2012-13 WITS Chapbook Vol. 1

VOICES

WITS Digital Chapbooks 2012-2013 Vol. I

VOICES Vol. I

VOICES 2012-2013 Digital Chapbooks Vol. I Copyright 2013 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 Jenny Chu Lydah DeBin Susan Denning Jennifer Gurney Mary Rechner Evan P. Schneider Mel Wells

WITS Interns

Acacia Blackwell Eleanor Piper

Board Of Directors

Susheela Jayapal, Chair Betsy Amster Rick Comandich Alice Cuprill-Comas Rebecca DeCesaro Theo Downes-Le Guin Marie Eckert Robert Geddes Pamela Smith Hill Amy Carlsen Kohnstamm Frank Langfitt John Meadows Jessica Mozeico-Blair

Amy Prosenjak James Reinhart Barry Sanders Jacqueline Willingham Thomas Wood

Strunk & White Society

An honorary society of distinguished advisors Gwyneth Booth Bart Eberwein Brian Gard Diana Gerding Molly Gloss Carrie Hoops Ursula K. Le Guin Barry Lopez Julie Mancini Brenda Meltebeke Diane Ponti Michael Powell Halle Sadle Steven Taylor Steve Wynne

Digital Chapbooks Staff

Editors: Mel Wells Designer: Rebekah Volinsky Writers in the Schools is a program of Literary Arts, a community-based nonprofit literary organization whose mission is to support writers, engage readers, and inspire the next generation with great literature. For more information please contact:

Literary Arts 925 SW Washington St. Portland, OR 97205 503.227.2583 www.literary-arts.org

Contents

Writers in the Schools Support Introduction Moose

Francie Smith-Korn

A Shoe

Michaela Cenac

The My Lai Massacre Peter Mazhnikov

The Silhouette Allie Mills

Act 3, Scene 4

Tanner Worrell

On Forging a Healthy Home Joey Lopez

Caged Bird

Yen-Nhi Nguyen

Things Aren’t Always What They Seem Taz

vii ix xiii

15 17 19 21 23 25 31

Eliza Henderson

33

Caroline Williams

35

Liquid Heaven: The Ode to Chocolate Milk Alyssa Ridenour

Instead of Talking …

Guirena Santa Cruz

A Place to Remember Maya Date

Window and Bird Haidee Vangen

Looking Back

Ingemar Hagen-Keith

37 39 41 43 45

Elements

Emma Kather

Two Tankas

Alaina Lester

Defining Detail Tristan Poole

Hamlet Gone Crazy Russel Dee Smith

A Lost Child

Diana Lira-Hernandez

The Fight

Patrick Fox

Colors: Wings

Katherine E. Bergquist

It

49 51 53 55 57 67

Anonymous 69

Black and White Hannah Henjun

Pretending

Megan Ha

A Forgiven Sinner Ten

47

71 73

Cynthia Brundege

77

Ana Canseco-Spiers

79

Remember?

Krystal Shillingford

Inside the Black Silk Envelope Hallie Blashfield

Just Like The Rest Muriah Murray

Bike Gang

Junior Sanchez

Free Me Please Susan Vang

Victoria

Rukia Hussein

Learning From Darkness Shanon Crawford

I Remember

Jocelyn Guzman

Chem Class

Alexandra Pidwerbecki

Cold War

Sami Osman

81 83 85 87 89 91 93 95 97 99

Struggles

Sami Osman

Scary Movie

Safia Salah

Ice Cream Shop

Gigi Downey, Marguerite Newton

Writers in the Schools

101 103 105 107

Writers In The Schools

Writers-In-Residence

Carl Adamshick, Lorraine Bahr, Carmen Bernier-Grand, Chuck Carlise, Lisa Rosalie Eisenberg, Elyse Fenton, Amanda Gersh, Cindy Williams GutiĂŠrrez, Javier Hernandez, Jonathan Hill, Hunt Holman, John Isaacson, Sara Jaffe, Ramiza Koya, Jennifer Lauck, Amy Minato, Laura Moulton, Mark Pomeroy, Ismet Prcic, Joseph Rogers, Desmond Spann, Matt Zrebski

Visiting Authors

Sherman Alexie, Nikky Finney, Stephen Greenblatt, Javier Hernandez, Anis Mojgani, Jeffrey Toobin

Participating Teachers

Amy Ambrosio, Gene Brunak, Sandra Childs, JoAnna Coleman, Stephanie D’Cruz, Jerry Eaton, Jennifer Edelson, Bianca Espinosa, Lise Flores, Stefanie Goldbloom, John Golden, Ben Grosscup, Jordan Gutierner, Emily Hensley, David Hillis, Cindy Irby, Tom Kane, Stephen Lambert, Dylan Leeman, Barb Macon, Darryl Miles, Irene Montano, Steve Naganuma, Amanda-Jane Nelson, Michele Potestio, Mary Rodeback, Alicia Smith, Kris Spurlock, Norman Stremming, Dana Vinger, Virginia Warfield, Elisa Wong, Tracey Wyatt

Participating Principals

Petra Callin, Carol Campbell, Peyton Chapman, Brian Chatard, Kelli Clark, Paul Cook, Shay James, A.J. Morrison, Vivian Orlen, Macarre Traynham, Charlene Williams

District Liaison Melissa Goff

Support The following individuals, businesses and foundations made Writers in the Schools a success in 2012-2013:

Sponsors

Lisa C. Alan Carole Alexander Sally & John Anderson Anonymous Ray & Jean Auel Cari Bacon Flick Bill Bagnall & Clayton Lloyd Kimberly Bakken LinaBeth Barber Rosemary Barrett Tom & Molly Bartlett Kim Batcheller Dianne Bocci Diane Boly Boora Architects Tom & Kristen Boothe

