that I hit the target.
Nice shot, Trevin! my
dad exclaimed. But thats
not good enough to kill a
deer. If you want to hunt,
you have to prove you can
make a kill shot every
time. There is nothing
worse than wounding an
animal. So I spent every summer
practicing until my shoulder went
limp. I wanted to be confident that I
would make a clean kill when the time
came. After a few years, my dad fi-
nally decided that I was ready.
All of that practice proved effective.
I made a clean shot on every deer I
killed. No whitetail I hit ever ran fur-
ther than 60 yards before silently tip-
ping over. However, one hunt changed
that.

I wake up to a beautiful fall morn-
ing. The air is chilly, but the sun is
warm. It is one of those days when the
earth cannot decide what season it
wants to be. The atmosphere is perfect
for an after-church nap and a late after-
noon bow hunt. At 14, I am old enough
to hunt on my own, but on a day like
this, a father-son hunt just feels right.
We arrive at the blind around 2 p.m.,
giving us plenty of time before the sun
sets. Normally, Dad and I are silent as
much as possible, but today is differ-
ent. The deer arent moving much, and
the laziness of Sunday weighs upon
our souls. We arent out here to pro-
vide meat for the family or to tag a tro-
phy buck. Honestly, we arent even
here to shoot a deer. Rather, Dad and I
venture to the shack to enjoy time with
each other, and there is no better place
to do that than right here in Gods
country.
As I look across the land, I fall
under the trance of the picturesque
view. The late-planted
cornfield sways like a
sleepy ocean in the breeze.
The rustling leaves muffle
our voices as we absorb na-
tures beauty. The song of
the red-winged blackbird
and the bark of a squirrel
assure me that my dad and I are not
interrupting natures course.
Just then, two does emerge from the
cornfield about 100 yards off, which is
out of range for a bow. We watch them
mill around the opening for a few min-
utes before they dive back into the
rows of corn.
Dad turns his attention back to con-
versation. He starts with some small
talk: Whats new in school? and
Isnt this nice? But soon he leads us
into deeper topics, such as how incred-
ible nature is, what opportunities may
arise in my future, and how lucky we
are to be spending time together. I can-
not help but agree.
Trevin, dont move. The look in
my dads eyes and the sudden lower
tone of his voice tell me what he has
spotted. He mouths the words two
does, and motions to turn slowly. It is
the same two deer that we saw earlier.
They must have walked toward us
through the corn, and now they are just
30 yards away. As they wander even
closer, my dad whispers, You take the
shot.
I dont need to take the shot. Im not
even sure I want to take it. A strange
hesitation comes over me one Ive
never felt before. Its as if I forgot that
we were hunting. But the lead doe
keeps creeping closer. I do not want to
shoot her. I have no need to. Our fam-
ily will be perfectly fine without her
meat in our freezer.
There she stands, just 10 yards
away. What hunter would pass up such
an opportunity? She may not be a 12-
point buck, but for an amateur bow
hunter like me, this big doe is a spec-
tacular kill. Besides, I have taken
much harder shots than this. Heck, just
last year I shot an 11-point buck in the
heart at 30 yards on a trot. Here this
doe stands, 10 yards away, completely
still. She is practically telling me to
shoot her. If I let her live, how will that
make me look? Will my dad think I am
afraid to kill an animal?
So I nock the arrow and draw back
the string. With the tip of the release
against the corner of my mouth, I hold
back the weight of the cams and set
my sights on the target. Once my
hands stop shaking, I let the arrow fly.
There is a whack and the doe charges
off into the corn. After seemingly end-
less seconds of heart-
pounding chaos, we hear
her thrashing come to a
sudden halt. We listen for
a few more minutes to
see if she will get up
again. Then we pack up
and begin the search.
I walk to where she
stood at the moment of
the shot, and find blood. As we follow
her trail to the edge of the cornfield,
we find a path of broken stalks painted
crimson. A relieved breath eases from
my chest; such a sign usually means a
well-placed shot. As Dad and I find an-
other pool of blood, we hear a crunch
of cornstalks not far from us. We look
up the row and theres the doe. But
theres one problem. Shes still alive.
The deer is facing away from us, but
I can see the arrow sticking out of her
right front leg. The wound is pulsing
crimson blood that runs down her leg.
She knows were here, but shes so
badly hurt that she doesnt want to
move. She has given up. I have de-
prived this magnificent animal of her
only defense, the ability to flee.
Now she stands, waiting for me to
end her life. I can neither physically
nor mentally do it. With her back fac-
ing us, I do not have a safe kill shot.
Even if I manage to sneak around to
her front side, its too dark for me to
see my sights. Risking another shot
will likely only make her suffer more.
Well have to come back with a
gun tomorrow morning, my dad says
somberly. Theres nothing we can do
tonight.
I dont sleep very much that night,
imaging the pain the doe is in. At what
point is an animal hurt so badly that it
disobeys its natural-born instincts?
Will she die? Will she live? Will coy-
otes eat her alive?
I go through school the next day in a
fog. I spend the first few classes resist-
ing the urge to pick up my phone. I fi-
nally call my dad at lunch to ask what
happened.
He says the doe was
standing in the exact same
place we had left her. She
hadnt moved an inch.
When my dad approached
her and raised the gun to
her head, she didnt even
flinch. After twelve hours
of bleeding, twelve hours
of suffering, twelve hours
of feeling the razor-tipped broadhead
against her delicate sinews, she was
ready for death.
After the phone call, I feel like the
most evil person on the face of the
earth. Who am I to take an animals
life? Perhaps God was testing me.
Maybe God put that deer in front of
me for a reason, and I let both Him and
the deer down. I shot the deer because
I thought hunting was about killing,
but its not.
This experience taught me what it
means to be a true hunter. A true
hunter respects all life enough to know
what is his and what is not. A true
hunter can distinguish an animal that
God has set aside for harvest, and an
animal that has a greater task to fulfill.
A true hunter loves nature enough to
willingly sit for hours in the sun, rain,
or snow, hoping that today is the day.
A true hunter does not kill to brag but
harvests to connect.
He mouths
the words
two does
What hunter
would pass
up such an
opportunity?
Art by Lavinia Liang, Poughkeepsie, NY
Photo by Carter Boyd, Austin, TX
n
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I
can smell the mold that grows in between each
and every synthetic fiber I am sitting on. Every-
one is sitting on it; they just dont realize it.
Every surface that is accessible to hands is covered
with millions of microscopic organisms. The very
air that I inhale is putrid with dirty gases, filthy
germs from the nostrils of commuting strangers, and
minute flakes of dandruff that could be
mistaken for mere dust.
There is a man sitting two seats
away. His breathing pattern is heavy
through his nose, and one nostril is
blocked with mucus. He smells like
furnace oil. He pulls out something
from inside his leather jacket; I can tell
by the crinkling of his sleeves and the
screech of the folds that gather at his elbows as he
moves. There is a very faint scent of eau de toilet
trailing from the object. The delicate essence of lilac
flowers after a light rain intertwined with the vines
of violets weaves its way to me through the Toronto
air. Its a photo of his late wife. He sighs and wipes
a tear from his cheek, his gnarled fingers rubbing
like sandpaper against his stubbly face, the single
tear splashing to the ground. Surprisingly, I can hear
it the ripples and the gentle sound of the water
droplet collapsing on itself before flattening out into
a small disregarded puddle. The car shakes a bit,
slows down and then keeps going. He slips the
photo back into his pocket.
Union station, the next stop will be
Union station.
Next, I move on to the lady sitting in
front of me. She is young, probably be-
tween 25 and 30. She has just finished
applying a thick layer of strawberry lip
gloss, the kind that smells sickly sweet;
the chemicals used to make it are raw in
the air. I wrinkle my nose. Her left heel
is restless against the vinyl floor, tapping at a moder-
ate tempo. Her heel is thin, the stiletto kind. There is
a rough sound of ruffling pages, a newspaper per-
haps? The odor of the ink is that of the Toronto Star,
and it quickly meshes with the underground tunnel
air. She is chewing mint gum, probably Stride given
the amount of aspartame I detect. Annoyingly, the
gum gives up to the pounding of her jaw, cracking
loudly as though she is chewing bubble wrap. She
crosses her right leg over her left, continuing the
steady tempo. Her panty hosed legs rub together,
fine mesh net to fine mesh net, though it sounds
more like a child walking on a waxed floor with wet
shoes.
The phone in her bag is vibrating, but she cant
hear it, so I tell her. She starts an animated conversa-
tion with the person on the phone. Frankly, I cant
help but eavesdrop. And please, dont think me a
perverted creeper; its just what I do: listen.
Now arriving at Union Station. Now arriving at
Union Station.
Suddenly, the car comes to a stop and the doors
are pulled back with a whoosh of compressed air.
Not many commuters enter. The doors close and we
are moving at a rapid speed again. A strong scent of
pine has wafted into the car.
Now there is a little girl sitting between the old
man and me, licking an orange lollypop. She swings
her legs back and forth, back and forth. There is a
balloon tied to her wrist, the helium slowly leaking
out. It reminds me of my neighbors who, when
using their barbecue, purposely let the propane gas
shriek through the seams of the valve.
Old wool. She is wearing a pea coat that smells
like it was just taken out of a deep space in the
closet in the basement of her home. There is ferret
hair all over her coat.
The pine scent tells me that she helped move
some small trees her height. I inhale deeply. The
scent is soothing and refreshes my nostrils, making
childhood memories spark to life. I imagined mother
and father decorating the evergreen tree outside,
hanging lights and putting up ornaments. The girl
starts biting the lollipop, her teeth crushing it to
shards. She swallows loudly, a big gulp. She pro-
ceeds to gnaw on the stick.
St. Andrew Station, the next stop will be St.
Andrew Station.
I shift my weight in my seat as my butt has fallen
asleep. This is the world through my point of view. I
see the world with my ears. I see the world with my
nose. What you cant necessarily hear with your ears
or smell with your nose is crystal clear to me. I have
learned that blindness is not a burden but a gift. It al-
lows me to appreciate the hidden things you take for
granted. Its simply another way of looking at the
world.
My Point of View by Sayuki Cross, Toronto, ON, Canada
Y
ouve snapped this house into two rooms.
Covered in frilly lace that hides the hairline
fractures, held together by flimsy family pho-
tos, the collars of the beloved family dog, memories of
vacations to Italy and Disneyworld. All
the magic I once looked to, that mystical
rope that once held four people together
was but a frayed piece of string. Not even
that it was cut cleanly in many spots,
purposely. What am I to look to now?
I am barely even able to mouth a silent
I love you to my brother. I know the
pain he must be feeling, but my own pain
is blinding. I cannot bear to think about the extent to
which youve ruined it all. His jokes make light of it,
but all I can feel is the heavy press of the heat from
the vents. But the room is cooling down again.
Just a moment before he was dead silent, caught in
the crossfire of a broken household.
I never knew, before this, the pain that others felt. I
once saw my friend crying over her parents divorce
and thought, Why is she so upset? Cant
she suck it up? Now I know, and I wish I
didnt.
Somehow I think that Im worse off.
Theres that generalization of divorce, but
what about the subgeneras of that pain? I
dont really know if Im better or worse
off. Am I even special, or is this normal?
Once, I wasnt special because my parents
werent divorced, yet now that it has happened, there
are so many others who are divorced too.
Now Im just an object of pity. I used to wish for
something to give me life experience, to make me
jaded and scarred and attractive. I used to want that. It
was cool. Id read about damaged people who were
saved by their true love ten years in the future. But
what if that doesnt happen?
I could be left all alone like everyone seems to be in
real life. What if marriage is not like Marshall and
Lily on How I Met Your Mother? What if couples
like them dont even exist? At least before my parents
divorced I wasnt so doubtful. I was always specula-
tive, but now now I feel afraid for the future. And
Ive already spent so much time being afraid.
Afraid of the dark, of talking to strangers, even of
automatic toilets. It seems as if half my life has been
just fear and apprehension. I want to know something
for once, and be confident in it. I want to be able to
say: I know that Marshall and Lily exist somewhere. I
know that if I really think about it, the dark isnt all
that bad and strangers are just friends I havent met
yet.
I guess it doesnt help that my own romantic
endeavors havent ended well. High schools just
awkward, I guess. Nothing I can do about that.
Marshall and Lily by Madison McCartin, Westport, CT
Caught in
the crossfire
of a broken
household
Frankly, I
cant help but
eavesdrop
Art by Rhiannon Lee, Thornhill, ON, Canada
Photo by Maya Kobe-Rundio, Santa Cruz, CA
8
9
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H
e used to go to the park with
me. He used to push me on
the swings. He was the air my
legs pumped against. He was the feel-
ing of flying off a swing and letting
go just letting it all go. He ran with
me through the fields and held his
breath with me under the water. He
splashed with me in the rain, he
searched with me for buried treasure,
he helped me climb trees and then
helped me down. He came to the door
if I knocked. He listened when I
talked. I was young,
and he was never out
of my little arms
reach.
He taught me multi-
plication and division
on the sidewalk. His
chalky hands moved
slowly for me, his fifth-grade math
seeming so much more exciting than
my third-grade addition.
He helped me find the courage to
make friends in my new town. I re-
member him telling me that spiders
were more scared of me than I was of
them, and most of the time people
were the same way. He helped me
find the beauty in the scariest things,
the scariest situations, and the scariest
people. He helped me bury the early
fractions of myself. He was missing,
and I couldnt make myself remember
why.
I didnt try to remember for a long
time. But I must have known some-
thing wasnt right. When I finally
faced it, it was only the sound. But
something in me knew there was so
much more to be found.
It was so ugly. I could remember
thinking that. Three years went by,
yet I could only think about that. It
was like I couldnt see the rest. I tried
and tried, but my brain was a small,
unripened fruit, nothing left to
squeeze out, too young to face the
truth. I was 11 years old, and I could
not face the truth.
I saw my godmother, the woman
Im named after, for the first time in
six years, when I was 14. I saw her
beautiful dark skin and her long
braided hair. Her memory should have
come with all the times she gave me
kiwis for watering her flowers, all the
times she taught me how to paint, all
the times she taught me how to sew,
or spell, or sing, or dance, or tell a
good joke. But when I saw her smil-
ing face, I couldnt help but look past
her, seeing something else.
I saw her run past her white front
door, her eyes brimming with disbe-
lief and anger. She approached me for
a hug, yet I saw her run toward some-
thing that lay in front of her home:
her biggest fear. I tried to see where
she was running, but my memory
couldnt take me past her frightened
eyes, her quick steps, her pink dress,
and her front lawn. Then a rush
back to reality and into her kind
embrace.
It really began to bother me after
that day. I have been gifted with a ter-
rible memory thats what I used to
tell myself. I forget dates, names, as-
signments, faces, and fond memories,
along with pain, hate, grudges, fears,
and fights. But I dont forget sounds. I
never forget a song. Even when I lose
a face, I never forget the voice. It oc-
curred to me that maybe I wasnt born
with a poor memory.
Maybe I developed one.
I was in Missouri
when the smell hit me,
the smell of a hot sum-
mers day: leather seats
and sweat. The smell
was eight years old, hid-
ing in the back of my mind. I looked
around me. People were smiling and
laughing; they were hot but happy.
The smell in my memory was of food
on the barbecues, juice by the gallon,
corn and chicken and mashed pota-
toes and casseroles. Our block was
blocked off, and everyone within a
mile had come with food and family
and friends.
We filled half the street, and all the
parked cars played the same radio sta-
tion. Not everyone had a job. But we
had each other. We helped each other.
We fed each other. We were one huge
family. And my huge family filled
half a street. The soul music played,
the dark women sang, the dark men
barbecued, and the dark children
played. I was not their color, but they
accepted me and my family for our
character, and it was just such a beau-
tiful day.
My mind rushed back to the pres-
ent. Eight years later, and here I was.
The Missouri sun was high and hot.
No one else smelled what I had
smelled. I looked
around, and my eyes
paused on the beach.
Tall white girls and
boys played volley-
ball. Men wore fancy
glasses and watches,
and a booming radio
played soft rock. They
ate food not unlike
the food in my memory; they laughed
and sang and drank together. I re-
membered how happy I was in the
past, and my mind tried to go back.
But my cousin asked me to join his
team for volleyball, and I remembered
that I was just as happy here. My
mind was someplace else, but I nod-
ded and tried to stand. In that mo-
ment, the past and the present
collided. Everything grew fuzzy and I
fell in a faint, breaking through the
green grass like it was ice, drowning,
so cold, in a warm scents memory.
When I was only a few months past
17, someone asked me
where I grew up. I automati-
cally responded, Hoffman
Estates, and then it oc-
curred to me that this wasnt
true. There had been another
house, another town, an-
other society, another time.
It hurt to think about, and I
couldnt picture it as a
whole. I could remember
my bed: a small, pink-
framed thing. I started re-
membering the floor, and
thats when my head began
to pound. There was some-
thing I couldnt see, some-
thing I wouldnt let myself
see.
I was sitting at my desk in
English class. I read the bold
black letters against that
harsh white background. I
shouldnt say I read them.
Rather I stared at them. I
saw my godmothers dark
eyes. I saw the pavement,
and I knew what piece I had
been missing the feeling.
It hit me and it hit me
hard. It didnt take its time;
it hit me all at once. I saw
the black letters on my
phone. I saw the black T-
shirt as it became damp with
blood. I heard all of the
sound and none of it at the
same time. And I heard
someone whisper, Oh my god, over
and over. The sound felt so far away.
Then it got louder and louder. Then it
was blocked out by sobs, and then it
was followed by lack of breath and
worried looks and the sound of a
purse falling and everything spilling
out. Everything had just spilled out
right in front of me. I realized that the
words had been coming from me. I
realized that I was the
one stumbling and
falling and trying to
leave the room, the
classroom that grew
smaller and smaller
against the realization I
had just had.
He just lay there. His
face was purple. His hat
was blue. He was motionless, like the
beautiful flowers surrounding him.
His earrings were sparkling in the
lights, like his eyes used to. Every
time I looked at his still face, I cried.
Every hug his mother gave to every
person who walked through that
church, I cried.
I remembered the people and the
anger and the tears. I remembered the
people who drove through the home-
made wooden barrier. I remembered
the screams of men and women and
children. I remembered the black
guns, and I remembered my best
friend, Tre, pushing me out of the
way. I remembered looking for my lit-
tle brother, who is deaf. I remembered
my godmother running through her
white door, across the summers
green grass, in her long pink dress.
I remembered fear and faces and
voices and wheels screeching. I re-
membered the bullet that flew right
past me; I remembered watching them
speed down the empty half of the
street. I heard the police sirens, but no
matter how hard I looked, I never saw
their faces, and then they disappeared.
I looked around and my neighbors,
my huge family, were holding
wounded arms, legs, children, and
pets. I couldnt see anything more. I
didnt even see Tre lying there, struck
down by a bullet that could have hit
me. I couldnt see his black shirt
soaked in red, I couldnt see the tears
or the faces or the ambulances. I just
heard them.
I heard everything. I heard the heat,
I heard the pain, and I heard the
anger. I heard the sounds of a scared
young girl in shock, as silent and un-
emotional as a stone.
It all went black for her, and she
woke up 10 years later and 100 miles
away, on the opposite side of Chi -
cago, in the arms of different friends,
crying her heart out, wanting nothing
more than to hug her first friend, Tre,
one more time.
Close by Sharon Sturnfield, Hoffman Estates, IL
Maybe I wasnt
born with a poor
memory. Maybe I
developed one.
He helped me
find the courage
to make friends
D
ont go.
Thats what you said three
months ago. I didnt listen, be-
cause secretly I enjoyed watching you
beg and plead for me to take you back.
Now, Im the one begging you not to
go. Theres just one difference
You were begging me not to leave
the relationship.
Im begging you not to leave the
population.
Dont Go
by Abby, Quakertown, PA
Photo by Chloe Rhoades-Barnes, Kittredge, CO
b
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H
ey, retard! Im glad youre moving. Its
about time this school gets rid of one of
its biggest losers!
These were the last words my best friend of 15
years heard.
Eric was a six-foot, blue-eyed, trustworthy per-
son, and like a brother to me. Id known him my
whole life. He was someone I naturally clicked with.
We liked the same music; we even liked the same
color.
Then came this horrible news: he was moving to
Florida. At the time we were eight, but I knew the
connection we shared would last our whole lives,
even if we lived in different states. At our last meet-
ing before he left, we exchanged a promise in the
form of a quote: Best friends may not last, but
brothers remain forever.
Eric and I decided we would talk on the phone
every Tuesday evening for an hour and we did ex-
actly that.Whether I had to get up from dinner or
leave a friends house early, we kept our promise.
Fast-forward to my fifteenth birthday. I received a
ticket to Florida. After seven years, I would get to
see my brother again! But when I arrived, I could
tell that something was very wrong. His bright blue
eyes seemed almost gray, and around those gray
eyes were bruises.
I had known he was a victim of bullying, but now
I could see how serious it was. This was not the Eric
I knew and loved. He explained how he had tried to
stop it, how he fought back but lost the physical and
mental battles because he was alone.
I began to rethink my life, wondering if I had ever
made anyone feel alone? And how had I not known
what he was going through? If we talked more,
would he have been okay? I began to
blame myself but didnt voice my fears.
As the week drew to a close, we again
parted with a quote: Never look down
upon anyone unless you are helping
him up. I recited this quote every night
before I fell asleep and every morning
when I woke up. Eric wore the quote on a dog tag
around his neck.
After my visit to Florida, we began talking more
often, and Eric opened up to me about the pain and
agony he was enduring. Right before my sixteenth
birthday, our normal Tuesday night phone call took
a serious turn. With tears in his voice he muttered, I
cannot I cannot live. I was terrified. It only got
worse from there. Another year went by and I was
worried constantly. I could not shake the idea that
this was all my fault.
That year, I started at a new school. I still had that
gut feeling that Eric was not okay. I hadnt gotten a
call or message from him for two weeks. One after-
noon, my mother called me.Im coming to pick you
up, Av, she said. Meet me in front of the school. I
knew Eric was in trouble.
When we arrived home she sat me down. Avi, I
am so sorry to tell you your friend Eric
My brother, you mean, I interrupted.
He was found dead in his house with a note. You
were mentioned in the final lines. Would you like to
read it?
Without hesitating, I grabbed it. I will share the
last lines that have shaped me ever since and will al-
ways rule my life: Avi, Im sorry. This was not
your fault. Im not dead, only at rest. Ill look over
you forever. I know how much you love quotes, so
remember this: Look to your right, look to your
left, make sure the people there know how much
you love them, because in the blink of an eye they
could be gone. Ill see you in heaven. I love you.
I cried myself to sleep that night, and
many nights after that, and still do, to
this day. As time passed, I became
careless. I was depressed. Night after
night I read Erics letter and truly
blamed myself. I felt useless, hopeless,
and worst of all, alone. It took time be-
fore I was really ready to hear Erics final words and
let go of the blame I had placed on myself. When I
did, a whole new me emerged.
Much like every teenager, I once believed the
world revolved around me. But after this experience
I realize that nothing and no one will last forever
and nothing can be taken for granted. I have prom-
ised Eric that no person I ever meet will go home
thinking that no one cares. But more importantly, I
realize that everyone has a story. You never know
what someone is going through behind those seem-
ingly real smiles, and you never know how much a
single word or phrase can mean. I wish that boy who
caused Eric to take his life knew that.
I now wear Erics dog tag necklace that bears our
final face-to-face quote: Never look down on any-
one unless you are helping them up. It is a constant
reminder of my vow to help others. But most of all,
its a reminder of my brother.
R.I.P., Eric.
Im Sorry, Eric by Avi Lurie, New City, NY
10
My Guilty
Addiction
and The
Solitary are
featured in
B
ullying is a hot topic right now everything
from minor incidents of harassment to physi-
cal violence and suicide. Most stories of bul-
lying come from the perspective of the victim; rarely
are they told from the viewpoint of the bully. I have
never been perfect, nor will I ever be, and there are
definitely blemishes in my past I wish I could erase.
Bullying is one of them.
I am an inherently proud person,
which affected my early friendships. I
was unable to truly connect with others
because I wanted desperately to stand
out, to be better than everyone else.
Even with friends, I constantly had to
be superior. I would even find subtle
ways to put them down and make them feel inferior.
Academics are the most important thing to me. I
am ambitious. I love learning, studying, and discov-
ering new things. And I am naturally good at these
things. But there was a time when I took every op-
portunity to shoot down anyone who came close to
me academically.
I knew what bullying was. Maybe what I did was
not typical bullying, but I knew it was wrong. Yet I
couldnt stop myself.
Once I started, the desire to stay on top was un-
controllable. My only thought was I cannot fall. I
must stay on top. I cannot lose my place. My ambi-
tion had twisted into a gruesome obsession. I put
others down to feed my ego.
Now that I can look back and reflect, I understand
that my issue was one of power, domination, and ul-
timately control.
Control is something Ive always felt I
lacked in life. Control over my surround-
ings, control in my family life, and control
of myself. I had a monstrous inferiority
complex because of my fear of failure.
Dominating academically, even when it
hurt others, was one way I felt control.
Bullying often spawns from fear or a feeling of in-
adequacy. And once a bully feels the powerful high
of hurting others, stopping can be difficult. But the
fact is, it was not just others I was bullying; it was
myself. Once I realized my motivations, it was easier
to change.
Bullying is a challenging problem. However, until
we begin trying to understand the bullies, we will not
address the issue effectively.
My Guilty Addiction
by Brittany Butler, San Diego, CA
The Solitary
you see them
in the corners
in the crannies of the lunchroom
you see them
alone
sitting with their backpacks
alone
and they eat quickly
racing the clock so they
can run to the library
they eat quickly so they
can go back into hiding
in the pages of a book
or behind a computer monitor
and they hunch over their food like
a small wild animal
that wants to finish before
its dinner is taken away
by something bigger
like a small wild animal
that must eat
before it is eaten
and they curl up into themselves
when strangers
(everyone)
pass by
like they are worried
that someone will interrupt them
or even worse
that nobody will
and they stare at the table
like they dont want to be seen
they stare silently at the table
or dart quick glances around the room
the roaring rowdy room
like theyre being watched
they arent
by Jenica Jessen, Riverton, UT
This is not
your fault
I constantly
had to be
superior
F
ebruary 14th of my senior year I was bullied for
the last time. That day, I hit my breaking point and
felt that suicide was my only option. As I ran
through the hallway my head swam in depression. My
hands were shaking as they reached for my cell phone. I
couldnt even remember how to speed-dial Mom.
I was the girl who got called fat every single day. The
girl who camouflaged her pain by laughing really hard
and talking too loud, drowning out the demeaning com-
ments. The girl fighting an internal battle to get up, get
ready, and go to school every morning. Yes, I
was that fat girl waddling to school, getting
honked at by the popular kids, and even get-
ting snowballs thrown at her butt in the win-
ter. I was the girl who ate lunch alone on the
bench in front of the cafeteria doors. The girl
who had one friend, but lost even her when
her boyfriend called me names too.
I had a simple, deadly, desperate plan to
escape the social torment Id been facing
since the fifth grade: leave school, lie in the street on my
stomach, and wait until a speeding car came along.
Then it would all be over.
Never before had I come so close to acting on this fatal
fantasy, but that day I was feeling adrenaline I never even
knew existed in my body. Then, as I passed the coun-
selors office, out of nowhere, a voice spoke to me. It
said, You need to change your life. You are going
through this so you can help other bullied children. I
dashed straight into the counselors office, in desperate
need of help. The counselor was busy, but after taking
one look at me a secretary sprinted to get him. I was soon
inside his office, heaving, hiccupping, and hysterical. I
have never cried like that in my life. Tears streamed
down my face as I hugged the trash can, afraid of vomit-
ing out my feelings.
After my crisis, I refused to go to school. But wallow-
ing in self-pity and depression at home wasnt helping,
and I finally decided not to be a victim any longer. I
forced myself to get out of bed and write a letter. A letter
to my bully. Three pages in red ink. Upon returning to
school, I went to a prearranged meeting in the deans of-
fice and read the letter to my bully. Out loud to his face.
For the first time in my life I stood up to my tormentor.
Dear _____,
Think back to ninth grade. Every day in study hall you
would call me fat ass and beached whale. One day
I wore shorts; you looked at your friends and said, That
shouldnt be allowed. Those words left your mouth in
just one second, but they entered my
consciousness and still refuse to leave.
After your comments, I wanted to
die. Do you know that I go to bed and
cry every night? I have thoughts of
killing myself.
Sometimes I dont know how Ive made it this far.
When I hit rock bottom, though, I remind myself that if I
ended my life, you would win. Im not going to let you
win. No matter what you do, Ill be here to prove a point.
To show that you cant crush me.
Do you know that all the hell Ive endured
in school is my reason to go on living? I am
going to go to college, become a counselor,
and help other victims of bullies like you. I
understand the pain they live with, and I
want to help them survive it. When I want to
die, I think about helping those in need, just
as many kind souls have helped me to
survive.
Do you know that I am okay with how I look? When I
look in the mirror I see beauty. What I cant stand is my
inner-self, and youre the one who trained me to feel this
way. When I entered school, I instantly felt like a second-
class person. I listened to your comments and didnt
stand up for myself. I accepted all the pain you caused
me and never took action until now.
Are you aware of how I feel just being near you? I feel
like I am not worth anything because you cant look into
my eyes, past my weight, and see a normal girl. Sitting in
class near you makes me anxious every day.
I am your equal. I am no less than you, and I never
will be! You have no right to point out my faults and
try to cut me down every day. Sadly, I have learned to ex-
pect and passively accept your comments. I live with
them and believe them. They are and always will be
etched into my heart and mind. You should really think
about what you say before you say it, because some peo-
ple are not as strong as I am, and they really might end
up killing themselves.
What you did on February
14th is NOT okay. What gives
you the right to touch my per-
sonal belongings? Who gives you
the power to state who sits at
what table? When you threw my
purse and books onto the floor, it
hurt me more than all of the de-
meaning comments over the
years. It hurt me so much that I
wanted to kill myself. Your ac-
tions told me just where I fit in
here: that I am a piece of sh*t
that belongs on the floor. Whats
even worse is that I almost ac-
cepted what you did to me, just
like I accepted the names you
called me every day.
I almost believed you were
right, because you are a god in
this school. Everyone respects
you and looks up to you.
You have violated me with
your words and actions, and you
should know that what may seem
to you like jokes are ruining my
life and causing me to miss
school. I am through being your
victim. I am done tolerating and
accepting it. I am determined to
enjoy the last few months of high
school. From this day forward,
you are going to treat me
with the respect I deserve.
He cried. Seriously, my
bully cried. Then he apolo-
gized sincerely. For the rest
of high school, I, the former social reject,
was never bullied again.
That was six months ago. Look at me
now Im a new person. Ive undergone a
transformation. I am a college freshman
a psychology major with plans to become
a school counselor. I gave my first public
speech on school bullying and got a stand-
ing ovation, and I didnt even cry! Now I
dont have to fake my smile. I stay up
late, laughing and talking with my room-
mate, who is my new best friend. I walk
into a crowded cafeteria and feel wel-
come at numerous tables. Im not afraid
to approach new faces. Im the student
who cant wait to get to class.
Im finally happy not only on the
outside but on the inside as well. I am
new. I am the person who I want to be.
Finally.
I treasure my life each and every day.
I question why I once wanted to end my
life. I realize just how lucky I am. So many people are
being bullied every day and dont realize yet that they
can make it through and have a happy life. They dont
know the torture will end.
I am blessed beyond belief. Ive found joy. Ive found
my meaning, my calling: to become a counselor and help
kids struggling with bullying. I have a passion and a pur-
pose, and it becomes clearer each day. Im so grateful I
gave myself a second chance to live and to help other
bullied children survive and rise up.
I am finally who I want to be.
Never Again by Elizabeth Ditty, Tyrone, PA
Vultures. Tormentors.
