WITS 2015-16 Chapbook by Literary Arts

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 AINING

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 AINING 2015–2016 WITS Student Chapbook

Writers in the Schools (WITS) is a youth program of Literary Arts, a community-based nonprofit literary organization centered in Portland, Oregon, whose mission is to support writers, engage readers, and inspire the next generation with great literature.

925 SW Washington St. Portland, OR 97205 www.literary-arts.org

Losing and Gaining

2015-2016 WITS Student Chapbook Copyright © 2016 Literary Arts, Inc. All Rights Reserved. This book may not be duplicated in any way—mechanical, photographic, electronic, or by means yet to be devised—without the written permission of the publisher, except in the case of a brief excerpt or quotations for the purpose of review.

Literary Arts Staff Andrew Proctor, executive director Amanda Bullock Lydah DeBin Megan Gex Jennifer Gurney Hunt Holman Ramiza Koya Marshall Miller Susan Moore Alex Ney Paige O’Rourke Mary Rechner Joanna Rose Mel Wells Kyle White Wits Interns Niko Rivas Molly Simas Ethelyn Tumalaud Board of Directors Jessica Mozeico, chair Betsy Amster Mike Barr Amy Carlsen Kohnstamm Alice Cuprill-Comas Ginnie Cooper Rebecca DeCesaro Amy Donohue Theo Downes-Le Guin

Marie Eckert Robert Geddes Betsy Henning Karen Karbo Deidra Miner Amy Prosenjak Jon Raymond James Reinhart Pamela Smith Hill Bob Speltz Amy Wayson Jacqueline Willingham Thomas Wood Wits Advisory Council Ginnie Cooper, chair Carmen Bernier-Grand Joan Fondell Ann-Derrick Gaillot Diana Gerding Susheela Jayapal Jenny MacNichol Manuel Mateo Ramón Pagán Catherine Theriault Kristin Walrod Cindy Williams Gutierréz Stephanie Wong Ken Tracey Wyatt Sharon Wynde Anthology Editor & Designer: Mel Wells Published by Literary Arts, a 501(c)(3) in Portland, OR First Edition 2016 Printed in the USA

2015-16 WITS COMMUNITY Writers-in-Residence Turiya Autry, Alex Behr, Cooper Lee Bombardier, Arthur Bradford, Trevino Brings Plenty, Serena Crawford, Lisa Eisenberg, Elyse Fenton, James Gendron, Jonathan Hill, Jamie Houghton, Apricot Irving, Emiko Jean, Ramiza Koya, Bettina de León Barrera, Lin Lucas, Amy Minato, Laura Moulton, A. M. O’Malley, Mark Pomeroy, Joanna Rose, byroN José sun, Jessica Tyner Mehta, Matt Zrebski

Visiting Authors Anthony Doerr, Rita Dove, Bruce George, Adam Gopnik, Mohsin Hamid, Christina Henríquez, Jessica Mehta, Phil Knight, Jane Smiley

Participating Teachers Zandra Ah Choy-Augson, Scott Blevins, Nora Brooks, Ilsa Bruer, Linda Campillo, Jon Carr, Sandra Childs, Stephanie D’Cruz, Deanna Delgado, Mykhiel Deych, Stefanie Goldbloom, Kelly Gomes, Katie Grone, Crystal Hanson, Shawnte Hines, Dylan Leeman, Eric Levine, Kim Livesay, Sunshine McFaul-Amadoro, Mercedes Muñoz, Dave Mylet, Nicola Onnis, Nathan Pier, Cesar Ramirez, Tory Rodgers, Claire Roix, Tina Roberts, Ed Sage, Alicia Smith, Kris Spurlock, Jamie Suehiro, Shawn Swanson, Amy Taramasso, Stephanie Thomas, Trevor Todd, Dana Vigner, Alethea Work

Participating Principals Petra Callin, Carol Campbell, Peyton Chapman, Brian Chatard, Lorna Fast Buffalo Horse, Filip Hristic, Pam Joyner, John Koch, Molly O’Neill, Juanita Valder, Curtis Wilson

viii

CONTENTS Introduction xi Remember Her • Claire Edwards Hush Baby • Melinda Black

Blind Man Walking • Ryan Garcia-Torres 16 Coffee Shop Classic • Halia-Rose Baillie The Dark Edge • Juliann Calabrese Goodbye • Isabella Yam

Shout Out: The Curse • Ana Menera The Fool • Lily Cunningham Gus • Christian Langarica

29 32

Everything On Fire • Jessica Griepenburg Rose • Claire Michaud

Mafiosa • Miroslav Lysak Relive • Mara Mitchell

Guilty Conscience • Quincy Sells Polka Dot • Olivia Holah

Lost • Helen Tuttle

Untitled • Gabriella Bongiorno

Silence • Colton Lear

51 52

Grandma Lulu • Sheyko Palacios Paralyzes • Kelley Bastin

We Meet Again • Ellie Parshley

Swastika For A Shield • Kainoa Kaio The Hero • Benjamin Cora Tell It Like It Is • Zoe Beyler Two Paths • Rose Vie

62 63

Beach • Sam Habenicht

It Is What It Is • Devyn Yocom Passion • Alexia Wa Karma • Zoë Shaw

72 73

My Passion: Soccer • Luke Wilson The $20 Question • Ben Fox

Darkness For A Day • Janet Bedolla Self Rapture • Sam Kaul

Not All Heroes Wear Suits • Taegan Snyder

Imperfection is Perfect • Kaitlyn Kingsella

WITS writers-in-residence 2015-16 Index Support

95 97

Introduction Dear Reader, The youth programs at Literary Arts are designed to inspire public high school students to write, revise, edit, publish, and perform their own creative writing. The core of our work is Writers in the Schools (WITS), semester-long residencies taught by local professional poets, graphic novelists, and fiction and non-fiction writers who model and share their disciplined writing practices with students, culminating in opportunities to read publicly as well as publish their work. When we ask students to describe how working with a professional writer changed their approach to their own writing, they say things such as: “After working with a professional writer, I am able to write like I’ve never before, in which I can write out everything that I think of and be creative. It changed my life.” (Benson High School student) “I realized that there is no secret to being a good writer, just working hard and writing from your heart.” (Madison High School student) “I learned how to vary my wording and to add description. It got my creative juices flowing again (I had had lots of writers block). I got new ideas and was far more eager to write.” (Wilson High School student) We also ask classroom teachers to describe how working with a professional writer contributes to student achievement in writing: “The writer brought in an interesting variety of work, exercises, editing techniques, etc. She was able to engage and excite a couple of students who have struggled with attendance and production of work. Thank you, WITS! Your organization is huge/important/valued/loved.” (Teacher Dana Vinger, Franklin High School)

“Students were much more engaged in the class. They wanted to write. One student, near the end of the residency, told me that they couldn’t stop thinking in poetry.” (Teacher Crystal Hanson, Gresham High School) Parents share the changes they see in their child’s confidence as a reader and writer after participating in a WITS residency: “He went in with no confidence in his writing and came out with a great story and first spoken word try! Bravo!” (Parent, Lincoln High School) “Her career goals switched from baker to journalist. I’ve noticed her stretching herself in her writing and taking risks. “ (Parent, Roosevelt High School) This year’s print anthology of student writing, Casually Bringing Monsoons, contains final drafts of suspenseful, brash, lyrical and funny poems, prose, and comics written and revised during the WITS residencies. We’re publishing this additional chapbook, Losing and Gaining, to showcase even more of the same. For their help on the anthology we’d like to thank our interns, Ethelyn Tumalad, Molly Simas, and Niko Rivas, all students at Portland State University. Literary Arts’ own Program Coordinator Mel Wells (graduate of the Ooligan Press program at PSU) is the editor of the anthology and digital chapbooks, and also designs the interiors. Thank you to the 33 teachers at 11 public high schools who hosted 25 local writers in their classes. WITS is rich in partnerships, and we are always welcoming new partners and supporters—if you, dear reader, would like to contribute to the work of WITS, please visit us at Literary-Arts.org.

Mary Rechner Writers in the Schools Program Director

emember Her Claire Edwards GRANT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

Remember when you used to have friends? When you used to have so many people who cared for you? When you were sad or depressed or just having a bad day, you could ask any of them to cheer you up and they would. Remember when they would all hang out with you and say that things would never change between us? We would always be that group of people that laughs like idiots and be ourselves like the world was never watching. To this day you still have them. But they’re not as close anymore. You were left to find who you were and to cry when you couldn’t. Left to make your own decisions and ponder why we exist. No matter how hard you tried to explain, no one seemed to understand. Most days you felt alone. You couldn’t talk to anyone. Most wouldn’t listen anyway. Those few people who would care for you needed you to put on a fake smile and help them. For their sake you did. And you just got used to leaving it on all the time. You don’t like change. Never did. Change means losing things and gaining things and you usually end up losing more. You lost people that year. The year when you couldn’t get yourself out of bed. You were done with life and working toward your goals. You were done with trying to smile and trying to keep those friendships intact. You were searching for yourself that year. Trying to figure out what your purpose was in life and why you were struggling so hard to keep it together. People tried to help you and they did. Just not enough. Now with only a few people to rely on, you were left to face the world by yourself. The stress took over your mind on countless occasions. Multiple times each day you would lose control of your thoughts and emotions and you would break down and embarrass yourself. Why couldn’t you control yourself? You were better than that. Why couldn’t you be perfect? There is such a thing, right? But no, you couldn’t be. Instead you would just drown yourself in those little things that made you the

tiniest bit happy and wait for the world to screw up your life again. You usually didn’t have to wait that long. Still the world kept fighting back and you kept falling deeper and deeper into the dark abyss full of nothing and no one to keep you safe. You hid all your pain and tears behind a fake smile that everyone needed to see and even the small cries of help didn’t seem to draw anyone’s attention. Every day you would think about that young girl who always had a real smile on her face and wonder what caused it to become fake. You would always ask yourself, “Is that little girl still there? Am I still that same person?” Every once in awhile something good would happen and you would finally be happy for once. But this would never last long and soon you would be back in that same position wondering why you were still alive. Why were you even still alive? Was it because of that one person whose smile you loved to see? Or was it those two people that lived millions of miles away and still made you feel like you belonged? Whoever it was, they made you keep on trying, and I’ll be forever in their debt. But because of that one girl, you finally turned yourself around. You had known her for a while. But only recently did you discover how relatable her life was to yours and how happy she could make you. She was the only one willing to listen to you and remind you of what an amazing person you are. She told you that you can’t be perfect and you have to have bad days to have good ones. No matter what you did or what you said, she would speak of nothing but happiness and it was enough to keep you going. You didn’t see her that often; maybe only twice a week and the number of days is decreasing. But looking forward to those days was enough to keep you hoping for a better future. You still face those struggles every day. You might never get rid of them completely. You still don’t know what lies ahead; it could be anything. But you know that whenever you feel self-conscious or afraid, just know that she will always be right there, ready to help you. So as you lay in your bed thinking of all the obstacles coming your way, remember that you were once a girl who cried silently in her pillow and begged for help from people who didn’t want to listen. Who never understood. But now your fake smile is slowly being replaced with a real one. All because of that one girl. So please, remember her. For she saved your life, but will never know.

Hush Baby Melinda Black ROOSEVELT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: LIN LUCAS

Hush baby, momma has a magic touch to hush you, To make you dream of fluffy white bunnies To make you, honey, to think of summer days When you are old enough To play on a swing-set; to laugh and take walks Your wide eyes as you see your first butterfly To find other kids your age To play with them and go to school with them And when you have your first taste of sweets… Like cake as rich as butter Cotton candy looking like rainbows in the sky And fudge as messy as mud Hush baby Momma’s magic touch will soothe you to sleep.