Gloria Borg Olds Nancy & Roderick Boutin Evie Brim Kathleen Bristow Richard L. Brown Richard T. Brown & Ruth Robbins Peggy Busick Karyle Butcher Petra Callin Claire Carder Victoria Carey Doris Carlsen Amy Carlsen Kohnstamm & Kevin Kohnstamm Christine Carr Elizabeth Carter & Cary Sneider Santha Cassell Nicole Castonguay Brent & Barbara Chalmers Peyton Chapman Clark & Susan Chipman Jan A. Christensen Joan Cirillo & Roger Cooke Olivia Clark & Dennis Mulvihill Ava Jan Clements The Collins Foundation Rick Comandich & Maya Muir Anne Conway Mary Louise & W. Bruce Cook Deborah & Jim Coonan Tom & Barbara Cooney David & Denise Corey Neale & Marian Creamer Alice Cuprill-Comas & Richard M. Short Eloise Damrosch Michael E. Davalt Cheryl & John Dawson Charles H. Deaver Rebecca & Michael DeCesaro

Becky Denham, M.D. Susan & Michael Denning Loree A. Devery & Robert J. Trachtenberg Margaret Dey David & Julie Dietzler Terrence Dolan & Catherine Blosser Theodore & Nancy Downes-Le Guin Anne Draper Veronica Duczek Paul & Francesca Duden Carol Duncan Justin Dune & Carol Sanders Jo J. Durand Heidi W. Durrow & Darryl Wash Broadway Books Ann P. Edlen Tina Edlund & Sydney Edlund-Jermain Sheila Edwards-Lienhart Sue & Ed Einowski Nancy Ellis Susan Elmer Ann & Ron Emmerson Et Fille Wines Laura Evans Kendra & David Farris Jeanette Feldhousen Myron Filene Stephanie Fine First Tech Federal Credit Union Nancy Fishman Liz Fitzpatrick Ellen Fortin & Michael Tingley Frederica Frager Jacqueline Frank Holley & Richard Franklin Richard Frantz Julie Frantz Terri Freeman Marilynn Friley The Heathman Hotel Bob Geddes Janice Geier Diana Gerding Jane Glazer Barbara Hall Philip S. Harper Foundation Virginia Harris Scott Bianca Hart Susan Hathaway-Marxer & Larry Marxer

Jane Heisler Betsy Henning Edward & Leah Hershey Nancy Hogarth The Holzman Foundation, Inc Terri & Robert Hopkins Mary Jo Hurley & Lynn Miller Kurt Hutton & Melissa Burch Irwin Foundation Paul & Jane Jacobsen Shay James Susheela Jayapal & Brad Miller Brita Johnson & Allen Poole Grant & Elaine Jones Lisa Jordan & Judith George Elizabeth S. Joseph Juan Young Trust Marjorie Kafoury Diane Kendall Anne Kepner Kate Kilberg Kinder Morgan Foundation Marianne King Margaret King Barbara Kingsolver Tamara & Ronald Kizziar Knowledge Universe Susan & Rick Koe Cathy Koerner BettyLou Koffel Jon & Karen Kruse Laurie LaBathe Tracy Laidley James Lain Maude Lamont Susan Lane Frank Langfitt & Mary Janet Steen Linda Larsen-Wheatley Irwin Lavenberg Ursula & Charles Le Guin Graeme & Martha Leggatt Kirsten & Christopher Leonard Shannon Leonetti Jane & Robert Lightell Anne Lipsitz Melissa Maag Kathryn Madison & Jeffrey Wertz Phillip M. Margolin Carolyn & Thomas Marieb

Linda Marshall Mary Martinez Robert Matheson Carol Mayer-Reed & Michael Reed Monique McCLean & Lars Topelmann William & Susan McConnell Pete McDowell Brad & Julie McMurchie John Meadows & Libby Barber Brenda L. Meltebeke & Scott K. Stuart Rob & Kate Melton David & Debbie Menashe Toinette & Victor Menashe Anne Mendel & Mark Henry Courtney L. Mersereau Dr. Elizabeth & Dr. Brock Metcalf Ruth & Arnold Metz Lora & Jim Meyer Kelly Middleton James F. & Marion L. Miller Foundation Deidra Miner Fern Momyer Douglas & Candace Morgan Connie Morgan Margaret Morton Mona Mozeico Jessica Mozeico-Blair & Jordan Blair Multnomah County Cultural Coalition V. Annette Murphy The Nara Fund Elizabeth Neely Joanne Nehler Tom & Chris Neilsen Jennifer Neilson Johanna Nelson & James Bohem Amy Nist Katherine O'Neil & Toby Graff Jan & Steve Oliva Carol Olwell Irja Orav Mary Oschwald Jo Ellen Osterlind Pacific Northwest Law, LLP Ellen Payne Bonnie Peterson Andie Petkus Photography Nita Pettigrew Nancy Phillips Heather Pinney & George Penk