Monsters in pain
Preying on helplessness
Living in shame
Vicious young ladies
Insecure with themselves
Their brow-beatings really
A sick call for help
Screwed up in the mind
And starving for change
Ravenous for praise
For attention, for fame
Youre fat and youre ugly
Youre worthless; youre trash
They pass on these thoughts
To the ones they harass
And nobody wins
But the self-doubting mind
That dark, evil demon
Can be so unkind
The bullies, they really
Cant see what they do
Cant see hating themselves
Makes them hate others too
So take pity on them
The savage young beasts
Rise above their cruel words
Indulge in the feast
The feast that is knowing
Youre strong and secure
You are good enough
Even when youre unsure
And fill up on truth
And drink to your scars
For theyre what make you
The person you are
The vultures will feed
Rip bodies to shreds
But they will not satisfy
Their insatiable dread
And if one of them catches you
Dont run away
Try to feed them some truth
They might change their cruel ways
And dont settle for worthless
For self-doubt and pain
And know that you, too
Will be whole again
Vultures by Nicole Rossi, Napa, CA
Art by Sarah Brucato, Springville, NY
I had a
desperate plan
to escape the
torment
11
b
u
l
l
y
i
n
g
Both pieces are
featured in
October is
National
BULLYING
Prevention
Month
s
p
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t
s
T
hrough my experiences in both
school and sports, I have been
pushed to the edge. Often these
experiences serve as a test of whether
Im able to get back up, whether I can
succeed where not everyone would.
And it is during these moments that I
believe my life is best defined.
The most memorable experience of
being pushed to my limits was in the
summer before I started high school. I
had just had a successful final year of
middle school, finishing with a 4.0
GPA and my football team ranking
ninth in the state. I had been accepted
into one of the most prestigious high
schools in the state. This was a new
year at a new school with new people.
I had to prove myself all over again.
It was the first day of summer
football practice, and I didnt know
the playbook or my way around
school. Worst of all, I didnt know
any of the other students. It seemed
like everyone else had someone to
talk to. As I looked around, I saw
smiles, laughter, and happiness. No
one seemed as alone as I felt. I as-
sumed this was my fate, being that I
was an out-of-town freshman, practic-
ing with the varsity football team. I
thought I wouldnt fit in. I thought I
was destined for failure. I didnt think
I would last a week here.
I was definitely out of my
comfort zone and not
sure what to do. So I did
the one thing I knew how
to: play football.
As we practiced, I
made some eye-catching plays. Soon
enough, I was no longer alone. I had
peers who appreciated my football
prowess and intelligence. However, I
was still encountering problems.
Without even realizing it, I had man-
aged to put myself in a competition
for a starting position. I didnt want to
make an enemy on the very first
day of practice, but this was a
real possibility. I knew the only
way to avoid it was to confront
my fear and talk to my new
teammates.
I had had coaches who
worked me hard, but never this
hard. I was positive these new
coaches were deter-
mined to destroy not
only me, but the rest
of my team too. We
practiced twice a day
and were brutally
punished for each mis-
take. For every dropped pass, we had
to do ten pushups. For every fumble,
a lap around the field. For every mis-
take we were physically punished.
To complicate matters, we were
practicing on AstroTurf, which inten-
sified the heat. I could feel the suns
rays pounding down on me. It felt like
the sun was taunting me and encour-
aging me to quit. Again, I was being
tested. I was exhausted physically,
mentally, and emotionally. The
coaches wanted to see how far they
could push us before we broke. And
we found out that first day when a
few people quit. I was determined not
to be like them.
I once had a coach tell me, Pain is
temporary. It may last a minute, or an
hour, or a day, or a year, but eventu-
ally it will subside and something
else will take its place. Quitting, how-
ever, lasts forever. This quote stuck
with me, especially as I was being
encouraged to quit. I loved playing
football and would not let anyone or
anything push me to give up. I had
worked too long and hard to give up.
I continued practicing, happy to be
playing football and continuing to
earn my right to play on the team for
the upcoming season. I lined up at
positions I had never played before
and continued to be a playmaker. I
felt confident heading into the up-
coming season.
After all the physical punishment of
practice, we thought we were ready,
but our coaches knew better. They
tested each and every one of us. They
criticized and insulted us, stirring our
emotions, daring us to quit. Profani-
ties were flung around as often as the
footballs, cutting into our spirits and
emotions. We were being tested men-
tally as much as physically.
After more kids quit, I knew we
were ready to head into the season. I
was ready for any challenge. I had
true friends who were willing to fight
alongside me to accomplish our
goals. We built a unity that I had
never experienced before.
Being pushed to our limits in prac-
tice paid off. On the football field, we
experienced success, winning more
games than any season in recent
memory. We developed personal
bonds, knowing each others emo-
tions and how to react to them. We
were becoming young men without
even realizing it.
We were able to overcome the
odds, the naysayers, and all the
doubts. When we were pushed to the
edge that first day, it was just the be-
ginning of the tests we would face
during the season. And as credit to
both our individual strength and team
unity, we were able to beat the test, as
seen through our newfound success.
Although our season ended before we
would have liked, we were happy
with the results. I could tell that all
the tears flowing were not merely
tears of sorrow, they were tears of re-
membrance and happiness for the
shared experiences and the memories
that would last a lifetime.
Being pushed to the limit in an un-
familiar environment taught me im-
portant lessons that will stay with me
forever. It was here, in the miserable
summer heat playing football, that I
understood my passion for the sport. I
learned to value teamwork, discipline,
and perseverance. But more impor-
tantly, I learned what it feels like to be
pushed to the limit to face a crisis
and overcome it, to be knocked off
my feet and not just get back up but
continue fighting. I was not willing to
give up until I reached my goal. I was
able to overcome my early fears
through my love of football.
This game affects your emotions
like no other. Its pure ruthlessness.
Its controlled chaotic warfare. It has
the ability to unite people. But more
than anything, I love football because
during every play, every year, and
every career, I witness people being
pushed past their limit, counted down
and out, but still persevering and suc-
ceeding. For these reasons, I live by
the motto, No matter the circum-
stances that you may be going
through, just push through it. It is a
simple yet true saying that I have
learned through football, but its
applicable to all parts of life, be it
sports, education, friendship, or
personal well-being.
How to Play Softball
I
dolize your father. Try to spend every second with him after work. Drive with him to
the store, with the Sox game on the radio. Come home and watch the game with him.
Your brothers will complain that baseball is too slow, theres no tackling, that guy is so
fat, its so easy, you dont have to be athletic at all. After they get bored, sit in silence with
your father. Only break the silence to ask what a balk is. Fall asleep in his arms during
the commercials, and have him carry you up to bed, the scent of faded cologne on his
chest.
Wake up, go to school. Dont pay any attention to how other girls idolize their mothers,
their sisters, their babysitters. Look forward to the game tonight. Try to talk baseball with
the boys, even though they assume you wont have anything interesting to contribute.
Play softball, because girls are not allowed to play baseball. For
the first time feel somewhat oppressed. Feel better when you real-
ize that other girls also idolize their fathers and ask for leather and
aluminum for Christmas.
Grow older. Improve your skills. Have girls who idolize their
mothers, sisters, and former babysitters call you a lesbian. Have the
boys who you tried to talk baseball with look utterly disgusted by
your boyish interests and muscular build.
You have your comrades your teammates with you for a few
years, but then they begin to drop out. They try not to say the word butch in front of
your coach, with her softball hall-of-fame status, boyish hair cut, and Bermuda shorts.
Sometimes they accidentally say it anyway, and then
burst out laughing, drawing even more attention to
themselves.
Lose yourself in the ground balls. They become
your only friend. Find that you would really prefer
playing catch with your father than being around
those girls who dont even know who plays second
base for the Red Sox.
Find that for a team sport, softball can be very
lonely. Play anyway. Get offended by the baseball
players who hit on the girls who whisper butch and
call the ones like you gross and manly. Play anyway.
You are not trying to be masculine. You are not try-
ing to be your father. You are just doing something he
appreciates because you want him to be even more
proud of you than he already is, because he is cool.
Hell be there every night on the couch, 7 p.m., beer
in hand, the name Ortiz printed across his back,
waiting for you.
Lose
yourself in
the ground
balls
by Hazel Martin, Barrington, RI
Quitting
lasts forever
Photo by Adrian Norris, Cullman, AL
Photo by Leah Choe, Burke, VA
12
Pushed to the Limits by Alex Fehlinger, Gaithersburg, MD
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When I Run by Zoe Johnson, Silver Spring, MD
W
hen I run, all I can think about is how
much time is ahead of me. I go for long,
slow runs along Sligo Creek. I stretch,
and run back, taking my time. For me, the key to
running is letting go of the need to excel. When my
coach tells us to push it, to pick up the pace, I focus
on continuing. I keep the pace. In the beginning, my
goal was to put one foot in front of the other in good
running form. Now that I can do that,
the goal isnt to get faster, but to keep
going.
When I run, all I can think about is
how much time is ahead of me. I leave
the house, and I know I have forty min-
utes before I return. I dont know how
those minutes will go. Ill just keep
going through them, one by one, step by step. Thats
how running works.
I try to think about other things: stories Ive read,
stories Ive written, stories I hold. I hold so many
stories. Most of them arent very good. Usually,
they go something like this: I am watching my feet
to avoid slipping on leaves that fell in the hurricane.
The hurricane had such a lovely, gentle name. A
lovely, gentle name does not mean a lovely, gentle
storm. Is there such a thing as a lovely, gentle
storm? Next time I see God, Ill ask Her. I suspect
the answer will have something to do with love.
Lots of things do, Ive heard.
When I run, all I can think about is how much
time is ahead of me. I plan the rest of my day: when
I get home, I will stretch, shower, dress, and eat din-
ner. I will begin my homework immediately and
complete it with alacrity, not wasting
time on stress or procrastination or lazi-
ness or Tumblr. With the time I have left,
I will cuddle with my mother, make
cookies for my sister, and go to bed
promptly at eight.
Everything is so easy in my mind when
I run. Theres something about the con-
tinuous forward motion running up hills, running
down hills, running past women pushing strollers
and men on cell phones that makes me feel like a
superhero. When I get home, I remember that Im
weak and slow and not social and not as smart as
people think I am. But those are not thoughts I need
to have with me, especially not when I run.
time is ahead of me. When youre a superhero,
bounding through the streets and over trails with
your mighty stride, you can accomplish all your life
goals. When I grow up, when I get wise, when the
time is right it may be eighty years from now, or a
few decades, or mere weeks, or tomorrow I will
be strong. I will be friendly, and smart, and funny,
and a person people want to be around. I will not be
neurotic. I will write more and think more and pos-
sibly win international recognition for being awe-
some. I will know several languages and calculus
and what it feels like to have space in your heart,
stars in your eyes, and awe in your breathing pat-
terns. I will welcome the world into my spinal cord,
let waves wash over my rib cage. Things get caught
in there sometimes, like unrequited love, and toffee.
time is ahead of me. There is time for strength, for
the characteristics of a Good Citizen of the Uni-
verse, for knowledge, for love. There is time. It is all
around us. It is happening with every breath. Time
is passing. I will use it wisely. I dont know when I
will be whole. But I know when I will be who I am:
now. Now. Now. Foot on trail. Dont slip on that
leaf and sprain your ankle. You have thirty-nine
minutes left.
Everything is
so easy in
my mind
I
n the past year we have witnessed
some of the most shocking scandals
in the history of sport. With the cele-
bration of the New Year still lingering,
sports news kicked off with Lance Arm-
strongs confession to doping when he
won all seven of his Tour de France ti-
tles. Skipping forward a few months, we
heard about the arrest of Olympic runner
Oscar Pistorius for allegedly murdering
his girlfriend, Reeva Steenkamp. In my
home country of New Zealand weve
had sports scandals too: Rugby player
Zac Guildfords seemingly incurable
drinking problems and cricketer Jeetan
Patel alcohol-fuelled altercation with a
pub bouncer. These scandals are disturb-
ing on many fronts, but perhaps the
biggest question they raise is, should
sports stars be considered role models?
It can be easy to forget that these sto-
ries involve the minority of professional
athletes. Yes, well-behaved sports stars
do exist. In fact, there are thousands of
them, many of whom have done amaz-
ing things in and out of their profession.
Take All Blacks rugby players Richie
McCaw, Ali Williams, and Daniel
Carter, for example. Not only did their
team win the Rugby World Cup, but
they started the charity For Everyone,
which provides abandoned children
across New Zealand with food, shelter,
education, and sports equipment. Then
theres Irene Van Dyk, a famous New
Zealand netballer, who has played over
200 test matches for the Silver Ferns,
maintained a goal shooting
accuracy of 90 percent,
and is constantly involved
in charity work. Surely,
sports stars like these de-
serve to be role models to
children in New Zealand
and worldwide? When you
put the small group of bad actors aside,
an infinite number of
highly commendable
and inspiring athletes
still remains.
Whether it is a re-
sult of the medias
immense scrutiny and
interest in sensational
news, societys gener-
ally pessimistic mem-
ory, or a combination
of the two, people
will always focus on
the negative sports
news. Many who op-
pose sports stars
role-model status are
afraid that young
people will copy the misdeeds of these
sports idols. But recent findings prove
thats not the case. Researchers at the
Universities of Manchester in England
and Western Sydney in Australia have
found that young people are not swayed
by sports stars drug and alcohol use.
Our research shows that young people,
both sporting participants and non-
sporting participants, dont appear to be
influenced by the drinking and drug-
taking habits of high-profile sportspeo-
ple as depicted in mass media,
said lead researcher Dr. Kerry
OBrien, at Man-
chesters School of
Psychological Sci-
ences.
But what about
very young chil-
dren, who are not
old enough to make
good choices about negative in-
fluences? Take Lance Arm-
strong. One may argue that his
doping confession demonstrates
that sports stars should not be
considered role models no
parent wants their child to look
up to a lying, cheating disgrace.
However, all the media cover-
age of this scandal showed that
Armstrong was punished for
cheating by being stripped of
all his Tour de France titles.
What child is going to emulate
someone who is so negatively
portrayed by the media? Arm-
strongs cheating would only be
of concern if he was getting
away with it or being patted on
the back for it.
In conclusion, we should not general-
ize all sports stars as undeserving of
role-model status. While we may hear
more about the badly behaved athletes
than the ones keeping clean and doing
charity work, in truth the bad eggs are
the minority and many admirable and in-
spirational players exist. Athletes work
hard and deserve to be role-models, at
least until they prove otherwise through
bad behavior.
Yes, well-
behaved sports
stars do exist
Color Guard
The light is shining
Were on display
The whistle blows
Nothings moving
The air is still
Everyone yells
PA
4 beats of silence
And then it starts
The colors spin
The laughing begins
Then you toss
You hold your breath
As the colors fly through the sun
Everything stills
The light pours through you, you are endless
You catch
4 beats have gone by
Since the silence ended
4 beats is a lifetime
by Brianna Prunier, Derry, NH
Photo by Anika Aberegg, Kent, OH
In Defense of Role Models by Flynn Walker, Auckland, New Zealand
13
s
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s
14
B
ulging quads. Scary tattoos. Di-
sheveled hair on sweat-streaked
faces. Thats just the women.
Shaved legs. Tight shorts. Stylish sun-
glasses resting on sun-streaked hair.
Thats just the guys.
Waiting at Toga Bikes in New York
for a celebrity event (the unveiling of
the book A Life Without Limits: A World
Champions Journey), amidst a crowd
of serious triathletes, helps one gain in-
sight into the sport. From the buzz be-
fore the speaker arrived, it seemed a
serious triathletes life is one of regrets:
angst at taking training time off to come
to the event, too few miles logged that
week, too much time spent with the
kids.
And then the guest of honor, the oth-
erworldly four-time undefeated world
champion Ironman (which consists of a
2.4-mile swim, a 112-mile bike ride,
and a 26.2-mile run) triathlete Chrissie
Wellington bounded in. With a face-
splitting smile, and hugs, high-fives,
and thank-yous for all, Wellington re-
flected none of the gravity of the other
athletes in the room. Her energy and en-
thusiasm made her almost levitate.
What she gets, it seems, the other
triathletes miss. She is past the days of
being hypercritical of her weaknesses,
and that has made all the difference.
Britains Chrissie Wellington is an
enigma. Perhaps that is why she is so
beloved by her fans. Wellington, who is
35, began the sport fairly late at 30.
She noted that she never grew up to be
an athlete, never mind a professional
athlete, never mind a world champion.
She did not take endless lessons, travel
to far-off sports camps, or take part in
select teams. She worked out purely
for fun, swimming sometimes. But in-
grained in her childhood and teen years
were threads of traits that, while some-
times destructive, ultimately helped
make her a world champion.
Wellington grew up with obsessive-
compulsive disorder. While she credits
it with helping her hone an endless
drive for improvement, it was coupled
with a poor self-image, causing
Wellington to wander dangerously far
down the path of anorexia and bulimia
during her teen years.
Wellington stated, We all have our
fears pain, not winning, not looking
good. You can look at the fear and hide
or you can address it head on. Welling-
ton addressed her illness, and she
made a millennial resolution to be less
critical of her weaknesses and to un-
derstand that most of what she berates
herself for isnt a weakness at all.
After turning her traits into positives,
she eventually earned a masters degree
with honors.
She used that experience and another
huge resolution (to make
people happy versus her old
rut of trying to please peo-
ple) as the impetus to get a
job with the British govern-
ment in a global develop-
ment role. She worked in
out-of-the-way locations in
Africa and Asia, and when she wit-
nessed abject poverty there most evi-
dent on long treks, climbs, and hikes in
these regions she vowed to do all she
could to help.
A framework was in place as she
began to train for the 2002 London
Marathon to support a charity. Her suc-
cess there clinched her focus on sports.
In Nepal for work, she began making
long bike tours through the mountains,
even hauling to Mount Everests Base
Camp. Realizing her sharp drive and
capacity for endurance, Wellington in-
auspiciously slid into racing as her
training increased to three sports.
The rest is history. She greatly re-
spects her competitors, but she takes no
garbage either. Tough as she is, she faith-
fully returns to a Kansas triathlon annu-
ally and never fails to cross the yellow
brick road finish line, skipping hand-in-
hand with a small child dressed as the
(not so) Cowardly Lion. Her trademark
smile even bares teeth. She notes, It
hides my discomfort, it helps me cope,
and it shows my joy. But it also sends a
message to my competitors.
She is demure about her
place in the sport, but she
uses her fame to create
awareness and raise funds
for a number of charities.
Amazingly, Wellington
spends hours after each
world championship at the
finish line, congratulating, encouraging,
and handing out finisher medals to the
back of the packers those who
struggle to finish in the dark of night.
On top, but looking down the ranks,
Wellington reflected, I love seeing
women and girls increasingly filling up
triathlons. I love seeing the sport reach a
broader participation, especially teens.
She added, I know firsthand, and from
my days as a swim instructor, how pow-
erful sports can be for kids, how it can
help them overcome fears.
Triathlete Chrissie Wellington by James DArcangelo, New Hope, PA
I never grew
up to be an
athlete
Superfan by Megan Godfrey, Ormond Beach, FL
W
hen I talk to people about high school,
especially friends of my parents, they
reminisce, adding a personal experience.
As I embrace the daily melodrama, rowdy peers, and
seven challenging classes, I often wonder what my
most profound memories will be. The trying times
with friend drama? The ex-boyfriend? Homecoming
dances? How about the weekly football games that
motivate me to get though my week?
Every Friday around 5:45 I make my
way to my friends house to primp for
the football game. Then we carpool to
the stadium to tailgate. Boys and girls,
freshmen and seniors, cover their bod-
ies with colorful paint and their favorite
football players numbers. Hot dogs,
hamburgers, and soda are all consumed before we
enter the stadium.
Anticipation makes us antsy and hyper. Then the
band plays the national anthem. The football players
run through the lines of cheerleaders. We, the fan
section, are now as ready as the players to take on
the opposing team.
I believe in body paint. I believe hot dogs and
soda are the best tailgating essentials. I believe in
hyper football fans. I believe in high school football
game spirit.
The first touchdown is scored, the bleachers
shake, and everybody stomps on the stands. Screams
and cheers fill the air. The band plays our all-time
favorite song, Hey Baby, and we dance and sing
along. Whistles are blown and flags are thrown, but
nothing will stop the fans of the Sandcrabs. Standing
under the hot stadium lights with friends is a perfect
Friday night in hundreds of classmates minds. Pic-
tures are taken documenting the genuine happiness
of the fans and the success of our team.
I believe in dancing to the band. I be-
lieve in standing under the hot stadium
lights. I believe in spending my Friday
nights with my friends and peers. I be-
lieve in cheering for my team.
I am standing in the front row next to
other senior friends. When I look back,
all I can see are smiling faces and red
shirts with our school logo on the front. Laughing,
chatting, and cheering fill my ears. This is what true
happiness feels like: standing next to friends with
not a worry in the world. As halftime arrives, we sit
and watch the show. Then the real fun begins. Five
senior boys start a chant and call on others in the
crowd. The people they choose have to do their best
dances in front of everyone. We all have a great
laugh watching everyone dance and act crazy.
I believe in representing my school in red. I be-
lieve in living in the moment. I believe in being care-
free, if only for three hours on a Friday night. I
believe in dancing and embarrassing myself.
When I reflect on my high school experience, my
fondest memories are of the football games.
I believe in losing my voice at Friday night
games. I believe that those kinds of nights are the
ones that Ill reminisce about in thirty years. I be-
lieve that the simplest things in life, like football
games, can bring the most happiness.
I believe in
hyper football
fans
Photo by Eliannel Jimenez, Huntington Park, CA
Photo by Leah Choe, Burke, VA
15
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t was a cold winter night; the snow was glisten-
ing on the ground outside of the arena. Our coli-
seum didnt have much heating, so we warriors
were forced to fend for ourselves. I was sitting in the
locker room on a bench, waiting for my turn. I could
hear the crowd chanting, Kill him! Kill him! Kill
him! I knew the last match had ended when I heard
the masses roar in unison, some hissing and booing,
others screaming with joy. Still others were handing
money to the person next to them because they had
lost a bet. It was very much like a Roman coliseum.
As the wounded warriors came back down the
ramp, I congratulated my friend Chuck for putting
on a good match. Our small crowd of die-hard fans
didnt go crazy like that often, and when they did,
you knew that you had done an amazing job.
I had about fifteen minutes until I was on. I was
the semi-main event. As I waited through a promo
and a TV-title match, I could feel myself tense up. I
wasnt used to performing in public yet. Maybe if I
took a nice warm shower, the steam would calm me
down. But no, it would take too long to put all my
gear back on. I was trapped. I was scared of per-
forming in front of a crowd, but I was
also scared of chickening out. I went to
talk to DJ, my friend, coach, and
booker.
DJ was standing by the lockers, talk-
ing to my opponent, El Loco, who had
nearly 10 years on me, and was six-
foot-eight. Tonight was my debut
match, and I couldnt have been more
nervous. It was my fault, though. I had hyped it up
too much; I should have kept my big mouth shut.
Instead I called out Loco three times, demanding a
match. And not just any match, but my specialty, a
street fight.
I shook Locos hand, then turned to DJ and did
the same. You wouldnt have known it looking at me
that I was terrified. Loco was a beast, and I was not
even 5' 10". This match was going to hurt.
Five minutes until I was on, and Loco left to get
himself into character, and I did the same. The con-
versation did little to calm my nerves. I could hear
the crowd chanting, Tables! Tables! Tables! I
knew that by the end of the night, one of us would
be put through a table.
I was sitting on the bench, trying to become the
most defiant and ignorant character in the world for
my match. I was getting there until I
heard Locos music blare. It was tradi-
tional Mexican fiesta music, not intimi-
dating for those who werent fans of the
promotion I worked at. But to fans and
athletes alike, that song was terrifying,
because it was synonymous with tables.
The Mexican patriot who loved tables
(or putting people through them, I should say) was
about to go to war with Hollywoods top gangster,
me.
I heard my song, Undead by Hollywood Un-
dead, blare through the sound systems, and I
charged through the curtain into the sea of fans.
Many were taking pictures of me. I paused at the top
of the ramp and closed my eyes to take
in the moment. The loud music did little
to block out the chorus of boos and
chants of You suck. I flashed my
characters trademark grin and began
shouting insults and profanities at the
audience. I had asked DJ to poll our au-
dience on who was the most hated man
in the company. Even though I had only
been doing promos for three months, and had never
even wrestled a match, I was positive Id be in the
top three.
I strutted out, yelling random insults at the audi-
ence, but I never stopped locking eyes with Loco.
Some thought this was for dramatic effect, but I was
also seeking some sign from him that I would walk
away from this match in one piece.
I climbed through the ropes into the ring and
stood in my corner. I was doing my best not to look
like the frightened little boy I was on the inside. You
idiot! I thought. Why did you put yourself into the
most dangerous match, against the most dangerous
guy, and not even for a title? I had no answer, and
then I heard the bell ring.
I jumped out of the ring immediately. My charac-
ter was a coward. By now the butterflies in my
stomach were gone; I had to be the
worm. When El Loco came after me, I
jumped back into the ring and back out
again. Then I decided that a game of tag
for thirty minutes wouldnt be entertain-
ing, so I purposely let him catch me.
His locker room reputation of being
the most painful wrestler was definitely
proven to me beyond a shadow of a doubt. El Loco
proceeded to throw me around the ring clothes-
lines, suplexes, the whole nine yards before he
finally let me go.
I slid out of the ring, holding my chest. Good
Lord, I thought, twenty-five more minutes of this? I
ran behind the announcers table to get away from
him, but he kept coming. I was trying to signal that I
needed a breather, but I realized that was all in vain.
So I decided to turn the tide. I picked up a chair
and hit Loco in the gut. I watched him cringe on the
ground, and then I planted him on the back. I ran up
on the apron and hit him with a moonsault from the
ropes. I then ran back into the ring, waiting for him
to get up.
The match seemed endless and insatiably brutal. I
was thrown onto a ladder from seven feet in the air, I
was thrown over the top rope, and I was power-
slammed onto a metal chair. Likewise, I beat him
with kendo sticks and baseball bats, knocked him
through a table, and hit him with an onslaught of
aerial maneuvers.
Then I received the signal to end the match.
I ran into El Loco, and he lifted me up and
slammed me onto the mat. He obviously hadnt seen
the signal. I tried to tell him as he lifted me again,
but before I could, he gave me a spine buster. The
referee had to tell him that the match was ending.
Then he knew what to do, and as he lifted me up he
whispered, Sorry, bro, in my ear.
He picked me up and power-bombed me through
the table his signature move. I felt the sharp pain
of splinters in my back as the ref counted, and when
the bell rang, the crowd erupted. I didnt know what
was happening. For a second, I thought they were
outraged at a horrible match and were going to riot
to try to get their money back.
I hobbled my way backstage, ever wary of a fan
attack. Inside the locker room I was met with up-
roarious applause from my coworkers. Great
match, kid. Amazing. Not bad for a rookie. I
was suddenly the most popular person.
DJ did poll the fans, but not on who was the most
hated man in the company. He asked the audience
which was the best match of the night. My match
with El Loco took the cake! It was an amazing feel-
ing. I was floating on cloud nine.
It felt great, even though I was sore. I took pride
in my injuries. As I hobbled out of the arena, I was
swept up by a swarm of fans trying to get my auto-
graph. I ran to my car.
Driving home, I was practically cheering. Despite
being sore, I felt better than I had in years. I had
fans. I was somebody, at least in their eyes. This was
what I wanted.
The Grudge Match by Zeke, Selinsgrove, PA
This match
was going
to hurt
When the
bell rang, the
crowd erupted
The Field
The women flaunt their
beauty like the only
rose in a brown
bush as they slightly
strut around the
track
While the men rush, tug, pull,
and jerk their muscles in
the field, they screech and
yell as they do suicides and
hurdles like gladiators training
for war
The in-betweeners sprint down
the pink. The pink rubber
carries an aroma up to
the bleachers as
the rays from the sun
heat it up
by Jeremiah Boglin, Detroit, MI
Photo by Morgan Taylor, Grass Lake, MI
16
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e went to the park. They
were glued to each other
like they usually are.
I dont understand them. They
dont force themselves to date each
other, but they just cant seem to stay
apart. Like theres some kind of mag-
net routed deep within them they
cant turn off. It must be strong be-
cause theyre almost always touching;
knee to knee, hand to hand, shoulder
to shoulder. A breath
away.
It would make me in-
sanely nervous to be that
close to a boy, I think.
What if my hands were
sweaty? What if my
breath smelled like gar-
lic? Im sure I would
say and do all the wrong
things. But maybe if I knew him, had
gotten used to the way he smelled,
and the way he talked, maybe then I
wouldnt be so nervous. Maybe then
I might even like being a human
magnet.
Anyway, as we walked, for what-
ever reason, she started to drift away.
Wandering about, looking up at the
sky, the way she does when she has a
lot on her mind. Maybe he knows
more about her than I thought, be-
cause he doesnt follow her. Just
leaves her to herself. We walk along a
little, and I feel the composure that
was so hard for me to collect begin to
slip away.
He makes me nervous; my heart
does silly flip flops in the hollow of
my chest when he looks at me.
He walks ahead and I take a shaky
breath, trying but failing to remain
calm. Its no good when a girl falls in
love with her best friends boy-toy.
I shake my head to
clear my jumbled
thoughts, and that
helps a little. I look
over and, of course,
hes climbing the
playground. Proba-
bly hoping shell
turn and see him, the
show-off. Even while
hes walking with me, hes thinking
about impressing her.
Monkey.
I know its childish. I cant help it.
Hes being stupid, with his stupid
walk and his stupid face and his stu-
pid cologne.
Last week I was walking through
Walmart, and I swore he was in the
store because one of the cashiers
smelled just like him. I got all jittery
and started to blush because I hadnt
put on makeup that day.
Its ridiculous what this boy is
doing to me. He must know the way
he smiles like hes an inch away from
laughter. Not even the chuckle kind,
but the full out tilt-your-head-back
and guffaw at how deliciously hilari-
ous it is. Hes the devil, this boy. And
he knows it too.
She comes back around, and he be-
comes her personal acrobat, jumping
off things like its a parkour contest.
She tells him to be careful as he
jumps down, and he gets this smug
look on his face that says She cares
about my safety. I have succeeded in
life. I roll my eyes, knowing theyll
be too busy gazing into each others
star-crossed eyes to notice. But he
looks up at me for a second, and Im
stupefied; all I see is green and gold.
Green and gold like sunshine kisses
in the grass, deep into summertime.
He looks back down at her and a
deep aching washes over me, ampli-
fied by the scene in front of me. They
kiss. Pink lips mashed together and
silhouettes too pretty in the setting
sun.
I almost take a picture, but I know
if I did Id probably hang it on my
wall with the rest of my favorites, be-
cause its that beautiful. And I know
every time I would look at it, my
mouth would get dry, the way it does
when Im trying really hard not to cry.
Like right now.
I look away, swallow, take a deep
breath, and start walking back toward
the car. As I sit in the drivers seat, I
cant help watching them. A part of
me dies a little, but I just cant look
away. He holds her hand with all the
gentleness in the world.
I have never felt so alone in my life.
Like a broken magnet, incapable of
mending itself. Dont get me wrong.
Being a human magnet isnt so bad, I
think. It just hurts a little when the
only person you ever wanted is
already attached.
Broken Human Magnet by Karla, Lehi, UT
M
arshalls: Its so much more than racks of
knockoffs and kitchenware, useless knick-
knacks and sweater sets in a surprising
range of oatmeal colors. It represents more than just
sale-rack shoes and ugly purses, cheap nail polish
and few-and-far-between treasures. Marshalls is an
escape, an oasis, a place where I can explore and
strengthen my relationship with my brothers,
Fletcher and Drake.
When (and this was often the case with three
teenagers) my parents are mad and disappointed in
our actions, they pile us offenders into the car and
we drive down East Main Road to number 288 in
the RK Plaza. The second we step inside the creaky
and unreliable automatic doors, our troubles are
swept away with the whoosh of McDonalds
smelling air that hangs in the entrance to Marshalls.