Blind Man Walking yan Garcia-Torres BENSON HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: SERENA CRAWFORD

I really hate being in a room in the old folks home all by myself. It makes me feel lonely because I miss having family around or the few friends I had to talk to. The only time I really talk to someone is in group session, but even then, it’s like a conversation about events that are really boring. So I never really have a friend at the home. What’s also annoying is that when I’m walking down the hall people say, “Hi Pete,” but I can hardly tell who’s talking to me. The room is quiet, and I like to sleep and think, but sometimes it reminds me of when I could see and what happened to change that. I was coming home from work at night and it was extra late because I had to work overtime. It was so late I could hardly keep my eyes open. It was a clear summer day and the roads were heavy with traffic. We had been stopped due to a brush fire, then cleared to continue on and before I knew what had happened, a deer had hit me head-on from the left side, flew over my car hood and on to the right side of the road. I locked eyes with the deer when it hit and that is all I remember. I was then woken up in my hospital bed and unable to see. I was scared and upset and had to be given a sedative to calm me down; I couldn’t believe what happened to me. My children were called and informed about my accident and they came to visit me while I recovered. I knew they were all discussing where I would go and how they couldn’t be my care providers full-time. I was an active man always doing things on my own and now, in an instant, my life had been changed. Life is so short, you just don’t know when or what to expect and I always had tried to live it to the fullest after my wife had passed. Now I lay here unable to see and feeling helpless and sad. I told my children it would be best to find me a home where I could get assistance with my needs and they could visit me there. I knew this would not be something I would enjoy but felt it was best for everyone. I was moved into the home after a long recovery and now had to learn basic

life skills to care for myself. My first night there was hard, as I had to learn my surroundings and rely on the staff to assist me. I knew no one here and of course wanted to talk to no one. I would just sit in my room alone and think, thinking about how my life was before the loss of my eyesight. How I had wanted to move and retire at the beach, enjoy the rest of my days at the beach. I remember long ago with my wife how we would go on beach trips and would take the kids and we would sit out on the deck and watch them play. My wife and I talked about buying a home and retiring at the beach. After her passing, I lost track of that dream but was now feeling even though my eyesight was gone how I still wanted to go to the beach. I saved a jar of sand and a collection of sand dollars. As I was sitting here in my room, I pulled out my jar of sand and sand dollars. Even though I couldn’t see the sand or sand dollars, I could hold them and smell the sand and feel my sand dollars and it brought back all the memories of the beach trips. I knew sitting there I wanted to go there and even if it meant a home like the one I am in now, I want to go the beach and enjoy my life there. I may not have my eyesight but I have my life to live and to enjoy what I can smell and feel from the beach. I asked my children to visit and told them my wish and if they could help me make this happen. They were concerned and worried that I would be too far away but realized that it would make me happy. We found a home, a small home that had a room for me and I moved in a month later and after settling in and learning my new surroundings, I had no more stress or pressure. All I felt was living a life of peacefulness and feeling very calm and relaxed. I pulled out my jar of sand and sand dollars and sitting out on my deck from my room I could smell the ocean and feel the breeze, thinking how my life had been changed but even so how I was where I wanted to be but with no sight and to feel sorry or sad was not worth it, I had everything now: the chance to live my life and live it through touch, smell, and taste. I think back to the day of my accident and think how what if I hadn’t worked so late; where would I be now if maybe I had left earlier? The “what if” which we all can do about everything in our lives. In the end, either way I am where I wanted to be, just not able to see, and even

though I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see, I am able to live at the beach and enjoy my life to the fullest there with a different lifestyle with help. Even though I might be alone or lonely I have learned to accept my life and make friends here. We are all here for a reason and it has brought us all together to share our lives together. My children visit when they can and I am at peace knowing I am not a burden to them and waking up to the sound of the ocean and smell of the beach. When I do pass, I want to be cremated and my ashes thrown into the ocean. My life may have been changed but I have learned to live each day as a new day and not my last.

Coffee Shop Classic Halia-ose Baillie LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: JONATHAN HILL

The Dark Edge Juliann Calabrese MADISON HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: BETTINA DE LEÓN BARRERA

I am from the darkness in the trembling mind and The dark edges of the sky that rise in blackness. From the creativity leads to the shadow’s of one’s mind, Burning forests, scent of saw wood, and the enlightened Dark sky with a darkening grip of curiosity From California to Portland my dark memories of an Old life stay gripped to my dark-sided mind. Less friends to no friends my memories of an old life tend to my mind. From an instant memory of fine literature, Cthulhu taps the darkened mind with the Old Ones of the Cyclopean green stone, The comprehension of the mind itself thinks the darkness within, the blackened hearts of literature follow me with a fierce desire. For we all have a dark side of creativity. From the loud energetic symphony of dark music and The thoughts of dark cinema warps and appears within my secretly locked mind. Each scene moving by from one to another With rapid vision in thought, my mind is caged with hidden darkness That lead to a blackened void of my own vision and imagery.

Goodbye Isabella Yam FRANKLIN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: ARTHUR BRADFORD

I’m walking on the streets, alone. The scene at school keeps repeating in my head. “It is impossible for an AB blood parent and AB blood parent to have an O blood child.” My teacher said. Both of my parents have AB blood, but I have O blood. Everyone said I was adopted. That can’t be possible, though. All these thoughts run through my mind. Could I be? I’ve been walking around the streets of Portland, Oregon, for a while, just thinking about this. I think it’s time to go home to get the cold, hard truth. About fifteen minutes later, I finally arrive at the front door of my lilac purple house. I take a deep breath. I unlock the door with my shaky hands. I step inside to see my mother sitting on the couch watching TV. I start to panic; what if I am adopted? I take another deep breath. I walk over to my mom and sit down next to her. “Am I adopted?” I say with my shaky voice. She doesn’t say anything. She looks at me with a blank face. “Am I adopted?” I say again, this time a little more aggressive. “Um…where would you get such an idea like that, sweetheart?” I know at the moment she says sweetheart that she is hiding something. She always says lovey-dovey words like that to hide something. I tell her the exact thing my teacher said, “It is impossible for an AB blood parent and an AB blood parent to have a O blood child.” She looks at me with a blank face when I tell her this. “So, am I adopted?” I ask. “I’m sorry to say this…but yes.” I feel tears start to fill my eyes. I stand up and run up to my room. I can’t believe this. My so-called mom kept this from me for fifteen years. I decide to try to sleep it off. I lay in my creaky, old bed and shut my eyes. It’s been about an hour, and I still haven’t fallen asleep; I have just

been crying. I can’t believe that I wasn’t wanted. I can’t believe I was just given away. I look at my alarm clock and it reads 11:00 p.m. My mom is already asleep, so I decide that I should do this. I need to do this. I need to run away. But what if she hurts me for a stupid mistake again? I tiptoe my way into the attic to look for any documentation for my adoption. The stairs keep creaking; every step I take, I get scared. She is going to wake up. I look and look for anything. Papers are flying everywhere. All of a sudden I spot a small filing cabinet, sitting in the corner, covered in copper rust. I run over to it and swung it open. I look through all the files and find a file that is labeled “documentation for Alexia.” I take it out very quickly, being happy and nervous to find out what is inside. I skim through it real quick. It is just what I need. I hide the file under my black sweater and climb out from the attic as quiet as I can. I speed over to my room, letting out a big breath of relief. I made it. Phew. I lay on my bed with the file in my hand. I can’t believe I’m going to do this. I start to look through the file. It says my real parents are Jamie and Paul Jones and they live in Seattle, Washington. Right when I look at that information I run to my closet. I grab a backpack and start to fill it. I fill it with a t-shirt, a pair of jeans, a navy blue sweater, and the file. I then grab my phone and my wallet and start to head out. I walk towards my window, and realize how stupid I am. I can’t jump that high off. So I grab a bunch of my soft, cloud-feeling blankets and start to tie them together. Once I tie like seven blankets together, I tie a corner of a blanket to the foot of my bed. Luckily my bed is right next to the window, so it makes it easier. I let the blanket rope loose and throw it out the window. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I started to climb out. My hands are already numb. When I am about halfway, I jump off. When I land on the ground, I weep in pain. My ankle hurts so badly, but I have to fight it and run as fast as I can. I brush myself off, put my black hood on, and begin to run. My black, worn out Converse are pounding on the ground. I am running so fast. I feel like I am in slow motion; I feel free. I finally arrive at a gas station. It is so dark out. The bright white

lights are shining and flickering. I walk into the little mini mart that belongs to the gas station. When I enter, it smells like beer and sweat. There are blotches of unknown substances on the floor. I start to look around to find some food. I spot the little snack aisle and grab a whole bunch of food, mainly chips and saltine crackers. Just by looking at this place, I think these snacks are already stale, but oh well. I walk over to their refrigerator and grab some energy drinks and water. My arms are full of stuff. I carry everything to the cashier. The cashier looks like he is in his late thirties, and he has red eyes. He is probably really tired, I mean, it is 1:00 a.m. “What do you plan on doing this late at night?” the cashier asks while ringing up all my stuff. “Things,” I say pretty harshly, not making eye contact. “I used to be like you, livin’ the dream, breakin’ the rules. But now look where I’m at,” he says, chuckling and sipping his soda. He sounds drunk. I don’t say anything. I hand him a ten-dollar bill, take my stuff and leave. He can keep the change I guess. I run to the bus stop really fast. I sit down on the cold bench and wait. I decide to think about life and how it is going for me. It isn’t going good. After about five minutes of staring into space, the bus finally arrives. I take out my wallet and walk into the bus. It’s empty. The white and pink lights flicker. I show the bus driver my ID. She is very beautiful; she looks like she is in her early thirties. I then sit down on the closest seat to the lady. “Where are you going, sweetheart?” She asks with a sweet voice. For some reason, I instantly feel connected with her. “I’m going to Seattle, Washington, to find my parents,” I say with a smile on my face. “Okay, honey, I’ll take you there. You seem like a special young lady, so I’m taking risks. I’m supposed to be going to the garage,” she says. “Thank you so much,” I say while yawning. I look at the dark navy blue sky with white little stars. My eyes begin to shut. I soon fall asleep. The next morning, I wake up to the bright sun shining in my face. Thankfully, I am still in the bus and not kidnapped. But the difference is that there is no one in the bus. The bus is parked in front of a bus stop. This is pretty weird; I’m in

a bus, alone. All of a sudden, I hear pounding on the front glass doors of the bus. I flinch at the noise. I see the bus driver lady. I can see her chocolate brown bouncy curls and her beautiful dark brown skin. “Pull the red lever!” she yells. She has two McDonald’s bags in her hand. I walk up to the driver’s chair and pull the lever. The doors open and she walks in. “Here you go, honey,” she says as she hands me one of the greasy McDonald’s bags. I opened it up and it has a breakfast sandwich, a hash brown, and a yogurt parfait. “You didn’t have to do this. I have money,” I tell her, starting to reach in my backpack for money. “It’s okay, love. Don’t worry about it. By the way, where do your parents live? I’ll take you straight there,” she says while buckling herself into the driver’s chair. I reach into my bag and I pull out the file. “They live on Harbers Street and their address is 5443. Thank you, by the way, for everything.” “You're welcome, honey,” she says. Her sweet words made me feel warm inside. She is so sweet and kind. I wish I had her as my mother. I start to eat. I was so hungry. Then, an awkward silence falls upon us. So, I decide to start a conversation. “So, how is your family doing?” I ask with my mouth full of food. “Well, they are doing good; it’s just me and my husband. My babies are in college so, sadly, I don’t get to see them often,” she says with a sad tone. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I reply. I feel bad for asking that question. “You know, I was adopted, too; it was really hard for me to let it sink in,” she says, changing the subject. “That’s why I connected with you so much. Right when you walked in, I knew you were special. I did the same exact thing you are doing right now. But when I went back to my adoptive parents, I just wanted to know information, so I traveled by foot to California, but for some reason, I wanted to do it on my own. My birth parents weren’t that great; they were drug addicts. So I’m glad I was adopted.” “I plan on going back to my parents. I shouldn’t have done this. I didn’t even say, ‘I love you’ to her, even though she doesn’t treat me that well. I guess I was just mad that she kept it in all of these years, and the feeling of being unwanted by someone hurts. This was probably a

stupid idea. I just want to know why they gave me away. You know?” I say, choking through tears. “It’s alright, baby. It’s gonna be alright,” she says with her sweet and calming voice. We start talking about adventures, and she tells me so many stories about when she was young. But sadly, it had to come to an end. About four hours later, we arrive at a bus stop. It is right on the corner of my adoptive parents’ house. “Here you go, pumpkin. Be safe, and I hope it goes well,” she says with a smile on her face. “Thank you so much,” I say through tears. She was so sweet to me, I get up and hug her. I don’t want to go. “Thank you,” I whisper into her ear. I then walk out of the bus and wave goodbye. It is getting pretty late, so I should hurry. It is about 8:00 p.m. I walk to the house that is labeled 5443 and under it, it says Jones Family. The house is a pastel yellow with bright green bushes surrounding it, except for the porch and the concrete pathway. The porch is painted white and has a wood bench on it. I walk up to the door and knock. A beautiful lady with short dirty blonde hair answers. “Hi there, may I help you?” she sweetly greets me. “Hi, my name is Alexia, and are you Jamie?” I ask. “Jamie Jones?” “Yes, I am she,” she replies with a smile. “Well, um, I’m not sure how I’m going to say this, so I’m just going to go for it. But I am your daughter. You gave me up for adoption when I was a baby.” She looks at me with a shocked expression as the words spill out of my mouth. “Come in, come in,” she says. I walk in. It is actually a very big house. It smells like vanilla and has very simple but beautiful decorations. I sit down across from her. “So, what made you come here?” she asks. “I came here so I can have the reasoning on—” I get cut off by a little kid who looks about four years old. He has caramel brown hair and a Superman cape on. I smile at him and he seems very shy, so he runs back upstairs. I smile and continue. “I came here so I can have the reasoning on why you gave me up,” I say with a shaky voice. “Well, I am really sorry for doing that to you. But I gave you up

because I was so young. I was only seventeen. And, it wasn’t really a good time for me,” she says. “I am so sorry.” I feel bad. But kind of upset because she has another kid, for some reason, it just makes me feel unwanted. I begin to cry, but hide it away from her. “So, how about my dad?” I ask quietly. “We divorced about a year ago,” she says, looking down, not really wanting to talk about that topic. “Can I take you out to dinner?” “Sure, thank you.” We go to Red Robin’s and we start talking about life. She wants me to update her on my life. We stay there for about two hours, just talking and enjoying each other’s company. Her son is really sweet and very funny. When we are done she drives me back to her home. On the car ride there, I think about my mom. She doesn’t treat me that well, but I still love her. I wonder if she is thinking about me.