David Pollock Nancy & Dick Ponzi Portland Monthly Amy Prosenjak Michael & Alisa Pyszka Wendy Rahm Bonnie & Peter Reagan Leslie Rennie-Hill & Ken Hill Michelle Reynolds Rae Richen Robin Roberts & John L Backes Rosemarie Rosenfeld Ruth Roth Halle & Rick Sadle Janet Goetze Sanderson Harold & Arlene Schnitzer CARE Foundation Donna Kay Schreiner Anne Scott Sue Sell Norm & Barbara Sepenuk Natalie & Joel Serber Gail Shaloum Manya Shapiro Martha Sharman Stephen & Micky Shields R. Philip & Barbara Silver Lori Singer Shirley A. Skidmore & Ronald E. Quant Kaarin & Van Smith Marjorie M. Smith Shauna Smith Merri Souther Wyatt Barbara Spence Jean Stadamire The Standard Dennis & Ann Stenzel Katherine Stevens Lee Stewart & Chris Sherry Sharon Stewart Micah D. Stolowitz & Shauna Krieger Patricia & Marvin Straughan Greg & Martha Struxness Roslyn & Donald Sutherland Target Herbert A. Templeton Foundation Macarre Traynham Victor Trelawny Elizabeth Tsao U.S. Bancorp Foundation

U.S. Bancorp Foundation, Employee Matching Gifts Ann & Tom Usher Karen Van Vleck Alice Vaux Julie & Ted Vigeland Carolyn Vinton Nancy Walker Kristi Wallace Knight & Eric Wallace Anne Warner Emma Lee & John Weibel Wessinger Foundation Dara Wilk Carolyn Williams Charlene Williams Dr. Diane Williams Janet Williamson Jackie & William Willingham Christina & Reed Wilson Norma L. Winemiller Lynn & Paulette Wittwer Jeff & Lynn Wolfstone Tom & Marcia Wood Steven E. Wynne & Deborah J. Hewitt Linda M. Wysong Dr. Candace Young Morton & Audrey Zalutsky

Community Partners

Annie Bloom’s Books Bipartisan Café Broadway Books Girasole Pizza Glimmer Train Lewis & Clark College Multnomah County Library Oregon Public Broadcasting Portland Art Museum Powell’s Books Reed College Tabor Space Tin House University of Oregon Wordstock Workshop for Teen Artists + Writers at Marylhurst University

Introduction

Dear Reader, The Writers in the Schools program has been serving Portland’s public high school students with creative writing residencies since 1996. In recent years we’ve begun providing additional literary experiences for students off campus. To learn more about Students to the Schnitz, Verselandia! and our College Essay Mentoring Project, go to www.literary-arts.org/wits-home/projects.

Last year, 1,124 students participated in semester-long writing residencies taught by local, professional writers during the school day at 11 of the city’s public high schools. Poets, playwrights, journalists, fiction writers, memoirists, and graphic novelists modeled the disciplined passion of a creative life in 44 classrooms.

Residencies were planned to deepen existing curricula, and designed to meet state and national standards for the arts and language arts.

During the residencies, students wrote, revised, edited, and had the opportunity to publish their writing in our print and digital anthologies. Many also shared their work throughout the city, thanks to our community partners: Annie Bloom’s Books, BiPartisan Café, Bluehour Restaurant, Broadway Books, Girasole Pizza, Portland Art Museum, Powell’s Books, and Tabor Space.

You’ll find the three volumes of digital chapbooks brimming with moments both heroic and intimate.

I’d like to thank our editor Mel Wells, Literary Arts’ Program Coordinator, along with WITS interns Ellie Piper, a student in the Portland State University MFA program, and Hannah Femling, a student at St. Olaf College. Our digital chapbooks are beautiful due to the work of design intern Rebekah Volinsky; thank you!

A vast cadre of writers, teachers, librarians, principals, interns, volunteers, and community supporters makes our work with youth successful. If you would like to contribute to our efforts, please visit our website where you will find more information on how to give.

Mary Rechner Writers in the Schools Program Director

Lincoln High School

Where Moose hides his bone. In the clearing in the woods by a hill, a mile behind the house I was born in, moved away from to greener pastures in search of a different life, and returned four years later armed with “life experience,” and “higher education.” Bullshit. I learned more from watching my father work. Pen gliding over paper on a desk piled high with forgotten drafts and stacks of inspiration. Unopened bottle of White-Out correction fluid. A “World’s Best Dad” coffee mug filled to the brim with over-steeped tea. I’d sit there watching him work, watching him write, determined to follow in his footsteps and create.

But then I grew up, and moved on. Down highways. Past rundown buildings. Under telephone wires with pairs of ratty sneakers, abandoned, hanging down from them like dead birds. Merging into the living.

Changing, evolving. Cars on a track, constantly turning left, at a speed both exhilarating and terrifying. I drove to someplace new, in search of something I didn’t know. But then I came back and found a place so different from what it was, yet exactly what I remembered.

Sitting on the grass, in a clearing in the woods by a hill, where Moose and I used to run. Sticks flying through the air, 110 pounds of black lab tearing after them, all four legs lifting away from the ground, warm tongue flopping out the side of his mouth. He rarely caught it. He lacked the mouth-eye coordination necessary for such a task, but he tried. He always tried.

I didn’t plan on coming back. I made a different, new, life. Away from the monotonous landscape of a small town. I didn’t think I ever would. But then the phone call, and the tears, and the remembering of moments passed. And the realization that a lifelong friend, a creature who grew up with me, is no more. I collapse on the ground next to his grave and try to remember everything. Every second of every moment.

I look back up to the house. The porch light is on. Through the attic window I see Dad working, writing.

A picture of the three of us on the wall next to him. I can’t make out the details, but I’m guessing it’s of that time we went camping at the beach. Moose’s nose tangled in my hair. I think he was trying to eat my ear. Dad must have gotten it framed while I was gone.

I search through my bag.

The pen feels cool against my hand. The paper is blank.

I start to write. In the clearing in the woods by a hill, where Moose hid his bone, and where he remains.