With each step further inside, each new outfit
formed, a private therapy session begins. The teen
section, The CUBE, is where I drown my worries in
acid-washed denim shirts, leggings designed to look
like the galaxy, and the chipped blue,
green, and white linoleum floor tiles.
Unlike most sibling relationships, I
consider my brothers my best friends.
I dont have any sisters, but I still feel
like I can talk to either of them about
my problems, even more easily when
we are embedded in a pile of too-small
shorts or too-long maxi dresses. With
the fluorescent lights flickering above us, danger-
ously close to going out at any second, my brothers
and I laugh, talk, and enjoy each others company.
Yes, without the great odyssey that is finding
Fletcher size 14 mens shoes in the vast ocean of
Euro-hipster slide-ons, I would still be close to my
brothers. But would I be able to talk to them about
my tedious skin-care routine, my failure at finding
the perfect, classy summer dress in the racks of low-
cut, abnormally shaped dresses? No, I wouldnt, at
least not as easily. I would tread carefully when
talking to them, as if mentioning one thing wrong
could plunge me into the icy depths of sibling
rivalry that so many of my friends live in.
At Marshalls, staring at the cheesy canvas paint-
ings and unnecessarily pig-shaped oven timers, I
never feel those cold feelings trickle into our conver-
sations, our souls. We are together, one with the uni-
verse. It is us three versus the world, and good luck
to you if you dare oppose our team.
For Drake and Fletcher, the menswear section
brings the three of us together. Pulling out flimsy
tank top after scarily short dolphin shorts, jokes and
connections are made that we cant find
anywhere else, not even tucked away in
our Man Cave, the cement-walled
basement we share with two couches
and a TV. No, it is the dusty shelves of
flat-brimmed baseball hats and sketchy
Ray-Ban sunglasses that brought us to-
gether. Inner peace and intimacy is
found in the junk section surrounded by
As Seen on TV Shake-Weights and knock-off
Polo cologne, and we become friends and confi-
dantes.
With each new pair of Chucks, I get a fresh start,
a chance to get everything right. It is all encapsu-
lated in that tan-and-black box, the perfect indent for
holding them already there for you in the top two
sides of that cardboard magic.
Marshalls gives us, or at least me, a false sense of
security, tricking me into thinking everything is fine,
and to spend my last $20 of dog-walking money.
Marshalls by Sydell Bonin, Portsmouth, RI
Its no good when
a girl falls in love
with her best
friends boy
The menswear
section brings
the three of
us together
Photo by Chloe Sheppard,
Potton, England
Photo by Marianna Heckendorn, Andover, MA
17
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I
lost my virginity in my friends dimly lit base-
ment, with a boy three years older than me who
uttered empty promises of love and forever. With
shaking hands and a quivering voice, I said yes. I
was scared to death and did what I always do when
things get rough: I went numb. From a young age,
with all my parents screaming wars, I learned that
things are easier when youre numb to your sur-
roundings. So thats what I did on that sweaty July
night. I went numb. I blocked out any regret or re-
morse I had for my lost innocence.
We often hear about good girls who look down on
promiscuous girls. We hear about girls who spend
their days dreaming about guys who like someone
else. We hear about nice girls whose boyfriends
cheat on them with sluts. Never do we
hear what its like to be the other girl.
Well, this is her story. Being the girl
who gets all the guys isnt glamorous.
Dont even try to say that I came from
a broken home, because I hate that term.
Just because there is only one parent at
home doesnt mean the home is broken.
But, to be honest, most days my home did feel
pretty broken.
My dad was a low-life who refused to stick with a
job for more than a year. He controlled every move
my mother made, leaving her with little freedom. I
admire her for putting up with him for as long as she
did, and I know the only reason she did it was for
my sister and me. She never wanted us to have to
live with just one parent, but when I was in sixth
grade, she couldnt take it anymore.
After my parents divorced, things got worse. My
dads severe depression, borderline personality dis-
order, and bipolar disorder got more severe. He con-
stantly badgered us by text. Many times we were
scared for our lives.
I guess you could say Im one of those girls with
daddy problems. I go for older guys because they
always promise to protect me, like my father never
did. I also jump from guy to guy because the only
way I feel I can fill the void my father left is by hav-
ing a boyfriend.
Ive always gotten along better with guys than
with girls. I love that they have no drama. In seventh
grade, the other girls started to notice that I was al-
ways with guys, and they didnt like it. Instead of
listening when I said that
those boys were my friends
and nothing more, they la-
beled me a whore.
When youre called a
whore constantly, you start
to get used to it. You hear
people say it, and it starts
not to hurt so bad. I started
to believe them, and finally
I just gave up trying to fight
against it. Around this time,
I met Tom.
I had just been dumped
by my first love, Alan. He
was everything I
ever wanted and
more. My little seventh-
grade heart beat for him
and only him. Then one day, out of the
blue, he stopped talking to me. I eventu-
ally found out he had been cheating on
me. I was crushed. I didnt know what
Id done to make him leave me, and I thought of the
other girl as a skank. I feel terrible about that now,
because since then Ive been in that situation.
It took me a long time to recover from that
breakup, and I found comfort in my close friend
Tom. That summer, we started dating. Even though I
was still in love with Alan, but I did what I always
do: try to mask my heartbreak by finding another.
Tom and I had the same best friend, Joe, who lived
down the street. Tom spent every day at Joes
house, so it was easy for us to see each other.
Joe was a bad influence. Before him, Id been an
athlete, had kissed a boy but never done anything
else, and was close to my mom and sister. The
summer I started dating Tom, I did drugs almost
every day, and did many sexual things I didnt want
to. I liked him a lot, and I thought that was the way
to show that I wanted him to stick around.
Tom and I broke up at the beginning of my
eighth-grade year. I had grown apart from my other
friends because I spent all my time with him. That
breakup was hard, but I was relieved not to have to
do all those things I hated.
Im sure youre wondering what its like to be
that girl. The one all the guys go for. The one they
all call hot. The one guys cheat on
their girlfriends with. In all honesty,
its terrible. Its like having your heart
constantly torn out and stomped on.
My friends have also been given the
whore reputation, and thats why
were close. They understand what its
like to hate yourself because of names
people call you.
My problem is that I get attached too easily. Silly
me always believes it when the guy says he loves me
after just a week. I fall for guys quickly, and Im al-
ways the one left broken. Ive had girls tell me they
envy the way guys go for me, but they definitely
wouldnt envy me if they knew what happens after
the guys get what they want. They wouldnt envy
me after a recent relationship, when I found myself
lying on the floor in my kitchen, an empty bottle of
vodka in my hand, thinking that maybe the only way
things would get better is if I died. Does that seem
glamorous to you?
Ive been cheated on twice, so I know its one of
the worst feelings in the world. After being cheated
on, I promised myself I would never be the other
girl. But I shamefully admit that I have been her. I
feel like such a hypocrite. I can remember countless
nights with my girlfriends, calling the girl he
cheated on me with a dirty slut. If only I had known
then what its like to be on the other end of that.
Sometimes, though, I envy the girlfriend who gets
cheated on. She had him at his best. She got to go to
the movies with him, meet his family, get those cute
good morning and good night texts. All I got
were late night texts and secret rendezvous.
Often I wonder what its like to be the girl a guy
respects. He respects her boundaries and doesnt ex-
pect anything from her. He waits for her to say when
shes ready, and he brings her home to his family in-
stead of sneaking her over when they arent home. I
bet thats great. But Im always stuck as the secret
girl. Guys call me when they break up with their
girlfriends. I always fall for how they say they miss
me and love me so much. But they dont love me
they love the rumors that Im easy.
Ive come to rely on guys to make me feel alive,
because really, I feel so dead inside. When Im sad
about a breakup, I rely on boys to cheer me up and
compliment me until I feel okay again. Just a few
weeks ago I went through a terrible breakup. I loved
him so much and thought he felt the same way, but
of course he didnt. He only said he did because he
liked to sneak me over and have long
make-out sessions. While trying to get
over him, I made out with two other
guys, and I almost called another
tonight just because I was feeling so
lonely.
Most of the time I just let guys use
me as their backup. I knew one guy who
would only call me if plans with another
girl fell through. Once, when they got in a fight, he
called me to say he loved me and wanted me back
but after that, he didnt talk to me for a month.
The labels people put on each other are terrible.
The label people put on me made me want to kill
myself. I wish Id known then that a label can affect
you only if you start to believe it yourself. I started
to believe my label, and it made me hate myself.
I want to be different. Lately Ive felt myself slip-
ping back into depression, but Im trying to change.
I dont want guys to think of me as the other girl
anymore. I want to change, and Im starting to. This
story was my first step.
Im always
stuck as the
secret girl
They dont love
me they love
the rumors
Art by Kayla Guthrie, Philpot, KY
Art by Taylor Spence, North Branch, MN
Confessions of the Other Girl by Maura, IL
Teen Ink October 13 Page 18
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U N I V E R S I T Y
A member of the Ivy League and
widely recognized for the depth,
breadth, and flexibility of its under-
graduate program, Dartmouth offers
students an extraordinary opportunity
to collaborate with faculty in the pur-
suit of their intellectual aspirations.
6016 McNutt Hall
Hanover, NH 03755
603-646-2875
www.dartmouth.edu
Dartmouth
1,00 undergraduate Students
Nationally Fanked Athletics Teaus
More than 35 prograus of study
including Criuinal Justice, usiness
Aduinistration, Suall Aniual
Science, Equine Studies, and
Counseling Fsychology.
DELAWARE VALLEY COLLEGE
DeInunte VnIIey CoIIege
Doylcstovn, PA
WWW.DFIVAI.FDU - 8uu-2-DFIVAI
1,600 Undergraduate Students
Nationally Ranked Athletics Teams
DELAWARE VALLEY COLLEGE Preparing students with individual
learning styles for transfer to
four-year colleges.
15 majors including two B.A.
programs in Arts & Entertainment
Management and Dance.
99 Main Street www.dean.edu
Franklin, MA 02038 877-TRY DEAN
Fordham offers the distinctive Jesuit
philosophy of education, marked
by excellent teaching, intellectual
inquiry and care of the whole
student, in the capital of the world.
www.fordham.edu/tink
Built on Catholic education
values of academic excellence,
DeSales University is driven
by educators and advisors that
inspire performance.
2755 Station Avenue
CenterValley, PA 18034
877.4.DESALES
www.desales.edu/teenink
Mount Holyoke is a highly
selective liberal arts college for
women, recognized worldwide for
its rigorous academic program,
its global community, and
its legacy of women leaders.
MOUNT HOLYOKE COLLEGE
50 College Street, South Hadley, MA 01075
www.mtholyoke.edu
BELIEVE.
PREPARE.
CONNECT.
SERVE.
The World Awaits.
MyMarywood.com
Academic excellence
and global perspective in one
of Americas most livable
metropolitan areas.
1000 Grand Avenue
St. Paul, MN 55105
800-231-7974
www.macalester.edu
Excellent Programs.
Outstanding Facility.
Affordable Cost.
337 College Hill
Johnson, VT 05656-9898
1-802-635-2356
WWW. J SC. EDU
Excellent Programs.
Outstanding Faculty.
Affordable Cost. BUSINESS
CULINARY ARTS
HOSPITALITY
TECHNOLOGY
Providence, Rhode Island
1-800-342-5598
www.jwu.edu
An experience of a
lifetime, with experience
for a lifetime.
Harvard offers 6,500 undergraduates an
education from distinguished faculty in
more than 40 fields in the liberal arts as
well as engineering and applied science.
8 Garden Street
Cambridge, MA 02138
617-495-1551
www.harvard.edu
Fostering creativity and aca-
demic excellence since 1854.
Thrive in our environment of
personalized attention and in
the energy of the Twin Cities.
1536 Hewitt Avenue
Saint Paul, MN 55104
800-753-9753
www.hamline.edu
Earn a BA in Global Studies while
studying at our centers in Costa
Rica, India, China, NYC or with
our programs in Australia, Taiwan,
Turkey and Thailand!
9 Hanover Place, Brooklyn, NY 11201
www.liu.edu/globalcollege
718.780.4312 globalcollege@liu.edu
Located in New Yorks stunning Finger Lakes
region, Ithaca College provides a first-rate
education on a first-name basis. Its Schools of
Business, Communications, Health Sciences
and Human Performance, Humanities and Sci-
ences, and Music and its interdisciplinary
division offer over 100 majors.
my.ithaca.edu
100 Job Hall 953 Danby Road Ithaca, NY 14850
800-429-4272 www.ithaca.edu/admission
A challenging private university
for adventurous students
seeking an education with
global possibilities.
Get Where You
Want To Go
www.hpu.edu/teenink
global possibilities.
seeking an education with
for adventurous students
challenging private university AA
.hpu.edu/teenink www
Want To Go
o Get Where YYo
.hpu.edu/teenink
ou
St. Scholastica prepares students for
meaningful careers with liberal arts,
health science and pre-professional de-
grees delivered with personalized atten-
tion by nationally recognized faculty on
a campus overlooking Lake Superior.
1200 Kenwood Avenue
Duluth, Minnesota 55811
800-249-6412
css.edu/undergraduate
DUQUESNE
UNIVERSITY
600 Forbes Avcnuc - Pittsburgh, PA 15282
(412) 396-6222 - (800) 4S6-0S90
www.duq.cdu/admissions
Duquesne offers more than 80
undergraduate programs, more than
200 extracurricular activities and
personal attention in an atmosphere of
moral and spiritual growth. Ranked by
US News among the most affordable
private national universities.
Ashland Universitys
creative writing majors
learn the ins and outs
of the writing process
from inspiration
to publication with
professors who have
extensive publication
experience.
www.ashland.edu/english
Teen Ink October 13 Page 19
BACHELOR ASSOCIATE CERTIFICATE
Choose from more than
100 career elds.
www.pct.edu/ink
Nationally ranked liberal arts college
Self-designed and interdepartmental majors
Small classes taught by distinguished faculty
100+ campus organizations
23 NCAA Division III sports
A tradition of service-learning
61 S. Sandusky St. Delaware, OH 43015
800-922-8953 www.owu.edu
Talent teaches talent in Pratts writing
BFA for aspiring young writers.
Weekly discussions by guest writers
and editors. Nationally recognized
college for the arts. Beautiful residen-
tial campus minutes from Manhattan.
200 Willoughby Avenue
Brooklyn, NY 11205
800-331-0834 718-636-3514
email: jaaron@pratt.edu
www.pratt.edu
Ohio Northern is a comprehensive
university of liberal arts and professional
programs offering more than 3,600
students over 70 majors in the colleges of
Arts & Sciences, Business Administration,
Engineering, Pharmacy and Law.
Office of Admissions
Ada, OH 45810
1-888-408-4668
www.onu.edu/teen
Personal attention to help you excel
Powerful programs to challenge you to
think in new ways
No limits to where St. Marys
can take you
ST. MARYS
UNIVERSITY
One Camino Santa Maria
San Antonio, TX 78228-8503
800-367-7868
www.stmarytx.edu
Princeton simultaneously strives to be one
of the leading research universities and
the most outstanding undergraduate col-
lege in the world. We provide students
with academic, extracurricular and other
resources, in a residential community
committed to diversity.
Princeton, NJ 08544
(609) 258-3060
www.princeton.edu
Princeton
University
SlipperyRock
University
SRU provides a Rock Solid education.
Located just 50 miles north of Pitts-
burgh, the University is ranked num-
ber five in America as a Consumers
Digest best value selection for aca-
demic quality at an affordable price.
1 Morrow Way, Slippery Rock, PA 16057
800.SRU.9111 www.sru.edu
Apicturesque New England campus,
offering programs in Business,
Communications, Health Sciences, Arts and
Sciences, Engineering, Nursing, Education,
Law and Medicine. Located midway
between New York City and Boston with
Division I athletics. Consistently rated
among the top Regional Colleges in the
North in U.S. News & World Report.
275 Mt. Carmel Avenue
Hamden, CT06518
1.800.462.1944
www.quinnipiac.edu
A distinguished faculty, an
innovative curriculum and
outstanding undergraduates offer
unparalleled opportunities for
intellectual growth on a beautiful
California campus.
Mongtag Hall 355 Galves St.
Stanford, CA 94305
650-723-2091
www.stanford.edu
Earn a world-renowned degree in a
personalized environment. Work with
professors who will know your name
and your goals. Choose from 40 majors
and many research, internship and
study-abroad opportunities.

www.upb.plu.edu - 1.800.872.1787
Bradford, PA 16701
go
Attention all writers! URI has a great major
called Writing and Rhetoric. Prepare your-
self for a career as a journalist, a novelist, an
advertising copywriter, a public relations
professional, or an English teacher! Located
minutes from RIs gorgeous beaches.
Newman Hall, Kingston, RI 02881
401-874-7100
uri.edu/artsci/writing/
A liberal arts college of 1,500
students near Philadelphia, Swarthmore
is recognized internationally for its
climate of academic excitement and
commitment to bettering the world.
A college unlike any other.
500 College Ave.
Swarthmore, PA 19081
800-667-3110
www.swarthmore.edu
SWARTHMORE
Yale College, the undergraduate body of
Yale University, is a highly selective liberal
arts college enrolling 5,200 students in
over 70 major programs. Residential life is
organized around Residential Colleges
where students live and eat.
P.O. Box 208234
New Haven, CT 06520
203-432-9300
www.yale.edu
Located in beautiful northeastern
Pennsylvania, Wilkes is an independent
institution dedicated to academic excellence,
mentoring and hands-on learning. Wilkes
offers more than 36 programs in pharmacy,
the sciences, liberal arts and business.
Check out www.becolonel.com.
www.wilkes.edu
84 West South Street
Wilkes-Barre, PA18766 I 1-800-WILKES-U
At Westminster College, you'll engage
in a full college experience.
Reach your fullest potential
Inside the classroom. And out.
Visit us and
turn YOUR college thinking inside out.
501 Westminster Avenue
Fulton, MO 65251
800-475-3361 www.westminster-mo.edu
Scan to go to
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Mobile
teenink.com/College-Directory/
Private, Catholic, liberal arts college
founded in 1871 by the Ursuline Sisters.
Offers over 30 undergraduate majors and
9 graduate programs. The only women-
focused college in Ohio and one of few
in the United States. Ursuline teaches
the empowerment of self.
2550 Lander Rd. Pepper Pike, OH 44124
1-888-URSULINE www.ursuline.edu
U.S. News Short list ranked Pace among
the top 10 schools in the nation for placing
undergraduates in internships in 2011.
Paces rate of undergraduate students
employed by graduation is 10% higher
than the national average
More than 100 majors and combined
degrees programs
Robust scholarships and financial aid
Two strategic New York locations
www.pace.edu/teen 1-800-874-7223
Visit us today and
find out more about
the real value of a
Pace education.
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Palo Alto, CA: When I began forming my list of colleges to visit in Califor-
nia, Stanford was never on the list. One of the top research universities in the
world, perfectly etched into beautiful Palo Alto, Stanford has only a seven per-
cent acceptance rate. Yeah, right. I dont think so. Nevertheless, my mom
thought a visit would be interesting, so I went, desperately trying not to get
my hopes up. But, like everyone else, I fell in love.
Stanfords beautiful campus is not one you can easily overlook. The major-
ity of Stanfords buildings are Spanish-style orange sandstone with red-tiled
roofs. The campus is adorned with beautifully carved arches. Amidst this tra-
ditional architectural style, newer buildings add a modern look that doesnt
feel out of place. Large palm trees and other plantings fill the campus.
Stanfords academic record speaks for itself. How-
ever, in addition to its top-tier academic ranking, this
university boasts impressive athletics too. The school
and its students strive to achieve a scholar-athlete
profile, and have earned over 100 national champi-
onships since its founding. The campus echoes that
vibe through its extensive facilities.
Stanford caters to students passions, offering over
590 student clubs and organizations and recognizing 40 religious groups.
Whatever youre interested in, from singing groups to service clubs, from
sports to the most esoteric hobbies, Stanfords got it.
Like other colleges, Stanford has unique traditions. To combat the Califor-
nia heat, students will take a dip in the numerous fountains on campus, a tra-
dition known as fountain-hopping. On cold winter nights, students run
through the warm underground steam tunnels beneath the campus. On the
night of the full moon of the fall quarter, seniors kiss freshmen on the Quad.
More than anything else, however, Stanford stands out because of its stu-
dents. Students there are extremely passionate and dedicated. They truly want
to learn and grow intellectually.
College is so much more than just a campus. Your college experience is
shaped by the relationships you make. I dont think I could find a university to
match Stanfords level of intellectual stimulation.
Learn more at www.stanford.edu.
by Lily Falzon, Huntington Beach, CA
20
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Stanford U N I V E R S I T Y
U N I V E R S I T Y O F Mississippi
Oxford, MS: Searching for the col-
lege that is right for you can be chal-
lenging and exhausting. Moving from
high school to college is a major
change, and the college you chose
will be your home for the next four
years. As I toured the many campuses
in my area, one university really
opened its arms to me and showed me
a place that I would grow not just to
call home, but also to
adore.
The University of Mis-
sissippi is in the heart of
Dixie. Along with its
rival, Mississippi State,
its one of the two major
universities in the state.
Since opening its doors in 1848, Ole
Miss (as most call it) has attracted
students from the four corners of the
United States and countries all over
the world.
Ole Miss gained national attention
when it housed a Civil War hospital
for those injured in the Battle of
Shiloh. Classes were cancelled and
the entire student body enlisted in the
Confederate Army.
It also gained national attention in
2008, when it was named a site for a
U.S. presidential debate. This was the
first time a presidential debate had
been held in the state of Mississippi.
When I walked onto campus for my
first tour, I knew immediately this
was the place I wanted to be for the
next four years. The Grove is at the
heart of the campus and is
the recreational spot for
tailgating on football week-
ends and school concerts.
There is nothing like walk-
ing through the Grove on a
Saturday afternoon, and
seeing all the blue and red
tents crammed into every available
space.
The university is home to some of
the most prestigious schools in the
country. Ole Misss Law School,
Pharmacy School, Journalism School,
Business School, and Education
School are ranked top in the country.
Academics at the university are great,
and the professors are top-ranked in
their fields.
Surrounding the college is the city
of Oxford, which 15,000 residents
call home. Downtown you can find
the famous Square. Everything from
dining, shopping, city hall, bars, and
apartments can be found in this
central location.
If you are looking for a place to call
home for the next four years, consider
the University of Mississippi. Were
waiting for you in Dixieland!
Learn more at www.olemiss.edu.
by Emily Ann, Oxford, MS
Stands out
because of
its students
Washington C O L L E G E
Chestertown, MD: Washington
College is a private co-ed college in
Chestertown, Maryland. Founded in
1782, it was the first college under
the patronage of George Washing-
ton. This small, four-year liberal arts
school offers more than 40 bache-
lors degree programs. With just
1,515 students, classes are small
averaging about 17 students.
Washington College is ranked 93
in the national liberal-
arts college ranking. It
is fairly competitive,
accepting 56 percent of
applications. The col-
lege is famous for the
Master of Arts program,
which involves English,
Psychology, and History.
Chestertown is a fairly small town
with a rural feel. The campus is has
a mixture of modern and old-style
buildings. For example, the dorm
where I stayed had an older feel,
while the building that housed the
cafeteria and recreation room was
more modern. There are plenty of
grassy areas and sports courts where
students can relax and play.
Overall, the campus has a close-
knit feel. The classrooms are mod-
ern and air-conditioned. My
counselors during my camp visit
were students, and they told me they
like the school and its small envi-
ronment.
Washington College offers sports
and extracurricular activities includ-
ing fraternities, sororities, rugby,
martial arts, the interactive gaming
society, volleyball, soccer, sailing,
rowing, swimming, and many
others.
What I like about Washington
College is the fact that
everything is within easy
walking distance. There are
restaurants, stores, and
even an emergency care
center. I disliked that fresh-
men must live in the dorms
or in Chestertown. What
sets this school apart from others is
the unique history.
I would recommend students con-
sider Washington College. It is an
excellent school and you will thrive
here if you are willing to work hard.
This school would be ideal for those
who dont want a huge campus with
thousands of students. It is also
good if you enjoy outdoor activities.
Washington College is a good
school. It is close-knit and feels like
a community. Learn more at
www.washcoll.edu.
by Taylor Webb, Wilmington, DE
Has a
close-knit
feel
A place to
call home
Photo by Kristin Topich, Little Rock, AR
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Photo-illustration by Elizabeth Valachovic, Littleton, NH
Draw Paint Photograph Create! Then send it to us see page 3 for details
21
Art by Stephanie Park, Seoul, South Korea
Art by Casey Carsel,
Christchurch, New Zealand
Photo by Clarice Derosia, Berlin, NY
Art by Prashi Mridul, New Delhi, India
Photo by Elizabeth Halstead, Philadelphia, PA
Art by Darren Flood, Shannon, Ireland
Photo by Kristina Resnjak, Novi Sad, Serbia
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22
S
itting hunched over my laptop I
began my seventh search for
local yoga classes open to
young beginners. To be totally honest,
I could have found a class during my
first search. The idea of shopping for
colorful yoga mats and coordinating
leggings, however, was far more ap-
pealing than actually attending a
class.
In short, Im lazy.
So when the receptionist at my gym
(yes, Im back in the gym. In fact,
every time I manage to work out I re-
ward myself with a slice of sponge
cake I may be missing the point)
announced with delight that the
evening yoga course was beginning
again, I was wedged between excite-
ment and dread.
After booking myself in for a slot, I
leisurely wandered toward the studio,
pausing often to admire unremarkable
scenery along the way. Was I putting
off my impending doom? Probably.
My muscles ached with
anticipation, and during
the past week I had been
so busy I hadnt had the
time to buy equipment.
However, suddenly
realizing that if I didnt
arrive soon I would be
forced to interrupt the
class half way through, I hurried
through the glass doors and into the
gym.
Heres a tip for those interested in
taking up yoga: Dont arrive late.
Tumbling into the room and interrupt-
ing the initial few minutes of medita-
tion was not my finest hour. I assume
the atmosphere was perfectly serene
before I burst through the door, as the
entire studio attempted to regain their
concentration and returned to their
stretches. Ive never been in a room
quite so silent. I still had to shimmy
across the wooden floor, remove my
shoes, and retrieve a mat before pick-
ing a space and of course all of this
without the tiniest sound.
I felt as if my breathing alone was
causing enormous disturbance, as
every pair of eyes attempted to remain
shut. Deciding to get ready in one
swift movement so as not to cause
any more trouble, I set down my bag
and sprang into action:
Kick off shoes, grab
mat, throw mat into air in
attempt to unroll it, drop
on floor, jump on mat, sit
down, and breathe calmly!
I received a number of
one-eyed stares from the
others, but at this point I
was just glad to have made
it across the room in one piece.
It was only when we were asked to
stand that I noticed Id forgotten to re-
move my left sock as if I needed an-
other reason to feel self-conscious as I
stood warily in the front row.
So, red-faced from my entrance or-
deal and sporting a single sock, I pro-
ceeded through the class with
determination, as the only thing that
could save me from further embar-
rassment would be suddenly realizing
my hidden talent for yoga. Of course,
this did not happen. I am apparently a
tragedy when it comes to the down-
ward-facing dog pose, and seemed to
require a lot of surprisingly tactile as-
sistance from the instructor in correct-
ing my stance.
I also came to realize that wearing
a hoodie was another bad choice;
every time I bent over into a different
pose, my hood fell over my head and
remained there when I stood back up.
A number of times I tried to push it
down, promptly jeopardizing my bal-
ance and sending me toppling, so I
decided that leaving it up was the best
option. I had now become the peculiar
girl wobbling in the front row, whose
reddened face poked out from inside
her hood, and whose feet were com-
plete with one sock.
Yes, I may have accidentally found
my way into the advanced class,
which I only realized during my at-
tempt to hoist my leg up to my shoul-
der while balancing on my toes, but
nevertheless I eventually began to find
yoga enjoyable.
With I be returning next week? Yes,
of course promptly on time, in the
right clothes, wearing neither of my
socks, and appearing remarkably
more flexible.
Well maybe Ill just shoot for
being on time.
Yoga for Beginners by Annie Walsh, London, England
A tip for taking
yoga: Dont
arrive late.
Sponsored by
Strength to Be Kind by Simon, Boston, MA
N
ursing homes always creeped me out. I would
cower behind anyone in the hopes of avoiding
a conversation with the residents who stared at
me, grinning with semi-lucid eyes. I feared the re-
hearsed clips of dialogue that the staff politely said to
those they cared for, and I felt confused by the rows
and rows of identical hallways that smelled of sanitizer
and artificial ferns.
Our family always visited one such home after
Christmas, but I never got familiar or comfortable with
the staff or Sadie Ellen. She was a sagging jellyfish of
a lady, with glassy eyes that lay sunken behind a pair
of heavy glasses. When her assistants left
her alone with us, I spent most of the time
alternating between watching the clock
and glancing at the door.
Its good to see you, Lisa, and you too,
John, Sadie Ellen would say.
Actually, Im Simon, I would quietly
reply from behind my parents. I stared at
the paintings on the wall or the ceiling lights any-
thing but the woman in the wheelchair. The fear of
looking into her face and seeing her detached smile
was overwhelming. From the safety of the corner, I
counted the seconds until we could go. Inevitably,
Mom would realize that we had to leave if we were to
make it to Boston by Sunday, and wed depart after the
obligatory hugs with Sadie Ellen. As we got into the
car, I would breathe a sigh of relief we wouldnt be
going back until next year. Two days later, I would
have completely forgotten our visit and my encounter
with this woman, my grandmother.
Eventually I learned she had schizophrenia. This
information was shocking and provocative at first, but
it quickly became her only classification, a label for
my discomfort with her. If I thought about her at all, it
was only about how I dreaded the upcoming visit,
being forced to stand there smiling at this woman who
could at any moment break into random fits of inap-
propriate laughter, or tell us how Jesus was talking to
her through the radio. However, I never had to experi-
ence a visit with Sadie Ellen again; she died that year.
I wasnt expecting anybody to attend the funeral.
After all, she had been in a nursing home for more than
50 years. However, over 30 people showed up, only
one of whom I recognized. Not even my
mother knew these people. They gathered
around us and told us how sorry they were
that such a wonderful person had passed
on. One of them said to me, She was such
a great leader. I cant imagine what the
prom or the marching band would have
been without her. These high school
friends had stories saturated in admiration and respect
for my grandmother. That day, I learned that she had
been president of her class, head of the prom commit-
tee, a vital part of the marching band, and the best
friend one could hope for.
I had never considered the possibility that my grand-
mother might once have had a normal life. The idea
that she was such a pillar of her community was alien
to me, having known her only as the discomforting old
woman we had to visit every year. I couldnt compre-
hend the tragedy of what had happened to her, how her
mental illness had destroyed her life when it was most
promising and she was most fragile. I couldnt under-
stand, so I stopped thinking about it.
That summer was the next time I was reminded of
her. Taking a cognitive psychology course, I was intro-
duced to a host of information about the human mind,
including abnormalities and diseases that seemingly
strike at random. Somewhere between Aphasia and An-
tisocial Personality Disorder, we began a unit on schiz-
ophrenia. I sat stewing in uncomfortable recognition as
we watched videos of patients. I shuddered during the
lectures on warning signs: Schizophrenia starts during
the teenage years, treatment only works half the time,
and patients are often terrified of themselves. I grimly
nodded as we listed the symptoms: catatonic state, in-
appropriate laughter, disorganized thinking and speech.
We watched a video that enabled us to see through
the eyes of a schizophrenic. It was the most terrifying
thing I have ever experienced: the room swayed and
buckled, black blurs scrambled on all fours in my pe-
ripheral vision. The man I was speaking to grew extra
eyes and spoke in a deep metallic rasp. His head dis-
solved into darkness. A maddening buzz of voices
filled my ears. The terror I felt was suffocating.