Shout Out: The Curse na Menera GRESHAM HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: JAMIE HOUGHTON

Here’s to the unbelievable; to the worst nightmare that has become reality. For giving me the ache of your attendance, May I never forget about your existence. Congratulations for making everything suffer, not just that small piece. From the sharp edge to the straight stick, it’ll try to bend, but only if it breaks. Cheers to the invisible resistance that causes the break Here’s to applying pressure to your wounds. Here’s to the sad, mad, or even rad But to me, it’s just the bad. Congratulations for making one’s life harder than it needs to be. Here’s to the gears that are rusted, unable to blend together, where is my oil?

The Fool Lily Cunningham MADISON HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: TURIYA AUTRY

The fool nervously fixed his tie. He tugged at the sleeve of his jacket and looked down at his shoes. Simple. His whole outfit was simple. Black jacket, white shirt, gray jeans, and worn shoes. His date wouldn’t mind. His date was blind. He could’ve shown up naked and his date wouldn’t have cared. He knocked on the door and listened as the locks turned and a chain clinked and the door swung open and he was met with a mouthwatering smell. Garlic, onions, cumin, what he assumed to be vanilla. “Right on time,” Kane smiled as he leaned in the doorway. “I brought wine...I hope red’s okay,” he held up the bottle. “Red will pair perfectly with the main course.” The fool smiled, more relieved, and stepped inside, standing out of the way as Kane closed the door, locking the locks and sliding the deadbolt into place. “Do excuse the mess,” Kane apologized as he led him upstairs to the apartment. He took in the pictures on the wall as they walked up the stairs. Each one held Kane with a different person or persons. Some male, some female, some held both male and female. “You are very photogenic,” he commented as they stepped into the apartment. He looked around at the modest decoration. A black leather couch with two red leather chairs and a glass coffee table between them. A large floor lamp on either side of the couch, bookshelves lining the walls and filled with different cookbooks and other sorts of literature. “Why thank you,” Kane smiled as he walked to the kitchen and set the bottle of wine on the counter. “Make yourself comfortable.” The fool nodded and sat down in one of the chairs, folding his hands in his lap and watching the other man move around the kitchen. “You have a record player?” he asked, a little surprised.

“Hmm? Oh yes,” Kane nodded and got down two glasses. “I like to listen to music while I cook. You can put something on if you like.” He stood up and walked over to the record player and kneeled down, browsing through the different records. Most seemed to be from the fifties. “You’re a fan of Elvis.” He carefully wiped it off and stood up, opened the lid of the record player and placed it in. “He is the King of Rock,” Kane smiled taking a few things out of the fridge and setting them on the counter. He selected a large sharp knife and set it down. “My mother loves Elvis,” the fool smiled, pressing play. “She has his collectable plates and everything.” “He was an inspiration,” Kane nodded checking the oven. “I was seven when he died, bawled my eyes out.” He blinked and glanced over. “You’re forty-five?” “You’re good at math,” Kane smiled. “And yes, I am forty-five as of a few weeks ago.” “Jeez…I thought you were twenty-eight…” “I take care of myself,” Kane shrugged. “I have to keep in shape if I want to keep up with you youngsters these days,” he teased. The fool smiled and turned up the volume on the record player as ‘You’re the Devil in Disguise’ began to fill the air. “Thirsty?” He looked over and found Kane holding out a glass of the wine to him. “Thanks.” He accepted the glass and followed the man over to the couch where they sat down. Kane let his arm drape around the younger male’s shoulder, his fingers resting on his arm lightly. The fool sipped some more of his wine, starting to feel a bit flushed and lightheaded. His vision began to blur a bit and he vaguely saw Kane tilting the rest of the glass up forcing him to drink more of the liquid that tasted oddly sweet as it went down his throat. The last thing he could coherently remember were fingers stroking the side of his throat gently as he lost consciousness. §

“I wonder who that could be,” Kane mused. He set his glass of water on the coffee table. He got up and walked down the steps to the front door, turned all the locks, and pulled open the door. “May I help you?” he asked. “I’m Officer Minkinly and this is Officer James. We’re sorry to disturb you, sir, but we were wondering if you’ve seen this man.” “I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. You’re talking to a blind man…” “Oh...we’re sorry to disturb you then.” “It’s quite alright, may I ask what the missing person’s name was? I may have ran into them possibly?” “Daniel Griffins. He was a columnist for the Willamette Times. He’s been missing for a week now,” the officer explained. “The name sounds vaguely familiar but I’m afraid I haven’t ‘seen’ them at any point.” “Thank you, sir, enjoy the rest of your day.” “You as well, officers,” Kane smiled politely and closed the door. He put the locks back in place and went upstairs to his apartment.

Gus Christian Langarica GRESHAM HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: APRICOT IRVING

Mourn it for a while Let the tears out, it’s ok Your heart is broken Just let it be It’s ok You’re crushed, why did he have to die! No one can replace him, he was your soulmate When you came into your house he was there When you were sad he was there When you were angry he was there When you were happy he was there He was there He was… Was Wagging his little brown tail Licking your face Stealing your leftover food Then running away from you Won’t stop moving because he is excited to go potty Don’t forget him

Everything On Fire Jessica Griepenburg GRANT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

I know the sky would be dark if it wasn’t on fire, but it’s so blindingly bright I can’t imagine it’s nighttime. The stars have been replaced by flying sparks. My fingertips are bleeding and my blue dress is staining; Momma is gonna be pissed. But Momma look: the sky is on fire. I watch as the trees flicker and waver and almost disappear, and my mind turns them into redhaired women, holding flames in their hands, whispering, giggling. I imagine they’re huddled together, telling each other scary stories of monsters that look like people, monsters that will tell lies so beautiful your understanding of the world will be clouded. Smoky wind is settling over everything, the air so thick that it’s almost impossible to see anything more than twenty feet away. My fingertips are still bleeding but I don’t mind. I’m too distracted by the sky. It’s on fire. I can imagine the way the flames look reflected in my dark eyes, the way Momma would shrink away from me like the way she did when I told her about the monsters under my bed and in my closet. I told her they were real and she looked so scared. Maybe I shouldn’t have. But I decided not to tell her about the ones in my head. Because I didn’t want her to be even more scared. The sky is on fire and so are the trees and I can almost feel the grass catching, too. I wish the monsters would come out. I wish the monsters would catch fire, too. But I don’t know how to get them out first. I’ve tried almost everything. My fingers are bleeding still and there are cuts on my hands and wrists. It’s getting all over my dress. Oh, poor Momma. Maybe I’ll clean it for her so she won’t have to be stressed out. Her hair is turning grey and there are wrinkles forming above her dark green eyes. I wonder if her hair would still be black if he was still here. I didn’t like him much but I know Momma did and maybe she would still be happy and not look so scared when I told her about my

monsters. I tried to make it better and I told her that my monsters come talk to me and keep me company at night but I’m not sure that helped. I told her that I’m not so lonely anymore because of the monsters because they follow me everywhere but I’m not sure that helped. The grass is on fire now. I wonder how fast it would have to travel before I counted to fifty. One… Two… Three… Yesterday Momma didn’t come get me after school even though it was Thursday and I have piano on Thursdays. She said there was traffic but I think she just forgot. It’s okay. She was dressed up all fancy with a lowcut red dress and more makeup than usual. Her hair was messy and she smelled funny when we got into the car. Like him but different. Musky, but at the same time perfume-y. My wrists are bleeding now, too. It’s kind of starting to hurt a little but I think it will be okay. The fire still isn’t close. Forty-eight… Forty nine… Fifty… Maybe the monsters will come out now? My dress is really stained. Doesn’t red and blue make purple? I guess not. I remember when Momma was laughing in her room. He was in there, too. She couldn’t stop giggling and sighing. I think they thought I was asleep, but my monsters and I sat on my bed and listened while they moved around. I’m getting tired. This is all very exhausting and the sky is so so bright. I’m not crying. I don’t do that anymore; it’s okay. I wonder if Momma can see the sky right now. It’s on fire and it’s so bright it’s hard to tell it’s nighttime. I want her to sit by me on the porch and look at the sky with me. My monsters aren’t here yet. I wonder where they are. Maybe I’ll go look in the bedroom; that’s where they hide when we play hidea ndgoseek. Maybe if I found them they would come sit on the porch with me. The redhaired women are waving to me now, reaching out with their fingers and grinning, beckoning. They look kind, much kinder and warmer and brighter than my monsters. The fire is much closer to my toes now. I wonder how long it will take the flames to get to my feet and crawl up my ankles. One… Two… Three… If I let the fire keep going it could reach the house and my monsters will finally go away. But what about Momma? My wrists won’t stop bleeding and they hurt. I’m okay, I’m not crying, but they hurt so much. The fire is getting closer.

Sixteen… Seventeen… Eighteen… The fire is licking my toes now and bounding up the porch steps. The redhaired women look a little worried. I want to tell them I’m okay but my wrists hurt and my dress isn’t blue anymore. My monsters are still hiding in my bedroom and if I count to fifty they’ll be gone. But Momma. She’s asleep. And she never hears me when I scream. Momma.

ose Claire Michaud WILSON HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: LISA EISENBERG

Untitled Gabriella Bongiorno ROOSEVELT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: EMIKO JEAN

I still remember that horrible day like it was yesterday. Two and a half years later, and the memories continue to linger in my head: the screech of the wheels trying to stop plays like a song on repeat, with the sight of Amanda’s car smashing against the other car and flipping over. That’s why I need to leave. My dad left a while ago, when Mom was too hurt to care about anything anymore. After the funeral for Amanda and Arianna, going home was hard. Their rooms, still in the condition they left them in. Eventually, I couldn’t take the constant renewal of memories every day. Before leaving, I made sure Emily and my mom had enough food to survive. Who knows what condition they are in now. I don’t think going back is an option anymore, but I have to make the unchanging goal to do exactly that. In LA, I have managed to get a job as a receptionist at the US Bank Tower. You could say it was a blessing. I live in a one-bedroom apartment with a fellow employee named Jessica. We both pay the expenses, so I don’t know what Jessica will do once I leave. I scraped up enough money to buy a Greyhound ticket that will take me three-fourths of the way there. At first, my plan was to leave and not look back, but that all changed with I started to picture Emily’s life without anyone to depend on but herself. The sickness I feel at the thought of Emily’s life ending because I left. My ticket says “Greyhound Bus Portland, OR 97201. 9:15 a.m. 5/24/16.” I already packed, ready for the upcoming week of leaving. When I was younger, my mom wouldn’t let me ride the bus, afraid of creepy people, creepy places. I stopped being afraid once I realized it wouldn’t help anything. These next few days are the hardest. I have thought about giving up and staying, but I am determined to get home. I guess “home” is LA

now. I lost the right to call that home when I left without explanation to my family. I won’t be surprised if they don’t forgive me, because I can’t even forgive myself. Reminder: 9:15 a.m., Greyhound, flashes on my phone screen, even though I already knew, my body feels numb, and I get a flush of anxiety. Will they let me stay? Are they still alive? I can’t help but ask myself these questions. Sleeping is the only thing I can do that will leave me worry-less, but that doesn’t change the fear I have to wake up tomorrow. To wake up each day.