Joe Rogers

Moose Francie Smith-Korn

15

Lincoln High School

Weathered by time Leather is cracked Aged by traditional dances Colors fade Beads and feathers Lost forever These slip-ons Make impressions on the earth Time is wrinkled In the shoe In the shoe Time is wrinkled Making impressions on the earth These slip-ons Lost forever Beads and feathers Colors fade Aged by traditional dances Leather is cracked Weathered by time

Cindy Williams-GutiĂŠrrez

A Shoe Michaela Cenac

17

Franklin High School

Lisa Eisenberg

The My Lai Massacre Peter Mazhnikov

19

Open Meadow High School

Rain falls upon my face as I look up at the gray sky To my right my friends walk farther away, leaving me alone To my left I see a door to a house. In the window stands the black outline of a person.

“Who are you?” I ask “Who am I? I am the silhouette of the bus stop!”

My hair is drenched separating into fat coils; I brush them out of my face.

“How can a shadow own a bus stop? You’re nothing but a shadow.”

“I’m a silhouette, thank you,” it hissed “The silhouette of Reno & Lombard,” it proudly claims “I own this bus stop! Now answer my question, who are you?”

The silhouette climbs out of its window to the outside wall of the blue house That sits next to my bus I look up at the gray grim sky once again Then look back at the shadow figure I’m nearly nothing but a sixteen-year-old girl, but does it know that?

I cough to clear my throat, my stomach feels nauseous.

“You may be the owner of this bus stop, but I’m the queen of the world!”

I lied through my teeth.

“Really!?” the silhouette asked “No way! Our world?! This world?”

“Indeed so,” I lie again “My majesty, I’m so very sorry for my rudeness! I had no clue!”

The bus pulls up to my stop, splashing muddy water over my shoes.

My eyes glance to my left again; the silhouette has disappeared I step on the bus.

As I take my seat I notice the silhouette has sewed itself to the bottom of my cold damp shoes.

Elyse Fenton

The Silhouette Allie Mills

21

Roosevelt High School

Jonathan Hill

Act 3, Scene 4 Tanner Worrell

23

Alliance High School @ Meek

CHARACTERS WILL CAMBELL: 16 years old, dating a transboy named Gio. Will is fiercely defensive of his friends, his boyfriend and his own safety.

SPENCER CAMBELL: Will’s older brother who is enrolled in college in town. 21 years old, tall.

ANNIE CAMBELL: Will and Spencer’s mother. Middle-aged woman, small voice.

RAY CAMBELL: Will and Spencer’s father, Annie’s husband. A working man with a receding hairline and an upbeat attitude.

BO: The family dog, adopted shortly after Spencer moved out. He is an outside dog but can be heard barking on and off throughout the play.

SCENE 1 A cross-section of the Cambell household that shows both sides of the front door and the steps leading upstairs. The dining room is to the right of the stage with the kitchen barely visible behind it. Further back behind the stairs is the living room. Spencer Cambell is sitting at the top of the stairs fresh out of the shower. His mother stands at the foot. The lights are down as they begin talking.

SPENCER: All I’m saying is that if you have a problem you can say it to my face, right? Like is there some kind of reason you like him best?

Lights go up as Annie is talking. They seem harsh for an open indoor environment.

ANNIE: In an appeasing tone No, we love you, Spencer, but there’s mold in his room; we can’t have him sleeping in (Spencer’s line begins) a moldy basement.

SPENCER: As Annie is talking He slept there for like nine years and as soon as I leave he just takes over?

ANNIE: Well, he has allergies, Spencer.

Will Cambell arrives stage left on the other side of the door. He is carrying a backpack and he pauses at the door, hearing Spencer’s voice.

SPENCER: And he just has allergies like just now that my room has opened up? Smiling with disbelief You believe that?

Will lowers his head and touches his temples, massaging them. He looks back up and begins to pace a small circle in front of the door, trying to steel his nerves.

Lorraine Bahr

On Forging a Healthy Home Joey Lopez

25

SPENCER: I don’t know why I’m surprised; you always liked him more and, I mean, you were so eager to get my ass outta the house.

ANNIE: You know that’s not true, you wanted to go back to school, remember?

SPENCER: Shut up, this has been your idea all along.

Annie and Spencer look up as Will opens the door. Bo can be heard barking off stage.

WILL: Hey, Spencer.

SPENCER: Hey fatass! We were just talking about you!

WILL: Oh. Leans in as Annie cranes to kiss him on the cheek ANNIE: How was your day?

WILL: Fine.

Bo continues to bark. Will takes off his backpack, heading off to the kitchen.

SPENCER: Hey, how’s— he pauses to think Gio! WILL: He’s fine. Will calls bluntly from off stage, hoping to end the conversation SPENCER: He? snickers Are you still pretending your girlfriend is a boy?

Annie shakes her head, following Will into the kitchen. Barking stops.

SPENCER: stands up Come on, you can’t actually tell me you’re dating a dude! I met her, that girl is living in her own little tranny fantasy world, you know that.

There is no response from Will. He appears to be looking for something to eat in the kitchen. Spencer shakes his head and disappears through a door at the top of the stairs. The lights soften and Annie and Will emerge from the kitchen.

Will sits down at the dining room table, setting his food aside and holding his head in his hands. Annie follows, touching her son’s back.

WILL: He’s not allowed to say that stuff.

ANNIE: Oh, I’m sorry, Will. He really just doesn’t know any better.

WILL: Looks up No, you can’t keep making excuses for him, Mom. I mean, I thought he was supposed to be gone!

ANNIE: I think his roommate’s having friends over.

WILL: Voice raised slightly I don’t care! Lower Every other week he’s back again and everytime he leaves you say it’s taken care of but clearly it’s not. When he’s home I don’t sleep, Mom.

ANNIE: What? Concerned

Lights intensify gradually

WILL: I don’t sleep. I don’t eat because I’m afraid to leave my room. I lock my door but I know he’s broken it down before. Do you remember that mom?