Im ashamed to look back now and see how I treated
Grammy Sadie Ellen. How could I have been so dis-
missive of this wonderful, brave woman? The stran-
gling fear I felt was the same feeling Grammy Sadie
Ellen had been forced to experience her whole life. She
had overcome that fear, greeting us every year with a
kindness that I never acknowledged. I never talked
with her, never asked why she seemed so happy to see
us. I simply abandoned every chance I had to talk to
her. I see now that it took great strength to deal with
her adversity, and I admire her for it.
Eventually I
learned she had
schizophrenia
Photo by Allana Tyson, Atlanta, GA
23
I
close my eyes, listening to the soft
sound of water trickling under my
board. This moment is so peaceful,
just me and the ocean. The sun and the
wind dancing in perfect harmony make
me ponder the balance of nature. The
sweet sound of birds overhead distracts
me from the oncoming wave.
When I open my eyes, blue sky and
green water fill my vision. I see a perfect
set coming toward me. I rotate my feet in
tiny circles the water is cold, but so
smooth creating whirlpools that tickle
the backs of my legs. I lie on my board
so smooth earlier but now covered with
sticky globs of wax engrained with sand.
Paddling hard, with arms like knives, I
aim for the beach and wait for the wave
to reach me. As the wave nips at my
heels, I keep paddling. It reaches me,
picking me up like a hitchhiker, letting
me ride along, accepting me but not
knowing me. I feel as though I am one
with nature and she has gobbled me up.
Will nature swallow me whole or spit me
out like an unwanted taste in her mouth?
This exhilarating moment, continuing
but running out of steam, brings me
closer to shore, closer to reality. Finally,
it ends and, unsatisfied, needing more, I
paddle back out again.
Continuing this cycle in a loop of lust,
I seek to feel natures arms around me.
Waiting for another wave brings me back
to where I started, but this time, the sea
is calm. Frustration overcomes me. I
want more.
I sit, taking in the mag-
nificent beauty around me,
realizing that the day is
nearing its end. I may have
just one ride left. Fish swim
past in small groups. I envy
them, traveling so grace-
fully. So carefree, they swim all day. I
wish I were one of them, living in this
colorful world of wonder.
Looking up, I see the sun beginning to
set, a giant, radiant yellow sphere. The
sky is glowing orange with accents of
pink and fluffy purple clouds. I take in
the magnificent scene, wishing I had a
camera.
A dolphin fin pops out of the water
just 50 feet away and thats when I see
it building. Here it comes. The best wave
of the day has finally arrived, and I wel-
come it with open arms.
Excitement builds and blood flows to
my brain. I can feel my lips widening
into a smile. Shes here, and shes all
mine. I race again for the free ride; we
meet, and I know the wait was worth it.
This one feels like Im flying, soaring
through the clouds, the
sound of rushing color, the
taste of salty mist off the
wave.
My heart beats a million
miles an hour and I feel like
Im where I belong. Time
stretches out as I ride down
the beach, and finally come to a stop.
I feel sad its over, but the oceans
miracles are always there for me to re-
turn to. I pick up my board and walk
across the sand. Its cool and rough
against my wet feet. I sink my board into
the sand with a satisfying thud, then sit
to watch the ocean. I know that today
was special. I spent the day in liquid na-
ture, the majestic ocean blue.
The Majestic Ocean Blue by Jackie Denton, Coronado, CA
I feel as though
nature has
gobbled me up
S
ome people believe Thailand would be nothing
without its elephants. The animals deep religious
meaning to the Hindu and Buddhist people has led
to statues of the huge mammal all over the country. Ele-
phants are used for tourism, logging, and festivities, and
have always played an essential role in Thai culture.
This might lead you to assume that the animals are
treated with care and respect. You would be wrong.
In Thailand, the first time a domestic baby elephant is
separated from its mother, the animal is placed in a
wooden cage known as the crush for three days. It is
called this because it crushes the animals independence.
Without food, water, or rest, the baby is beaten with
sticks, stabbed with nails, yelled at by people, laughed at
by children. Men shout orders that the animal cannot un-
derstand and punish it when it does not
obey.
Although their hide looks tough, ele-
phants are physically sensitive animals that
can feel a fly land on them. The tools to
train elephants often leave them severely
injured. Once an elephant comes out of the
crush after the three days of torture, it
obeys its owners.
Some domestic elephants are used to haul logs up
mountains for buildings and houses. Since elephants are
used for earning money, the owners will do whatever is
necessary to get them to work hard. Many elephants
have been blinded by slingshots or arrows shot into their
eyes when they did not haul logs fast enough. Elephants
are considered livestock here and are treated however
their owners please. They are beaten and overworked.
Many are not only physically abused, but mentally trau-
matized.
Captive elephants in Thailand are also forced to breed
in a very unnatural way. Hormones are injected into a
male elephant, and then he is locked in a cage with a
female. The male, due to the drug, rapes her. If she
struggles, he uses his tusks to subdue her. This
forced breeding results in many females with
broken bones and other injuries. Some females
are so upset by forced breeding that they kill
their baby when it is born. Some believe this is
because they do not accept a baby conceived
through rape, and others say it is because they do
not want their child to have the same life they do.
Thailand makes lots of money from elephant
tourism. Elephant rides are a common sight.
Tourists can sit on wooden platforms on an ele-
phants back as it roams through forests and
small rivers. A mahoot, or elephant handler,
steers the animal by poking it with a stick or
kicking it behind its ears, which are the most
sensitive part of its body. Another
type of tourism involves elephants
that roam Bangkok, where tourists
take pictures with them or feed them.
The elephants that live in the city barely get
enough to eat and are breathing toxic fumes
all day.
Though these forms of elephant tourism
seem cruel to the animal, without them, more domestic
elephants would end up stranded in the forest with no
knowledge of how to fend for themselves.
Thailand needs tourist money to keep the elephants
cared for and owners financially stable. However, the
traditional method of training the animals by way of the
crush and beatings needs to change. Animal rights laws
need to be enforced. If an elephant is being treated inhu-
manely, the owner should be fined. Although the crush
is an effective method to train an elephant, there are
other, more humane ways.
Sangduen Chailert (Lek), whose name means small
in Thai, has dedicated her life to caring for and protect-
ing elephants. She is a proponent of training elephants
by rewarding cooperation instead of punishing, beating,
and intimidating them. This humane method of animal
domestication is new in Thailand and will
take time to spread, but it is a good start.
In addition, Lek founded an Elephant Na-
ture Park in Chang Mai, where she keeps 35
animals. Some were rescued from forest aban-
donment, while others were bought from cruel owners.
She provides them with medicine, shelter, food, water,
and protection, but most importantly, love. Lek treats
each elephant like family.
Although kindness and passion radiate from Lek, the
Thai government is doing everything they can to shut her
down. They say she makes them look bad, which is true,
and have blamed bombings on her and given her restric-
tions and fines. None of this has stopped her, and she
will never give up. Leks love for and dedication to the
elephants of Thailand make her an inspiration to us all
and give us hope for a better Thailand.
To learn more about the Elephant Nature Park and
how you can help Thai elephants, visit www.elephant-
naturepark.org.
Thai Elephants by Haley Sadoff, Bangkok, Thailand
They are
beaten and
overworked
Photo by Trish Mouton, Craigavon, South Africa
Art by Erin Lessie, Tucson, AZ
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S
he glanced nervously at her watch: 9:30. She
sighed. It was late to be traveling, even with a
male friend. She looked around the street; it
seemed empty, but you never knew in Delhi. Her
hands knotted nervously as she waited for the bus.
Her friend, too, seemed ill at ease. After all, in
Delhi, no sensible woman is out on the street after 6
p.m. The movie wasnt worth it, she thought, men-
tally promising herself never to go to a late show
again.
She sighed again, this time in relief as she saw the
bus pull up. She jumped up promptly and boarded,
wanting to be safe at home. What happened next left
India, and the world, shell-shocked.
This 23-year-old physiotherapy
student, who had only known strug-
gle for her whole life the struggle
to leave her small town, the struggle
to get a good education, the struggle
to feed her siblings, to establish a
better life for her parents, to become
an independent female in Delhi was
now struggling for her life.
The brutal gang rape and mutilation of this
woman touched a spark to Indian society that in-
stantly erupted into protests, rallies, debates, and
demonstrations.
As a devout feminist, I joined every protest and
rally I could. But I believed, somewhere in my
mind, that it would make no difference. As usual,
something horrific would happen, and the country
would become like a baby screaming and shout-
ing, enraged, uncontrolled and demanding. Then,
like an irritated parent, the government would spring
into action and formulate quick and ineffective
measures. The weekend would be over; people
would continue with their lives, feeling somewhat
satisfied with their participation, muttering about
the inadequacy of the government, and then every-
thing would return to normal. The worst thing here
in India is that everyone speaks and speaks, making
brilliant plans, but nobody ever implements them
properly.
The Delhi rape case brought one very important
question forward: even after becoming an industrial
and intellectual center of the world, why does India
continue to treat its women worse than dogs?
I have pondered this question for a long time.
Surely it isnt due to the ancient Indian scriptures, in
which women are goddesses. Surely it isnt the
Hindu religion, one of the few in the
world to give women positions as
priests. Surely it isnt the constitution,
which gives equal rights to women.
Surely it isnt our education we are
all taught that women and men are
equal.
If its not any of these, then what is it
that allows Indian men to resort to rape,
murder, beating, throwing acid, and
burning their brides? The list of abuses against
women in India, sexual or otherwise, is endless.
Maybe in India, men have less inhibition about hurt-
ing women. Maybe they know that their wife will
not leave them, no matter how many times they put
her in the hospital; that the victim of rape will not
report the heinous crime; that once the acid burns
the face of a girl, she wont be able to do anything;
that after they murder their new bride for money, the
police wont be able to pin it on them. Why the
women do not speak up is another matter entirely.
Young girls like me are in the worst position. As
students and professionals, we go out in the world
and sometimes live alone. Every time my mother
asks me to wear jeans instead of shorts when I go
out of the house, I throw a fit, screaming that if we
dont change our mindset, the country will never
change. But I know she is right. I know I cannot
wear short pants, skirts, or dresses in public because
men constantly stare.
Women in India are the best multi-taskers because
they are brought up that way. I see my mother (a su-
perwoman, really) juggling a job, house, husband,
friends, parents, in-laws and kids, and getting little
recognition for her efforts. I see many girls like me,
who, when out on the streets, are constantly aware
of who is in front of them, beside them, and behind
them. Anything can happen is the mantra con-
stantly playing in our minds. That guy on the bike
might touch my behind and speed off; that guy
walking behind me might snatch my gold chain; that
man near me might call out obscenities.
The day the Delhi gang rape victim died, every-
one in my school wore a black band. A program was
held; we mourned the loss of a sister. Despite the
seemingly dark future, I saw boys talk passionately
about womens rights. I saw girls pour their hearts
out. I saw teachers agree with us. And finally, nine
months after the incident, I saw four men sentenced
to death for raping and murdering the woman in
Delhi.
Then I turned to my family. My grandfather
treated my grandmother as little more than the
woman who raised his kids; my father admires my
mother (though he never says it out loud) and
openly showers her with love and gifts. And finally,
there is my little brother, who I know could never
become a chauvinist pig whod rather die than
raise his voice at a woman.
Maybe the rest of the world is on a Generation
Decline. But it seems India is on the path to Genera-
tion Upliftment. It makes me think that maybe, after
all, there is hope.
Indias Battle of the Sexes by Shagun Taparia, Jaipur, India
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Why does India
continue to treat
its women worse
than dogs?
W
hat is it about scary movies
that is so appealing to us?
Of course, cinematic fear is
fleeting. It cannot touch our surface of
reality. Therefore, we love horror
movies.
Fear is a popular and common
theme in books and movies. But in re-
ality, fear hardly touches many of our
lives. It is a distant feeling that we
mentally grasp but emotionally are
oblivious to. Horror movies temporar-
ily create that emotional experience
without devastating consequences. If
a man with an ax is not actually chas-
ing you, its perfectly fine to watch
him chase a character in a movie.
Admittedly, many
people avoid horror
movies. The psychologi-
cal trauma, the gore, the
anticipation, and the
endings with no definite
resolution create some-
thing unpleasant to these
viewers: fear. Some peo-
ple reject fear for the same reason
others crave it. Fear is a rare, infre-
quent experience. The strange, exotic
feeling is like a drug. Some try it for
the first time and are hooked, while
others retch in disgust.
Its no coincidence that horror
movies (or at least the good ones)
originate from wealthy nations. For
example, Japan produces the best
psychological horrors that give audi-
ences insomnia for days, even some-
times months. Poorer nations confront
real fear far more frequently than
most of us. Of course, there are ex-
ceptions. There are people facing
real-life horrors every day in the
United States as well as in every
nation.
If horror movies are a
mark of wealthy nations,
it follows that the grow-
ing popularity of the
movies also signals
changes in society. Per-
haps society is truly
heading down Ray Brad-
burys Fahrenheit 451
path. Will we become a gore-loving,
emotionally insensitive society? Will
we become more violent if we watch
these movies?
Horror movies also provide a sick
sense of comfort that we can be
scared while not needing to feel any-
thing emotionally for the victim. After
all, thats only an actor getting im-
paled. In some ways, horror movies
mitigate lifes difficulties. When
youre watching sorority girls acci-
dentally kill a freshman, the anticipa-
tion of a college acceptance letter
suddenly becomes less engrossing.
Ultimately, the psychological thrill
is what captivates the audience. We
feed off these emotions and the adren-
aline rush. Perhaps there is some
elaborate scientific explanation as to
why horror movies are popular with
some and despicable to others. Re-
gardless, horror movies are a form of
art. To create the perfect horror movie
is not an easy task. Too much gore
disgusts the audience; an ending that
answers all our questions wont leave
us disturbed; too many mythical or
fantastical elements destroy the
movies credibility.
The art of a horror movie is like
music. The accumulation of events,
the climax, and the finale are what
create the overall impact. In this soci-
ety of dying art forms, boy bands, and
chick flicks, horror movies are alive
and kicking.
Why We Love Horror by Lucy Zhang, Belle Mead, NJ
Horror movies
provide a
sick sense of
comfort
Art by Jessica Tayson, Delta, PA
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M
ost writers in media forums seem to prize
nothing more than the First Amendment.
Even mentioning the word censorship
will have them threatening legal action or referenc-
ing some type of press law center. Censorship is
often associated with an extreme method of govern-
ment control where Big Brother knows every
thought and action, as in the dystopias portrayed in
George Orwells novel 1984, the 1999 film The
Matrix, or the more recent V for Vendetta. But
these extreme analogies are fallacies. I view free-
dom of speech as a valuable right; however, I also
believe that the media should strive to use less in-
flammatory rhetoric.
There are appropriate times for certain kinds of
language. One choses different vocabulary when
speaking to a child, a boss, a parent, or a friend. In
the same way, appropriate language must be used in
media forums to show respect or promote safety.
Just as casually mentioning a bomb is a bad idea
around airport security, and yelling the word fire
is not tolerated in a movie theater, certain language,
when magnified through the media, can wreak
havoc.
Let us take a step back and look at the rhetoric
used in the media, and the consequences.
As an American with both Middle Eastern and
Hispanic heritage, I know that I am viewed through
the lens of certain stereotypes. When I was a child,
people at times associated my Iranian
background with terrorism or other
extremism. Regardless of whether it
was intended as a joke, I found this
offensive, but I knew these ideas
were media-influenced. A little more
than a decade after 9/11, stereotypes
about Muslims are still rampant.
However, I always felt safe at school.
Then an article in my high school
newspaper turned my world upside
down.
People often do not understand the power of
words. The content of this article was not the issue;
I respect everyones right to express an opinion.
However, the writer began by discussing nuclear
power, quickly turning his piece into a rant of hate
speech against Iranians. He compared them to
Nazis, using hateful words, claiming the public
should fear them. He referred to Iranians as terror-
ists hell-bent on an ideology of oppression and
hate.
The article made my Iranian-American class-
mates and me very uncomfortable. It was akin to
yelling fire in a theater when there is no fire. The
use of words ignited panic, and people began to
react. It only takes one person to believe that the
fire exists for chaos to begin.
I saw students severing friend-
ships because of the article. I saw
people ripping the article out of the
paper. I saw people feeling unsafe
in their own high school. But this is
not an isolated case of harassment
created by ideas in the media.
Whether spoken or written, in-
flammatory rhetoric has the power
to promote harassment, hostility, bullying,
and stereotyping against innocent people. I even
saw a classmate driven to take his own life as a re-
sult of bullying and harassment about his sexual
orientation.
Turn on the television. Read the newspaper. Go
to any news source. Bullying and harassment in
schools are tomorrows tragedies. All of these
crimes stem from the media. Senator Gabrielle
Giffords shooting in Tucson was linked to insensi-
tivity in the media, as well as the fatal
shooting at a Sikh temple in Wisconsin in
August 2012. Numerous hate crimes in the
news were instigated by inflammatory
media rhetoric. Heightened tolerance and
sensitivity especially within media can
prevent these catastrophes. There is no
need for hate speech in media and news fo-
rums. There are many ways to make a point
without igniting hostility and harassment
against groups in our society.
I was able to create change in my high
schools censorship policies by calling out
the rhetoric and hate speech in our school
paper. Of course, I faced resistance, and it
took months before an official apology was
issued. I first contacted those in charge of
the publication. I used testimonies of stu-
dents and the law, which was on my side. A
school newspaper does not fall under the
same First Amendment rights as regular
publications. Unfortunately, for a while
teachers were more concerned with protect-
ing the First Amendment than
shielding students from dis-
crimination. Of course, this is
not just a problem in schools;
it affects the welfare of people
everywhere.
Words are like seeds. A
word can grow in a persons
mind under the proper condi-
tions, or it can remain dor-
mant. Negative words can be
cultivated into plants with thorns and spikes
that cause innocent people pain and hard-
ship. The media has the power and ability
to plant seeds in large quantities, but with
this power comes responsibility. Essen-
tially, we reap what we sow.
No matter how different we are in
beliefs, sexual orientation, race, origin, religion,
language, or values we are all human beings. We
all laugh, hurt, smile, and cry. And we all want re-
spect. I am not asking you to alter your views and
opinions, but when you write or speak, think care-
fully about the words you use.
Words alone do not make people commit horrible
hate crimes. Inflammatory rhetoric will not always
lead to negative actions. However, it only takes one
person who misconstrues words to
cause a disaster. Or one person to as-
sume the minority is the majority. Or
one person to take one statement or
joke to an extreme. These are the
kinds of tragedies we can prevent.
Just because your words are pro-
tected by free speech, or you are
speaking or writing without bad in-
tent, does not make it acceptable to
say something prejudicial or hateful.
It is critical to consider what type of words are
appropriate depending on the audience. It comes
down to a simple, logical rule that we have all
heard before and yes, it even applies to media fo-
rums: Treat others the way you want to be treated.
Its not about censorship. Its not about Big
Brother. Its not about control. This is about being
respectful to fellow human beings.
Lethal Language by Susan Sajadi, Scottsdale, AZ
Words alone do
not make people
commit horrible
hate crimes
Undocumented
They say she shouldnt be here.
Theyre right, in some ways.
Her hot-corn foods that leave you red
and cleansed
have no place among snow-covered trees
And maybe,
at the beginning,
when she slipped in and
never left,
she was all wrong for this place
for decked-out hoodies and Gucci bags,
towering boots and briefcases
and could be ripped away
on a whim.
But tell her that now
when the soapy water from others homes
cracks her skin,
her dark hair pulled back
out of the way
until it turns gray.
I am a dream from the ghettos,
a vision from Ellis Island come true.
But if her little girl
with a shiny pink backpack
and her boy cutting lawns for his uncle
lose their dreamer,
if she were sent back
like a misrouted letter,
how could there ever be
more like me?
by Sarah Rubock, Pelham, NY
Photo by Rachel Morey, Mobile, AL
The media
should strive
to use less
inflammatory
rhetoric
L
ine upon line upon line upon line, the dark
design decorated the palms of her hands like
an enigma. Intricate swirls, braids, and ten-
drils rippled every which way, creating a captivating
conundrum, a mystifying work of art. Coils, pais-
leys, and exotic flowers sprouted from her hands,
adding to the mystery. Dots and bands
and spirals left no patch of skin un-
touched. This tessellation of tattoos is
called mehndi.
It was her wedding day, and as a
guest, I watched as she made her way
down the aisle. With her face hidden
beneath an opulent veil, and her body
covered by the iridescence of her Indian dress, the
only part of her visible was her hands mesmeriz-
ing hands coated in an intricate red mehndi. The
rhythmic poundings of the dholak guided her coura-
geous steps as she inched closer to the start of her
new life. The chime of her payal complemented her
climb up to the altar, reminding me of her inno-
cence. The room suddenly hushed; they lifted her
veil. She looked upon her husband-to-be for the first
time.
Arranged marriage, though a treasured tradition in
Southeast Asian and Islamic cultures,
has been met with unmerited contempt
in American society for quite some
time. Born and raised in America to
parents who had an arranged marriage,
I have come to find that this tradition is
simply misunderstood. Indian and Mid-
dle Eastern parents believe their chil-
dren are their most precious possessions. They,
therefore, do not allow them to leave haphazardly;
they choose who their children are to marry, and
spend a great deal of time and effort in search
of a perfect match. Critics claim that this creates ar-
tificiality in the affection between those involved,
but growing up around friends and family who all
had arranged marriages, I have only witnessed gen-
uine love. And though I have a hard time seeing my-
self agreeing to an arranged marriage, I cannot deny
its legitimacy; it just takes a little understanding.
Understanding arranged marriage is like decipher-
ing the designs of mehndi. While it is hard for most
of us to fathom marrying someone we know little
about, the concept actually invites a very appealing
mystery. Much like the enticing mystery inherent to
mehndi, arranged marriage engenders an intrigue
that is not immediately understandable. Upon first
look at a brides hands, one may simply see a fanati-
cally ornate design; yet upon closer inspection, the
connections and truths in the motif reveal them-
selves. Similarly, the bride and groom enter into
their marriage not knowing much about each other.
But over time, they unravel each others secrets and
discover why they were meant for each other.
While there are certainly stories about abuse and
incompatibility in arranged marriages, we must re-
member that this happens in free-choice marriages
as well. All relationships are a gamble, but in
arranged marriages, the stakes seem higher.
Arranged couples must try hard to make their union
work because it is critical to en-
sure their parents reputation is
upheld. Therefore, there is gen-
uine commitment in these rela-
tionships commitment that
lends itself to the growth of a
beautiful love.
According to statistics, couples
with arranged marriages are less
likely to separate. This is because
conventional marriage, or at least
marriage as we know it, involves two people who
have known each other and loved each other for a
period of time, joining together in holy matrimony.
Usually they have already uncovered each others
cute habits, secret quirks, past history, and future as-
pirations. Is there anything left to learn? A legal
marriage really only gives them an excuse to live to-
gether, have children, and obtain marital benefits.
There may be little mystery in this relationship.
Love is there from the get-go, so the marriage is
transparent and straightforward.
The arranged marriage, on the other hand,
provides a platform as complicated and esoteric as
the coils and tendrils of a mehndi design for the
husband and wife to get to know each other and de-
velop love. It is also expected that these individuals
have not yet experienced true love for another per-
son, so this marital love is unadulterated. No one has
broken their hearts; no one has entranced them with
loves compelling pull. They experience it all in the
safe confines of their arranged marriage.
My cousin Saima married Goharr a few years ago.
She was born and raised in Pakistan, and Goharr, a
man her parents chose for her, is Canadian. The two
had very different upbringings and were seemingly
unalike, so at the time, I did not know how their
marriage would endure. Today, however, they are
one of the happiest couples I have ever seen. It is
true that they struggle at times and do not have
much money, but they have each other. My e-mail is
constantly swamped with happy pictures of their
family and baby.
In addition, the tales my grandmother used to tell
me of her and my grandfather made me crave a love
as extraordinary as theirs. Like something from a
movie, their arranged marriage fostered a love that
involved fleeing countries together during times of
war and supporting each other
when their house was ransacked
and their lives threatened. Both the
relationship of my grandparents
and my cousin involved challenges,
but they worked through them
like true, loving couples. These
arranged marriages were far from
artificial or ill-fated.
Like the color of mehndi that
runs deep, so can the love between
two people who previously did not know each other.
Arranged marriages work because the love grows
from something more than physical appearance and
compatibility; it grows from the honesty of the
heart.
I am not trying to encourage anyone to have an
arranged marriage, and I am in no way attacking the
validity of love marriages, especially since the latter
appeals to me the most. But my culture is often criti-
cized for arranging marriages, and I believe it is be-
cause people see these marriages in the wrong way.
Like a free-handed mehndi design, arranged mar-
riages are unique, and like a tattoo, they can be
permanent.
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Exotic flowers
sprouted from
her hands
Maps
There is a map on my wall
With pushpins jutting out of it,
Begging for attention.
Red for the places Ive been,
Blue for the places I wish to go,
White for the places I am from.
I have two problems:
First, I have run out of blue pins.
I really should just paint the entire map
the dark cobalt
Found alongside the muddy brown
of Nonnas tacky collection of ceramic ducks
But, more importantly,
I feel like I am cheating when I look at the
four white pins:
Verona, Italy
Biel-Bienne, Switzerland
Willemstad, Curacao
Groningen, The Netherlands.
The pins jut out of the map
Like the pearly white teeth of my ancestors.
But they are spread across continents,
They dont fit in one jaw.
They never touch,
They cant tell stories together
So Im left, feeling lost,
Lonely teeth glaring at me from all directions
Because Where are you from?
Is anything but a straightforward question.
by Zoe Kibbelaar, Willemstad, Curacao
Photo by Samah Quadri, Naperville, IL
Photo by Jess Deibert, Klingerstown, PA
Understanding
arranged marriage is
like deciphering the
designs of mehndi
Mehndi and the Matrix of Marriage
by Maryam Waris,
Phoenix, AZ
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I
have found that the words com-
munal bathhouse strike fear into
the hearts of most Americans, but
not so in Morocco where they are
called hammams.
Hammams are large, slippery, and
generally full of naked people. The
taps go from boiling hot to ice cold,
and the steam is so thick its difficult
to breathe, let alone see. Yes, they
sound scary, but in Morocco they are
a part of everyday life.
I found myself standing outside of
one two months after I turned 16. I
was on a service trip with two leaders
and nine other children, six of whom
were boys who were visiting the
mens hammam. Our leaders had set
up the visit to give us a taste of real
Moroccan life.
As we entered the hammam, two
old women told us to take off our
shoes (and any other clothing we felt
comfortable removing) and to put our
things in a cubby. They didnt speak
English, of course, so there was a lot
of pointing.
There are several main bathing
areas in a hammam. Once you have
chosen a tap and spread your yoga
mat on the floor, there is not much
difference from how you normally get
clean.
There arent many reasons to feel
shy, because in most parts of the
world, no one cares about your body,
what type of shampoo you use, or if
you take an hour getting clean. Its re-
freshing, to say the least. Realizing
that certain things that may be impor-
tant to you and your culture are of lit-
tle significance is humbling and
liberating.
I was thoroughly enjoying the ham-
mam. I filled my
bucket with ice-cold
water and poured it
over my head, which
momentarily cleared
the humid air. I felt
someone tap me on the
shoulder. It was Julia,
my group leader who told me that she
had paid for all of us to receive a tra-
ditional cleaning.
When faced with something strange
and new, I have found that its best
not to think about it too much, apart
from is this dangerous? Its like run-
ning off the high diving board, instead
of standing with your toes curled over
the edge for 15 minutes.
So I rolled with the situation. And
yet, as I made my way through
crowds of soapy people all shouting
in regional Arabic, on my way to get
washed by a stranger, I couldnt help
but think, How on earth did I get
here?
My bather was very old, and she
wore an expression that I took to
mean she would rather be anywhere
else than washing adolescent girls
covered in construction dirt, but I sat
on the floor and was scrubbed. It was
not gentle, but when someone you
dont know is cleaning you, its best
not to complain. And
when an older Arabic
lady is scrubbing you to
within an inch of your
life, its best to think
about something other
than this fact.
I chose to think about
the last ten days. I remembered Fez,
the city with ten thousand walls so
close together the streets are barely an
arms length apart. I remembered
strong coffee served with soft bread
and sweet potato spread for breakfast.
I remembered learning to cook tagine,
and skinning almonds, and waiting
for prunes to boil. It was all so differ-
ent, and I was pleased to find that
after traveling to other countries in the
past, the differences excited rather
than frightened me.
It was at that exact moment that the
lady scrubbing me ran over the burn
on the back of my hand with the rag I
was becoming rapidly convinced was
made of steel wool. Tears came into
the corners of my eyes as I forced a
grateful smile.
Suddenly it was over. I paid my
twenty dirhams ($2), and exited into
fresh, cool Moroccan evening air. Ex-
periences like as this are why I love to
travel. While you build respect for
different ways of life, you also build
an immunity to the bizarre. The ear-
lier you start seeing places and trying
things, the sooner you lose your fear
of the world around you. Everything
becomes possible.
I would highly recommend being
washed by a stranger in a hammam at
least once.
Even if you manage not to feel a
greater appreciation for customs and
cultures different from yours, you
cant escape without feeling a bit in-
vincible. After all, you took on an old
woman armed with soap, a scrubbing
rag, and a pension for cleanliness.
At the end of my first visit to a
hammam, I felt wiser, more open-
minded, and very adventurous.
But mostly, I felt really clean.
Clean by Lilia Vargas Costello, Nokomis, FL
Hammams are
generally full of
naked people
T
he small farm town of Boncourt lies in a
peaceful valley at the very edge of Switzer-
land, on the doo-hickey of the doo-hickey.
Its a town with a population of 1,200. Pushed up
against the edge of France, it is practically sur-
rounded by the same country, whose language it
speaks. The train line from a bigger town, Porren-
truy, cuts through it before passing into Delle, the
town just across the border. When they dug the
space for the freeway (that was begun years ago and
that wont be completed for years
to come), they found ruins of an old
Roman village. People have been
here for so long that I cant imagine
this place without them. At some
point, someone decided to give this
place its name Boncourt, meaning
good farm.
I take walks on the Triangle, a
name my family gave to three roads
near our house that form a pleasant 15-minute loop.
The ever-fresh air awakens my brain and clears out
my thoughts as I walk. The tobacco, sugar-beet, and
cornfields wrap over the rolling hills of the nearby
countryside. On snowless, cloudy days, gray fog
seems to sink and smother the town in gloom. But,
like anywhere, when sunshine appears, it is instantly
beautiful. Then the open blueness of the sky seems
to be loftier than elsewhere, and the light shines
golden on the grass. The renowned American buf-
falo gallop lazily across their field here, giving a
unique aspect to my Swiss town.
A watch-factory has just been built next to that
field. Less than half a mile from France and built for
French employees, the companys location had to be
on Swiss soil to attain the label Made in Switzer-
land. Its amusing to see the sophisticated new
building sitting haughtily next to the grazing Wild
West buffalo.
The other main employer in town is the cigarette
factory, which explains the tobacco fields. Not the
most charming asset of the village, the perfume of
the burning leaves is often carried on
breezes, but its much more appeal-
ing than the scent of cigarettes when
they are being smoked. Some fruit
trees obligingly grew in the cow
field across our street, blocking the
unsightly beige warehouses from
our otherwise picturesque view of
the church steeple above the orange-
tiled village roofs.
An old ruined tower stands on the
hill south of the valley. Its the remains of a me-
dieval fortress, built as a watch-point to keep an eye
on the Gauls. A few decades ago, a secure staircase
was erected, creating a lovely viewpoint from
where you can see all of Boncourt, into France, and
the Vogses mountains beyond. Beneath the hill are
sepulchral caves created by an underground river
that carved magnificent stalactites and stalagmites
into the limestone. These caverns welcomed visi-
tors for many years until a storm damaged the
walkways and the farmer who owned it refused to
repair it. The village also boasts a year-round indoor
swimming pool, a surprising investment for such a
small hamlet. But its a sporty village; its basketball
team plays against big cities like Zurich and Bern.