Mafiosa Miroslav Lysak GRANT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

“How ya doin?” “I’m good Tony, how ’bout you?” “Doesn’t matter.” “So, Vladimir, what made a Russian want to join the Italians?” asked Tony. Vladimir rubbed his cheek slowly where his scar was. Thinking of what he could say. “Family, that’s why.” Tony was surprised by the answer. He shrugged and adjusted his position in the chair. He chuckled, “What does family mean to you!? You are just some Russian! You are alone in the streets looking for a job. Look at yourself! You look like a pig!” Vladimir stayed calm. Even though he was insulted deeply, he knew he would get Tony back. So he just stayed calm. He couldn’t back out on the mission that was assigned. Leaving would conclude in instant death. Either by the Italians, or by his own, the Russian Mafia. Vladimir slowly got on his knees. “Tony Luca Falzon! Please I beg of you! Let me join you! I am willing to do anything for this family, anything,” Vladimir cried. Tony narrowed his eyes; he has never had a man on his knees in front of him before, begging him for something. “Let me get a hold of Godfather,” Tony said. Several minutes passed and Tony returned. “Vladimir, stand, take this.” Tony handed him a large envelope which was a heavier than expected. “We will know you are part of this family after your first assignment.” Vladimir stayed quiet. Several hours later, Vladimir was in the back of a Mercury, dressed in all black, and a M1911 in his coat pocket. It was 12:56 p.m., a rainy night in New York City.

“You will be killing a man with the name of Alfonso Barbo.” The man in the driver’s seat handed Vladimir a picture of Alfonso. Alfonso was a big man. Huge! His bushy eyebrows, large jawline, big lips, flat head and big brown eyes made him look like someone who you would not mess with. But Vladimir was about to do just that. The driver adjusted his rearview mirror so that he could properly see Vladimir. “So, um, what made you want to be a part of the family business?” Vladimir made a second of eye contact with the driver. “That’s my business. How much longer until we arrive?” The driver spit out the window. “Not much longer.” The streets where getting narrower and narrower. This indicated that they were in the deep slums. The homeless looking for something in trash cans like stray dogs looking for food. The yelling of men and occasional gunshot followed by the police siren. Vladimir was starting to sweat. He was scared. He was almost regretting getting involved. “We’re here. Alfonso’s apartment building is right there.” The driver pointed to what looked like a rotten cucumber. “Third floor, room number fifty-six. I’ll wait for you outside. If I hear gunshots I am starting the car and waiting three minutes. If I don’t see you in exactly three minutes after the shots, I am gone. If I don’t hear anything and you have killed Alfonso quietly I will leave no matter what in twenty minutes. Once you open the apartment door your twenty minutes start.” The driver almost looked excited about this. “And promise me that the son of a bitch suffers!” “I will do my best,” Vladimir said. He took a deep breath. He told himself: Keep your mind warm and your heart cold. For the last time he checked if he still had his gun. Patting his pocket he felt the cold weapon press against his stomach. He didn’t like that feeling. Vladimir opened the car door, slowly got out, closed the door very quietly and walked quickly to the apartment building. The door was cracked open by a brick. He opened the door. The smell was absolutely horrifying. The smell of dead rats and mice, old rotten wood and animal feces, possibly even a dead body somewhere. Someone else walked in from behind him. A shorter old woman. In Vladimir’s astonishment she looked as if she didn’t even notice the

smell. She walked past not looking at him and started walking up the stairs. Her footsteps were soon gone and Vladimir went toward the elevator. He pressed the button going up, and the screeching of the elevator filled the apartment. It was worse than the smell because suddenly Vladimir forgot all about it. The elevator arrived and took forever to open up its doors. Finally, inside the elevator, Vladimir pressed the third floor and waited for the doors to close. “Wait, open the door!” a man said. Vladimir pressed the “open door” button and the doors stopped. Slowly the doors opened up and a tall large man walked in. Very large, too large. Vladimir almost coughed when he saw the bushy eyebrows, large jawline, big lips, flat head and big brown eyes. It was Alfonso Barbo. Alfonso walked very slowly into the elevator. As he took a step into the elevator, the elevator suddenly dropped several inches. He went over to the floor buttons. “What floor?” Alfonso asked “Thir— um, fifth,” Vladimir answered with a voice crack. Vladimir was scared out of his mind. Alfonso pressed the third and fifth floor buttons and waited for the doors to close. The whole way up Vladimir stared at the back of Alfonso’s head and listened to the screeching of the elevator. Vladimir put his hand in his coat pocket to check if the gun was still there. Vladimir unbuttoned his coat; it was getting very hot in the building. The elevator stopped and took much longer to open its doors. Alfonso walked out without looking at Vladimir. And the elevator jumped back up a few inches. Again the doors closed slowly and the elevator screeched up to the fifth floor. Vladimir looked at his watch. It was 1:09 a.m.. He had eleven minutes. He got out of the elevator and started to walk slowly down the stairs. The only thing the Italians didn’t know about Vladimir is that he has done this many times. He has held a gun at someone’s head and pulled the trigger before. He understood that he only did it for the money. While walking down the stairs he knew there would be no way

he could get into the apartment without making it loud. It was a risk because men like Alfonso probably have military-grade equipment in their home. Vladimir’s feet have hit the third floor. He looked around for room fifty-six. The number above the door was barely visible. But what was visible was that the door was wide open. “Inferno! Inferno! Inferno!” yelled Alfonso.“It is so hot every night! I must go complain now!” Vladimir quickly understood that Alfonso shortly would be leaving his room. He ran up the stairs as quickly as he could, but slipped on the first stair and slammed his shin into the corner of a stair. Vladimir managed a quick tear before continuing up the stairs. Alfonso ran out of his room and pressed the down button very hard. The screeching once again filled the apartment building. “Damn this elevator!” Alfonso said, slamming really hard with his fists against the elevator’s door. There was a sudden jerk and the elevator stopped running. Alfonso stood there with his mouth wide open. His ears went red, and so was did rest of his face. His rage was beyond measure. Alfonso’s right arm began to jerk. Then his left. His whole body started to jerk. Vladimir watched as the big man was having a seizure. Vladimir was going to take advantage of this. He quickly and quietly worked his way down the stairs. He pulled his gun out and fired three shots. Two to the chest and one to the head. Alfonso’s left side of his head burst like a rotten tomato. His brains and blood got all over Vladimir. Gross, did not smell good either. As Vladimir has done this before he knows the usual routine after the kill. He got out the bottle of rubbing alcohol and a handkerchief. With his left hand he held the gun with the handkerchief and with his right poured the alcohol all over the gun. As Vladimir ran down the stairs he could hear the locking of doors and barking of dogs. Floor four, floor three, floor two, floor one. The door was still cracked open by the brick. He rammed his shoulder into the metal door. He could see the Mercury several meters away from him. Tossing the gun over the car, Vladimir opened the door and jumped into the back seat. “GO! GO! GO!”

The driver didn’t move a muscle. Maybe he has fallen asleep. “GO!” Vladimir was yelling at the now dead body of the driver. Vladimir shook the driver; the driver tilted over towards him. Slowly blood started to ooze from the driver’s mouth. “Vladimir Ivanovich Lysak.” Vladimir stopped. The awfully familiar voice was coming from outside. Four men slowly approached the car. Vladimir could only see the outlines of the men. The driver’s door was opened. The dead driver was dragged out. In came a bulky man, as he sat down the car wiggled a bit. The passenger door opened, another man stepped in. Then both of the back doors were opened. “Scoot over,” one of the men said. Vladimir scooted to the middle of the backseat. Two men stepped in from the back and sat next to Vladimir. All four of the men closed the doors. “You really thought you could run from us, huh?” The man had a thick Russian accent. I’m dead, really dead.

elive Mara Mitchell MADISON HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: BETTINA DE LEÓN BARRERA

I am from the past Living in the memories of my childhood straining to remember the feeling of innocence, unknowing holding tight to the warm hands of those larger than me who create a path of success for my future I am from the endless world of a child’s imagination from nostalgic memories that many cherish never letting go, never forgetting

Guilty Conscience Quincy Sells LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: BYRON JOSE SUN

“Take only what needs to be taken” I told the white man, But he didn’t listen. He takes everything, He takes what isn’t his. “You cannot take away the animals” I told the white man, But he didn’t listen. He takes the buffalo, They scream for help as they are slaughtered. He takes the salmon, They beg for mercy as they are poisoned and trapped by the white man’s dams. He doesn’t only kill the animals, He takes the lives of Natives, Killing without reason. Take, take, take, That’s all he ever does. “Land cannot be owned” I told the white man, But he didn’t listen. He takes land that is not his, Land that has been home to the Native people for centuries. He pushes the Natives off their land, And just when you think he’s had enough, He comes back for more. Take, take, take, That’s all he ever does. “You cannot take away the freedom of the Native Americans” I told the white man, But he didn’t listen.

He took away their freedom, Something that wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t his to take. He confined them to reservations, Dooming them to poor, educationless lives. Leaving the Natives to drown in alcohol. The white man took away their animals, The white man took away their land, The white man took away their lives, And the white man took away their freedom. Take, take, take, Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s all he ever does.

Polka Dot Olivia Holah GRANT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

Part I Her dirty-blonde hair fluttered in the gentle breeze. She took short, quick steps as she hustled to get to school. Her foot pivoted as she turned the soft corner of the sidewalk. She looked both ways when crossing the street, just like her grandparents had told her. On the other side of the street, thick grass brushed against her arm. It lay uncut, unlike the other side of the street. Nobody dare lay a foot on the sidewalk, as it was “cursed.” The girl didn’t think much when she walked, and if she did, she planned her trip around the world. What country, city, and village she would visit. She says to me that someday she will travel the world. How she’ll be like Amelia Earhart, except she won’t die. Her name is Dot, like polka-dot, but she doesn’t like me calling her that. She says she’ll visit Taiwan and Paris. Someday. When she gets the money. Mum says she’ll never travel, that she’ll never get the money. But I believe in her. I walk behind her to school because she doesn’t let me walk next to her. “Stop him!” a voice cried out at the end of the street. We had just started our walk to school, like we do every morning. Dot swung her body around. Her blue eyes acted like lasers, as she pinpointed where the voice was coming from. A man came into the distance and a woman trailed soon behind. “Stop him!” the woman yelled again, this time louder. The details of the man’s face became clearer by the second. Scars seeping with blood covered his face. He carried a briefcase littered with stickers. Dot stood frozen behind me as the man ran past us. One of the stickers read, Porirua, New Zealand – “P-Town.” Still frozen to the ground we watched the woman run by us, getting quicker and quicker to hopefully catch the man. Dot flung her body back again towards the direction of school and kept walking. “You aren’t gonna call the police?” I asked her, even though I knew

I wasn’t supposed to talk to her. “No, why would I?” she retorted. “It isn’t my problem.” I didn’t know how to respond; she had locked the words in my mouth. “Did you see the stickers on his briefcase?” I said after a few moments thinking of a comeback. “Yeah,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to visit the places on his briefcase, but I don’t know how I’ll get there.” “I saw the Porirua sticker; it’s only an hour away, Dot. I bet I could get us there,” I said. This time I had picked up my pace so I was walking beside her. She gave me a skeptical look and then moved her head to look at her shoes. “How?” she mumbled. I knew she was happy on the inside, but she didn’t want to show it to me. “I dunno, maybe I could buy bus passes.” I knew I would have to buy the passes, knowing that her grandparents wouldn’t give her the money to go. “Okay,” she said with a slight bit of enthusiasm. “I’ll have the details by the end of today. Meet at the oak tree on the corner right when school gets out,” I told her. We both looked up from the ground, and in an instant when she saw her friends, she acted as if she didn’t know me. Part II I put my pencil in my bag and headed out the door of the classroom. “Good job today,” my art teacher, Ms. Pickins, called to me. I could barely make out what she said because the bell rang simultaneously, so I didn’t bother to turn around, instead I just gave a thumbs-up and I was on my way. I scooted towards the oak tree at the end of the street. I realized that Dot hadn’t gotten there yet, so I flung my backpack off my shoulder and sat at the base of the old tree. I started to get worried that she hadn’t actually heard me when ten minutes had passed and I decided to head home where I would probably find her on her porch, sitting on the steps like she always is. By the time I got home, my mum was already home also.