ANNIE: Drawing away silently, removing her hand from Will’s shoulder I don’t remember what you’re talking about.

Will: I bet Dad remembers; he had to fix the damn door.

Will is interrupted by the door opening upstairs. Spencer tosses a blanket out of the room, then begins to toss out articles of clothing, one by one. After a moment to realize what is happening Will turns up to his mother. The lighting gradient stops.

WILL: Whispering insistently You have to stop this. You’re his mother.

Annie looks troubled. She tilts her head up and calls to Spencer.

ANNIE: Spencer? Pause. More clothes being tossed. Spencer?

SPENCER: From Will’s room What?

ANNIE: Can you come out and talk to me and Will?

Spencer emerges from the bedroom, throwing a flannel on and unrolling the sleeves as he trots down the stairs, appearing oblivious to the tension.

SPENCER: What’s up?

ANNIE: Glances between her two sons Spencer you have to give Will his room back.

SPENCER: Well it’s not really his room, remember?

ANNIE: I remember but he can’t sleep in the basement, that’s just not an option.

SPENCER: Will you shut up, you know this is all I need right now. Some stupid fucking He halts, looking up toward the sound of whistling off stage left. Ray Cambell appears on the other side of the front door, pulling his keys from his pocket and unlocking the door. Bo begins to bark again and Annie’s face lights up as her husband walks through the door. She strides up to him, leaving her sons to exchange resentful looks. She kisses her husband, taking his bag to give herself something to do.

RAY: I had the best damn day today. He strolls into the dining room, loosening his tie, then pauses as he sees Spencer and assesses the situation for half a second What’s going on here?

Annie returns from upstairs, sees her husband sitting down and disappears into the kitchen. Bo stops barking.

SPENCER: Clears throat Well, Charlie’s girlfriend is in town and I kind of owe him a favor so I just figured I’d crash here tonight.

Will is staring down at his hands intently.

RAY: After another moment of thought and some sounds of Annie in the kitchen Okay then!

WILL: Immediately on the tail of his father’s consent I thought he wasn’t coming back!

SPENCER: What the fuck, dude?

WILL: Stands up No, get out of my house!

RAY: Woah woah woah, relax, boys. Touches Spencer’s shoulder, who tries to shrug him off SPENCER: Every time I come home you get like this! Jesus Christ will you chill the fuck out?

Will turns around, his hands going to his head.

ANNIE: From the kitchen, frantically Will, can you come help me?

SPENCER: What do you need? Heading for the kitchen door ANNIE: I need Will. Could you come in here, honey?

Ray looks confused, concerned. Spencer rolls his eyes, strolling away from the kitchen to sit at the foot of the stairs as Will gets up, entering to help his mother.

SPENCER: To Ray Sorry, I guess it’s kind of a hectic day. I don’t really know what’s going on.

RAY: It’s okay. Quietly I think your brother’s just a little stressed out because—I mean we’ve talked to you about showing up unannounced.

SPENCER: Rolls his head back, not believing what he’s hearing Oh come on, you know that’s not how I roll.

RAY: Nodding Well maybe, but you could’ve given us just a little bit of notice. You remember last month when you came over, there was something like this— SPENCER: I don’t think you get it.

RAY: Pause What?

SPENCER: I said you don’t get it. This is my house. It’s always been my house. I sleep in the master bedroom, I eat whatever’s in the kitchen and I don’t need your permission to be here because I belong here.

And Mom knows it and Will knows it but they’re mad ‘cause they’ve been trying to build some happy little house without me and it’s not going to work.

Ray appears dumbstruck as Spencer shakes his head.

SPENCER: I know that’s why Mom wanted me to go back to school so badly is she didn’t want me here. Wanted to clear my room out so the favorite could move in.

RAY: The favorite? There is anger growing behind his voice as he stands up. Who ever told you that you weren’t the favorite?

SPENCER: Oh, come on— RAY: No, we have coddled you since the day you were born! Hockey, baseball, nutritionists, tutoring, you threw it all away! Then came the music career and now there’s $3,000 worth of recording equipment gathering dust in your damn closet! Two cars you’ve wrecked, Spencer, cars we gave you and we’d do it all again because we love you!

SPENCER: Standing as well You got a fuckin’ funny way of showing it, kicking me out of my own house.

ANNIE: From the kitchen Will!

It is too late. Will brushes past Spencer and Ray and out the front door, slamming it behind him. Annie follows a few steps but by the time she gets to the door he is gone. The sound of a car pulling away can be heard as she starts to sob and the lights go down.

Benson Polytechnic High School

It was obvious that she was gone. There was no question about it; Mom had left and I was left to fend for myself. The realization was like a dagger through my body, the pain quickly penetrated my heart with a poison leaving me to feel nothing but numbness. I lifted my head and quickly wiped away the fallen tears from my face.

My eyes scanned the living room of our apartment; well, my apartment now, to be exact. It was small and wasn’t as luxurious as others would have liked, but I find it quite comfortable for both my mom and I. However, when she left I realized that the broken and tattered side of our home slowly revealed itself. I never noticed it before. The walls which were painted white when we first arrived began to slowly peel, showing the world its hideous scar. The furniture was torn apart as if a raging animal had attacked it. Questions revolved around my head as I sank down to the floor covering my face with my palms. All I wanted to do was disappear; no one would miss me. Mom wouldn’t notice I was gone; it would certainly benefit me and perhaps everyone. I gave out a large sigh and quickly clenched my brows in frustration. How would I pay the rent? I could find a job but there was still a little problem: I was still in school. Then suddenly a terrifying thought came to me as I ran to my bedroom and rummaged through the bottom of my closet, desperately trying to find a box. My hands shook nervously as I opened the lid, revealing nothing but particles of dust inside the box. She took everything, even my savings. I scoffed and gave out a small laugh while thinking what had made me love and trust her so much. Was this some kind of punishment for me? What have I done to deserve this?