I have grown fond of this village: the buffalo next
to the factories, the opinionated gossipy villagers,
the hills that are soft and gentle on the outside but
hide splendorous, drippy passages beneath. The
agreeable scent of burning tobacco and the less-
welcome fumes of manure fertilizer make this place
special. The hawk soaring above me on my walk in
the damp spring sunshine, the limitless blue heav-
ens, and even the clingy fog all contribute to the
peaceful beauty of this gentle valley.
My Village in the Valley by Evangeline Schmitt, Boncourt, Switzerland
The tobacco,
sugar-beet and
cornfields wrap
over the rolling hills
Photo by Katie Cockrell, Alta Loma, CA
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F
rom the very first time I set foot
in a temple, I knew this was a
concept I would not fully un-
derstand. What was this higher power
swirling around my head, made larger
through the use of hundreds of voices
and the crescendoing musical might
of the organ? As a young girl, sur-
rounded by this essence, I was con-
fused and naturally indignant. My
rabbi talked of our people who had
made it through the desert for 40
years to the promised land; our peo-
ple who had survived Pharaohs
wrath and crossed the Red Sea. Who
were these people? Why did I care?
Then all I cared about was getting
home to watch Spongebob. How-
ever, now, looking back, it did matter.
Every note, every whispered word
spoken in temple made me who I
am and more importantly, made my
ancestors who they were. There is a
connection to my past that is made
stronger through our common tongue,
this special language that only we
keep.
This is the story of my heritage,
my culture and my greatest belief:
Judaism.
For a very long time, I was skepti-
cal. Yes, I knew I was Jewish, but who
cared? And as for a god? He didnt
help us when six million of us were
slaughtered across Europe in the Sec-
ond World War. So truthfully, I didnt
have much of a spiritual side, even
when I was Bat Mitzvahed.
I first realized, truly, what Judaism
was as I lay in bed with my best
friend, Kelly, during a Saturday night
sleepover four years ago. Im sure if
you asked her, she wouldnt remem-
ber our conversation.
Ironically, it changed
my life. Kelly is far
more spiritual than I am,
and had always grasped
the concept of God. We
were talking about tem-
ple when she said some-
thing I will never forget. Dont you
find it interesting how we are kind of
like the guardians of our past?
Drowsily looking up from my pil-
low, I muttered a strangled Hmph?
She turned over, her eyes full of light.
Think about it. We know a language
that less than one percent of humans
alive today know. We know the songs;
we know the prayers by heart. We can
read an ancient document older than
the common era us, just kids. Our
fathers can, and our fathers fathers,
and way back, hundreds and hundreds
of years back. Cant you see that
were kind of like the keepers of
history!
I sat up and stared at her. She was
right, and all this time I hadnt seen it.
I was special, and she was too. En-
tirely unique, yet entirely connected.
We held what almost no one had, this
writing that was created in the third
century BCE. And I, a 13-year-old,
knew it by heart. That
night, I realized who I
was a keeper.
Finally, last Wednes-
day, my belief in my her-
itage was sealed forever.
My grandfather had just
died, and I was at his fu-
neral. He was the kindest, most loving
man who ever existed, and everyone
was still in shock that he had died, de-
spite being 91. He was one of those
people you think will live forever.
As I sat with my brother, hot tears
rolling down my face, the rabbi
started to sing, slow and steady like a
river, in the deep minor tones of Jew-
ish hymns. Then the Kaddish began,
and the rest of the congregation
joined in. I had sung Kaddish the
hymn of mourning before, but never
had I heard it like this. Every voice
was filled with absolute sorrow. We
were singing the song of grief, the
same one sung by thousands of Jews
for thousands of years. The hall shook
with our voices and these beautiful,
yet horrible words. Our crying ballad
was deep and guttural, but there was a
light that clung to our notes.
As our voices boomed through the
hall, I was struck with a realization.
The Kaddish was not just a song of
sorrow, but also it was one of hope.
There is darkness, but there is so
much light. Through tragedy, our peo-
ple, my people, have carried on
through generations. Although we
mourn, we still believe in God. There
are the blackest of nights, but the
dawn always brings a new day.
The Kaddish, my grandfather, and
my heritage showed me that. I am a
child of my ancestors, who have
experienced so much pain and
suffering, yet still persevered and
praised God. When I am older, I will
teach Hebrew to my children, and my
children will pass it on to theirs. So
will it continue, this legacy, this great
connected history of my people. This
I believe.
Cultural Caretaker by Marissa Zaritsky, Poughkeepsie, NY
We are the
guardians of
our past
B
ack when my family kept a VHS player in
the attic, I used to sneak upstairs to watch
Cinderella whenever I could. I wouldnt
even watch the whole movie Id fast-forward to
the end, where Prince Charming fits the rogue glass
slipper onto Cinderellas slender foot. I loved
knowing it was going to be a perfect fit.
Its no secret that Ive always been entranced by
happy endings, but the glamor of fairy tales in par-
ticular stole my six-year-old heart. Though the
castles, jewels, and horse-drawn carriages are admit-
tedly seductive, it was the perfect story arc I latched
onto. It always worked out for the princesses in my
storybooks: their tales had a beginning, a middle,
and a neat, romantic ending under a glowing sunset
or starry night. Everything was pristine, contained.
Ive looked and looked, but I have never been able
to see the stars in New York City.
In almost every fairy tale there is a
prince. Its a package deal, an added
bonus to the princess job description.
But even in middle school, I knew a
prince was never going to be in my
picture. This idea seemed like a liabil-
ity, and this scared me.
The first time I said the words Im gay out loud,
I felt like I had just jumped off a castle turret and
drowned in the moat. There was the fear of disap-
pointing others, and the humiliation the day I came
to school and saw that someone had written the
word dyke on my locker. But most of all, my vul-
nerability came from the overwhelming suspicion
that I had disappointed myself. After all of those
years of fairy-tale fantasy, I felt as if I had given up
on my own happy ending. Princesses like princes,
not other princesses. It took Disney 86 years to cre-
ate a black princess imagine how long it will take
for Snow White to come out as a lesbian.
My own story arc was suddenly precarious. The
comfortable, conventional ending I had always envi-
sioned no longer seemed possible. But then I gradu-
ated from storybooks and Disney movies into
literature. I stumbled upon David Sedaris, Jim Shep-
ard, and Raymond Carver, and learned that when it
comes to stories (and life, really) happy endings are
often the least interesting kind. When I read Log-
gerheads by Sedaris, the fact that there was no res-
olution, no comfortable ending, thrilled me. It was
as if the glass slipper was a size too small and gave
my foot blisters.
And so, I began to write. I wrote
poems that didnt rhyme and stories
without endings. I loved having no rules
to break and no audience to satisfy but
me. If the pen is mightier than the
sword, I took to slaying the ignorant
dragons in my life with my prose. I
threw out the Cinderella VHS and bought a DVD
of The Queen, turning to Princess Diana as my
new royal heroine. She never got her fairy-tale end-
ing, but she took the ancient institution of the
monarchy and made it human, transforming the
royal identity so that one day, perhaps, it could be-
come rainbow. If someone like Diana could become
a princess, I could, too jean shorts and all and
happily-ever-after be damned.
Who knows if glass slippers are made in a size
twelve anyway? Frankly, Id rather wear my volley-
ball sneakers.
Princess Charming by Grace McLeod, New York, NY
The glass
slipper gave
my foot blisters
Photo by Brandi Miller, Orangeburg, SC
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SPORTS
Friday Night
Lights
by H. G. Bissinger
O
nce you start reading Fri-
day Night Lights: A Town,
a Team, and a Dream, you will
not want to put it down. H.G.
Bissinger adds many attention-
grabbers that make it an amaz-
ing read. This true story will
put you right into the charac-
ters shoes, and the cliffhang-
ers will keep you on the edge
of your seat. This is one beau-
tifully written book.
The plot focuses on the Per-
mian High School Panthers
football team and their road to
the Texas high school state
championship. Not only does
Bissinger write about the team,
but he shows how the town in-
fluences the boys. You will feel
like you have a front-row
ticket in the student section for
the football games.
Bissinger does a phenome-
nal job writing in a very
graphic, clear way. Though the
book is long, its a quick read
because of the language that
any teenager will understand.
If you are looking for a book
that ties in sports and family
values, this is for you. It is one
of the best sports books out
there. You will learn not only
about football, but also about
yourself. I recommend this
book to anyone willing to put
themselves in the shoes of a
citizen living in a town crazy
for high school football.
by Mo White, Scottsdale, AZ
SPORTS
Born to Run
by Christopher
McDougall
A
fter hearing extensive
praise for Born to Run,
not only from the media, but
also from my friends and fam-
ily, I decided to read it. Born to
Run is a cross between a mem-
oir and research paper, re-
counting author Christopher
McDougalls quest to find the
correct way to run. In a ca-
sual, sometimes crude tone,
McDougall discusses running
and narrates his adventures
from doctors offices to remote
Mexican canyons, where he
meets a tribe of supposedly the
best runners on Earth. In the
end, McDougall and a few fel-
low Westerners are joined by
these fabled runners in a cli-
mactic race, described as the
greatest race the world has
ever seen.
Born to Runs major flaw
is its denseness. McDougall
includes many unnecessary
stories and information. Anec-
dotes and descriptions topple
over one another, rendering the
book verbose and confusing.
He gets his point across: mod-
ern technologies have de-
stroyed the art of running. But
dispensable segments, not to
mention unrefined writing,
make Born to Run a bland
read.
Although it didnt meet my
expectations, I dont regret
reading Born to Run. Combin-
ing personal experience and
data, its format was very dif-
ferent from anything Ive read,
and, despite cumbersome pas-
sages, it was effective in teach-
ing me about running. I dont
particularly recommend or ad-
vise against reading Born to
Run. Its certainly not a mind-
boggler and shouldnt be at the
top of your reading list, but it
could be interesting to con-
sider.
by Virginie Caspard,
Chevy Chase, MD
COMIC
Halloween Eve
by Brandon Mont-
clare & Amy Reeder
T
hanks to my wonderfully
annoying sister (I hope
shes not reading this), we
were able to attend the New
York Comic Con, where I
purchased a signed copy of
Halloween Eve by Brandon
Montclare and Amy Reeder.
This is one of the best comics
to read right before Halloween,
giving you a great treat with
the bizarre tricks and touches
of a story that is truthfully
magical and bizarre.
The titular protagonist, Eve,
is a snarky and stylish dresser,
better at sizing up other people
than herself. She hates Hal-
loween with a biting fury,
which unfortunately makes her
miserable at her ill-fitted job at
a costume shop.
One night, after unleashing a
big tantrum, Eve is banished
by her boss to an involuntary
nighttime shift at the shop. In
dark, unsuspecting time before
Halloween, Eve is confronted
by talking masks and mon-
sters, and soon finds herself in
Halloween Land, where every
day is Halloween, which to
Eve spells Hell.
Halloween Eve is a hilari-
ously brilliant one-shot comic.
Eve is a sarcastic, yet vulnera-
ble leading lady whose com-
plex transformation leads her
to look herself in the mirror
and finally figure out who she
wants to be.
Reeders penciling, inking,
coloring, and lettering, in a
vibrant mass of colors and
scenes that capture the heart of
the characters and Halloween,
skillfully accompany an imagi-
native and hilarious storyline
by Montclare.
Nightmare Before Christmas
meets How the Grinch Stole
Christmas, with an enormous
dash of Alices Adventures in
Wonderland, Halloween Eve is
a comic that is both touching
and entertaining, and a read
you wont regret.
by Michele Kirichanskaya,
Brooklyn, NY
FICTION
Impulse
by Ellen Hopkins
W
hat consequences do you
face when you act on
impulse? Three very different
teenagers brought together by
their mutual death wishes meet
in a psychiatric treatment cen-
ter. Tony, Vanessa, and Conner
all tried to end their lives in
different ways for different
reasons. Theyre as surprised
as anyone that they become a
tight-knit group. Tony is a gay
guy from the wrong side of the
tracks, Conners a jock who
seems to have the perfect life
despite his desire to die, and
Vanessa is a cutter who is con-
stantly riding her own bipolar
seesaw. Will they make it out
of this place alive? Do they
even want to?
Ellen Hopkins Impulse is
just one of her many books
that cover tough issues,
including mental illness,
homosexuality, religion, and
suicide. But unlike some over-
rated and unrealistic young
adult novels, Hopkins works
have never ceased to please me
with their dark, realistic tone.
Impulse is no exception. While
it can be easy to mess up a
book focused on the thoughts
and feelings of those inhabit-
ing their own cloud of mental
illness, this book does not dis-
appoint.
There is little room to take a
break from Impulse. Despite
its daunting 666 pages and ob-
scure prose, its almost impos-
sible to put down. I found
myself thinking, Just ten more
pages. But that ten more pages
would become a hundred be-
fore I could even tear my eyes
away.
Perhaps its the fascinating
content that sucked me in, but
even with the characters im-
perfections, I couldnt help but
love them. Whether youve al-
ways hated the jocks, or previ-
ously thought bipolar disorder
to be a joke, itll be difficult to
finish this book without feeling
a touch of sympathy for Tony,
Vanessa, and Conner.
I really admire the light this
book brings to the blackened
corners where the truth of
mental illness lurks. With this
book, you get a real feel for
how miserable someone can
be even when their life looks
perfect.
If youre looking for a light
read, Impulse isnt for you.
Warning: you cant be afraid to
cry. This book is thought-pro-
voking, beautiful, and utterly
relatable, whether you think
you fit the label of crazy or
not.
by McKenna Schueler,
Port St. Lucie, FL
FICTION
And the
Mountains
Echoed
by Khaled Hosseini
K
nown for epic tales of en-
during love and redemp-
tion, Khaled Hosseini doesnt
disappoint with his latest best-
seller, And the Mountains
Echoed. The story unfolds in
the early 1950s, focusing on
two siblings growing up in the
Afghan village of Shadbagh.
Three-year-old Pari and her
brother, Abdullah, have been
inseparable since their
mothers death, and sometimes
Abdullah feels like his little
sister is the only real family he
has.
Things get complicated
when Pari is given to a
wealthy, childless couple in
Afghanistans capital city of
Kabul. This transaction is fa-
cilitated by Pari and Abdul-
lahs uncle, who has an agenda
of his own. However, he inad-
vertently creates a gaping
wound in his family that can-
not be mended.
Hosseini doesnt end the
story here: theres still an en-
tire world to explore in the
pages of And the Mountains
Echoed. In a vivid journey
from Kabul to Paris, the Greek
island of Tinos to San Fran-
cisco, a cast of secondary char-
acters welcome readers into
their lives. In many ways, this
is Hosseinis most ambitious
novel yet.
The beauty of And the
Mountains Echoed is in the de-
tails; these little pieces come
together to form a vast, elabo-
rate mosaic of individuals and
stories. Fans will easily recog-
nize the authors lyrical style.
Hosseini writes with the com-
passion and vulnerability that
make his stories so enlighten-
ing, yet relatable.
Here is a novel for anyone
who has ever wondered,
Where am I from, and who
am I? How has my identity
been shaped by the people I
love and the people who love
me? If you want to read a
great book that explores uni-
versal themes and ideas, while
learning more about
Afghanistan, I highly recom-
mend And the Mountains
Echoed.
by Julia Xia, New York, NY
Like a front-row
ticket for the
football games
Hilariously brilliant
one-shot comic
Quest to find
the correct
way to run
Fascinating
content that
sucks you in
The beauty is
in the details
Photo by Supriya Lal, Greenwood, SC
30
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ZOMBIE
World War Z
I
n WWZ, the zombie de-
sign is seriously flawed; the
undead dont mill about aim-
lessly like most zombies do.
They run like theyre going for
the gold medal in the 200-
meter sprint. Now, in any
zombie movie, the zombies are
not allowed to win to easily.
Usually theyre so slow that the
heroes can outrun them, franti-
cally darting from useless hid-
ing space to useless hiding
space while the audience holds
their breath and hopes the mon-
sters wont notice the blonde
heroine hiding behind the stop
sign. With WWZ, not even
Brad Pitt can outrun the raven-
ous revenants.
This poses a problem. If the
zombies chug several Monster
Energies before deciding to
overthrow the world, all the
desperate and futile attempts to
stop them and all the grotesque
brain eating will be over in fif-
teen minutes, and there wont
be a movie. So how do you
stall the zombies long enough
for the heroes to have a
chance?
Easy. These zombies only
run if theyre stimulated.
Breaking glass, grenades,
rolling soda cans, and high-
pitched female vocalists (all
these are in the movie) will
stimulate them, leading to a in-
tense fifteen-minute fight for
survival. After that, those zom-
bies not impaled or rendered
asunder by a grenade or sucked
out of an airplane will return to
roaming about aimlessly or
banging their heads against the
wall waiting for more stimuli.
The movie climaxes in a
medical facility overrun with
dormant zombies. As the he-
roes sneak through the corri-
dors, the zombies yawn loudly,
wheeze like asthmatics without
inhalers, and make clicking
sounds with their teeth. Thats
right, the dormant zombies
primary entertainment is
briskly rapping its teeth
together like an exuberant
bunny who hasnt realized his
carrot has been taken away. The
zombies jerked so awkwardly I
felt I was riding Pirates of the
Caribbean at Disneyland with
Brad Pitt valiantly dueling the
anamatrons.
To be fair, in the first half of
the movie, the camera shakes
like Pompeii every time the
zombies show up, and therefore
youre fooled into believing the
undead are fairly terrifying and
maybe even lethal. However by
the end, these zombies provoke
more chuckles than screams.
Other than the flawed mon-
sters, WWZ has a second,
but forgivable flaw: its conclu-
sion. How do they cure the
zombies? Ask H.G Wells; he
used the idea against the aliens
almost a hundred years ago.
Basically its a total rip off of
The War of the Worlds, but
only sci-fi fans will care.
WWZ offers a thrill ride,
but a tame and relatively blood-
less one. The themes are as
positive and inspiring as a zom-
bie movie can be a man fight-
ing for his family and the
ingenuity of man triumphing
over obstacles so I left the
theater content. This is not a
work of cinematic art or a soul-
ful character study or even
logical but if your friends in-
vite you to see it, go.
by Ian deMoura,
Los Angeles, CA
ZOMBIE
Warm Bodies
N
ow, I imagine that a ton of
people will compare
Warm Bodies to Twilight,
which I think is unfair. From
what Ive learned, a romance
between a girl and a rotting
corpse is more believable than
a romance between a girl and a
sparkling corpse. Thats just
the world we live in.
Warm Bodies is the story
of a zombie named R (Nicholas
Hoult) who lives (sort of) in a
post-apocalyptic world. Zom-
bies have emerged and humans
are, well, limited. R is the main
character, and he speaks in his
head because he feels that hes
smarter than just Brains! He
cant remember his name,
however he knows it begins
with an R.
R spends his days wandering
around an airport with fellow
zombies. Zombies in this
movie arent called zombies.
Theyre called corpses, but we
all know theyre zombies. R
has a best friend named M
(Rob Corddry), and hes just as
enjoyable as R. As a zombie, R
is constantly craving flesh and
brains. As a neat addition to the
zombie lore, when these zom-
bies eat the brains of someone,
they experience that persons
memories, or at the very least
feel alive.
While out looking for food
with M and pack of zombies, R
discovers Julie (Teresa Palmer)
and her friends. They have a lit-
tle fight, and R ends up eating
Julies boyfriend, Perry (Dave
Franco), who isnt that memo-
rable anyway. R sees Julie and
suddenly has the hots for her.
So he takes her to his home and
protects her from the other
mindless corpses. They bond
as the days go by, and amaz-
ingly R slowly becomes more
human. So, we all know that if
the zombie apocalypse does
come around, the cure is a bul-
let to the brain, right? Okay,
good. Because love doesnt
cure zombies, however it does
in this movie.
Eventually, Julie wants to go
home to her friends and family,
and R agrees to escort her. On
the way, R reveals that he ate
Perry, which makes Julie run
away from him, and she tries to
get back to the human camp
alone.
Meanwhile, there are mon-
sters worse than the corpses:
Bonies are corpses after they
mutated too far to be saved.
Unlike R and the other corpses,
bonies do not feel. They eat
anything with a heartbeat. R
races to find Julie and protect
her. Julie tries to convince her
father (John Malkovich) that
corpses can change and love,
but he doesnt listen and tries to
kill R. Soon, R, Julie, and the
humans are ambushed by a
huge horde of bonies. Luckily,
M and the corpses show up to
help fight off the bonies. After
seeing that R can bleed, Julies
father understands what his
daughter has been trying to tell
him. The film wraps up with R
fully alive and Julie watching a
town getting blown up, symbol-
izing the end of the apocalypse.
The story is a great new look
at the zombie apocalypse. In
most things zombie, we take
the humans point of view, but
here we see the zombies per-
spective. With us, its always,
We must save humanity.
Waste them! But the zombies
are like, Dudes, we have
feelings, too. The idea that
zombies can become more
human the more they are
around humans is cheesy, but
the movie delivers it in a way
that makes you believe it.
R, Julie, her dad, and M were
the only memorable people-
corpses in the movie. But was
Warm Bodies good? Yeah, I
had a blast. It was definitely
better than I thought it was
going to be.
by Brendan Ferguson,
Norfolk, VA
TV
Dexter
E
verybody has a dark side.
And while it can be easy to
repress, some cant resist its
temptation. Dexter Morgan
(Michael C. Hall) is one such
case, a man who lost his
mother as a child to a grisly
murder. Since then, hes had an
insatiable hunger that drives
him to kill.
The first officer at the
murder scene, Harry Morgan
(James Remar), took Dexter in,
and adopted the forever-scarred
child. Harry saw the darkness
in Dexters eyes and knew he
needed to kill. So he imprinted
in his mind a set of principles,
ones that wouldnt repress his
lust for death, but make it more
productive and morally just.
And so we have the modern-
day Dexter, who works as a
blood spatter analyst for Miami
Metro Homicide alongside his
foster-sister, Debra (Jennifer
Carpenter), who is a detective.
Working at a police station
gives our killer the perfect ruse
to undertake his agenda of
slaughter. Yes, Dexter is a serial
killer, but with a twist. He only
kills those who have gotten
away with murder.
This moral gap is the base-
line for many interesting situa-
tions where he must juggle the
weight of his dark nature with
his personal life, trying to be
both normal and a killer. The
duality is incredibly well done,
and it makes you question your
own dark half.
Each season involves a dif-
ferent main serial killer.
Whether it is The Ice Truck
Killer or The Bay Harbor
Butcher, each season presents a
new, interesting character as a
target for Dexter. With each
season, the story becomes more
intricate, and more is revealed
about Dexters blood-soaked
past.
While this show may not be
for everyone due to the grue-
some story arches and ceaseless
blood, Dexter is a rare show
that explores the dark side of
human nature and portrays a
character everyone secretly
wishes they could be. With a
plot that will keep you guessing
whos good and bad, a struggle
of morals and emotions in
every character, and perhaps
the highest body count on TV,
Dexter is bloody-good enter-
tainment.
by Trace Schuelke,
Oshkosh, WI
THRILLER
The Call
J
ordan Turner (Halle Berry) is
a 911 dispatcher. When Leah
Templeton (Evie Thompson)
calls because an intruder is
breaking into her house, Turner
acts as a hero and gives her
safety instructions. After the in-
truder searches the house, he
proceeds to leave without real-
izing that Leah is there. But
when the call between Turner
and Leah gets disconnected,
Turner calls back, alerting the
intruder. Leah is kidnapped and
murdered as a result.
Six months later, Casey
Welson (Abigail Breslin) is ab-
ducted from a mall by the same
man. The dispatcher who re-
ceives Caseys call is unable to
tackle the task, which leaves
Turner for the job. She must
face her fears and prevent
Casey from becoming another
victim.
The Call is the perfect ex-
ample of what a thrilling, sus-
penseful, action-packed movie
should be. It made me think,
and definitely made me feel (I
cried). It was so realistic I had
to keep reminding myself that
it was only a movie. This film
does an excellent job showing
what can happen in real life.
I have to applaud Halle Berry
and Abigail Breslin for their
performances. Berrys courage,
mixed with Breslins bravery
equals a phenomenal motion
picture. They both deserve an
Oscar, if you ask me.
by Terrion Newton,
Morrow, GA
Tame and
relatively bloodless
Thrilling,
suspenseful
Zombies can
become human?
Bloody-good
entertainment
Art by Julia Wong, Sevenoaks, England
31
m
u
s
i
c

r
e
v
i
e
w
s
RAP
Flowers for
My Father
Sadistik
O
n paper, it would be easy
to write off Sadistik as an-
other one of those pretentious
spiritual lyrical miracle type
rappers. Features from several
indie pop artists, multisyllabic
rhyme schemes with a lot of
big words, a rapping style that
seems to take more influence
from poetry instead of other
rappers (he even samples a
poem by Czeslaw Milosz in
one song) hes the kind of
rapper a lot of people probably
dont really want to like.
All that aside, though, theres
one thing that no one can deny
about this Seattle native: he
puts his heart and soul into his
songs. The emotion displayed
in these tracks is incredible.
Sadistiks second LP, Flowers
for My Father, certainly does-
nt put style over substance. In
fact, he has both in abundance.
From the first track, Petri-
chor, the listener is given a
perfect example of his style.
Hes got a gift for rhyming and
drops lyrical thought-provokers
such as Its an arcane parlay,
but hearts arent really heart-
shaped, are they? This track
ends with a spoken-word outro
that ties together the themes of
the album: depression, despera-
tion, and hope. The mood is
perfectly set, and now listeners
know what theyre in for.
With tracks that deal with
drug addiction, mental break-
downs, and as Sadistik puts it
in the song The Beast
feeling ugly, this album is not
exactly an easy listen. But its
more than worth it to see all the
pictures painted in its lyrics and
the accompanying feelings.
The emotional nature of the
album may be off-putting to
some, especially since you can
easily hear the distress in
Sadistiks voice. Similar to
Kendrick Lamars voice crack-
ing, Sadistik has a choked-up
intensity that occasionally
comes off as whiny. Usually
this is done on purpose to stress
certain syllables. Its something
the listener will either get past
or wont, but it shouldnt be too
much of an issue if one is really
listening and focusing on the
music rather than Sadistiks
rap. Its not a background noise
type of album, though the beats
do lend themselves to that.
All in all, Flowers for My
Father is an emotional trip.
Sadistik has created a style of
his own, and hes demonstrated
with this album that he can
hold his own in the hip-hop
world not only as an alterna-
tive rapper, but as an MC in
general. No one flows or
rhymes the way Sadistik does,
and hopefully he will soon get
the attention he deserves.
by Jordan Baker,
Romeoville, IL
ROCK
Uno!
Green Day
I
have to be honest: I was ex-
tremely disappointed by
Uno! which is the first
album in Green Days 2012
trilogy. I was desperately hop-
ing the band would go back-
wards with their musical style,
but this remains similar to pop
rock. Thats not the only prob-
lem: Of its 13 tracks, I actually
only enjoyed two.
After thoroughly listening to
Uno! and reading the lyrics
until they were carved into my
brain, I began to notice its over-
all theme, which I realized is
surprisingly deep and relatable.
It seems that lead singer and
guitarist Billie Joe Armstrong
was reflecting on his coming of
age and trying to reach out to
his audience. The first track,
Nuclear Family, describes a
common problem among
teenagers: family issues. Arm-
strong himself didnt have a nu-
clear family. His father died
when he was ten, and his rela-
tionship with his stepfather
wasnt pleasant.
Carpe Diem is, in my opin-
ion, the preeminent song on the
album. Life is short, after all,
and it really does pass in a
blink of an eye, as Arm-
strongs striking voice sings
out. Not only are the vocals and
lyrics over the top, but the in-
strumentals also set a mood
that empowers the listener. It
sends a positive message
something you dont see much
in mainstream music anymore.
Unfortunately, these are
probably the only pleasant as-
pects of the album. Track five,
Kill the DJ, is plain terrible.
It sounds as if Armstrong is
using AutoTune. Like an old
lady using Botox, Green Day is
trying to appear younger, and
its not working out.
Another negative of the
album is the lack of emotion in
Armstrongs voice. One thing
that had me screaming for
Green Day is how at one time,
his voice portrayed so much
anger one moment, but could
become melancholy, light, or
innocent the next. In Uno!
he sounds distant and with-
drawn. And then he screws up
some of the tracks even more,
trying to produce an angry
sound by simply adding ex-
plicit words. Newsflash, Billie:
cursing your lungs out wont
necessarily add emotion to your
music.
Uno! is nowhere near
Green Days best album. After
the brilliance of 21st Century
Breakdown, it was almost im-
possible to wait three years to
see what else Green Day had in
store. Expectations were set
pretty high in 2009, and this
album just didnt cut it its a
huge letdown.
by Aleksandra Gejdel,
Brooklyn, NY
POP
Gossamer
Passion Pit
T
he New England natives
who made the indie world
want to have a dance party with
their 2009 debut album, Man-
ners, are back, and they have
built on the foundation they
began with 2008s EP Chunk
of Change. Layer upon layer
of synthesizers and frontman
Michael Angelakoss falsetto
are the cornerstones for just
about any record by this band,
and Gossamer is no excep-
tion. Yet these factors are the
reason Passion Pits dark and
troubled lyrics werent taken
seriously in Manners: they
were often lost in the hypnotic
melodies of the sugary synths.
But in Gossamer, the
themes are evident. Instead of
dwelling on the depressing top-
ics of everyday life, Passion Pit
reminds us that everything will
be all right one day.
To begin Gossamer, Ange-
lakos gives the listener an ac-
count of his own familys
financial troubles with Take a
Walk. The easy-to-follow,
energetic track leads up to the
bombastic, sample-heavy sec-
ond track Ill Be Alright.
Constant Conversations
comes in at a perfect time to
slow things down. Here, Ange-
lakos takes a new route in how
he uses his voice: he sings in a
falsetto similar to R&B legend
Curtis Mayfield. The synths
whammying their way through
pitches, a great sing-a-long of
ohs in the chorus, and a stut-
tering sample throughout make
this my favorite track on the
album.
Passion Pits formula sug-
ary pop music with dark
lyrics works really well on
most tracks, and their immer-
sive sound makes anyone want
to dance, but some tracks feel
redundant or repetitive. One ex-
ample is Carried Away. The
bright synth pop is too basic
and overdone to lead the track,
since there is little backing it
up. The chorus doesnt feel like
anything special, and the emo-
tion is truly lacking.
This release is the perfect
music for a world that is going
through a recession. The band
hopes to change the views of
millions of people going
through difficult financial
times, alcoholism, unemploy-
ment, and mental illness by
showing these things to be a
normal part of todays society.
Treating peoples troubles as
typical instead of hiding them
is important to the band, and
Angelakos has allowed his psy-
chiatric treatment for bipolar
disorder to be publicized for
this reason. Relating to the dark
side of things and giving an op-
timistic outlook is what pop
music is about, and thats what
makes this a fantastic pop
album.
by Marko Uzeirovic,
Amery, WI
FOLK
Jake Bugg
Jake Bugg
W
ho is Jake Bugg? In
America, the name is un-
known. To those in the U.K.,
its associated with one of the
up-and-coming singers of the
21st century. I believe that by
giving this album a chance,
American listeners will dis-
cover an underrated and very
satisfying collection of songs.
What makes Jake Buggs
self-titled album so special? Its
all in his ability to take old ele-
ments and turn them into some-
thing new. As a country/folk
singer, it is very easy to slip
into the river of mainstream,
but that doesnt happen in this
album. Bugg instead turns to
masters of the past, like Johnny
Cash and Bob Dylan, for ideas.
He is also influenced by ballads
from Oasis and The Beatles.
Together, it makes a pleasing
combination.