“She’s gone,” my mum said. “I told you she was trouble. They are looking for her right now.” “Who?” I declared. “You know, what’s-er-name, Dorothy—no…” “Dot?” I exclaimed. “Yeah, that’s-er-name,” my mom said. I threw my backpack off and ran out the door. I needed to find her. How could she disappear so fast? I thought to myself. I ran back to the oak tree, and there she was. She was fiddling with her fingers. She turned around suddenly. “Where have you been!” she yelled. “Where have you been?” I retorted. “Everybody is looking for you.” “I know.” she said. “I’m leaving for good. I can’t stand this town.” I turned and started walking away. I had tried so hard to be her friend and now she’s leaving me? “Fine,” I mumbled. “Stop!” she called out. It was too late. I had already moved on. I skipped my first two periods to buy the bus tickets. She kept yelling, but as I got farther away the less I could hear it. My mum was right, she was trouble.

Silence Colton ear GRESHAM HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: APRICOT IRVING

Silence is not who I am, It’s who I’ve become. Silence is only temporary, It doesn’t have to be me. Silence is what I chose, When I created this new life. It’s not who I used to be. I was the outgoing-joyful person, The one everyone knew and loved. Now I am silent, Nobody knows me. It’s who I choose to be, For now. But soon I will be myself again. I will not be the same, But I will be me. I may not be important now, But soon I will be a person who makes a difference.

ost Helen Tuttle ROOSEVELT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: LIN LUCAS

Grandma ulu Sheyko Palacios WILSON HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: AMY MINATO

What is death? Nobody definitely knows what is the afterlife. There are assumptions and thoughts of what might occur after we die. However, no one knows 100 percent what comes next. Therefore, for a child to acknowledge, and to even understand what death is like is unimaginable. Once, my grandma had cancer. I was nine at the time. Currently, she is fighting cancer once again. I do not think she will survive. My parents are away. They are in the land of opportunity, waiting for my sibling to be born. I doubt they are going to arrive on time to say goodbye. My other grandma, my brother, and I are heading to Lulu’s house to see my grandma. We have to take the subway. It is extremely crowded, so many people. They smell funny; kind of not well cooked. My legs are aching. I want to sit down. Uuff...so nice, finally off the subway. Too bad she lives so far. We have to take a bus now, such a long way, and I’m hoping my parents get here on time. We are finally here. Everyone is sad. I wonder where Grandma is. We walk upstairs. We are a couple feet away from her bedroom. The tension starts to build up. My temples start feeling pressure. We enter the room. She is just laying on her bed. She looks yellowish. My aunt tells me, “She can still hear you.” So I whisper in her ear, “Hey, Grandma, we are going to watch a movie like we always do. Everything is going to be alright.” Sincerely, everything will not be alright. I know her time has to come. Tears start bursting down my cheeks. My brother begins talking to her. When he is finished, we go downstairs. My godmother arrives. When she enters, she is panicking. It’s notorious. She is moving throughout the house; she is a wild beast

roaring, “Lulu, Lulu, Lulu!” She is startling everyone in the house. She is making Grandma glum. Everyone in the house weeps. I guess my godmother cannot process it straight. My grandma has died. My parents did not arrive on time to say goodbye. When my parents arrive with my just-born baby brother, they only find my grandma’s dead body. My grandma never met her youngest grandson who is my younger brother. My dad’s pain is visible through his eyes. My mama is crying too. I wish my grandma could have seen me turn ten. My birthday is in a couple weeks. Right now it does not seem to matter much. I mean I’m just a kid, or that is all I’m ever told.

Paralyzes Kelley Bastin GRESHAM HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: APRICOT IRVING

You are driving down the freeway. Three lanes of traffic surround your moving vehicle. Your knees are crammed up against the dashboard to give your mother’s legs more room to jump around. She has to sit in the back because you can’t stomach when dogs throw up. The smell of dog vomit is a deadly snake slithering across the car seats. You are thinking only of the smell when all of a sudden you feel it— the weight of the trailer that your father is hauling push you forward, beginning to slide the car sideways. The sound of the brakes and scratching of metal against metal makes your ears want to bleed. The truck tips as you begin to roll. Your mouth opens wide, letting out the fear that still terrorizes you to this day. Your eyes never shut; you see your father to your left, sitting behind the driver’s wheel, banging around the cabin. His body goes limp like a rag doll. The roll becomes a slow-motion picture. Your life flashes before your eyes, thousands and thousands of images all come flooding back, as if to shelter you from the impact of the roll. Dust and glass obscure your vision as you are swept away by your thoughts. Your mind is trying to take you somewhere else, yet you can still see, hear, smell, and taste all that is happening around you as the car flips over and rolls across the ground. Your vehicle comes to an abrupt stop, landing you luckily upright. What felt like thousands of hours only lasted two minutes. You are paralyzed by fear; your mind does not want you to believe that you just experienced your first car crash. But what takes your breath away and paralyzes you is when you look in the back seat. Your mom, thank god, is still conscious and moving. But then your heart drops, your eyes open wide, because there behind you is an empty place where both of your dogs are absent. The dogs are gone. Your father is bleeding from his head, most of his skin ripped away;

your stomach churns. When the ambulance arrives, it can only take two passengers. You begin to realize that you are the head of the family now, with your father badly injured and your mom in hysteria, your drive and will of protection for your family kicks in and you decide to let your mom and dad go in the ambulance, reassuring them you will be fine. You have now taken on the responsibility of protecting your family, caring for your family, and giving your family all that you have. It is your pure will, strength, faith, and hope that moves you through this horrific accident. You love your family and nothing will deter you from that path.

We Meet gain Ellie Parshley WILSON HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: AMY MINATO

The engine stopped as the airplane pulled up to the gate. My heart raced. As far as I knew, I would get to see my mom after one year of not seeing her. I thought to myself of all the possibilities of what it would be like when I finally saw my mom. What if she doesn’t recognize me? What if she gets scared because she doesn’t know who I am? What if? All these thoughts raced through my mind as I was walking toward the baggage claim. Before I knew it, all my thoughts, my feelings, my sanity left my body as I reached for my bag and swung it off of the conveyer belt. I spotted two people waving in my direction. Thinking they were waving to people behind me, I turned around and no one was there. At that moment I realized that they were waving to me. Once I finally figured out who they were, I gained a huge smile on my face; it was my aunt and uncle. I stepped into the car and buckled the seatbelt, then I heard, “We are going to pick up your mom to stay with us for a little while.” Another smile appeared on my face, but on the inside my heart suddenly sank and my heartbeat started to speed up again. We had reached the place where my mom is staying. I slowly but confidently walked into the building. My mom was meeting us in the lobby to greet us so we could go up to her apartment to grab her stuff for her stay with us. As I watched her appear around the corner, she had an expectant look on her face, then a blank stare after spotting me. It felt like I had been with her all this time. I said, “Mom.” I heard no response. I kept saying, “Mom, Mom, Mom.” For what felt like an eternity, and still no answer. I thought I was lied to about my mom remembering who I was. I got my hopes up just to see them fly away from my loving heart. After looking at a blank and clueless face, it finally lit up like a light that had been out, finally

shining. I loved that my mom finally remembered who I was, but I didn’t like how the only way she could truly express her feelings was through physical contact. My aunt pulled me to the side once we had reached their home. She whispered, “Ellie, just let your mom do what she needs to do to express her feelings. She cannot communicate through speaking; the only way is through touch.” I hesitated but said, “Okay.” Why did this have to happen? Why her out of everyone in the world? Why the youngest out of the five siblings? Why couldn’t I have spent more time with her? Why did she have to leave me at a time I needed her most? Why? I don’t know when or if I’ll ever have the answers to these questions.

Swastika For A Shield Kainoa Kaio BENSON HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: SERENA CRAWFORD

At the start of World War II, many issues were given out to all, not just the Jewish people. I was fifteen when the whole thing started and I felt worried, more for myself, because the age for entering the military was dropping. From the age of ten I thought that everyone was raised right, but sadly I was corrected when my older brother was killed in action on a scouting patrol. When my brother died, my head filled with a million and more questions on why or who, and I still have no answer to a single one. Enough of that; like my mom always said: “The past was then, do now to make a better later.” Ever since I could speak all I wanted to do was lead or even be a public speaker and tell people about what was going on. But like I said before, the past is then. Today I walked a few blocks down to the market, and instead of coming home, I saw this beautiful girl with long straight blonde hair and blue eyes like mine. I of course wanted to talk to her, so I did. “Hello, I haven’t seen you before, new in town?” She replied with a hushed “yes” and a nod. “I would like to welcome you to Lübeck, want to walk and talk?” She walked down from her front steps and said, “Let’s go.” As we walked, I was interested in her necklace and its star shape on it; it looked like two triangles that got tangled. “What does that star mean on your necklace?” She looked down in a panic and tucked it in her dress. “Whoa, what was the panic for; I thought it looked beautiful on you.” She then looked at me with a cute smile and we started laughing. We got to my house and I invited her in to have supper. Once we were inside, she looked around and I think she felt welcome. We ate and talked and my parents liked her too, so tomorrow I am going to go to her house and meet her family. “Oh sorry, we have been talking for so long and I never asked for

your name; I am Hans and this is my mother Olga and father Ernest, and you are?” “Elouise but my family calls me Eli.” Then I walked her home and dropped her off, but before we split, she said she had a secret for me and told me not to tell a soul on Earth. I agreed. “I...I am Jewish.” As soon as she said that I panicked for her safety and got her inside her house. “How did you get into Lübeck, let alone Germany!?” “I was taken in by a nice German couple who wants this war to end for the betterment of everyone.” “What do you think is gonna happen when the police find out!?” “They won’t, because I trust you.” After she said that all I could think to say was “I love you.” Once I did, we hugged and promised to protect the secret and each other. A few days passed, and Eli and I kept in touch. We tried to make sure that she was hidden, which was hard being a new member of the local police force. It took two days for me to be signed into the force with no say in yes or no. The worst part was I couldn’t see Eli the whole day for five days a week and every second I felt scared for her. It took two weeks of planning for us to leave Germany to a safe place to live the rest of our lives together. Once we were ready, I said bye to my family and told them I was leaving to America. I had about an hour to leave before they would call the police, so I cut the phone line and barricaded all the doors. Eli and I headed to the boat through the night’s darkness to make sure that we could get past the sentry towers. Before we saw the boat, we saw two guards on patrol. “Hey you two! Halt!” We ran down to the shore where we had a hidden boat with her parents ready to leave. It was hidden in a wall with a door covered in vines to disguise in from plain sight. We ran into the door and slammed it shut, but I held the door closed to make sure the guards could not get in. Eli hopped into the boat and said, “Come on!” “I can’t hold them back and guarantee our freedom, Eli, go now before it’s too late!” The boat left and Eli cried “Hans!”

I guess I became weak kneed and got the door knocked in on me; one guard rushed in and tackled me to the ground. The second guard came in and missed two rounds at Eli, but his third one didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t miss and the reason I knew even though it was foggy and getting darker is because the gun wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t aimed at Eli. It was aimed at me.

The Hero Benjamin Cora WILSON HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: LISA EISENBERG

Tell It ike It Is Zoe Beyler GRANT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

You weren’t completely secretive about it. I could tell. I could tell when you came to lunch and just sat against the wall, your earbuds in, responding half heartedly. I could tell when I saw your phone conversation. “We’re okay.” That usually means you’re not. And you were always stressed. You were always busy. Always doing work for Student Gov., which I know you loved, but having no time for anything else was killing you. You never had time to run, to play, to read, to write. You got an average of four hours a night, and it showed. We could all tell during the day how tired you were. I could tell how tired you were. We all worried. I worried. But you wouldn’t talk to me. You would talk with Emma, and you would talk with Michael. Emma would always be typing away, sending messages downstairs to you during class. When given the choice, she would always talk to you, and you to her, and I would be left alone, standing, listening.

There were other people around you too you know. I would always have talked with you. But you didn’t. I know time is selfish, but you were its slave. You didn’t make time for anything else. You stayed busy, and you stayed sad and tired. And that’s probably why you left. You took Emma and Michael with you. And you left me behind. You three were always close. Sometimes I felt like I was just as close, but then Emma would start texting you, or would leave during class to meet you in the hall, not even thinking of me. Then you three would walk in front, and I would trail behind, trying to keep up with you and with the conversation. Then the three of you would lie to me About where you were going, What you were doing. I could tell. Then, even though I would always wait, would always patiently stand there, wait for any of you, Emma would leave without me because she was distracted, texting you. You three didn’t include me though it sometimes seemed like it. And maybe if you hadn’t you would still be here. Or maybe you wouldn’t have left me behind.