My thoughts and worries were, however, interrupted by a small chirping sound outside on the balcony.

I walked toward the sound and opened the door to outside. A slight afternoon breeze greeted my face as I stepped onto the balcony. The source of the chirping was the bird that Mom had given to me for my birthday. The little bird sat in its rusted white cage that was sitting on the floor. I crouched down to a sitting position until I was able to make eye contact with the onyx eyes that belonged to the little bird. The bird was small and fragile, with a brown-grey coat with orange streaks on its wings. Small in size, the little bird showed the energy and aura of a fighter. Although trapped in a cage, the onyx eyes met mine with a look that showed determination instead of desperation. Set me free, the eyes seems to say, so you can be free too. For the first time in months, I smiled genuinely as my hand quickly reached for the lock of the cage. In a quick moment, flapping of wings and pure bliss of happiness can be heard. The delicate body shot up toward the sky and was completely gone from view in seconds. Like the caged bird, I was left behind and trapped in fear and isolation. Unfortunately, I am still somewhat stuck in my cage, but yet continued to yearn for freedom as I wandered around mindlessly. Whether I wanted to break free from my cage or not, I know for sure that the gate to freedom is always there, but in- the end, the choice to break the lock keeping me from my freedom and is my own to make.

Ramiza Koya

Caged Bird Yen-Nhi Nguyen

31

Franklin High School

Eliza Henderson

Lisa Eisenberg

Things Aren’t Always What They Seem

33

Grant High School

I slid through the door, not bothering to flick on the lights as I passed by; the sun streaming through the large century windows was light enough as it was. Approaching the beaten kitchen with the cabinet that squeaked on its hinges only late at night when I poured myself a third or fourth drink—bourbon on the rocks with a single maraschino cherry—I chose to look past the week’s worth of used dishes. I reached for the iron dog crate that was tucked in the back corner of the room, just next to the refrigerator. She was convinced the hum it gave off soothed him although I was far beyond belief that anything could soothe the little terrier. The crate stood three feet high and four feet long. To the twenty-six-pound creature it would have qualified as a mansion although he took no time in pawing apart every corner till his feet were raw and the bars looked ancient.

My hand shook as it met the latch and I was unsure if the cause was my adrenaline -yped, sleep-deprived body or the excitement surging through every hair on the scrappy canine’s coat. I fumbled for the opening and in the process found my feet wound up beneath me in the grasp of a shriveled and untied shoelace.

My doughy belly and I plummeted to the floor yet never quite reached. Instead my force collapsed onto a structure of bars releasing the beast within in a far too unconventional sense for my taste. I scrambled free of the mess and rose, snagging my green cashmere sweater, which I had been sporting for the three days prior, on a loose rod, tearing a devastatingly large hole in the left sleeve revealing her sweet name tattooed on my bicep, which has begun to sag after months deprived of the gym and a diet consisting mostly of sugary cereals and green Jell-O (the most appetizing thing the hospital cafeterias have to offer).

“Taz,” I called in the strongest voice I could produce.

Taz was the name she finally settled on two months after we adopted him. She said she needed to get a feel of his personality before even considering names. She was funny like that, everything had to feel right to her: his name, housing location, paint colors, where we went to eat, everything.

Taz came bounding around the corner with a stream of Charmin Ultra Soft stuck to the grooves of his under bite. His favorite thing was to sneak into the house’s only bathroom and drink from the porcelain toilet bowl and shred the toilet paper into miniscule pieces so it was near impossible to pick up.

He licked at my shins before I could shoo him away, then turned and rounded the house again and again.

As I watched him move about I was reminded of how she would yell out “The Tasmanian devil is on the prowl!” then throw back her head and laugh a laugh she used only on these occasions. I had never made her smile as wide or laugh as hard as he did. There was this thing so delicately beautiful about their connection and I couldn’t quite make a name for it, but I imagine it came closest to love and it was the most genuine and sincere love I had ever seen. I also imagine that is why I despised this dog. It was never because he peed on the carpet when he got nervous, or because he ate everything that he could stuff in his tiny figure or even because he barked whenever the doorbells on the TV rang and continued until I opened the front door to show him our lack of visitors; it was because she loved him and he loved her. Taz had never been our dog; he had always truly belonged to her.

When she was first admitted to the hospital, I only returned home to walk the dog, and everytime I walked through our oak door and Taz heard the brass knob undo layers of locks, he came running to me, offering me one kiss to the knees then instantly darted behind me and stood on the porch looking for her

Joanna Rose

Taz Caroline Williams

35

to file out of our ’97 Volvo station wagon anytime. When she didn’t show, he eventually would mope back inside and flop to the floor, well decorated with the scratches from his nails, in a dramatic huff. For a while he stopped peeing, eating, and barking. He just slept until his memories faded and he slowly accepted my attention. Yet still I could never be her and he could never be mine.

At last I fell into the goose-down-pillow-covered couch. One arm fell limp above my head and I struggled to lift my legs onto the ottoman. I released every breath my lungs could take into one large sigh and allowed the exhaustion to consume every other emotion I had felt. The rays of the spring sun turned from harsh to comforting as my eyes drifted shut. Fleck so vaguely whimsical seeming dreams shot through my mind as I maintained a half-asleep state only to be shaken by four small paws moving in a circle on my round tummy.