The album begins with the
Johnny Cashstyle tunes
Lightning Bolt and Taste
It. Lightning Bolt shows off
Buggs ability to sing at many
volumes. Its followed up by
the feel-good Two Fingers,
which tells the tale of Buggs
family struggles and how he
gets past them.
While Bugg begins with a
bang, the rest of his album
proves more melancholy and
gentle, which is not necessarily
a bad thing. Seen It All fea-
tures Buggs vocals at their
finest, as well as an Oasis-like
instrument solo. Buggs slick
vocals take full control in
Someone Told Me, and the
intense feelings expressed can
make one shiver. Simple as
This and Slide should be in-
cluded alongside this albums
best tracks too.
Often folk music is tossed
away as old-fashioned and a
thing of the past, but this
teenage artist is out to change
that. After listening to this
album, I strongly believe Bugg
is capable of doing so.
by Alan Brown,
Manhattan, KS
An emotional trip
Sugary pop
with dark lyrics
Nowhere near
their best
Turns old
elements into
something new
Photo by Kali Renee, Mount Juliet, TN
Y
ou still training them
sled dogs?
I glanced up at the
speaker. A gruff old man with an un-
shaven face gazed at me. His name
was Charley, and he was the towns
mountain man. I nodded. Yessir. All
twelve of em.
He gave me a grin, and I wondered
if his teeth had ever seen a tooth-
brush. Howre they comin?
Theyre coming, I replied. The
only problem now is them nipping
mongst themselves. Theyre fine in
the harness, but back at the barn they
crawl all over each other and start
fights.
Charley frowned briefly. Then he
gave me another grin. Mind if I
come over sometime? Might find me
a help.
I mulled over the idea. This old
mountain man helping me with my
sled dogs? Why not? Sure, whenever
you want, I replied.
I saw a full-fledged smile from him
as we parted. He returned to his snow-
mobile, and I to mine.
The next morning I woke to silence.
Normally, I would hear my dogs whin-
ing, waiting to be fed and run, but this
morning was quiet. I did lock them in
last night, right?
Outside, I quickly covered the dis-
tance from my small house to the barn.
I flung open the door hastily, worry
and confusion swirling through me.
What I saw made my heart skip a beat.
On the barn floor lay my lead dog,
Brody, his gray and black fur soaked
in blood. His tongue lolled out, and his
eyes were glazed. Nine dogs were sit-
ting or lying about like nothing had
happened. The other two most rowdy
were in separate kennels outside the
barn. Each looked at me pathetically,
as if asking whether I was
going to blame them for
Brodys death.
I didnt know who, or
what, to blame. Perhaps it
had been a fight except
the usual instigators had
been locked outside.
Maybe I had misjudged the fighting
dogs and had separated the wrong
ones.
I shook my head clear of the
thoughts and picked up Brodys body.
Now I had to declare a new lead dog.
The burial was nothing fancy; I just
wrapped him up in a tarp. The ground
was frozen, so until it thawed, hed
stay in the basement freezer. I chose
my only female, Iris, for lead position.
She had always shown dominance in
the pack, second only
to Brody.
I kept watching for
Charley to come help
with my dogs. But
when he didnt show,
I naturally assumed
that the geezer had
forgotten.
The training contin-
ued: two days at a time
in the wilderness, enhancing the dogs
speed and endurance, as well as my
own stamina to the cold.
Then back home for a few
nights. Monday morning, a
week after Brodys death, I
awoke to silence once
again. Fearing the worst, I
raced outside.
Iris lay in a pool of blood
in the barn.
Ten dogs left. Hercules became the
lead runner. And so, the training con-
tinued. I wasnt about to throw away
the sled race because some dogs died.
I wanted it. We would win the race.
A week later, Hercules succumbed
to whatever was taking my dogs.
Nine dogs left. Duncan was ap-
pointed leader.
I eased up on the training schedule.
Perhaps I was running them too hard.
Instead of two nights out, we spent
just one, and I kept the dogs to an
easy lope on the trail.
But Duncan, too, I found lying in a
pool of blood. Now, instead of curi-
ous, I was furious. Something, or
someone, was killing my dogs. At
first, I had chalked it up to a squabble
between them. But then maybe it
was a competitor. Micah was planning
on entering the race with his pack.
But I couldnt imagine him stooping
as low as to murder my animals.
Eight dogs left. Vermont was
elected to lead the pack. He was
one of my strongest dogs, so I usually
kept him in the back to carry the brunt
of the sled load. However, desperate
times call for desperate measures, and
I wanted a strong leader.
A week later Vermont was dead. I
was outraged. I locked up every dog
in his own kennel. If they were killing
each other, I wanted no more of it.
Before I had been too easy on them;
this was my first pack, and I wanted
to handle it the right way, to give
them another chance. I now had seven
dogs, which was going to be small in
comparison with the other teams in
the race. But I had no cash saved up
to buy more dogs.
Jericho became the leader. I prayed
that this would be it, that there would
be no more killing.
Just two days after I appointed Jeri-
cho to lead, he died. Or, more accu-
rately, was murdered. I was beside
myself. I decided to phone the sheriff
to let him know to watch out for a dog
killer. He said hed come out to check
things out, and to let other townspeo-
ple know.
When he came out, he requested to
see the dead dogs. One by one, he ex-
amined them. He said the wounds
looked like stab wounds. Then how
come I didnt hear them howl? I
asked, horrified that my dogs could
have been suffering while I slept.
Youre a deep sleeper. Or perhaps
someone taped their muzzles shut
who knows.
I decided to withdraw from the race.
If it was a competitor killing my team,
they should stop once word got out I
had quit. When I was in town the next
day, I purposefully planted the news
with a few people. Word spread
quickly.
With no more training necessary, I
hitched my dogs up to the sled for fun,
and we went for nice easy breezes over
the snow. At first they werent accus-
tomed to such short treks, but after two
weeks, they settled down. To ensure
the team ran well, I chose no lead dog.
I had six animals left, and I simply
doubled them up so they ran in twos.
With no lead dog, no more deaths
happened. This made me very curious.
I decided to try something. I had seen
videos and pictures of mushers hitch-
ing their dogs up in a line, so that no
dog was the true leader, except, possi-
bly, the one or two in the middle. The
next day, I modified my harness. I
placed the weakest dog, Danny, in the
center with Jamison. Technically, they
were the lead dogs, since they strode
in the middle of the pack.
Our run worked well with the differ-
ent hitch, and there was minimal whin-
ing and scrapping.
The next morning was quiet. Very
quiet. My stomach dropped to my feet
as I scrambled out of bed. I dreaded
every step to the kennels. I checked on
Danny and Jamison first, since techni-
cally, they were the leads. Both dead.
Snickers was dead.
Peanut was dead.
Tyson was dead.
I turned the corner to my last ken-
nel. Tate lay on the ground. Leaning
over the dead dog was Charley, a knife
in his hand. When he heard me, he
whipped around, his eyes wide.
He gave me a sheepish grin and
said, Them dogs wont fight no
more.
32
f
i
c
t
i
o
n
Them Dogs by Ellie Eck, Mifflintown, PA
Something
was killing
off my dogs
I
hovered in the murky light and checked
the screen of my dive computer on my
wrist. The chrome dials and ebony num-
bers shimmered, wiggling like a school of
fish. 60m was blinking excitedly, almost
to the rhythm of my air tanks clinking in
discordant harmony. I heard the rasp of my
regulator as I inhaled, feeling the cold air
rush into my chest although it wasnt as
cold as the water. My body shivered; I felt
my microscopic cells jog on the spot in an
attempt to warm my freezing
nerves.
Brightly colored coral glit-
tered among the craggy sur-
faces of the rock wall. Tiny
fish zipped through holes. I
reached out to touch a soft
pink sponge, and stared as it
paled to lily white in fright.
I looked up and saw blue, looked down
and saw darkness but suddenly it all
blurred together. I couldnt see anything but
a deep, dizzying azure. I felt myself turn up-
side down like a turtle on its back.
Somewhere under all of my neoprene
wrapping, a laugh was brewing. I could feel
it bubbling, eager to rise up and out of my
gut. I twisted and wriggled with its upward
ascent. The sound was harsh as it escaped
into the silent void a raspy euphoria that
caused hundreds of bubbles to sprint for
heaven.
I felt weightless, and I allowed the surge
to rock me gently as I watched a large fish
with bulbous eyes and speckled lips. I tried
to follow as he sauntered on his way, but
found that my legs were numb. It didnt
matter; I felt wonderful. I was encased in
my own bubble of air, observing a rosy-
cheeked jellyfish dance the jive, its many
legs sashaying. A dozen rays flew elegantly
past in combat formation, and I was thrown
back in time to a military air
show I had witnessed as a
child.
An incessant beeping
splintered my concentration. I
examined my dive watch in
confusion. I couldnt read the
flashing symbols; my brain was
as spongy as the coral alongside me. Yank-
ing at the thick strap, I dislodged it and sent
it spiraling into the gloomy abyss at my feet.
I felt slivers of water slip into my suit and
leopard-crawl across my skin. I laughed
again, opening my mouth so wide that I
tasted salty wetness. I wondered if I was
breathing water and not air. My hands fum-
bled as I unhooked my reserve tanks and
slipped off my mask, the thin plastic pulling
my hair in despair. Finally, I extracted the
regulator from my clenched jaw and, smil-
ing, I inhaled.
Narced by Michaela Davey, Cape Town, South Africa
I wondered if I
was breathing
water
Photo by Rachel Sakakeeny, Colleyville, TX
33
T
hey say the moon can make you a little mad.
Maybe thats why I stop. Im driving home
late. Admittedly, Im a little drunk from a
solitary glass of gin I snuck in the office. Even when
I hear the sickening sound of my rubber tires hitting
something and squelching over it, I dont want to
stop. I just want to drive home, take a hot bath, and
go to sleep. But there is no denying the reality of the
lump grinding beneath my wheels. I dont want to
see the bloody mess Ive created out of the once-
living flesh. I hate blood. It makes me feel faint.
Besides, I dont want to acknowledge that as a result
of my human error, I have quenched the spark of
life.
I dont want to stop.
I have no reason to stop no one has witnessed
my would-be hit and run. But something makes me
press my foot on the brake.
I get out of the car. The world is dark, illuminated
only by my pale headlights and the silvery glow of
the moon. At first I cant see any-
thing. I round the car, almost con-
vinced that my imagination
was at play. Thats when I
hear the keening. It comes in
bursts, sharp and pitiful. I
close in on the sound.
There, I find the mangled
form of a great gray wolf. Its body has been
rearranged by the force of the impact with
the car. It lies limp, and for a moment I am
confused about the source of the noise.
Then a small patch of fur detaches itself
from the maroon mass of shadows. It makes
a whining noise. Its eyes glitter in the moon-
light. Its just a baby. Just a pup covered in
its mothers cooling blood, but its alive.
A lifetime of warnings about rabies and
wolves and sharp teeth flash
through my mind, even as I pick
up the pup and wrap it in my shirt.
It doesnt put up a fight. Instead, it
snuggles against my skin as I drive
home in the moonlight.
At home, I make a bed of newspapers in my sock
drawer and put the wolf pup inside. It looks strange
and wild in the dry light of my bedroom, but I am too
tired to know what else to do. I resolve
to take the pup to Animal Control in the
morning, and then I sink into a deep
sleep, punctuated by occasional
squeaks from the wolf.
I wake up to the sound of a baby
crying. The noise is harsh and foreign,
as unfamiliar and unexpected as dry-
wall crumbling in my bedroom. Dazed, I stagger
out of bed. Finally my mind clears enough for me to
realize the sound is coming from the sock drawer.
They say the moon can make you a little mad, I
always warn my daughter. I tell her to lock herself
away when the full moon comes out, and its almost
become second nature to her. They say the moon
can make you a little mad, but Im not sure if shes
the mad one or I am.
Foundling by Irene Enlow, Pohang, Korea
They say the
moon can make
you a little mad
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The Pounding by Shannon Sniokis, Oakville, CT
I
can hear pounding. This pounding
noise is not the same as the sound of
dark clouds pouring down onto tar or
your bedroom window. Nor can it be
likened to the sound of your heart beating
fast or heavy when youre frightened,
though I can hear this too.
This pounding is a gradual sound; it is
slowly and steadily progressing toward
me. This pounding is not the only thing I
can hear.
I am aware, vaguely, of the choir of
baby birds chirping. I can hear, vicari-
ously, the sound of cicadas singing. I hear,
almost subconsciously, the
hollow scraping of a pumpkin
as it is carved, and even the
crackling of a fireplace as it
wages war on Jack Frost. I
hear all of this, but louder still
is the pounding.
I dont know how long Ive
been hearing it, but the suspense is
deafening.
You might assume that in sleep Id find
reprieve, but you would be incorrect. Even
in my dreams I am haunted by the pound-
ing, ever looming, ever nearer. My life, on
a superficial level, has adjusted to the
rhythm that the pounding orchestrates, and
my days are spent dancing to the song of
its choice. But how much can ones mind
truly adjust to the knowledge that some-
thing unknown is impending?
Its a genuine gift that you cannot re-
member everything youve ever done. You
dont truly forget anything, but your mind
is capable of sorting the important and the
unimportant, and for the most part it does
a decent job of filing things into appropri-
ate folders of remember and forget. If
humans didnt have forget folders, I be-
lieve that they likely would have gone ex-
tinct a very long time ago. But this is just
my intuition.
Ive tried to forget the sound of the
pounding. Ive tried to manually place it in
an envelope in a remote corner of my
mind; tried to bury it beneath paperwork in
hopes that I will forget where it is buried.
But you cannot forget something that is
happening right now, and I know now that
the pounding is something I cannot ignore.
I am scared of the pounding.
As a human, it is only natural
that I be threatened by what I
dont understand. But I am not
inclined to hide from it. I am not
sure what it is, and I am not sure
of its intentions or the reason for
its coming. I know only that I
must face it head on.
I have never heard anyone talk about the
pounding, so I guess Im the only one who
can hear it. Maybe Im crazy. When I was
younger, I remember hiding from the
pounding, denying its existence, trying to
erase all evidence of it.
I didnt want to know. When I was thir-
teen, I awoke one morning, the bedsheet
beneath me looking like itd been used to
bandage a wound, my wound evidence
of what they told me should be a secret,
taught me how to hide since I was old
enough to notice it being hidden. A thing
that is shrouded in mystery and hushed
tones, a thing were told to dread from the
moment were old enough to understand
its existence, before were even old
enough to understand its purpose. I didnt
want to know that this thing had crawled
up one night and become a part of me in
my sleep, and, more than that, I didnt
want anyone else to know. I hid my bed-
sheets and tried to bury beneath them what
I didnt want to know: how much closer
the pounding had gotten.
When I was sixteen and got my first job,
I didnt want to know. I didnt want to ac-
knowledge why I got the job, even when
my boss looked at me like that, like he
wanted something from me. And I didnt
want to know what he wasnt asking me,
what his eyes were asking my body. I
didnt want to see, because it made the
pounding so much louder.
I started to care when I chose a career.
At first I didnt want to acknowledge how
few there were like me. And I still dont
know why and I still dont understand
societys views on the roles
of a man, but I am forced to
acknowledge the pounding
now, because its hard to
fight something about which
I have no knowledge.
I tried to put the pounding
out of my mind one time,
when I was 21 and I was
caught driving, a few
months after my birthday, a
few miles from the bar
where I had a couple of
drinks. I guess those flash-
ing lights saw that I was
driving just a little short of
straight. The cop got out,
and the flashlight was bright blinding,
like the reality of him staring and then
telling me Dont drive angry, like the
reality of the fact that I drove home that
night with the pounding giving me a
headache. Itd never been so loud. I almost
turned around and demanded he arrest me.
But I didnt.
I live dancing to its song. I am cloaked
in its presence. The pounding is the
headache I wake up with every morning;
its something Im still trying to under-
stand because its always easier to try to
hide. The pounding wont ever stop; I
know this, like I know that I must face it. I
know that some day it will gallop up to
me, shaking the ground with the hooves of
its cavalry, and I wish I had someone to
help me fight it. I wish I had someone to
tell me about it, because knowledge is
power, and I cant fight it alone when Im
the only one who doesnt deny it.
Even in my
dreams I am
haunted
Art by Ann Carbonell, Milpitas, CA
Art by Sophie Aldinger, Colorado Springs, CO
The Mysterious Tale of Bryn Martin
34
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hey found her lying
in the snow. She
had been wrapped
in a blanket and left in a
clearing in the woods.
Hooves had been
pounded into the ground,
circling her. She couldnt
have been more than a
few days old when James
Daly found her shivering
in the wilderness.
He had been on his way
home from a fishing trip
with his three-year-old
son, Creedon, who sat frozen with fear,
holding the cold infant in his arms. The
small town sensed something unusual as
Jamess old pickup rattled in that after-
noon. Everyones eyes followed it until it
jolted to a stop outside the Kilner Group
Home. Heads stuck out shop doors to
watch curiously as James came around
the truck and took her from the boys
arms. As soon as James and the boy dis-
appeared inside the house, gossip spread.
Some said the baby was Jamess from an
affair with the mayors wife in the next
town. Another swore that he had acciden-
tally shot the mother in the woods while
hunting; one claimed he had killed her on
purpose.
Those were only the beginnings of a
vicious cycle of rumors that would sur-
round the girl her entire life. Thats what
happens when youre different. And Bryn
Martin was different. Everyone in Kilner
knew it from the moment James Daly
brought her into town.

The locals were content to allow Bryn
to wander the town, assuming that at sev-
enteen she could watch out for herself.
The occasional traveler still using the old
highway through town would try to help
her find what she was looking for, but
after hearing her answer, they would
quickly realize how different she was.
With a cardboard crown perched on her
head, she spent her days looking for the
tower. Anyone who probed would be
told the story of a prince locked in a
tower guarded by vicious centaurs. Most
people just smiled and nodded, but the
younger kids and teenagers would play
along and pretend to give her directions.
Lately, Bryn had been drifting into the
woods surrounding Kilner on her search.
One night she didnt come back. Creedon
Daly found her tangled up in a briar bush
on his way home from what he claimed to
be a fishing trip. He had to use his knife
to cut her free, leaving her curly red locks
dangling pitifully in the brush. Bryn
seemed to shrink standing next to Cree-
dons tall, limber frame, but she knew she
could trust him, or at least
his father, the one who had
found her in the woods all
those years ago.
She watched Creedon the
entire ride home. It unnerved
her that she couldnt find his
eyes in the darkness. Be-
tween the messy curls cast-
ing shadows on his face and the way he
always seemed to angle his head down,
his eyes were black pits.
The quiet town was wide awake and
forming search parties to find the girl
when Creedons pickup rattled through
the center of town. No one said a word,
all just watched the moon reflect off
Bryns pale face through the open win-
dow as Creedon drove to her foster home.
The next day everyones gaze lingered on
her longer than usual, keeping track of
her until she was out of sight.
After that, no one spoke to Bryn, not
even Creedon, who had taken to bringing
her home from the woods every night.
She always studied him carefully as he
drove. They had a strange bond consider-
ing they had never said a word to each
other. But they were both outsiders, and
outsiders have a way of finding each
other.
When they arrived at her home on the
fifth night, Bryn paused for a moment
after shutting the truck door.
Thank you.
He looked up, startled.
Oh, um youre welcome.
Bryn smiled then. He stared at her for a
moment. She never smiled. She always
walked around town with a mystified look
on her face as she searched for her prince
and his tower.
Suddenly he coughed and shoved the
truck into drive, pulling away quickly.
Bryn watched his taillights disappear.
The next night, she kept walking after
Creedon found her, winding back and
forth before finally heading to the spot
where he parked his truck.
After she climbed in, slowly, he offered
her his keys. She took them and slid
across the bench. He pulled open the door
and slid into her slightly warm seat.
He watched her the entire ride, jerking
his head away when she
glanced over at him. Hed
look back to see her smiling
at the road in front of her.
No one knew what Cree-
don did out in the woods all
day, but he always went out
with a truck full of wood and
returned with none. He gave
different stories: fishing, camping, hiking,
hunting. Since graduating high school,
hed managed to do absolutely nothing as
far as the rest of the town was concerned.
The question was on the tip of Bryns
tongue as she shut off the truck. He had
come around to her side and pulled the
door open.
She didnt move. Snow started to fall as
they took each other in. Bryn brushed his
curls off his forehead, then jerked her
hand back and looked away. Out of the
corner of her eye, she saw him move. His
fingers ran across the top of her crown,
tracing the jagged points.
She couldnt help but jump when he
slid it off her head. He set it on the dash,
and then they were kissing, his hands run-
ning through the short hair he had cut free
from the briar bush a week before.
When they finally pulled themselves
apart, Bryn put her crown back in its
place with shaking fingers and quietly
made her way into the sleeping house of
her foster family.
Creedons truck was parked on the road
when she arrived at the woods the next
morning. A thin layer of snow revealed
fresh footprints leading into
the trees. Taking slow, hopping
steps, Bryn followed the trail
through the brush.
She saw it before she saw
him.
Is this what youve been
looking for?
A tall wooden tower stretched into the
trees. She looked up to the window at the
top, where Creedons floppy head peered
back down, wearing a crown just like
hers.
She nodded, beaming.
Do not fear, fair prince, for I am here
to rescue you from the evil centaurs. She
raised her hand as though she had a
sword, and, as if on cue, the sound of
pounding hooves came from the woods.
Her laugh was cut short as she heard
them. Her face paled.
What is it?
She began muttering a long string of
nos that Creedon could not hear, and
she plugged her ears with her fingers in
an attempt to block out the noise.
When the two horses burst into the
clearing, she screamed. The smile flew
from Creedons face with the fleeing
birds as he realized that something had
gone wrong with his plan. The horses
began to circle the tower rapidly, as he
had trained them to. Bryn didnt move.
Her eyes were closed and her ears were
covered when the first horse struck her.
She didnt make a noise, but her lips were
whispering incoherent words. The second
horse stepped on her knee. When the first
came around again, its hoof hammered
into her chest. After that, the horses were
moving too quickly to see what was
happening.
All of this occurred in a matter of sec-
onds. Creedon, unable to do anything
from the tower, leaned far out the win-
dow. He called for the horses to stop, he
called for Bryn, and he called for help.
Suddenly, the tower shifted. Already
off center from leaning out the window,
the shift shoved him out. During his short
fall to the earth, he thought about the
night that he and his father had found
Bryn in this clearing, surrounded by the
strange hoofprints. And about how this
was entirely his fault.
The hollow thud of his body striking the
ground spooked the horses, sending them
galloping off. His neck snapped, but it
happened in such a way that he appeared
to be looking at Bryn. Her body had been
destroyed by the horses, and the snow
around her was crimson, but somehow
one hand was stretched out, pale and per-
fect. Creedons hand had fallen just inches
from it, his fingers reaching for hers.
When the townspeople found the tracks
leading from Creedons truck the next
morning, they assumed that nothing that
bad could have happened to Bryn if she
had been with Creedon. When they stum-
bled upon the bloody scene at the tower,
no one knew what to say. The way the
bodies seemed to be reaching
for each another sent shivers
down their spines. The two
crowns sat perfectly together
at the base of the tower.
It only took one look at the
structure, the hoofprints, and
the crowns to see what had happened.
Bryn had found what she was looking for.
And it had killed her.
The incident was never reported to the
police; the closest station was three towns
over. The story was never published in the
newspaper; no one wanted to exploit the
town pet like that. Instead, word was
spread through town by the gossipy
mouths of teenagers, single mothers, and
old men in bars until everyone knew the
story of Kilners star-crossed lovers.
The tale was told differently depending
on who you asked, but one detail was al-
ways the same: They found her lying in
the snow.
by Erica Coslop,
Millville, NJ
James Daly
found her
shivering in the
wilderness
Gossip
spread like
wildfire
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Photo by Kelsey Schoeppler, Merrill, WI
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I
ts snowing, but I can see the sun. Its sunny, but
Im freezing.
I have to get home before the sun goes down. It
doesnt look like it will. Its still glowing in the mid-
dle of the sky. I think its being quite useless today
I feel no heat at all.
I trudge on, backpack clinging heavily to my
shoulders, hands stuffed in my pockets. My feet
barely come off the sidewalk as I walk; Im leaving
long trails behind in the snow so someone will be
able to find me, just in case something happens.
Just in case.
Something glistens at the edge of my vision, and I
stop immediately.
Shiny.
I look over to the snow-coated field. It looks like
something delicious, really like a fluffy blanket of
cotton candy or maybe whipped cream.
I cant see anything, so I move to the side a little.
Shiny.
It blinds me. I cringe and put a hand over my
eyes.
A moment later, Im wading through
the snow toward the shiny. My jeans
provide protection from the snow for
only a second. Soon, my thighs and
calves are numb, my jeans soaked.
I slow down as I move closer to the
shiny. I have to be sure I dont acciden-
tally plow right on through it. My shadow falls over
it, and I see that its a silver key.
A key and only that.
It lies lightly on the snow like someone had laid it
there as gently as possible. But there are no marks
around it not a single disturbance in the snow,
aside from my own foot trails.
I look up at the sky. Its cloudless and deep blue.
Not a bird in sight, not even a crow. I squint to see
the bare treetops of the woods nearby. The birds are
as scarce as the leaves.
I look back to the key.
Even if it had dropped from the sky, it would have
sunk into the snow.
Suddenly the hairs on the back of my neck began
to prickle, and despite the cold, I start to sweat.
There has to be something underneath that key to
keep it resting just above the snow. Bizarre theories
flash behind my eyes. A particular image stays.
Theres a dead man lying under the snow. The key
is attached to a string around his neck. His skin is
white and blue. His eyes are closed, but if I reach
down and take his key (Where or what does it go to?
A safe? His house?), they will snap open and he will
grab me.
I stagger back at the thought and in my haste, I
trip, landing in the snow. It gets in my
coat and freezes my rear, but I hop up im-
mediately and stumble back toward the
sidewalk. Im halfway there when I hear
a loud crunch of snow behind me. The
sound does not belong to my movements.
(What could it be?)
I start to look back in terror, but then I lose con-
centration and the field disappears.
I blink and find myself back where I started,
standing on the sidewalk next to a smooth, empty
white field of snow. My socks are starting to get wet
from the snow leaking into my boots, but otherwise,
Im completely dry.
I sigh and look up to the sky. The sun beats down
without warmth as it starts to set. Flakes of snow
spiral to the ground. I have to be home soon, so I
start shuffling forward again. I barely lift my feet off
the ground as I go. I want to leave a trail behind so
someone will be able to find me, just in case .
Just in Case by Andria Wu, Okemos, MI
A
smell reached my nostrils, causing
my body to go rigid and my mind
to buzz. I sniffed. The luscious
scent muddled my mind until no rational
thought remained. My mouth curved into
a vicious smile. I felt like a child in a
candy shop. The smells came from all
directions, invading all comprehensible
thoughts until they blended into a single
feeling: hunger.
My eyes shot open. For a moment the
colors blurred, taking no shape, like a col-
lage made by unfocused
cameras. Then suddenly, the
image lifted. The delights be-
came apparent. I was stand-
ing in a large white room;
hay covered the floor. At the
far end was a large tinted
window. A plump white bull
was standing directly in front
of me. It had its eyes trained on me, but
all I noticed was the scent of fresh meat,
then blood. My throat burned with hunger
and thirst, and my stomach churned in
anticipation.
A phrase came to mind. My father had
used it. Vicious hunger. He hadnt known
much about it, but he had known that it al-
most always worked to break the victim.
Already, I felt the hairs tightening on my
back. I was changing, but nothing mat-
tered except the sight of that cow. The fur
was thickening on my back. My canines
extended. I cracked my neck. Somewhere
inside of me, my real self panicked, fight-
ing against the living drug in front of me.
But I resisted, believing that the burn in
my throat wasnt deceiving me. When I
wanted meat, I wanted meat. And when I
wanted meat, nothing got in my way.
Until now.
My first reaction was to spring, and I
did. Then I was snapped back to the floor.
The chains on my ankles cut into my
flesh. I let out a snarl, rebelled
against the metal links that
held me to the floor. I realized
now why it was a form of tor-
ture.
Yet I continued struggling
against the chains. Something
told me that if I didnt get to
that meat, I would die.
The cow just stared. It killed me know-
ing that it could just step one yard for-
ward and it would be in my grasp. The
thought drove me crazy, and finally, I felt
myself go over the edge.
I snapped.
I let out a vicious scream, tearing and
clawing at the air. Adrenaline ran through
my veins, and I found that I couldnt feel
the cuts on my ankles or the blood run-
ning down my legs. My heart pumped
blood like a disco drumbeat. My brain
was letting my muscles do all the work. I
leaped, reaching for the temptation invad-
ing my nostrils, and heard a chain snap.
Just like that, I had broken free. I al-
most celebrated.
But I didnt.
In one quick movement, I lunged, leav-
ing the impossibly broken, bloody chains
on the ground behind me. I landed on my
dinner, which crashed to the ground.
Before it could defend itself, I cut off its
airflow, wrapping my arms around its
thick neck, then waited until it stopped
struggling.
Then I sunk my canines into the cows
flesh.
All that was left when I finished was a
hoof.
Something
glistens
Vicious Hunger by Mary Kate Flugum, Bodega Bay, CA
A white bull
was standing
in front of me
Art by Maria Sweeney, Whiting, NJ
Art by Emily Linville, Columbus, OH
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here was something extraordi-
nary seated on the table. Some-
thing surreal. Narrow, rounded,
and carefully assembled. Layers of
cream cheese filling, each resting be-
tween freckled, toffee-colored mat-
tresses with quartered strawberries
scattered generously like galaxies. Its
tantalizing, almost tangible aroma
wound dreamily
through the classroom,
never lingering, never
indulging.
Cake.
Specifically, roll
cake. Was it due to my
Asian upbringing that
Id never encountered
one, or was it a divine
gift gracing humanity only for the
first time? I wasnt sure, but it was
one of the two.
Its wonders found me easily, lost
somewhere in the middle of the
hastily formed line zigzagged around
the other tables. In the eyes of my
fourth-grade peers, this was no mere
confection. In its immaculate con-
struction towel-pressing and rolling
and unrolling and spreading and chill-
ing it was an idol to our poked and
prodded minds, infected by the hun-
dreds of vocabulary words, arithmetic
functions, and the apparent impor-
tance of penguins.
After half a morning of torture, the
teachers had thrown open the gates
and set us free for half an hour. It was
the usual routine the war between
genders with freeze tag to decide the
victor (of course, it always ended in a
tie, because neither side would sur-
render). A coin would be tossed to de-
cide which team would get the
playground and which would get the
outdoor fitness station, and the battle
was always a bloody affair.
At 10:30, theyd called us back,
and wed obeyed, filtering into the
room as a multicolored wave of
recess-blown hair. There, we found
the cake waiting for us. Im sure at
that moment every one of us was
weighing the triumph of snatching it
and running off versus how much
trouble wed get in. I suppose child-
hood morality won out.
So instead, we sheathed our teeth,
retracted our claws, and growled im-
patiently. Oh, they tried
to restrain us in a neat
line. They thought
theyd succeeded too.
But no, we just let them
succeed in order to
speed up the process. No
longer were we the
sweet nine-year-olds of
our educators imagina-
tions. We were hungry. So let us feast.
We sang a quick, off-tune chorus of
Happy Birthday. But the turning of
an age, no matter whose it was, didnt
mean much next to the promise of
gustatory satisfaction. Each step I
took brought me closer to fulfillment.
If only that line would move faster. If
only.
An eternity stretched out before
me, but I waited. I waited because I
knew reward was coming, and I was
not going to risk losing it. And it
worked, because soon I found myself
right before it, staring into its infinite
spirals.
But that was as far as I got.
Wait, my teacher said from above
me, the plastic knife pausing over the
half-devoured cake. Let me find out
if there are nuts in this. She walked
away, and the line behind me
groaned.
Why does she have to do this
every time? Behind me stood a boy
named Jack, admired by the boys in
my class for being some
sort of flag football star
and despised by all the
girls for being less than
charming. Naturally, I
didnt feel the need to ex-
plain things to him, so I turned back
around.