Two Paths ose ie ROOSEVELT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: EMIKO JEAN

In our region, the Pentagon, there’s only one thing I need. The human race is divided up in five groups: one city for each group of people. The Spades, our neighbor to the East, are as civil as the rest. There’s nothing I want from the neighboring cities. The Hearts are to the West, nothing there, but where the sun sets. The Diamonds lay in the far Southwest. The remaining Clubs, Southeast. What I want can’t be obtained from others. I want my acknowledgement and that cannot be obtained in the North. My home, the Joker’s City, Skylight. It’s sad really; we can never get what we desire the most. My obstacle is a big wall. A big, clear, white wall. It’s so clear I see myself, my reflection, that’s my obstacle: myself. It was four o’clock, a few hours until dawn. I never knew I could be so cold in the summer; the stealthy coldness creeps in the air making me restless and irritated by every passing moment. No one was awake. The city is still asleep. The faint buzzing was the soothing lullaby. To me, it was an alarm clock. Growing annoyed, I went to the mirror to wear my choker. The glass key was pinned on perfectly still, reminding me not to give up. I can unlock anything if I tried, right? It might even unlock my fear of being unable to express myself. Insects on the other hand… I’m sure I’ll live hating them as long as I live. I threw my lock in my bag. It’s the lock that came with the key. I don’t know why I carry that lock myself. Probably, I never had the courage to unlock it. It’s a resemblance to my heart. With my bag over my shoulder, I plan on heading out. I remember to keep my retractable sword at my side always. I looked at my room before locking it. I should clean it up later, crumpled papers of failed plans litter the floor. As I came down the stairs, portraits of my family stared at me. My eyes stopped at my younger brother, only six months younger than me.

We’re both seventeen. Strangely, he looks older. Since I was a girl, I couldn’t do the same things my brother does. I hate rules. He was to inherit Joker City as the next ruler. It should’ve been me. We grew distant from the time we learned that. Days passed without notice. I was invisible to the world. I’ve been here and there, just to learn the cruel ways of this world. The Pentagon region is strict and controlled. It’s normal for killing rates to skyrocket. Thieves spread out the land. Police brutally accuse people because they are different. As a ruler, my parents do nothing. I want their attention, but it doesn’t get better when I try. It gets worse. They even put me in the Summer Tournament. The Summer Tournament is the only festival where everyone in the Pentagon can come and cross the line. It’s a rigged competition where competitors fight their fated opponent. Only one makes it out alive. The loser is as good as dead. I dropped to my knees, hyperventilating. “Ace of the Jokers,” the announcer repeats. My hands didn’t want to move. “Ace of Jokers and Queen of Jokers?” I widen my eyes. Out of all people why did it have to be my brother!? A hand ruffles through my hair. “Why aren’t you going, Sis?” “Why are you asking me?” I should run away. “This isn’t a game. This shouldn’t be treated like one. Why aren’t you going?” “Oh, I need to tell you something.” “Which is?” “Whoever you choose to kill, make sure it’s worth it.” I was lost in the dark. What was he saying? “Why are you telling me this?” My voice was shaky. Anyone could tell I’ll lose to Cean. “Well I figured out your problem. The rules of the Pentagon are the source of everything. The rulers are psychopaths and the same goes for Mom and Dad, they want you dead.” Cean brings up a gun from his holster. “There’s seven bullets in here.” “I don’t want to know.” I covered my ears, cringing. “I will kill you. Understand that if you play defense.” I don’t understand Cean’s intention. We both walk side by side to the arena. My eyes searched for my

parents. I caught them having a conversation with the other rulers. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Both contestants are here,â&#x20AC;? the announcer says. There was nothing I longed for besides my family welcoming me with open arms. Was it because I was a girl? Or was it because rules are rules? Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve seen enough to know how terrible living this lifestyle is. My purpose was to gain respect, not anything else.

Beach Sam Habenicht GRANT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

When we first moved here I was new to the ocean and the rocky beaches of Washington. Every day was gray as it could be; the water was gray, the sky was gray, and especially the rocks. The rocks looked ancient with barnacles and other sea life attached to them as always. Besides the baldness of day-to-day life I go to the docks and look down and see the crabs and the snails moving about on the sandy ocean floor. The crabs were as large as dinner plates because crabbing season hasn’t started yet. But it starts in a month when summer starts. Summer in gray Washington is amazing; the skies finally turn blue instead of rock gray and the water turns into a beautiful dark blue. But the most interesting thing is the tides—the tides go far out and you can walk into what was an ocean only hours ago. Summer begins and I walk into the low tide and explore. I walk far. I see a boulder taller than I am; it was shaped like a small hut with seaweed as thatch. I walk around it examining it but I couldn’t see the back because it was next to the water. But the back has a crater or something indented into it, like a door. I got home hours later. The sun was beginning to set with purple and orange trailing with it. As I got up the old oak porch and opened the red door I saw my brothers watching TV. I headed into the bathroom to wash off my feet from the orange seaweed and sand. After washing my feet I headed to the living room and sat on the white leather couch hearing it squeak. I adjusted myself and begin to watch TV. But there was nothing on the TV at all. Just black. I turned around and looked at my brothers sitting next to me, but they were gone. I stood up instantly in shock; I looked everywhere but they were actually gone! But the weird thing is that I didn’t care at all. I was so at peace with it, being all alone. After a couple hours I got to sleep. When sleeping I saw a white goose in the mist. The goose flew on top of the rock that had the

door, and the goose started to turn dark green and sunk into the damp seaweed on top of this boulder. I got out of bed instantly, and got dressed as fast as I could. I ran down the stairs and turned right around the hallway and flew out the door. I stopped at the porch and stared. The sky was a light purple like the purple during a sunset. And the tide was completely out; there was no sign water ever being there. I walked into the empty ocean in curiosity seeing the rocks scattered everywhere. It looked like a field but there was larger rock in the middle of this rocky field. But the rock looked like the one from my dream and it had a white goose on it too. Walking to it, there was beginning to be a sharp ringing in my ears. Trying to ignore it I finally reached the rock hut. Going around to the back there was a door made out of bleached driftwood all bound together by an old rope. When I opened the door the ringing in my ears stopped. And I saw a light a bright light.

It Is What It Is Devyn Yocom WILSON HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: AMY MINATO

It was a misty morning my mom and I were driving home from the store. The population in this small town that we lived in, Sherwood, was about 18,000 people. Not very big, everyone knows everyone. My house was visible from the street we were on, and because my mom was so familiar with the area I guess she wasn’t driving as cautiously as she should have. We heard her phone ring and immediately we looked down at her phone that lay in the cup holder. At that moment we were in the middle of a four-way intersection where the cross streets had stop signs, but not us—we were driving straight. We hadn’t realized that there was a pedestrian crossing the street and this is why we crashed. There was a car that was driving in front of us and I guess they thought we saw them going straight. We rammed into the side of their car. SLAM! I squeezed my eyes shut, afraid of what would be there when I opened them. Adrenaline raced through my veins; all I could see was black. As soon as I could start to breath again I remember my mom and I exchanging glances with wide eyes unsure if what just happened was real life. My mom frantically asked if I was okay, making sure I wasn’t injured. Then reality hit and she knew she was in trouble. We both got out of the car and every direction I turned, gray clouds reflected off of the shiny bits of glass that surrounded my feet. The man that was driving ahead of us began approaching us with an appalled look. First he asked us if we were okay, then my mom quickly cut him off and yelled under her breath that was exhausted from crying, “This is not my fault! He was jaywalking!” The pedestrian was siding with the man we crashed into, and this made my mom furious. I could tell she was fearful because this was not her first accident. The cops showed up and started asking questions, being the eleven-

year-old I was at the time, I was scared out of my mind. “What’s your story about the accident?” the cop questioned me. “The pedestrian jaywalked across the busy road and it caught my mom off guard; that’s why we crashed.” I was terrified; all I remember was being very shaken up and not really knowing what to do. My mom finally talked the cop into letting us go home, considering we were nearly there already. However, my mom was not off the hook. He gave her a ticket and the man that was driving and my mom exchanged insurance information. I remember the empathetic look he gave my mom and I; I could tell he felt sorry for us. “It is what it is.” My mom and I got in the car and drove home.

Passion Alexia Wa GRESHAM HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: JAMIE HOUGHTON

Caring, loving, passionate for my happiness You make my world go round You make my sad days happy And make my happy days happier Loyal, hopeful, invested in our forever You make me a happy human And for that I could never Thank you enough

Karma Zoë Shaw GRANT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

“Then The Sun will rise in all Her glory, and She will strike down all who have not been faithful in her absence. She will bless those who have sought forgiveness, and She will bless Her loyal followers with her Beams of Sunlight. She will—” “Bullshit! You’re making that up. The Sun ain’t real, just a myth. Everybody knows that,” some ignorant kid yells from the dense mob of ruffians huddled in the back of the concrete cafetorium. “She is as real as you or me, and She will return once we have all pleaded forgiveness for our sins. And She will bless us, and we will blossom like trees in Her radiance and—” “Yeah? Well trees ain’t real either you ol’ fool.” The callow outbursts sting, and Eddie falls silent and glares with hurt pride at the insolent group which houses the perpetrator; their eyes have fallen to the floor faster than any so-called tree could hit the dirt. Out of the tight mob, one greasy young man stares defiantly at Eddie with muddy brown, unworthy eyes, his thin lips curling up into a sneer. Minutes pass as Eddie stands stiff as a rod at his prestigious podium from where he has preached for over eight decades, while his listeners have slowly dwindled until the only ones remaining are those waiting for their morning rations. But his empowering speeches on how their great country of Acacia will rise from where it has fallen once The Sun returns from Her century-long absence; his addresses of how, united and cleansed of their sins, they will finally feel The Sun’s blessing on their skin and be able to see for yards without the help of torches or lamps; and his sermons honoring The Sun and preaching forgiveness so that She will return all fall on deaf ears. Eddie huffs and extinguishes the lamp at his side, sending the decrepit stage into complete darkness as he shuffles outside, kicking

up sand as he goes. He slams the door behind him, unwilling to waste the last of his precious days on those who do not crave Her forgiveness. “I’ll show ‘em,” he mutters, his voice lisping as it does when he is not preaching. He flails around in the dark as he searches for the rope that will show him the way home from his sacred church. “When they see the Sun, they’ll know. I’ll show ‘em all.” He catches hold of the frayed rope and starts his long slog home, feet flapping in their paper-thin sandals and spraying sand yards in every direction. “I’ll show ‘em. I’ll show ‘em. I’ll show ‘em,” Eddie chants his mantra, using it to ignite what little strength is left in him in an attempt to make it home before the workday starts yet again. He peers up at the sky, neck arching to make up for the crook in his spine, the result of house of looking for The Sun, pleading with Her to show Her face. For miles and miles he marches on, all the time glaring up at the sky in defiance, daring The Sun to face him. Pleading with Her to appear because Eddie needs to see Her. He needs to know he has been forgiven before his imminent demise. “I’ll show ‘em. I’ll show ‘em. I’ll show ‘em…” He had seen Her once before. He was the only one who ever had, and no one believed him. Steadying himself on his rope, he closes his eyes and remembers the feeling. The heat on his face and arms and chest, like he was sitting next to a fire mere feet away. The blinding brightness and brilliance. Eddie yearns for the fantastic crisp shadow that could have stalked him, keeping him company during long toils like this. He aches to feel The Sun’s touch once again and he almost envies those who have never felt Her blessing. They do not know what they are missing, while She is all he can think about. Every lamp and torch he lays eyes on makes him wretched with grief. Every time the harsh cold grips and lashes out at him with its icy fingers, it is all he can do to not cry out and beg The Sun for Her forgiveness for what he did to cause Her disappearance. “I’ll show ‘em. I’ll show ‘em. I’ll show ‘em…” Hours and hours spin by and soon Eddie lets go of the rope and wanders off into the desert, away from the safety of the ropes, the persecution, and disbelief of his people. His head is still up, searching the empty sky for any sign of Her light, Her forgiveness. “I’ll show ‘em. I’ll show ‘em. I’ll show ‘em…” His rasping trails away,

his lips coated with the sand that has begun to fly into the air, bringing shape and form to the wind that guides the sharp grains. The beat of his new words mirror his steps as he continues on, praying, begging, groveling for the forgiveness he needs to rest in peace. Eddieâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s frail silhouette is lost to the world as the sandstorm picks up, shattering his words to bits with its howling and screaming. The sun dawns the next day, piercing the expansive darkness, and gifting hope with its sacrosanct rays for the first time in one hundred years. The sands glitter and scintillate with its miraculous light, dispelling the shadows that had loomed over the despondent residents. With angelic grace the sun eradicates fear and worry in the hearts of mankind as it gracefully ascends toward the peak of the heavens, encompassing the whole world in its vast halo. Tears streak down faces, faces turn up in reverence and thanks, extolling the sun for its serendipitous return. The sun dawns that next day, giving birth to a new golden age of prosperity, on Eddieâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cold, oblivious body.