I looked down to see Taz in the middle of a wide yawn falling then into a deep sleep adjusting only once to nuzzle his cold, wet nose against the inking of her name.

Benson Polytechnic High School

I open the fridge and see a surprise A magical happenstance upon my eyes.

Dash to the cupboard for my favorite cup If you don’t hurry, you’re just another schlup.

Twist the lid, hear that pop.

Pull up now, off with the top.

Carefully now, don’t want to spill.

Just take the glass and fill, fill, fill.

Slowly it raises to my waiting lips.

Balance now as the glass tips.

Liquid heaven straight from a jug, If I could, I’d give you a hug.

The feeling so chill, tastes so sweet.

Such a glorious, wonderous treat.

Chocolate milk, straight from the store.

You make me happy, right to my core.

Ramiza Koya

Liquid Heaven: The Ode to Chocolate Milk Alyssa Ridenour

37

Roosevelt High School

Jonathan Hill

Instead of Talking ‌ Guirena Santa Cruz

39

Grant High School

My small hands drag a purple lawn chair to the side of an old weathered fence, crawling with age. I struggle to put my bare, dirty feet up onto an arm and use all my strength to pull myself up. I hang onto the top of the fence, splintering wood bits crumbling between my fingers. I hold on tight, willing myself not to fall onto the hard grey stones below, in my young eyes, sudden death.

I was under a willow, its whimsical branches dancing in the summer breeze. The tree gave my sun-kissed skin a smoothing break, from harmful rays. The looming limbs sent peculiar shadows on the ground. The tree was so tall that if I had climbed to the top I would have been in heaven. Hanging from the tree were small, green, pinecone-like objects that rained in the spring. The base of the tree was covered by crunchy ferns and lush, wet moss.

I held onto the fence tightly with one hand and waved over the fence to a girl standing in her kitchen window, a daily quotidian. The girl waved back, and raced outside. She slammed the glass sliding door behind her and picked her way up through a garden overgrown with weeds. She was much taller than me, lanky limbs, short, straight hair. With ease she pulls herself up and climbs the fence, rocking back and forth.

We would just sit there and talk, sometimes for hours. I would hold onto that fence till my hands bled and were full of splinters. I would go out there when I was sad, frustrated, mad, or just wanted to laugh.

Some of my best childhood memories were spent hanging on that old piece of wood.

I would run outside slamming the door and jump down the three porch stairs. Walking past the purple trunk, which raccoons had used as a scratching post. I then would continue over to the fence as my mother yelled at me to put on some shoes.

In 2010 a bulldozer came. Workers came and rebuilt our garage, remodeled our house and cut down the old willow.

Years later, I still wander back there sometimes. I look glumly at the stump as the beating sun hits my neck. I sit in the purple chairs that have been shoved in a corner and lean back letting my memories soak back into me. I sit on the stump and can almost feel the branches’ warm embrace, like a hug from an old friend. I push myself up and cling to the fence, no longer afraid of falling. I rock back and forth pushing my hair out of my eyes.

I just stand there and wait, waiting for the past to come back to me. It’s almost all the same, but someone is missing.

Amy Minato

A Place to Remember Maya Date

41

Roosevelt High School

Jonathan Hill

Window and Bird Haidee Vangen

43

Lincoln High School

When you round the bend The pavement looks back Sneaking into sight Through the rear view As an oozing ribbon A ribbon twisting dizzily Like a wave of heat That glazes the flat Asphalt platter The mirror that cautions The distortion of proximity Loses, too, its own disposition And bends and winds— Unobstructed—with The fleeting roadway You hit the brakes From fear or excitement That someone near May be watching You peer Through past Unconscious thought Thinking that this ribbon, Wet and splendid, Sweeping back and forth, Is hidden from all others, Hidden even from you

Cindy Williams-Gutiérrez

Looking Back Ingemar Hagen-Keith

45

It extends without limit Till you look forward And back once again To feel that same excitement But fearing that it feels you Trying to make it stop Not to have it end But just to make it stop To admire it Before it continues To freeze it in a moment To catch it in mid-dance But not to make it go away Just to see it stop The pavement looks back But moves forward once again— Unobstructed It bends and winds

Lincoln High School

For now, my world is in darkness.

In a time of sorrow, Rust-colored flames surround me, Edging me into oblivion.

Wind around me spirals and curls, Altering my memories, Telling me what could have been, not what was— Enchanting my story into a fairy tale, Reaching out and giving me life.

Sorrow and cold Now melting away On the dusk-covered house, Windows blaze bright.

Little by little I crack a smile, Giving me hope for what is to come.

Hollow time jolts my heart To bring me back to reality.

Cindy Williams-GutiĂŠrrez

Elements Emma Kather

47

Lincoln High School

Squirrels dance fluidly frozen in time and space The berries burst, wild Ripe leaves and fruit cluster, hang Trembling emptiness now Bamboo shoots rustle among the silent grasses Ancients contemplate Trembling thoughts converge Empty are the remains

Cindy Williams-GutiĂŠrrez

Two Tankas Alaina Lester

49

Lincoln High School

Across the prairies and through the lakes lies a land of many mistakes.

I did my part, I paid my dues, now what else must I lose?

Full of pain, full of sorrow, hoping for a greater tomorrow.

World wonders arousing temptation open my thoughts to consideration.

Standing alone, pondering where to roam…

Although I don’t have a home, wherever I go, I make my own.

Cindy Williams-Gutiérrez

Defining Detail Tristan Poole

51

Roosevelt High School

Jonathan Hill

Hamlet Gone Crazy Russel Dee Smith

53

Madison High School

55 Matthew Zrebski

A Lost Child Diana Lira-Hernandez CHARACTERS CHRISTOPHER: 7-year old boy SCENE 1 The time is now. The setting is at school.