The teacher returned a minute later,
having spoken to the mother who had
brought in the cake, and shook her
head in mock sympathy.
Im sorry, but Mrs. Adams said it
was manufactured on the same
equipment that processes products
containing peanuts and tree nuts. Do
you know what that means?
Yes. Yes, I knew what that meant. It
meant no cake for me. I nodded
curtly.
We cant take any chances, she
said, and I think her tone was sup-
posed to be compassionate, but she
sounded a lot like the villain from
The Lion King. So I waited politely
for the next part of the ritual the
consolation prize.
I might have some Oreos stashed
in the closet. Would you like that in-
stead? I simply shrugged, since it
didnt really matter, but she looked
kind of troubled. Probably couldnt
understand why a fourth grader
wouldnt abandon all dignity for a
package of Oreos. I didnt blame her,
at least, not for that. Shed never been
allergic to a good third of her Hal-
loween candy, so clearly she had
nothing to be cynical about.
Wait here. She walked away for
the second time, and Jack looked like
he wanted to punch me. He probably
would have too, if hed actually had
the opportunity. This was a public ele-
mentary school, and that, in front of
me, was cake. So I scooted forward.
I heard the thump of the storage
closet closing at the other end of the
room, cutting through the bubbling
chatter, and her footsteps, muffled for
a few moments as they landed on the
carpet, then a crisp
clicking against
linoleum. When she
reached the table, she
knelt slightly so she
was face to face with
me. She wore that
generic speaking to a
child expression. I would have liked
to think there was something more,
but there really wasnt.
I accepted the pack of mini Oreos,
and as I shuffled out of the line I felt
Jacks shoulder bump against mine in
his enthusiasm to take my spot.
There was a yellow hexagonal table
with a few empty seats, so I pulled
back a chair. With all the noise, I
could barely hear the squeak of the
legs being dragged across the floor.
There were already three girls sit-
ting there, and they briefly
glanced up. There was a
glimpse of recognition be-
fore they went back to talk-
ing. I settled into my seat
and ripped open the plastic
wrapper.
One of the girls looked up.
Hey, why arent you eating the
cake? she asked.
Im allergic, I replied, fishing an
Oreo from the
package.
Oh. Okay.
She forked a
piece of her slice
and took a bite.
Isnt this so
good? her friend
asked excitedly.
I know, right!
Claires mom
brought it in of
course its good!
I wonder if at
that point, any of
the teachers were
watching us. If they were, they proba-
bly would have smiled and thought,
Wow, they get along so well. Were
doing this right. It would have ap-
peared that way. Four girls sitting at
the same table, exchanging a few
words, and at least half of us smiling.
The only thing wrong with the picture
was that one of them was holding an
Oreo in her hand, while the others had
slices of cake. But thats trivial.
Isnt it.
I never hated anyone, and I never
pitied myself. Its probably stupid to
think your life sucks because youre
allergic to nuts and cant eat the
things others can, right? But I think at
one point I started believing it was
Me vs. Everyone Else without
knowing it, and no matter how many
times I sat with the others, something
about the scene wouldnt be quite
right. I could see them, hear them, but
I could never quite be them.
Time passed.
Early on, I found out it
was too much of a pain
to try to change things,
so I settled on this: I will
isolate myself willingly
so the other kids wont
have to do it themselves
and possibly get in trouble for it. My
motives are far too complex for them
to comprehend, and perhaps they will
never know what sacrifices I make for
them, but thats okay, because every-
one will be happy.
Pretty good, right?
I grew to like Oreos.
Even on the days when no one
brought in cake, I took a pack of
Oreos to lunch. I would sit on my
own, separate one of the black shells
from the white filling, and examine
the intricate design on the surface.
Sometimes Id wonder, If the tiny pat-
terns around the logo ever changed,
would anyone notice but me?
Then Id let the coarse prints roll
on my tongue before biting down,
and each time Id feel the certain
finality, I guess, about it. Then wait,
and close my eyes, and feel it disinte-
grate in my cheek like sweetened
black ash.
The Trouble with Cake by Elizabeth Merrigan, Morristown, NJ
I grew to
like Oreos
Its tantalizing
aroma wound
through the
classroom
Photo by Juliet Millard, Pittsburgh, PA
Photo by Keldon Edwards, Raleigh, NC
Let me find
out if there are
nuts in this
birthday noodles
Toss the egg in, stir stir stir, crackle
It will pop, yes, it will sizzle.
If we have a birthday tradition, its
these noodles, plain and simple, just
eggs and wheat and a bit of soy sauce
but cheers to you, we have no wine
but fifteen noodles, all in line, all long.
Theres more than fifteen, actually.
Dont make me count them because
noodles always break with bites, and that
will be even worse than counting your
hair single-strandedly, one at a time.
I can count the eggs, though. Toss the egg in
one at a time, one drops, and then theres
two. And if Im feeling important today
I can count your fingers and count your toes.
If Im feeling smart, I can count the days
youve been alive, and I can (five-four-
seven-nine) even round to the nearest second.
If Im feeling dumb, Ill count the socks in
our closet without a fellow pair, and if today,
I just so happen to feel happy, I can count the
days weve been apart and remember
how when
you first came from the hospital, you were so
small I thought you were a doll.
by Christina Qiu, Livingston, NJ
The Lawn Mower
A terrible smell,
Known to pit crews and mechanics around
the world,
Fills our humble garage.
Tears of gasoline spit in an angry rage,
And a volcano of smoke erupts.
Kill it, my father motions with a wave.
A deafening silence hangs in the air
As we stare down our unbeatable foe,
Coughing and sputtering back at us.
Despite our best attempts,
Hes a cantankerous old man
Who wont cut our grass.
by Mike Kern, Rexford, NY
Reading at the Lake
I went to read a book by the lake at 2:18
this afternoon,
because Id lied about needing to be
somewhere at 2:30,
and I needed a place to go. So I went.
I bent the front cover back, so no passersby
could see
the uncircumcised man on the front,
because it was Yehuda Amichai, who knows
lapsed Jewry
better than anyone but me and
all the other children of the Diaspora.
I was clumsy with the cover, because the
wind was cold,
and my fingers were cold,
and the deserts from the pages did their
jobs too well.
The other walkers would sometimes glance
at me
lying on my front on the bench, my left leg
crooked so
the spots where the cartilage is strange
dont throb and whine.
I looked back at them, sometimes,
from behind my backlit fringe, because I
wanted to see
what they thought of a young girl reading
a book
with a bent-back cover and her feet in the air,
and not have them see me.
Everythings a performance.
I wont remember the people I looked at
tomorrow,
when my fingers have thawed out,
and I wonder if I should have attended
services yesterday,
and the patch of mud behind my knee has
rubbed off,
but maybe one of the people who looked
at me will remember
a young girl, hiding the front of her book
with her hand,
looking at them through a veil of hair.
And hey, I have this poem.
by Beatrice Waterhouse,
Santa Rosa, CA
The Builders
A sandbox kingdom lay beneath an oak.
Buds bloomed from the barren ground
As they built towers and castles,
Wielding plastic shovels like wands.
They spent the summers the same way
They spent dirty quarters from their pockets,
Delighting in the pleasure of growing like
the grass
And running blindly into the wind.
The sun grew dimmer.
Pressing the fiery leaves to the trees,
They tried to keep them from falling.
But they burned their hands, so they let go.
The leaves fell and the oak followed.
Quiet snow painted the spires
Of the castles they once built
In the midst of their sandbox kingdom.
by Claire Davis,
Omaha, NE
steeplechase rd.
it was the fall of dead crickets.
we swept them out of the garage with
the brooms that came in our halloween
costumes
and sat on the curb to hear the crackle
of tired rubber grinding new asphalt.
sometimes we walked to the gas station,
bought orange soda to drink through
sour-patch straws
and with the change, we laid
rusted pennies to sleep on the train track
and carried thin copper luck things on thread.
we dug up summers last dandelions
and raised them in Mamas glass bowls
until she made us replace the holes
in the yard.
well that was okay, we just ran to the creek
and folded our once-upon-a-times
into paper boats.
witches trickled tears shed from
Gods cruel lashes
onto children who climbed electrical towers
to hold the nervous currents at their toes
and we raised our faces like november
turkeys to taste
october rain.
by Alison Liu, Edmond, OK
Seasons
I remember the days when the water
was warm,
Our skin tanned from afternoons in the sun.
The wildflowers bloomed bright and proud,
Proud like I was of you,
You
You and I were like the summer.
We shone bright like the sun at midday
And bloomed like the wildflowers,
Wild and free,
Floating among others like a million stars
in the night sky.
As summer always does,
It ended.
The seasons rapidly turned and autumn
was upon us.
The sun began to peek out timidly
For only hours at a time.
The wildflowers soon wilted,
The colors, once dazzling, had diminished,
And so did our love.
The leaves turned slowly, crimson-hued,
Finally swirling and swishing toward
the ground
In a plummeting downward spiral.
They say autumn is beautiful, but I dont
think so.
Not one bit.
by Madison Underwood,
Baton Rouge, LA
Swallowed
You swallowed my soul
Like the last piece of pizza
On my 10th birthday,
Throwing it up
With the Miller Lite and tequila
On my 21st.
by Meagan DeGrand, Clarkston, MI
Morningside
Heights
When day breaks,
come with me into oblivion.
We will abandon the Ray-Ban rebels
and their dogmas that shuffle
along with their iPods.
We will drive past
the secret midnight diner that
always awakens you
while I drift asleep
We can let the broken white lines
mirror the stitches
on our healing bodies.
And we can let the endless landscape
match the vastness of our
expanding minds and hearts.
The hum of our systems
as they gradually boot up after
years of dull hibernation
will eliminate the need for a radio.
Which is perfect,
because I know you dont have one.
Dawn departure. Dont be belated.
I realize we wont show up.
But here, under this black diamond blanket,
we seem possible. We seem unbounded.
by Kyra Baldwin, Greenwich, CT
Vnuchka
Blue hair, flesh blue, skin blue
No muscle, no meat
Damaged brain and damaged children
A walking skeleton
This my grandmother tells me
At six-thirty, still in the dark
Her wails pool in black puddles
Pooling under her eyes
One skeleton lives in the closet
Coming at night to whisper in ears
A gentle whisper of matted wire
One skeleton sits at the kitchen table
Partakes of talk but not of food
Black puddles form in its eyes
Black puddles drip from its mouth
Pooling on the table
Where everyone sits
One skeleton walks with me
It leans on my shoulder
And grasps my hand,
A cold hiss comes from a void
On the face where black puddles pool,
Clutching my hand,
Footsteps falling heavily on concrete
Whispering, what will you do?
by Lena Zlock, Newtown, PA
Sacred Ritual
with the tip of an ink pen,
i perform this sacred ritual:
i tear open my chest
i rip apart my skin
i dig through my flesh
i drill into my bone;
and like an Aztec priest,
i grasp words from my heart
and offer them to the gods.
by Timon Luo, Brooklyn, NY
Photo by Samantha Estes, Ekron, KY
poetry
POETRY OCTOB E R 1 3 Teen Ink
37
If I were your
grandmother
If I were your grandmother,
Id tell you not to do that,
Id shake my wooden spoon at you,
and my head at the ruin of your generation,
but Id still give you the first two cookies,
even though theyre still too hot
and the chocolate runs.
Id be a no-nonsense grandma;
theres too much nonsense in your life.
I wouldnt let you mess around with me,
no maam.
Not with that attitude,
no maam.
Id reach out with my righteous spoon of justice
and smack your pride right in the kisser,
I would.
Pow!
I would hold you in my grandma arms,
taking you in my aged embrace
and Id set you upright with a cup
of chamomile,
for your stomach,
so you dont get ulcers,
and to help you to sleep,
and for your complexion.
And your stuffy nose.
Id listen to you over dishwater,
over pancakes,
over coffee and cream,
blankets and books,
over vomit and tears,
taking the force of your words
in nods and blinks and moments.
You wouldnt have to ask me not to judge you,
no, I wouldnt be that kind of grandma.
Id teach you the sort of things you need
to know,
the sort of things grandmas need to teach
their granddaughters,
like mischief-making and difficult honesty,
like how to skin a rabbit
and how to hold your drink.
Id be your shoe I wouldnt tell you where
to go but where you are.
Id be your pencil Id rub off on all the
beautiful wisdom you write.
Id be your anecdote, your cross-stitch
pillow, your headstone picnic spot.
Id be all sorts of things for you.
by Ziggy Unzicker, Juneau, AK
asking the Moon
i cradled Moons
face
in my wood-carved gnarled fingers,
and asked Her
to please stay
to spill light on every flower
to unveil a travelers path
to guide sallow stars, weary from
Nothing and Everything
at least until
Sun dragged her down
to languish in opaque
crevices, in
Shadows.
by Jaanvi Sant, Pasadena, CA
Repositioning My
Eyes to Face Inward
I wear my heart on the brim of my cap.
I consider Pluto a planet.
I age backwards.
My name is mud;
dont wear it out.
This is quite serious.
I can hear your thoughts.
I didnt do it, officer, I swear.
I am the reincarnation of Allen Ginsberg;
Everybodys serious but me.
My pants are on fire.
I like Burroughs, but I cant say much
for him.
Bears dont scare me;
Im no different.
Maybe someday Ill be a firefighter.
This place is going to the dogs.
Its a free country.
I still believe in Santa Claus.
Im scared my dog doesnt love me.
This is not a self-portrait.
Im talking to myself.
by Jackson Rowthorn,
West Hartford, CT
I Am a Woman,
And I Speak
Tongue curled to the inside of my upper lip,
pushing my
Glottis, larynx, jaw, intone
My gums are sodden with opinion:
My teeth have something to say
Superior, inferior lips part when
Lateral incisors stretch saliva webs
Rough, damp tongue, cow tongue, lifts
Bears witness to my lingual frenulum.
Oropharynx shivering at phonetic violence
My soft palate trembles, strong teeth, big,
pink mouth
Oropharynx contracting, lifting the
mandible, ribbed trachea awakens and air
It forms the words that I speak, thus
I do.
by Gina Vargas,
Red Hook, NY
It was an accident
I love you
The words free themselves from my tongue
Bursting out with wild abandon, they are
air-deprived.
Unwanted cursed things.
The silence thickens with a tangible sadness.
Because we both know
they were chained for a reason.
by Rachel Horton, Olathe, KS
Grandpa Bill
I was only seven.
I was never told
what cancer really did or
what cancer really was.
I thought it made
your head shiny
and your legs weak.
I never understood
why you handed me a piano.
Why you stopped playing guitar.
Why you carried your life
in an oxygen tank.
I struggled every day
trying to discover the mystery
behind my mothers tears,
and why my brother cried
in her arms.
I missed school to go to counseling
for a reason I did not yet understand.
I dressed in black fabric
that gave me shivers.
I tripped over my hideous heels
as I walked across the church
to the last bed you would ever lie in.
My last good-bye,
full of clarity and
final understanding of death,
fell to your casket
as a tear.
Ten years have passed since
I watched six feet of earth consume you.
Every now and then
I find myself walking into
the cemetery where your bones lie.
My feet turn to anchors at your grave
and my head swims in a sea of lost
memories.
Im only seventeen.
Despite my efforts,
I cant bring your heart to beat again,
but I can build a pulse in that piano,
and I can play guitar to your ghost.
Although I dont carry my life
in an oxygen tank,
I still carry a version of you
in my soul.
by Brandee Butkiewicz, Oshkosh,WI
Bumped Bones
there are words in my bones
that scrape my marrow
they trip over my tongue
with the taste of a dime
they are the air that whistles my teeth
and I do feel them open and close
between my joints.
by Amanda Panella, Midlothian, VA
Beggars
last Tuesday
someone
unbuttoned the sky
and the bodies hurtled downward,
pouring noiselessly
onto the parks and
the roofs.
we wept for joy
and searched for
lost grandmothers,
lovers torn away,
attempting to stopper
cracks in our stomachs
that never quite healed.
they dodged
our reaching fingers,
hissing
and scrambling up the
tallest oaks,
spines arched
and arms stretched
to the blue tatters,
pleading to be swallowed
once more.
this has all been
a terrible mistake.
by Rachel Lewyn, Atlanta, GA
M.R.I.
doctor, please ignore
the knot of concentrated wanting
in my brain.
by Beatrix Scott Swanson,
Frankfurt, Germany
Legacy
My aunt calls my grandpa
Atticus Finch.
The greatest respect
she could hope to pay him.
Just like the rapist
who painted a fence.
The defenseless, defended
for a fresh coat of paint
Built his
Legacy.
My mom calls my grandma
if time permits.
Grandma told Mom
She didnt need college.
Mom left home without
Grandma or her money.
A lost daughter who slowly
crept back to her arms
Built her
Legacy.
My family calls upon me
to build my own future.
But I cannot build it.
I have no tools,
no hammer and nails.
I gave them to everyone
living around me.
So that they could
Build my
Legacy.
by Christopher Taylor, Springville, UT
Teen Ink OCTOB E R 1 3 POETRY
38
Photo by Summer T., Roxbury, NJ
Sky Blue
When I was young,
I touched the sky.
I swirled my little fingerprints
through the blue that
could not be matched by any
hardware store
paint chips.
When I was done
I grabbed a handful.
I put it in a plastic bowl
and ate it with a spoon.
The sweet warm color
filling my stomach
until I was nothing but
a blue silhouette
with cloud-stained cheeks.
After awhile,
The sky whispered in my ear,
asking me to come visit him,
because it was lonely.
Up in the atmosphere
So I got in my fathers pick-up truck
And asked the sun to take me there.
As long as she got me home by dinnertime.
I sat in the front seat,
my feet not even touching the pedals.
But the sun didnt mind.
She said she would
Rather sit in the passenger seat anyway.
When we pulled
Into the skys driveway,
the sun kissed me good-bye.
My cheek glowed
Where the suns lipstick touched me.
I watched as the sun drove away,
then I ran to the skys front door.
Knocking politely
like a young lady should.
The sky welcomed me in.
His living room
was adorned with
white fluffy chairs
made of clouds.
He gave me freshly baked cookies.
That tasted like blue.
I stayed for hours
listening to the sky tell stories
of flying horses and purple lightning.
None of which I think were true,
but I listened anyway.
But then it was time to go.
The sun walked in the room,
and told me it was almost dinnertime.
So I kissed the sky good-bye.
And told him that Id see him soon
but for now I was hungry,
and we were having
spaghetti for dinner
by Lydia Moore, McCalla, AL
Growing Up
I dont want us to
grow like trees: up and out. Lets
grow like ivy: in.
by Rebecca Charytan,
West Hempstead, NY
faucet
black hair comes under
the running tap of dusty blue
light
a reflection bobbing
in and out
on and off of
the canvas of our biggest fears
a firm shake
to unfetter us
from the moist palms
of a bad dream
by Noah Grossman,
Watertown, MA
Maps You Drew
The freckles on my body are just
maps you drew so i could find my
way home to your home where
upstairs wardrobes float amongst
the dead sea because I cried too
many salty tears onto your hardwood
ocean floor.
And you built me a raft made of
second-century artwork so we
could paddle to your basement and
I could make you laugh so you
would forget that all Im good
for is water and you cant even
drink it.
I can see paradise but its nowhere
near the dashboard its somewhere in your
future with some person who can actually
kiss you and hold you when you gasp at
the 3 a.m. ghosts and will tell you
youre magic.
And maybe this time youll believe it
because you and someone set alarms
to ring at exactly 4 a.m. so the timing
would be
absolutely perfect.
by Kyra Baldwin,
Greenwich, CT
Sunblock
She rubbed her insecurities
into her skin
like sunblock,
thinking that at least this way
she wouldnt,
she couldnt be burned
anymore.
They told her she would sink
but she decided
to swim
and the water lapped
over pores
that leaked salt and
mistakes.
She pushed through,
ignoring the waves
that slowly
inevitably
cleansed her skin.
by Samantha Gertz,
Pontiac, MI
Were Not Swans
Im tired of girls like me being told that
we should have swan feathers when were
not even birds at all and since when was
it okay for you to hold my hands over the
fire? You know that theyre sensitive just
like the rest of me, the rest of me that I
learned to hide after she died but she
never died. Shes here, shes fire, shes
wild horses and tissue paper and house fires;
she is relentless. Relentless like the tides
of the ocean, the tides that sometimes even
pull the bloody-murder Sirens down into
the purples and blues and all of the hues that
remind me of bruises. Its nothing personal,
she told me as she turned to ash and Im
sorry, she said as she sat on my shelf for
what I only recently realized was years.
Not reclaimable days, only nightmares,
only nightmares now. Close your eyes and
sleep until you see her again; you will.
by Kate Wood, Senoia, GA
They Say You
Are Gone
they say you are gone (where did you
go, and will you be back) i think
they are looking for you (like hide and
seek)
a crash (two deaths) a hospital (one life)
blood (i am too young to be afraid)
i dont know how to miss you (but
i do)
one brother gone (josh) one brother spared
(jon) one friend i didnt know, and i
am too young to know permanency (death)
and you are hiding (but i am not ready
to seek)
and jon is mom (is my other brother
lucas) is too young to watch a casket
lowered
lowered
lowered
and you are in it (but you are just hiding
until i am old enough to understand) forever
by Hayley Smith,
Yorktown, VA
a list of things
to put off
i want to write about bra-lines through
white tops;
injured girls who share their crutches with
their friends;
crutches who are friends;
friends who are crutches;
boys who are scared of being alone;
little kids who think that when you close
your eyes, you die;
how cool it would be to close your eyes & die;
worms whose guts line the pavement in
april showers;
large catholic families like mother duck
& ducklings;
how scared i am of childbirth;
nail polish;
sex;
parthenogenesis;
how female komodo dragons can have
babies without a male;
but those babies are only male (something
to do with genetics);
how the female komodo dragons then
reproduce with their sons
until they fill a whole island;
(i wish that within me i had the power to
fill a whole island);
how komodo dragons are like scaly
versions of the virgin mary;
(except i dont wish that i was the
virgin mary);
nail polish remover;
words that are more sigh than sense.
by Anna Leader,
Heisdorf, Luxembourg
Insecure
Good morning, warpaint,
Mask of lipstick and blusher.
Am I pretty yet?
by Chloe Heyde, Devon, England
Jeopardy
I can feel the synapses between my nerves
when you stand so close that I could touch you,
trace from chiseled cheekbone to jawline
(fingertips ever so tenderly skimming
your skin),
and it takes every ounce of discipline in
my veins
not to close the gap between us.
You have all the allure of New York,
Dublin, Jerusalem
of places Ive never been yet somehow know
will one day be important
wanderlust magnets that never cease to lose
their pull.
Every circle is a sermon that I seem to
overlook:
a ring on the lifeline, a halo of light,
a recurring curb, a wheel reminder that
misplaced
opportunity is just another lesson I wont
learn from.
by Adriane Tharp, Adamsville, AL
39
Photo by Ellena Pfeffer, North Oaks, MN
houdinis girl
shes got demons that hide in her shadow
when the suns not out
theyre always there
watching
waiting
breathing
there are a million smoky lies in
her glassy eyes
the light hits her eyes in a new way
and you realize that shes
nothing but an illusion
smoke and mirrors
shes a trick of the light
no
a trick on light
those demons are smart
and they know how to play dirty
theyll trick you
mislead you
make you believe that theyre something
other than what they really are
light does that too, you know
tricks you
makes you feel safe
lies to you
because not everything thats pretty
is right
by Mariah Levin, Santa Ana, CA
What If
Atlas Dropped
the World?
What if he let it
fall to the floor
and roll helplessly about
like a marble dropped from
the hand of a child?
Would the gods punish him
further?
What more could
they condemn him to?
And what would happen
to the rest of us?
Would the fall
cause the oceans
to rise up
and drown us all?
Or would the impact
cause a thousand
earthquakes,
destroying even the
strongest building?
Or maybe
wed feel nothing
but a tremor,
a light shaking
as he carefully
sets us down,
wanting nothing more
than to take a break
from his eternal task
before lifting the
weight of our existence
onto his shoulders
once again.
by Sara Kreller,
Baltimore, MD
Tazua
The child fused the creature together,
Sewing feathers onto its rapidly decaying
skin
In agony, it screamed
But the child continued
The being was transformed
Its footsteps became animated
The child had given it many different
characteristics
until it became all the earth claimed to be.
It absorbed the slugs from the ground and
ate the birds of the sky
The five eyes on its face all stared in the
same direction
You could never startle it.
It was always aware.
by Kevin Pyle,
Felton, CA
Realization
I took what I saw in you
and built gilded archways
and skyscrapers until you were
a huge, lit-up building
that held everything Id ever
dared to imagine
and for a while its been easy
easier than standing alone
to look in your windows
or open the door
and see your raw truths
laid out everywhere
with secrets under the beds
and dreams on the love seat
sometime during all this
looking and searching
the days slipped into months
into years that I spent
walking from room to room
and I forgot that
you are not this building
and the windows I built
have and will never let me
look straight into your soul
you are not brick and fiberglass
you are warm flesh and
blood rushing through green veins
and infinite thoughts
and its time this building
came crashing down
into dirt and smithereens
but I dont have a bulldozer
and I dont have the heart
to pick apart the bricks
one by one
by Rae Hsu, Sugar Land, TX
Shes Making
Constellations
Mary Jane, she writes her songs
That wont be sung
And tries to fathom the stars
That are hung
From her ceiling into constellations.
She wont sleep tonight,
But thats nothing new.
Once her pulse beat too bright
Her insanity grew.
I need to get out
Of my own head,
Months before
She had once said.
It was sort of a beautiful day,
Long-fingered summertime.
But her soul had already turned gray
And she made them believe she was just fine.
And why shouldnt she grin
Like the rest of them did?
It was the last solid thing
So behind it she hid.
by Annika Bratton, Banks, OR
Im mad at you
Im mad at you
For ignoring me
When I need you most
For not noticing
That Im drowning in
Melancholy
Nostalgia
& Self-loathing
For believing me when I say
Im okay
Im mad at you
And hurt
But its not your fault really
You are too worldly
And shallow
And I am much too deep
And sentimental
I fret over everything
And cry over spilled milk
I told you once that Im not so good at
being happy
But you seem to have forgotten that
Im mad at you
Because you are in love
And I am out
And I am sorry for that
by Lena Wilson, Auburn, WA
Sundays
I am a recluse
Impulsive
And quiet and calm
And peaceful
Piling blankets upon pillows
Upon bookcases and desks
Forming sanctuaries, writing words
In cacophonic silence that
Echoes
And trips my shoelaces
And crunches leaves
And opens windows
Breezes bring goosebumps to my shoulder
And iced tea sends shivers through my insides
by Alex Durham, Vineland, NJ
Teacher
The top of his bald head
Was perpetually shiny.
Tiny beads of sweat
Constantly formed
On his upper lip.
Always the same
Old, smelly handkerchief
Tucked away
In his breast pocket
Put to use many times a class
Never failing to soak up the dabs of
moisture
On his bland face
That you would never pick out of a crowd.
I could count on
His khakis
Were just a bit too short
Day after day.
His button-downs
Were always faded shades of pastels
Drab and unimaginative.
I remember finding it impossible
To differentiate
Between his words.
One just rolled onto the next
Blending together
Sinking in as one monotonous blob.
He used to call me e.e. cummings
As a joke
Because I wrote in all lowercase.
I never thought it was funny.
by Sasha Bronfman, New York, NY
Arrows or
Oversized Organs
If I could show you
The sweet little cherub
Who loosed an arrow
Into my heart
And gave it to you,
I dont think I would
Because he wasnt
Responsible.
If I could show you
The oversized heart
That grew and softened
In the wake of your
Disposition,
I wouldnt, couldnt
It doesnt exist.
But if I could show you
The dark river
That flows through my mind,
Now dotted with
Wildflowers on its banks
For you,
I would.
You have not changed me,
Softened me.
I may never float
On clouds when you are near.
I am far more pragmatic.
Maybe that is not enough.
But the specks
Of beauty
Blossoming in my head
Are far more precious
Than arrows or
Oversized organs.
by Savannah Fleming, Oviedo, FL
40
Photo by Megan Sims, Dallas, TX
Changing Seasons
At night children sail away
To places yet to be discovered,
To places forgotten
By the world.
In the daylight we run,
We play, and we dance to the music.
We pretend we dont remember
The creation of those worlds.
We fill our hearts
And prepare for the time
That well give them away,
Knowing that we will never be the same.
Still we run
And still we play,
Pretending not to see that day approach,
As if ignorance will stop it from coming.
At night we still sail
To places yet to be discovered,
And in our sleep we remember
Places forgotten by the rest of the world.
In the morning
We replace our masks.
We run and play
And dance to a new kind of music.
We hide our hearts
In the deepest places,
And wait for them to heal,
Stronger than ever before.
Still we run
And still we play,
As we let the masks melt
In the light of the day
Until one night,
When we forget that theyre there,
As we dream of faraway places
Forgotten by the world.
And in the morning
Our masks become our faces.
We head out
And forget what its like to run and play
And dance to a new kind of music.
Until night, when we dream
Of places long forgotten by the world,
Of the places we wish to be,
Long forgotten by ourselves.
by Tessa Stacy, Lilburn, GA
murals
i
take
comfort
in
holding
you
close
enough
to
feel
your
eyelashes
paint
murals
across
my
skin
by Elizabeth Bell, Columbus, GA
Paranoia
Ive watched my door for a week now
Praying for your face in the frame
Or your voice and footfalls approaching
Any hint of a heartbeat
Morbid, I imagine
Seven days of deaths dark yield
I brave the mass grave, dreading
Your poor soul among the bodies
I pick through every car crash, the
splintered glass
Expecting your wrist amongst the wreckage
In my growing anxiety I investigate
Every pavement-bound body
And lead-filled lung.
When I try to conceive
Every rope within your reach
And alley eye watching you hungrily
All the knives and fires and viruses
That could have found you by now
Left in a field of poppies
Your blood gone blue
I go blue too
My dear friend could be dead
While I watch the door
Afraid to move
by Megan Sohr,
Oshkosh, WI
Rincon de la Vieja
A clover grove alone in the jungle.
A warm misty jungle with sulfur soil
On which no pauper, peasant, or prince has
yet to toil
The toucan lives there. An army of ants.
A bubbling boil erupts
Sloshing around over hot hot hot steam
Bursting forth like a geyser, stripping dirt
to its seams
A four-headed fellow lives in the grove,
The clover grove alone in the warm,
misty jungle
Picked up by a lad with infinite dreams.
In his sleep, with a girl, or a ladder,
or a swirl
Mixture of above and below.
Spirits huddled in the shadows there.
A steamy clover grove as people pass
through,
And the lad with infinity hopes passed
through too.
And the four-headed fellow wished him
good luck, too.
by Eric Margolis,
Radnor, PA
Butterflies
Hell turns to ice
When shes lying in bed
(With a halos glow wrapped round
her head).
If Id pick twice
At my logical threads
(Like the teddy bear she holds in the
medicine bed)
Id have a mind to think shed pass, tonight.
And I breathe at the pace
That the heart machine makes
(Just to feel that shes closer than face
to face)
Somehow, Im finding
A hope that swells
(That bounces like raindrops to a
wishing well)
And Id bet my coins
That
There could be butterflies
Drawn from the curves of the monitors
lines.
by Kylie Kelso, Mt. Washington, KY
Fire
The bonfire brings life,
Crackling, flickering, and
Burning in the night
by Chase Banton, Pittsburgh, PA
Aloe Vera The Lily
of the Desert
Your charming coat
Over the transparent pulp.
As I stroked your bonzer stem,
Your blemished spines were a menace.
But no harm done.
The morning fog blurred my vision
As I gazed at your soothing green coat.
No aroma, no flowery fragrance nor petals.
Just the greenish hue.
Is yours a sickly green?
Or am I dazed?
I felt the irresistible longing
To touch you once more,
To feel your cool flesh on my skin.
I bent down
And felt your cool green leaves.