My Passion: Soccer uke Wilson GRANT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

“Success is no accident. It is hard work, perseverance, learning, studying, sacrifice and most of all, love of what you are doing or learning to do.” Pele, a soccer player that is considered a legend by many of famous players and coaches. I’ve played soccer for eleven years now and have no regret playing. I don’t play because I’m forced to or because if I go pro I’ll get money; I play for the enjoyment of the game and the hard work. My life would be boring without soccer. To me, soccer is a joy, an escape from reality, and a tradition celebrated from every ethnicity around the world. I hope I never lose the love I had for soccer when I first started to play as a youngster. As I’ve grown older, I have not just loved and enjoyed it more, since I have been playing it a whole lot my skills have improved. You may have heard the quote, “Practice makes perfect.” They left out that perfect practice makes perfect. If you practice yet develop a bad habit, your game can drop and so can your foot skills. Just practicing with your club team isn’t enough training; you have to always practice on your own. Some basic routines I do on my own include push-ups, situps, and jumping jacks. To get the most out of those workouts, you have to repeatedly do them until your body aches in pain. It should feel like you’re giving birth to ten babies and they’re all the shape of a watermelon. I started practicing on my own without a coach’s advice because of my love for the beautiful game. I love the feeling you get when you score a goal or when you assist a goal. That rush of anxiety and enjoyment is part of the reason why soccer is a humongous part of my life. Even if you’re not making goals or assisting, you can still make a difference with your work ethic and your mindset. If you come out on the pitch with a negative mindset, then your chances of losing just got greater. If you come out on the pitch with a positive mindset, you get that confidence and believe that you will win, that’s when you start winning. My parents are the main reason why I have progressed so far in my soccer career. They put hard work and dedication to drive me out to

training sessions and pay for additional coaching. They sacrifice their time for mine to make me happy and help pursue my dreams of becoming a professional soccer player. Since my parents are always by my side, I have gotten better at my confidence, foot skills, and leadership. It’s truly a blessing to have my mom and dad in my life supporting me through my own journey and pursuit. “Don’t just do your best and stop; keep doing your best, keep pushing yourself. That’s what makes it possible to realize a dream.” Shunsuke Nakamura (a professional Japanese soccer player) said as he talked to children in Japan at a soccer camp. To be honest, I do not remember a time when I haven’t had soccer on my mind. Soccer has been on my mind since I was three years old. I remember when I was three, watching Spain in the World Cup finals on the television and thinking to myself, “I want to be like them when I grow up.” Most people take soccer personally when they get kicked in the leg. I sure hope they don’t take it personally, getting kicked in the shin usually happens by accident. If you accidentally hurt someone you still have to keep on being aggressive and don’t let it get to you mentally. After the game, shake their hands and tell them you’re sorry and you will be all set. On the pitch and off the pitch are two entirely different things. When you’re on the pitch every crisis that is on your mind is off your mind. You forgot about all the drama going around you and just play soccer. Like Zac Efron from High School Musical once said in a team huddle before their huge basketball game, “You gotta get your head in the game, you gotta, you gotta, you gotta get your head in the game.” If I end up going professional in my soccer career, I plan to play in Japan. While I play in Japan, my dad will move with me and make a pancake restaurant. Pancake restaurants are a rare sight to see in Japan because mostly foreigners only know how to make them taste delicious. After I retire from soccer I plan to spend my money on traveling around the world and go sightseeing.

The $20 Question Ben Fox GRANT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

Which important historical figure should be displayed on our beloved 20 dollar bill? It’s been a hard fought conf lict ever since president Andrew Jackson, the current face of the bill, was discovered to be a darker man then once believed. He was a murderer of thousands of innocent Native Americans. This of course brings into question his spot on the twenty-dollar bill or if he should even be considered a significant part of our nation’s past. Putting this evidence into the picture, it is certain that he should at least be removed from our money. There are many candidates for the honor of being on the twentydollar bill from Martin Luther King, Jr. to an important army vet that has fought and/or died for our country. There are many great options, but which one is the best choice to represent our country? To me, our greatest candidate is Martin Luther King, Jr., who was an important African American civil rights activist from the 1940s through the 1960s. Since he was such an important historical figure, there is no question that he should be at least considered an alternative to Jackson on our important money daily. If a white president who was a terrible and vicious murderer was fine to put on the twenty-dollar bill, wouldn’t it be better to have someone that actually helped develop our country into the strong nation it is today? We need to include important black men who have pushed for what they believe is right and changed the world we live in. Without Martin Luther King, Jr. influencing our lives, this world would be something entirely different, likely much more racially divided than it is today A good alternative person to replace president Jackson is Harriet Tubman who is an extremely accomplished black woman from the 1800s who fought for the abolishment of slavery. She would be the first EVER black American and woman chosen to represent our money. For a woman and an African American to be on our money would be a huge accomplishment for feminists and other people who care about our nation. Harriet was a spy for America and helped thousands of African

Americans escape slavery. She and Martin Luther King Jr both deserve to represent America by being on the twenty-dollar bill. I believe sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s well fit for the job because of her important accomplishments, and the fact that she is a powerful black female should be recognized more in our history. This is no small conflict, it could be debated for decades. But is it really such a big deal? Should we even change it? It would cost the U.S. hundreds of millions of dollars, if not billions, to make the transition between faces while only succeeding in changing a picture on a piece of paper. To have a Indian killer representing our country is crazy and a terrible way for foreigners to perceive our country. There are so many strong options that could be on the bill, including another great idea, a war hero. The best thing for our country would to have an African American vet that has put his life on the line to save his country instead of another white man. Our vets go through hell and back to save our country, and they should be known for it. Can you imagine how tough it would be to watch comrades get killed? It would be absolutely horrifying and they should get lots of credit for getting our country to where it is today. In the end, there are many possible candidates and lots of good solutions but I, personally, favor one over the others. Martin Luther King Jr. is the most influential person in our history because of how he radically changed the way we think about race and changed the lives of millions of black people. Having a first woman on a bill,and it being Harriet Tubman would be a turning point for our country but, like some people, I feel are better choices than others. I understand other points of views on people representing our important bill but, we should see the face of an influential man instead of a killer, a person that goes by the name of Martin Luther King, Jr.

Darkness For A Day Janet Bedolla ROOSEVELT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: LIN LUCAS

Self apture Sam Kaul BENSON HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: SERENA CRAWFORD

I was in the same routine as everyone else. The same systematic equation many mistake for “life.” Wake up at the crack of dawn, with bags as big as plums. Maybe, if my thoughts don’t rob me of my hunger, I’ll grab breakfast before I drag myself to the office that I’ve sold my soul to. As sick as I feel each morning, waking before the sun is up, it’s my favorite time of day. It’s the purest time of day. No mindless bullshit to pollute my perception of what is actually real. From the second I walk out of my apartment door and enter my car, I have submerged into my day as the same zombie everybody else lives as. I was driving to work. What is my motivation? Money. Same as everybody else. For most that will suffice. Life to them, making a living, is measured by a piece of paper and some round, fancy scraps of metal. Ah, here I am, in the dark institution they call All State Life Insurance. I call it Life Destruction. I walk inside, as always, through the back door. That way I can cross off two people, the security guard and receptionist, from my “do not interact with” list. It’s not that I dislike them; I have love for all; I just dislike their egos. When I say ego, I mean the persona that 90 percent of the people on this Earth try to portray, speaking to others, in hopes of being represented as better than they truly are. I knew my “avoid the world” mentality would come to an end. It does every day. This time as Kurt walked up to greet me at the office, he confidently and clearly spoke a few sentences. In English. I didn’t really understand him but I smiled, said, “Yup, you know how it is,” then kept walking. That was the easiest and most valid response when talking to zombies. A while ago I started reading the energy behind words as opposed to constructing an understanding based off the definition of the words themselves. This is a very useful skill most can’t even comprehend. For every creed of people there is a language. While all the languages vary in meaning from place to place, they all carry the same energy when

arranged in the similar structure of meaning. With this skill, I’m usually clueless of the actually meaning of the words being said, but do understand what is being said. I walked past a few more of my co-workers, carrying out the same routine as Kurt. I reached my desk but I didn’t feel like working. I didn’t feel like living “life” in this form today. So I didn’t. I closed my eyes and let go of everything. All emotions, all personals, egos, every illusion I was dealing with. I heard screaming. As I opened my eyes I saw Kristina, from customer service shaking my “dead” body. As my spirit became one with the world, I became liberated. I was no longer trapped in a human controller. I was free.

Not All Heroes Wear Suits Taegan Snyder WILSON HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: LISA EISENBERG

Imperfection Is Perfect Kaitlyn Kingsella CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: A.M. O’MALLEY

I make mistakes I mess up I color outside the lines I rip pages out I erase things I get some things wrong some things aren’t perfect but that’s OKAY!

Writers in the Schools Writers-in-Residence 2015-2016 Turiya Autry’s work incorporates the arts, pop culture, and history with personal, community, and political struggles. Turiya has provided performances, workshops, panels, and keynotes to over 20 colleges throughout the country, as well as hundreds of community venues. Her poetry collection, Roots, Reality, & Rhyme, is a poetic journey that bridges the personal and political, the mythic and the real. Alex Behr is a writer and teacher who has played in bands for about 25 years. Her work has appeared in Utne Reader, Oregon Humanities, Salon, Tin House, and Bitch. She’s also written children’s material for Disney and National Geographic, among others. She’s performed comedy based on her teenage diaries on the East and West Coasts through “Mortified.” Cooper Lee Bombardier is a writer and visual artist based in Portland, Oregon. His writing has appeared in various publications, including CutBank, Original Plumbing, Unshod Quills, Cavalcade, Lambda Literary Review, and The Rumpus; and several anthologies, most recently Sister Spit: Writing, Rants and Reminiscence from the Road, from City Lights Books. A veteran of the original Sister Spit tours, he has performed and exhibited art nationally. He holds a master’s degree in writing/book publishing and an MFA in creative writing from Portland State University, where he also teaches writing. Arthur Bradford is an O Henry Award-winning writer, Emmynominated filmmaker, and Moth GrandSLAM winner. He is the author of the books Dogwalker, Benny’s Brigade, Turtleface, a 2016 Oregon Book Award finalist. He directed the “How’s your News?” documentary series for HBO and MTV and also the film Six Days to Air, about the making of South Park, for Comedy Central. He’s currently shooting a feature documentary about Matt Stone and Trey Parker, the creators of South Park and the musical The Book of Mormon. He lives in Portland and works part-time at a juvenile detention facility.

Trevino Brings Plenty is a poet and musician. He is singer/songwriter/ guitarist for the musical ensemble Ballads of Larry Drake. He has performed his work at poetry festivals as far away as Amman, Jordan. In college, Trevino studied with Primus St. John and Henry Carlile for poetry, Tomas Svoboda for music composition, and Jerry Hahn for Jazz guitar. Trevino is an American and Native American, a Lakota Indian born on the Cheyenne River Sioux Reservation in South Dakota. Some of his work explores the American Indian identity in American culture and how it has, through genealogical history, affected indigenous peoples in the 21st Century. He also writes about urban Indian life. His books include Wakpá Wana i, Ghost River, Real Indian Junk Jewelry, and Shedding Skins: Four Sioux Poets. Serena Crawford has received a National Endowment for the Arts Creative Writing Fellowship and an Oregon Literary Fellowship. Her story collection, Here Among Strangers (University of Washington Press 2016) won the Spokane Prize for Short Fiction. She has taught creative writing at the University of Portland and the University of Oregon. Lisa Eisenberg is a cartoonist and illustrator. Her comics have been published at TheNib.com and in a number of anthologies, including Papercutter, Love in All Forms: The Big Book of Growing Up Queer, and The Strumpet. Since 2008 she has self-published the print and webcomic series I Cut My Hair, a collection of fiction and nonfiction comics. She also works as a teaching artist with Young Audiences, Caldera, and The Right Brain Initiative. Lisa is currently at work on a graphic novel about middle school. Elyse Fenton is the author of the poetry collections, Clamor, winner of the 2010 Dylan Thomas Prize and Sweet Insurgent (Saturnalia 2017), winner of the Alice Fay di Castagnola Prize. Her work has been published in The New York Times, Best New Poets, American Poetry Review, Pleiades, Brain,Child, and Prairie Schooner, and has been featured on NPR’s All Things Considered and PRI’s The World. She has worked in the woods, on farms and in schools in Texas, New England, Mongolia, and the Pacific Northwest and lives with her family in Portland. James Gendron is the author of Sexual Boat (Sex Boats) and the chapbook Money Poems. He was born in Portland, Maine, and lives in Portland, Oregon, where he teaches writing at PSU. 90

Jonathan Hill is a cartoonist and illustrator. His first graphic novel, Americus, a collaboration with M.K. Reed, has garnered a handful of accolades including YALSA 2012 Best Graphic Novel for Teens Nominee, ABC New Voices 2011 Title, Graphic Novel Reporter Best of 2011, and the 2012 Carla Cohen Free Speech Award. He currently freelances, teaches comics classes at the Oregon College of Art and Craft, and is working on two new graphic novels and a children’s book. Jamie Houghton is a poet, musician, and performer who has been teaching creative writing to youth and adults in a diverse range of educational settings for years. Her poetry has been featured online at High Desert Journal, Folly, La Fovea, torches n’ pitchforks, qarrtsiluni, and Abramelin and she has performed in poetry slams throughout the country. She is the book reviewer for High Desert Journal and received a Fellowship Residency at Playa Arts in the fall of 2014. She is currently working on a chapbook-length poetry collection called Feed the Animals. Apricot Anderson Irving has taught writing in MFA programs, on a semester abroad in the UK, and in Indonesia. She worked with youth and elders in North Portland to create the Boise Voices Oral History Project, and her writing has been featured on This American Life as well as in Granta, Oregon Humanities, MORE Magazine, and The Best Women’s Travel Writing. She is the grateful recipient of a Rona Jaffe Writer’s Award and a Literary Arts Fellowship. A memoir about her childhood in Haiti is forthcoming from Simon & Schuster. Emiko Jean is a Young Adult author. Her debut novel, We’ll Never Be Apart, was published by Harcourt in October 2015. She just finished her second novel, tentatively titled If You Leave Me. She is represented by Erin Harris at Folio Literary Management. When she’s not writing, she’s reading. She lives in Vancouver, Washington with her husband and very large dog and loves the rain. Ramiza Koya’s fiction and nonfiction have appeared in publications such as Washington Square Review, Lumina, and Catamaran, and she has been a fellow at both MacDowell Colony and Blue Mountain Center. She has both a BA and an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College, and has taught in Spain, the Czech Republic, and Morocco. In addition to teaching composition courses, she also works as a freelance writer and editor. She is currently an adjunct instructor at Portland Community College. 91

Bettina de León Barrera is a joyful, bilingual writer born in Los Angeles, California of Guatemalan descent whose writing stems from a natural inclination to transform words into meaningful exchanges. In addition to being a community activist, she is a Graduate of UC Berkeley and attended graduate studies at St. Mary’s College in Moraga and Mills College in Oakland, CA. Her poetry recently appeared in New American Writing and was chosen as a finalist for the Boston Review 2014 Discovery contest. Lin Lucas is a multi-disciplinary artist whose artistic explorations span performance, literary, and visual mediums. His comics and illustrations have appeared in Seattle’s weekly paper, The Stranger, Top Shelf Comics anthologies, the Xeric Award-winning Two-Fisted Science, The Psychology of Race, and the French anthology Le Dernier Neurone. Lin is currently working on the development of a graphic novel series for young adults. “The Black Flame Society,” a short story based on the upcoming series, was published in 2014. Lin serves as an Arts Integration Coach for the Right Brain Initiative and is a Washington state certified teacher. Amy Minato is author of a memoir, Siesta Lane, published in 2009 and a poetry collection, The Wider Lens, published in 2004. Her poetry has appeared in Wilderness Magazine, Poetry East, Windfall, Cimarron Review, and The Oregonian Poetry Corner, and has been recognized with a 2003 Oregon Literary Fellowship. She teaches creative writing independently and through Fishtrap, Breitenbush, Sitka, and Opal Creek, as well as a community service course at Portland State University in sustainable living. Laura Moulton is the founder of Street Books, a bicycle-powered mobile library that serves people who live outside in Portland, Oregon. She has taught writing in public schools, prisons, and teen shelters, and is an adjunct professor at Marylhurst University and Lewis & Clark College. Her social art practice projects have involved postal workers, immigrants, prisoners and students. She earned an MFA from Eastern Washington University. A. M. O’Malley has been writing, making zines, and publishing on various planes since 1994. She has recently been published in The Newer York, Poor Claudia, Phenome, UnShod Quills, The Burnside Review, and The

Portland Review. Her chapbook of memoir-prose poems, What to Expect When You’re Expecting Something Else, was published in 2015. O’Malley teaches writing at the Columbia River Correctional Institution and at Portland Community College. She is also the Program Director of the Independent Publishing Resource Center, a literary arts and zine resource nonprofit in Portland, Oregon.

Mark Pomeroy is the author of The Brightwood Stillness. He has received an Oregon Literary Fellowship for fiction and a residency at Caldera Arts. His short stories, poems, and essays have appeared in Open Spaces, The Wordstock 10, Portland Magazine, The Oregonian, and What Teaching Means: Stories from America’s Classrooms. A former classroom teacher, he holds an MA in English Education from Teachers College, Columbia University, where he was a Fellow in Teaching. He lives with his family in northeast Portland. Joanna Rose is the author of the award-winning novel Little Miss Strange (PNBA Fiction Prize). Other work has appeared in numerous literary journals. Her story “A Good Crack and Break” is in the new Forest Avenue Press anthology, The Rain, and the Night, and the River, and an essay, “The Thing with Feathers” (Oregon Humanities) was listed as a Notable in 2015 Best American Essays. She is known to readers of the Oregonian as a reviewer on the books page and contributor to Poet’s Corner. She started out with the Dangerous Writers oh so many years ago, and now she and her teaching partner Stevan Allred host the regular Pinewood Table prose critique group. byroN José sun has an MFA in bilingual creative writing from the University of Texas at El Paso. His mission is to use creativity to promote a vision of humanity, compassion, sacrifice, courage, and justice by exploring life in both violence and nonviolence. He strongly believes the writer mustn’t try to replace the world with a less violent version, but rather present it as it is, to force people to feel and think of their place in the world. For a moment, he wants the reader to suspend their reality, their own perspective—”to send them spinning in a different direction so they can experience the things I have seen firsthand.” Jessica Tyner Mehta is the author of The Last Exotic Petting Zoo and What Makes an Always. She is the founder of MehtaFor, a writing

company serving a variety of clients, including Fortune 500 enterprises and major media outlets. As a member of the Cherokee Nation, Jessica offers complimentary writing and editing services through her company to Native American students as well as nonprofits based in the Pacific Northwest and/or serving Native communities. She received her Master’s in Writing from Portland State University and established The Jessica Tyner Scholarship Fund for students with a Native American connection pursuing an advanced degree in writing or a related field.

Matt Zrebski is a multi-award-winning playwright, composer, script consultant, teaching artist, and producer-director whose career has been defined by new play development. As an artistic director, he mounted over 40 world premieres, and has had several of his plays produced, including Texting the Sun, 1 ½, Big Sis, and Ablaze. As the Resident Teaching Artist at Portland Center Stage, he teaches playwriting through Visions and Voices, and is on staff for Acting Academy at Oregon Children’s Theatre. Zrebski holds a BFA in Theatre from the Meadows School of the Arts at Southern Methodist University.

Index Benson High School Garcia-Torres, Ryan 16 Kaio, Kainoa 59 Kaul, Sam 82

Madison High School Calabrese, Juliann 21 Cunningham, Lily 29 Mitchell, Mara 45

Cleveland High School Kingsella, Kaitlyn 87

Roosevelt High School Bedolla, Janet 80 Black, Melinda 15 Bongiorno, Gabriella 38 Tuttle, Helen 52 Vie, Rose 65

Franklin High School Yam, Isabella 22 Grant High School Beyler, Zoe 63 Edwards, Claire 13 Fox, Ben 78 Griepenburg, Jessica 33 Habenicht, Sam 68 Holah, Olivia 48 Lysak, Miroslav 40 Shaw, ZoĂŤ 73 Wilson, Luke 76

Wilson High School Cora, Benjamin 62 Michaud, Claire 36 Palacios, Sheyko 53 Parshley, Ellie 57 Snyder, Taegan 84 Yocom, Devyn 70

Gresham High School Bastin, Kelley 55 Langarica, Christian 32 Lear, Colton 51 Menera, Ana 28 Wa, Alexia 72 Lincoln High School Baillie, Haila-Rose 19 Sells, Quincy 46

WITS Support 2015-16

Autzen Foundation

Broadway Books

Mike R. Barr

Susan & Michael BurmeisterBrown

Kim Bissell

Peggy Busick

The Bloomfield Family Foundation

Amy Carlsen Kohnstamm

The Boeing Company

Jan Christensen

Bora Architects

The Collins Foundation

Tom & Kristen Boothe

Ginnie Cooper

David & Denise Corey Marian & Neale Creamer Amy Donohue & Paul McKean Theodore & Nancy Downes-Le Guin Mark & Ann Edlen Joan Fondell Dean & Alison Freed Bob Geddes Gretchen Grey-Hatton Philip S. Harper Foundation The Bill Healy Foundation

Harold & Arlene Schnitzer CARE Foundation Susan Dee Schnitzer Family Fund of The Oregon Community Foundation Shirley Skidmore Kaarin & Van Smith Herbert A. Templeton Foundation Victor Trelawny Trust Management Services, LLC U.S. Bancorp Foundation Eric Wallace & Kristi Wallace Knight

Irwin Foundation

Nicholas and Kristin Walrod Fund of the Oregon Community Foundation

Susheela Jayapal

Joe Walsh & Miriam Sontz

Kinder Morgan Foundation Stacy Lewis

Dan Wieden & Priscilla Bernard Wieden

Phillip M. Margolin

Tom & Marcia Wood

Carol Mayer-Reed & Michael Reed

Dr. Candace Young

The Holzman Foundation, Inc.

Richard Meeker & Ellen Rosenblum Brenda L. Meltebeke & Scott K. Stuart Multnomah County Cultural Coalition The Nara Fund Jan Oliva Amy Prosenjak & Steven Guy Hilary Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Hollaren Jon Raymond

& many more generous donors including 139 Portland Arts & Lectures subscribers who, together with NW Natural, raised over $20,000 to Send Students to the Schnitz.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& Wr i t e r s i n t h e S c h o o l s 2 0 1 5 - 2 0 1 6 &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& St u d e n t C h a p b o o k &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& The core of the Youth Programs of Literary Arts is Writers in the Schools &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& (WITS), a program of semester-long residencies taught by local &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& professional poets, graphic novelists, and fiction and nonfiction writers &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& who model and share their disciplined creative writing practices with &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& high school students. Each residency is uniquely designed to support, &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& deepen, and extend existing curriculum. &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& In 2015-16, WITS placed 25 local, professional writers in 43 classrooms &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& at Portland public high schools and alternative programs. These writers &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& worked with 1,101 students who wrote, revised, edited, and performed &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& their own creative writing. This chapbook, along with the anthology &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& Casually Bringing Monsoons, is a showcase of their poems, fiction, &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& creative nonfiction, and comics. &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& Literary Arts is a statewide nonprofit organization whose mission is &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& to engage readers, support writers, and inspire the next generation &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& with great literature. For more information about WITS and the other &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& programs of Literary Arts, visit Literary-arts.org or stop by our center &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& at 925 SW Washington. &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& “After working with a professional writer, I am able to &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& write like never before. It changed my life.” &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& —Benson High School student &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& "WITS definitely inspired me to write more on my own &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& and has encouraged me to dig deeper in all parts of &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& writing!" &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& —Madison High School student &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&