Then I could tell I was wrong,
Though sans aroma,
You were never hideous.
My eyes were muddled
And I had been wrong.
You spread the calm over me,
Now and always.
You caress my arms
With your soothing texture.
You are the plant of immortality,
The pleasant aloe vera,
The heavenly lily of the desert.
by Kavya Vinod, Kannur, India
Its Your
Subconscious Talking
Its your subconscious talking
subliminally
eating you
something personal
something locked up
a deep secret
almost devastating
it would be so easy just to say it
then the whole world would know, but
would they laugh at you?
of course they would.
why wouldnt they?
Its hilarious
a real knee-slapper
one to remember
But it is your choice
so go ahead
Decide
by Isabelle Caldwell, State College, PA
silhouette
Remind me how we danced
Bare feet or tap shoes,
Midnight or three in the afternoon,
Drinking lemonade or sweet tea,
The smell of rain or fresh-baked cookies,
details we cant remember
Remind me how we laughed
Secretly or flamboyantly,
Shoulders hunched or heads thrown back,
Shaking silently or shouting happily,
Foreshadowing or reminiscing,
details that dont seem to matter
Remind me how we were in love
Calmly or passionately,
Cautiously or recklessly,
Saving it or spending it
Hiding it or showing it,
details that all seem the same
Its funny how details fade
Like a Polaroid in the sun
But we can still see the silhouette
we remember that day that we danced,
That day that we laughed,
And that day that we were
(calmly,
cautiously,
saving and
hiding)
in love.
by Danielle Colburn,
Byron Center, MI
Their Anthem
To have your name shouted as a chorus
among the people is a feeling that you will
never understand until its happening to you.
A simple chant becomes your anthem;
your eyes
open each morning remembering that
moment.
Their last bit of hope was placed in you and
to shatter that fragile trust would be an
unforgivable offense.
by Lauren Gerhard,
So. Windsor, CT
41
Photo by Ruth Lassiter, Palmyra, VA
Battleground
From any given distance
You can hear the old brag of my heart,
I am. I am. I am.
But if you come closer,
You can hear my heart screaming in retort
You were. You were. You were.
Its a battleground for restless titans
Grappling,
Clawing,
Struggling.
Armed in battle defending opposing
mottoes.
Im not good enough vs. What does
it matter?
An exciting brawl with the same availing
champion.
Negative thoughts are deadly weapons
Aching to prove their worth in battle,
Hung upon the shelf in the armory of
my head,
Sharpened every day by circumstance.
by Lexus Khan,
Danville, VA
Russet
A lump of clay has been plopped down
on the dusty
old pottery wheel. Its a smooth red-brown
twinkling with the secrets of a sly fox,
but still managing to be pure.
The wheel creaks as it starts to spin
inconsistently,
dragging the clay along through
the bumpy and the calm,
changing it
irreversibly.
by Truelian Lee,
Ridgefield, CT
Stars
Some people see giant flaming orbs
of passion
Of existence
Of meaning
Me?
I see the chalky crumbs of stale bread
swept from a gods dinner plate
Onto his plus-sized denim jeans
With annoyed hands, feather-light and
lightning-quick
Every shift of his leg sends them into a
frenzy of movement,
Shimmering in and out of sight,
But still the crumbs remain
Until the sun gobbles them up with its
vacuuming rays of light
Only for them to plummet from the same
plate the very next night
Rinse and repeat
But hey,
If youre cool with your divine orbs
of flame,
Then Ill keep my stale bread crumbs,
Thank you very much
by Erin Hoffman,
Indian Creek, IL
Year of the Dragon
The ginger on your plate smelled feebly of
the rain last summer when
your parents visited weekly with smiles on
their faces showing the kind of solidarity
even you dared to expect during this
roughest of times
but they couldnt convince you of your
right to worth and you
never wandered back to that light down
by the river
where all the magic happened before you
swallowed the bullet and slit your noose
and you fell out of love with life
in all honesty, everything died with your
first drops of blood kissing
linoleum, staining your heartstrings and
straining the surface of water left
in everyones chest after a meal with
that bitch guilt
and while the ginger between the delicate
rows of fish stunk of the bygone
songs, the lyrics like rotting carcasses
with just enough light left
in the eyes to make you believe for even
a minute
that there is any sweet melancholy left,
the wasabi
cleansed the air with the odor of iodine
and the tea smelled like a gunshot
by Miriam Himelstein, Mequon, WI
Blood Bath
I turned on the shower,
and blood poured
out overhead.
Not bothered by the
red ribbons
that poured forth,
I got in the tub
and let the
scarlet streams soak my skin
and marinate my
soapy hair
I washed my face,
wondering whose heart
I broke this time.
by Opal, Woodbridge, VA
Just so
I.
We cannot be Route One, which slithers
up the coast in an Atlantic
Romantic fashion.
We cannot be the coveted, ephemeral rose
blossom.
We cannot be the scent of sea spray.
We cannot be a bittersweet chocolate.
We cannot be the song you heard
when it rained at night and the stars
shone through the clouds
just
so.
We cannot.
II.
You think I have forgotten:
The melody of our first dance
and the way you smelled when your
lips met mine.
A corner table in a coffee shop,
where our names are etched for
eternity.
The words whispered, naked and bare,
when the light tricked me into seeing
halos.
Wonderwall.
Freshly cut grass.
A peppermint scone and espresso.
I think Ive fallen in love.
with me?
III.
Its kinda funny now.
Origami, almost a crane,
but a misfold and
garbage.
We unfolded ourselves, peeled
each other off the paper,
set out to love what had become easy,
but only succeeded in ripping
what was already ruined.
We could never be Route One.
by Sophia Marusic,
St. Louis, MO
Preposterous
poetical proverbs
when someone asks you
do you like my outfit
it is wise to say yes
to anyone not in your
immediate family
and even then
be cautious
by Meredith Thomas,
South Bend, IN
Sea Siren
I cant wait for salty summer evenings,
driving back from the beach with
your brown feet pressed against the steady
petrol pulse of my dashboard. The mix tape
we argued over will soak us in lyrics
that seem so much more profound
with sand in our hair and waterlogged
clothes that youll shed like wrinkled skins
because I dragged you into the freezing sea
to be romantic and see if life ever does
feel like youre in an old black and
white movie.
I read a legend once, when hiding from
the rain in a public library, that told the story
of sea sirens who hid from sailors by
morphing
into seals. Seeing you stretched out
across my
front seat, all goosebumps and acres
of perfect
skin, makes me want to speed up and
take you
back somewhere secret, because in
the stories
I read, those sea sirens never stayed
until morning.
by Violet Bennett,
Fletching, England
When the
Leaves Fall
Sometimes, in the fall,
Ill change my path when walking
Just to crunch a leaf
by Sam Dyer,
Reno, NV
impatient
we tried
to take the shorter way
back home, but instead
we bumped into the
night train, carrying
cargo and slinking heavily
past our rain-covered
car windows
for fifteen minutes
minutes before, i held
the picture of the
idyllic college campus
between my thumb
and forefinger
watched the guidelines
turn into snakes, writhing
beneath my skin
and wondered if id ever
get anywhere, and this
this is how i realized
that shortcuts
dont make anything
easier
by Kalina Zhong,
Brookfield, WI
42
Art by Lubna Sarker, Mississauga, ON, Canada
A Letter to the
Past, Present, and
Future Selves
1.
There will be days when your best friends
are all in love
and you have been alone for three years.
These days will be hard, they will hurt,
they will sting with a blighting injustice
not felt since
Nathaniel Whatshisname broke all the
crayons
in your 64-pack way back in kindergarten.
You will survive this.
2.
You are worth so much, I promise.
I firmly believe you will be okay.
You have so much love to give.
Dont spend it immediately on the
first stranger
who walks in and smiles at you.
The ensuing self-loathing
is not a form of medication.
3.
Being sad will happen often.
Having the opportunity to be involved in
the beautiful miracle of living happens
only once.
Do not give this up for anything.
Do not set yourself on fire.
Do not crash your car into the telephone
pole.
Do not drink your body weight in tequila.
4.
Its okay to drink yourself to sleep
with NyQuil
every once in a while.
I know its easier than lying for hours alone
in your massively empty bed
thinking of everything youll never have.
Do not make this false sleep a habit.
This summer may not be yours, but your
life is.
5.
You are not obligated to tell anyone
anything.
I cannot stress enough
how important you are.
You must find something that makes
all the voiceless screaming in your head
a little more bearable
and you must clutch it in your bones
with every ounce of strength you have.
by Sofia Wesley, Carrollton, VA
Alone
If youre thinking that Im lonely,
you should know,
I only know how fast it takes to
make your cheeks grow red
because you wouldnt talk back to me
and I found a guitar and re-strung it
with pine needles
because now I know
what a forest sounds like
(and I needed you to hear it
so I could say,
listen, here, play an A minor,
make a mountain range out of me)
because, see, I can get used to this cold,
these trees sing hymns into the caves
of my tired knees and say, yeah,
I know what growing tall all alone feels like,
I tried loving something back once,
and if youre thinking that Im lonely,
then maybe youve never tried.
by Hillary Tang, Walnut, CA
Number Forty
What would I tell you if you were still here?
That the words stuck me like a knife
in my side, the room cleared, and
a grimace, a grand pause, sudden drop
Were done. No more letters.
Done. And just like that, you washed
your hands of me.
It wasnt till you said Sorry
that I felt it bleed.
(The apology fell the way the words had,
bit me sharp, unceremoniously. But that
didnt hurt so much as saying,
No, youre really not and hearing
you agree.)
Enter my exit,
cue the open wound.
In a bathroom downstairs, I let it gush.
I felt the past six months seep through my
skin, fall from my eyes, wrack my chest
for an hour counted best in passing shoes
and not in misery.
So your story goes,
I took you in the alleyway.
Your foot was halfway on the road,
the bus was coming, I panicked,
pinned you to the sidewalk.
With a dirtied shirt and wounded pride,
it took throwing me over
to get the dust off.
You dont look at me anymore, but if
you did, would you see?
I held the bottles contents in the cusp of
my hand, flipped a coin.
Heads said Id live, tails said Id die.
Tails.
Tails.
Tails.
Heads.
Tails.
Tails.
Heads.
Heads.
Heads.
Heads.
Tails.
I couldnt do it.
Consider this my fortieth letter.
by Annalee Eagerton, Suwanee, GA
consolido (to bind)
Unmarked and unbroken
Your skin is the
Smoothest Ive ever
Had the pleasure of touching
Of running my fingers over
No scars and no bumps
Just miles of silk beneath
The pads of my fingertips
Some call you the angel
And I the devil
I call myself the book
And you the binding
by Brandi Saunders,
Kailua, HI
Sky Fishing
I tried
to fish you a star today
You always say that when you die
you want to join them in the night
So I thought
that getting you a star
would make your dream seem within reach
I let my line sink patiently in the sky
and waited for a star to take notice
They bobbed around idly
The sky changed around them
from blue
to fuchsia
to violet
to black
And then it became blue all over again
The stars glow in the darkness
and blend in the blue
At last I hooked one
and began to reel it in
It glided so smoothly across the water
When I took it in my hands
it was warm
Not like the temperature
But the feeling I get
when I look at you
Warm
by Sarah Bridgeport,
Columbus, OH
thoughts?
I want MGK
branded on my calf
Kurt Cobain Etch a Sketched
across my stomach
a glowing uber-bright cool blue
Donor life butterfly
to commemorate my long-lost cousin
a hot pink heart on the nape of my neck
twisty vines arcing up my collarbone
Stay Strong prominent across the
silvered scars protruding from my
right arm
a ladybug skimming my thigh
your name on my foot
so every time I step on the ground
youre crushed into oblivion
by Lisa,
E. Marion, NY
If you wanted
You have ears
like reservoirs, but
lips that are always
fractured dry.
And your throat
becomes a drainage pipe
for all the words you leave
under your tongue,
but you should really
stopper those ears
and wet your lips
with all these things
tucked in your chest.
We can see
that you think
of yourself
in all lowercase
letters and chicken scratch
scrawl in a world of
capitalization and
size 12 font,
but you should really be
in bold.
The most important words
are the misfit ones
and I want to hear
yours
because you could
press us
into diamonds
if you wanted.
by Bailey Finan, Tolland, CT
The Aviary
You flew like a bird through my
consciousness,
The wings like silk
But beating nonetheless
I let you take flight within my darkness
Landing to perch on my sternum
Dripping obscenities down my spine.
You picked me apart with your sharp beak
Swallowing pieces of me whole
And regurgitating them into my lap.
I could never make you sing for me
But your hollow bones whistled as you flew
So I fell into the sound.
And when you began molting
Growing gaunt despite my efforts
I began to lose my feathers too.
by Kayla Warner, Henderson, NV
Picnicking
She had spent her whole life climbing the
same mountain.
(On the other side, she was told,
unparalleled happiness
awaited her with
outstretched arms.)
But her thighs burned and with each step
her sighs gained weight
so she sat on the grass,
feeling the cool blades for the very first time
splashing against her thighs
like a rush of water
and soaked in the midsummer sun as she
had a picnic
by Lana Gorlinski, Santa Ana, CA
43
Photo by Tirzah Meditz, Austin, TX
The Melancholy of
Sunny Skies
The melancholy of bright, sunny days slay
But the most strong among us all.
Behind the masks of smiles we wear
every day,
Lies a brooding beast: a dark, spiral cabal.
Though try we might, we all fall in a time,
Little by little we each catch pieces
Of the people we used to be, chiming
And singing, laughing over Christmas
fleeces.
But we mustnt give up hope, for
There is still time for you and I:
Cherish the time, enter the french
doors, here,
Sit down, and look around the sky, decry
Their abuse of us, you and I
For we control our sunny skies.
by Jonah Eadie, Palm Desert, CA
Buds Unblossomed
There in the garden
Of Light and sun and the rain
Lies Nameless Sorrow
On this day birds shall not sing
To honor that song
Which will never be once sung
The Music of Reeds
Sounds hollow by the dark pond
And trees dare not grow
How lovely would silence be
But it shant be so
For gardens can never grieve
Mothering roots weep
Under skies of life and death
Morning her bud unblossomed
by Michele Kirichanskaya,
Brooklyn, NY
Words and Water,
Wine
She collects his words
In a cup of mumbled sound
Like watered-down wine
by Lauren Miller,
Clemmons, NC
I Can Feel Your Pain
in My Bones
I do not know what runs
through your
veins anymore,
whether it is toxins
or blood
I am not sure;
but I am positive
you arent human
just a creature
developed from the
sadness that ate you
alive.
by Emmy Miller, Atascadero, CA
becoming my own
big sister
If I had a sister
I would tell her of love returned and
love retracted
What beautiful hair you have
What a kind, open mouth you have
You will cry enough to fill bathtubs and
most oceans
Salt water is salvation
Oceans are homes when homes can no
longer be
I will love her so selflessly because parents
do not know and I feared Septembers
once too
I will give her my wisdom with its cracks
and its thorns
I will leave an open door
When I hear her sobbing and healing
and hurting
I will not ask
But I will listen
My dear sister
I will tell her of rain and how things must end
I will tell her the things I had to find the
hard way
The things I had to find the bruised skin,
cracked bones, stranded, sour heart, pay
phone way
I will never let my sister wind up in the
darkness in a room with a door that
has no handle
I will never let my sister end up like me
by Stephanie Wambugu,
Pawtucket, RI
The Comfort
of Gold
physical affection is
my least favorite
language.
because who actually
loves being in a tangle
of blankets and bony
elbows, someones
knee always pressed
into your back.
why ruin the comfort
of space
by adding another
body to take up
the vacancy that was
once yours?
by Paige Swifka, Goose Creek, SC
Bildungsroman-
Making Events
Ten years ago,
if youd told me Id be
(a) addicted to coffee,
(b) unable to get out of bed most mornings,
and (c) heartbroken,
Id have thought you were crazy.
Im going to ask you, now
(since you know everything),
how do I fix this?
I ask a lot of questions
to which no one has answers.
Is it wrong that
I find comfort
in the fact that
Im not the only one
wondering?
by Rennie Svirnovskiy, Chesterfield, MO
A Part of Me
There is a part of me
that stands in space.
One foot on a twinkling piece of pixie dust.
The other stretched out behind me.
There is a part of me that flies
above the circus tents and the houses
of my childhood friends.
On my back, floating with the clouds
in the gray sky.
that lives in a moss-carpeted forest
with diamond-studded trees and flowers
under my feet.
With Baba Yegas house half a mile away.
There is a part of me that sings
constantly.
The hopes of the world clinging onto the
wings of my voice.
There is a part of me that is so lucky.
And has gotten more than a fair share.
I know how to take for granted
better than anything else.
There is a part of me in Russia.
Laughing with my mothers classmates,
whom I feel like I know.
In that Russia, I find myself.
My angry head cooling to the sound of
guitar and birds.
There is a part of me that is so angry.
It is in my clenched teeth, snapping eyes,
and in my blood.
There is a part of me that suffers
more than a child should.
Because the worlds pain weighs me down
and slows my step.
It chokes me.
I wish I could vomit the pain out.
that loves life so much
that I feel like the Red Sea has split
before me when I wake up
and see the miracle.
My heart beats with the rhythm of the
setting sun.
I am so alive.
I just cant see it.
by Anna Konstantinovsky, Tenafly, NJ
Sausage, Biscuits,
and Gravy
Sausage, biscuits, and gravy.
I scrape off the gravy,
nibble the biscuit,
and mutilate the sausage.
Playing with food is for children,
but I build a boat.
A stale biscuit,
sinking in the horrendous white gravy,
being pelted by bits of sausage.
I sit back and examine my semi-edible
work of art.
Its almost as ugly as it is bad-tasting.
All is lost.
by Alysha Shobe, Lima, OH
Ill Never Know
Theres a hole in your shirt,
And I cant help but wish
That youd stretch it out,
And let me see inside you.
Your exterior siding is
Rather deceiving,
And your windows are always curtained.
Knock. Knock.
Nobody ever seems to be home.
Even if I had X-ray vision
and Mind-Reading glasses,
I still wouldnt be able to find you in that
mass of muscle,
Behind that mask of mystery.
Id proceed to fumble around inside you,
Hitting the metallic linings,
Making the buzzer sound,
Just like Operation.
But maybe its the fact that
Theres nothing to be figured out
Or everything to be discovered,
That makes me want to know.
That microscopic hole on your shoulder
Is the portal to my dreams,
The key to my curiosity,
But youll never let me inside,
Because thats your favorite shirt.
by Ali Hadley, Glasford, IL
Sea glass
Here and there
are pieces of my mind.
They resemble sea glass
and could easily be mistaken for
a shard of a wine bottle
broken in a lovers spat
and swallowed whole by the brine
decades ago.
I have a fear,
that someday there will be a
field trip to my mind,
and bright sunburned children
will trip over my being
like a beach
and pick up all the little
sea glass bits of
me.
by Sarah Buckser,
W. Lafayette, IN
44
Photo by Ruhama Quadir,
Richmond Hill, ON, Canada
Twelve Years Old
When I was twelve
I was what you would call
in-transition
trading textbooks and sharp pencils
for rusted razor blades and
bottles of Mikes hard lemonade
Twelve years old had me spouting angry
hate-filled words at my brothers
and drove my fists into the face of an
overweight boy with an over-confidence
problem
At twelve years old
I was beginning to discover myself
and
drowning in the pieces I couldnt yet
understand
The cracks in the dam of my past leaked
through
leaving me empty with nothing but anger
and hate
12 years old made me invincible
and then had me tumbling down the
mountain every time
I reached the top.
At twelve years old
I had the decision on whether
to save the life of a friend or
help him kill himself with the decorative
blade he hung up in his room
Because I was only twelve
I ran away
I still remember the thud of the white door
slamming behind me
Call me a coward,
a b----,
an ungrateful bastard
but that day
I chose to save myself
because I know that in the end
the only person you can truly save
is yourself,
At the age of twelve,
I was becoming someone
but I was still
nobody
by Rosie, Phoenix, AZ
Cleanliness
Wash away the stench
Of frivolous desire
And aim to be good.
by Akorfa Adoror, Cheshire, CT
Celestial
When I was a child I thought Id be
The sky. I pretended I would use my
Eyes to paint myself blue, talk to the trees,
Inhale the clouds and exhale my heart by
Letting it beat in time with the wind. Snow
Would line my lungs and shield me from
black ice,
Hail, and airplanes. Up there no one
would know
That I didnt color inside the lines
And my fingerprints were acrylic paint.
The stars would sing my favorite lullaby
Plucking a string theory rhythm, tainted
Gray with ash. And I wouldnt need to fly,
A child doesnt need wings to be the sky.
by Megan Sims, Dallas, TX
The Father
We Share
I guess I always hoped
the conditions my father held for me
might be forgotten for my sister
when she was born,
and that love for her would never have
to be earned;
that the kisses and soft words would
last longer
than a couple of years,
the scorn that is absent in those first
few months
lost forever in the wake of a miracle.
But of course, the wonders which paralyze
us with
disbelief, and the promises we make
in silence
are often forgotten.
Even at birth she was smiling,
or seemed so in her own silence.
She didnt need to write a single
poem for me to realize that she was more
poet than I;
me, who spends hours trying to impress
myself,
and her, a childhood life spent
wisely doing nothing but the frivolous,
a life which spoke volumes more
than the world I was trying to imitate.
Sitting next to her in the park
brings back the memory of the father
we share,
and with him, my own promises I made in
the quiet of a hospital room, holding her,
and back unto the bench we share now.
She says my name, softly, smiling,
pointing to some place ahead,
maybe at the baseball diamond,
recently groomed, or the grass
mowed today while I was pushing her
on the swings; or perhaps the entire world,
though she says it doesnt matter.
I said, whats that?
She smiled.
Cant you see it? Its Dad.
Which is odd,
because our father has been gone
for quite some time now.
by Matthew Rubio, Portland, OR
Restless
If you were the stars
I would never close my eyes
and refuse to sleep
Id be lying here
quietly humming the blues
waiting for that kiss
by Jenny Hwang,
Burnaby, BC, Canada
Earring
When the earring loosens and falls,
leaving only the backing clinging stickily
to her earlobe
(So appropriate, she thought, that only the
crusty underside of things
remain while their gleaming facades
always cleave),
its not surprise but resolution she feels,
as if the stone were a
hang nail that she worried and fretted
(oh sweet, triumphant pain
that comes along with ridding the body
of its imperfections)
until it fell off
Into the portions she could no longer
control:
the vast Hinterlands outside her little body
(that was still hers!),
though merely a technicality considering
the wanton thoughts that
roiled beneath the smooth surface and
threatened to dissolve her,
like a sugar cube into tepid milk: white on
white on white.
For now, she tended its manicured front
lawns with feverish abandon,
drawing the shades to house and hide a
certain lethargic houseguest stayed
long past his welcome, and too dangerous
to let out.
No, it was not one of Dantes lurid circles
of torments that she feared,
glowing crimson like the rings of a stovetop
burner, but a creeping gray mist of
Lack Of
A cloying, numbing fog that anesthetized
her and
slowed her heart to a minimal. sluggish.
plod.
So that at dinner parties she coolly surveyed
the menagerie of
flushed, frantic faces and thought:
I dont care if I ever see any of you again.
So when the earring that carried no
sentimental value
whatsoever
slipped from her velvety lobe, she strained
to comb the carpeted floor,
dropped to her knees
as if in
Prayer
or
Supplication.
by Amy Bearman,
Sammamish, WA
the great god pen
She told me that all the blood was just
poetry and now all I can do is just bleed
but none of it flows properly.
If you bleed too much then your blood says:
bye-bye
and then youll go prune. So, my parents
had me condemned
snatched my blood away, gave it a tourniquet
and cauterized them all
imagine. having to ask:
my little red cells
have gone missing, sir.
cut me open to find them?
when it was so easy
in the start.
Now my bloods blackened, and my words
are ashen
cut me open, and Ill form a pool of oils
at your feet.
by Ada Cohen, Tomball, TX
Name Tag
Today when you came home you were
too tired to notice you were still wearing
your name tag on your t-shirt from work.
When Dad teased you about it, you
smiled and replied:
I remembered who I was today.
and I was so jealous of the way your tongue
could unclip those worlds like that name
tag at the end of a long day
Like they were nothing
One month
and four days later
I wonder
If you unclipped those words like a name tag
because they too
were meant for someone else to read
by Erica Draper, Fort Collins, CO
She is not me,
nor I her
But unlike me her stomach is flat
her mind is sharp
and her wrists show no sign of combat
and though her eyes are bluer than mine
and though her smile actually shows
for some reason I thought
youd actually give me the time
for some reason I thought
I finally chose the right road
by Kasheka Chitkara, Mashpee, MA
Front Row Seat
Should I tell you
should I not
give you everything Ive got
leave a present by your door
leave you hungry wanting more
give you a ticket
to my world
front row seat
to watch my life
unfurl.
by Mackenzie Myatt,
Musquodoboit, NS, Canada
45
Art by Ellie White, Seattle, WA
This isnt
worth reading
I stayed up all night writing poetry
I thought it was all brilliant
Now Im looking at it
and I see that its all s**t
Im reading the words
sounding out the letters
in my head
I get frustrated
because I drifted off again
in the middle
somewhere
dammit
Im trying real hard
to stay focused
stay on task
keep marching on
like a good little soldier
but I keep stopping
getting distracted by the blackberries
ripened in the September sun
I love blackberries
I could eat them till my stomach
exploded
Cant wait till summer
pink lemonade and patchy grass
Im doing again
Drifting
Like a shopping cart
with one lame wheel
this isnt really about anything
but Ill wait till the end
to tell you
that its not worth reading
Just thought you should know
by Bridget Fayden,
Gingerland, WA
Steps
She waits
At the top of stairs,
Looking up with her cloudy eyes,
Cataracts are setting in.
You call her name, no
Reaction, you startle her.
Fourteen years ago
She was a newborn pup.
Center of attention
Now she is forgotten.
She still waits,
Relying on others
Reminiscent of the past
Brown eyes still staring,
Tail wagging,
She waits.
by Danny Janousek,
Yorktown, VA
Beautiful Scars
Marks of shame, of pain
small remainders of a dark tunnel
tiny reminders of the fire
that tore me down until I built myself
taller than before.
by Emily,
Lexington, MA
Trains of Thought
The teacher looked around the
Classroom.
Now where was I?
She was on a train
In Gettysburg, 1863
In the midst of a
Bloody battle
Describing the gruesome
Violence
Paul, could you please tell me about
How many deaths there were?
But Paul was not
In Gettysburg, 1863
He was on a different train
At the Westfield football field
It was 2012
State championships
Reliving that winning pass
That he dropped
Paul, pay attention! Lydia, help him out.
About how many deaths were there?
But Lydia was also
Not in Gettysburg anymore.
Yes, she had arrived in Gettysburg
And promptly departed
Too many deaths,
Too many reminders
of that other day.
Her train had taken her
to the kitchen table
September 11, 2001.
Tears streaming down her face
How could her father be
Gone?
He was here just this morning
And Britney, to Lydias left
Her train was in a futuristic world
Of brightly lit
Stores
At the mall
What shirt should she buy?
Oh, and she also needs some jeans.
There are many
Trains of thought.
Nearing seven billion,
One for each person.
Every day
New trains are born
And some
Disappear
Gone.
All going
in different directions
to different places.
Some are dark,
Some are happy.
To each his own.
We are all conductors.
Okay, class, I can see youre not
paying attention.
You will finish this for
homework, due tomorrow.
by Katie Flanagan, Madison, NJ
11.25.12
I amble through the aisles again,
humming half-forgotten songs,
wondering why Crayola cant
pin down the color of Honeycrisps.
I throw smiles at passersby and
linger to catch bits of conversation;
today, a girl, perhaps ten, and her
father, gentle-eyed. List in hand
errands are not yet dull for her,
enthusiasm radiates a mention
of a forgotten pencil coupled with
a trembling lip is heartbreaking.
So there I stand, a silent onlooker
on the outskirts of childhoods
kingdom, a pen perpetually tucked
behind one ear practicality turned
habit do I dare break the sonder?
A quick moment gives gumption, I
no longer blend into the scenery
Here, you can have this one, my
movements reminiscent of a shyly
offered flower. In that moment I can
see through her eyes: the world still
holds beauty and then through her
fathers: Ive made it last, if only for
a day. A gift for both of them, and me.
by Skyler Rehm,
Lawrence, KS
when i mistook the
machinery for
livestock
when i mistook the machinery for livestock
and the clouds in the sky turned to cotton in
a swimming pool
and the cores dissolved into the apples
while their
trees roots dissolved into the dirt
this is when i retreated
to a mountain in a range
where the peaks were blades
of scissors
and the only thing that kept the snow from
melting between my toes
was the gentle resting of your palm on my
hip bone
and i scratch and scrape at the skin on your
thumb
until it bleeds
to keep it from turning to
porcelain
by Kadwa Ahmed, Kuwait City, Kuwait
they told me
they told me on the corner of
chester and shakespeare that
i will learn from my mistakes.
but i am always
wandering in the syntax of
your hands and when we touch
the sweep of your fingertips leave
broken
syllables
on my skin,
strings of pearls on aching flesh.
you stumble
through the dark alleys, a match
in your hand scalding
your wordless fingers.
and they never told me how
hard it is to separate colors and whites
when a beautiful boy dances in
and out
of the edge of your consciousness.
ive never been one for
games of figure eights and hopeless
pirouettes. but this time,
i do not mind
by Kelsey Ko, Bethlehem, PA
it would really
be nice
I sat,
catatonic,
on the dusty couch
that I had dragged
two miles from the dump.
It still smelled like cat piss.
Someone had lit a fire,
a rarity in this house,
but I didnt notice
until the room got darker
because no one had added more wood
to keep it going.
I almost shouted for the servant,
but then I remembered
that it was me who lit the fire,
me who should have added more wood,
and I live in an apartment
so I didnt have a servant.
It would be nice, though.
by Amanda Yeatts, Richmond, VA
padlock
my lips and your veins
share the same hue, and whisper the
same name
sometimes i wish we had less identical traits
so id lie to myself, its just a coincidence
too bad were not a riddle, so we could
get assistance
were like a padlock; only one thing will
free us
mutual consent. too bad we
cant make up our minds
whether we fancy or despise
being stuck with one another.
by Grace Brunner, Bloomfield, CT
46
Photo by Sami Fischer, Centennial, CO
MEET THE BULLY,
THE BULLIED, AND THE BYSTANDER.
ISBN 9780757317606 Trade Paper $13.95
WORDS ARE POWERFUL.
Wow. The only book about the problem of
bullying entirely written by teenagers. I know
their personal stories will move you, anger you,
inspire youeven scare you.
R.L. Stine, author of the Goosebumps series
This book is a unique wakeup call for teens,
parents, and teachers to stop, listen, and think
about the power of their words and actions.
Vanessa Williams, singer and actress
Available now at
Amazon.com, BN.com &
bookstores everywhere!
Help Spread the Word
with Teen Inks videos to end bullying.
Go to TeenInk.com for details.
The Victim:
I was the girl who got called fat every single day. The girl
who camouflaged her pain by laughing really hard and
talking too loud, drowning out the demeaning comments.
The girl fighting an internal battle to get up, get ready, and
go to school every morning . . .
Elizabeth Ditty
The Bully:
. . . being a bully doesnt save me from other bullies. I used
to think that, somehow, tormenting others would grant me
immunity from being tormented. It didnt. Because being a
bully doesnt make you scary; it makes you worthless.
Michael Ortiz
The Bystander:
Sometimes changing a bully is difficult and even
impossible. But if you dont try, those who are
bullied will never know how much you care, and
those who bully will continue to think their actions
are acceptable. You can choose to remain a silent
bystander, or you can take a stand to defend others.
Its up to you.
Bridgette Rainey

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CONTENTS

OCTOBER 2013 | VOL. 25, NO. 2

500 Salisbury Street

Academic excellence with a rich

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