Christopher is facing the audience. He’s getting ready to share his story.

CHRISTOPHER: It's dark. It's cold. I want to go home. I can't find my way home. How do I find my way home? I'm afraid. I'm lost. Very, very lost. I want Mama and Papa. They're not here. I need them to find me and take me home with them. Why am I here? How did I get here? My lips are blue. I feel drops.

They're making their way down to me slowly. Plop, plop, plop. It's getting heavier...and heavier...and heavier!

It's getting louder...and louder...and louder! I'm tired. I feel a gentle breeze. Mama! Papa! Where are you guys? How did I get here? I want to go home with you guys. Did you guys abandon me? I hear something.

I think it's getting closer. I can't quite see it. Now I kind of do. I see it! It's right in front of my eyes! It's... it's...it's a dog! It's my dog! How did he get here? Why didn't he bring Mama and Papa with him? Is he lost too? We're lost. Very, very lost. It's only me and him. He's running. He's running away from me. Why are you running away? Don't run away! I need you. I'm lost, can't you see? Could it be that you're going to get Mama and Papa? That must be it. Return. Return soon. Please, please return. Why aren't you back yet? You have been gone for a very long time. What's going on? I can't move, but I'm shaking. I can't feel my body. I see a little bit of light. Is someone coming to rescue me? Is that the sun? A lantern? A flashlight? What is it?

It's gone. Where did it go? I could've been rescued. Perhaps it was my only hope of going home to Mama and Papa. Do you think they're looking for me? Are they worried? What's going through their minds? I'm sad. I'm crying. I want to go home...I want to go home...I want to go home! Mama, Papa! Where are you?

Why am I here? Hello? Anyone there? I'm lost. I need help. I want to go home. Hello? Anyone? Please. I know someone's there. I want my Mama! I want my Papa! Someone please help me! I feel like I'm stranded on an island. No one is here. I feel like I'm surrounded by a giant ocean with no way to escape. No boats, no ships, no nothing. I'm surrounded by tall trees and giant piles of leaves. I'm all alone in the dark night.

The cold night. With no one around me. My dog left me. My parents are nowhere to be found. I'm a lost child. A very, very lonely lost child...

Roosevelt High School

Jonathan Hill

The Fight Patrick Fox

57

Meek Pro Tech High School

What color are your wings? You want to have white wings to say you’re innocent and untouched? Are you outgoing and free? Then maybe red wings would suit you. You say blue is the color for you because you’re shy and quiet? But pink is shy, not blue. If you think the world bends for you, then your wing color is brown. No color for you? Why? You think they’re uncool? I guess black is cool for you.

What color are my wings, you ask? I guess I have see-through wings since I’m the one giving you your wings.

Laura Moulton

Colors: Wings Katherine E. Bergquist

67

Meek Pro Tech High School

I see It each day.

Yet It doesn’t bother me.

Never said a word until That night …

When It got right in front of me.

Stopped …

My eyes shift …

“Why?” It creates communication.

It gets no response.

It gets instantaneous disapproval.

That disapproval turns to friendship …

Unwanted.

Its undetermined status kills me.

It kills me …

They say It shows affection …

Unwanted.

It follows …

Unwanted.

It’s just one of those things.

It’s never around, but always close.

It’s …

Unwanted.

Laura Moulton

It Anonymous

69

Lincoln High School

I am a product of my hands My money, success, glamour shots From the dance My fingers played with the black and white of the keys They were friends with my feet Who drummed and blurred what my hands couldn’t They fancied my eyes Who scanned the first measure and then the next Bass and treble My fingers twirled and spun Curled under and over Leapt and bounded from one end to the next But the rest of me Worked longer than they did My twin pillars, my muse They shriveled with time And crumpled with age They resent me now And so do I They are the other family that left And the beauty I also once had A runner without their legs A dancer without her feet A singer without a voice But worse—my hands are still here Wasted parts that get in the way A constant reminder that one day My fingers played They played with the black and white

Joe Rogers

Black and White Hannah Henjun

71

Madison High School

73 Matthew Zrebski

Pretending Megan Ha CHARACTERS GIRL: fifteen years old, furious, broken BOY: fifteen years old, carefree, unaware SCENE 1 The time is one year later. The place is unspoken conversations.

Girl and Boy are standing and facing each other GIRL: Did you know?

BOY: Know what?

GIRL: Did you know?

BOY: Know what?

GIRL: You knew.

BOY: Knew what?

GIRL: You knew about it when you said it to my face.

BOY: What was it I said?

GIRL: You knew about it even when you broke it.

BOY: What did I break?

GIRL: You knew about it even when you pretended not to.

BOY: What was it I pretended not to know?

GIRL: You’ve been running from it since one year ago and you’re still pretending.

BOY: One year since what?

GIRL: Since you broke my heart.

BOY: When did I break your heart?

GIRL: One year ago.

BOY: One year ago when?

GIRL: One year ago.

BOY: How? GIRL: How what?

BOY: How did I break it?

GIRL: By pretending.

BOY: Pretending what? beat GIRL: Pretending not to.

BOY: I don’t know.

GIRL: What don’t you know?

BOY: I don’t know anymore.

GIRL: You don’t know.

BOY: Was I supposed to know?

GIRL: I don’t know.

BOY: Was I supposed to know?

GIRL: I don’t know.

BOY: Did you want me to know?

GIRL: I don’t know.

BOY: What would happen if I knew?

GIRL: I still don’t know.

BOY: Would it be better if I don’t know?

GIRL : You do know. You say you don’t know. You ask me as if you don’t know. You go through the days acting like you don’t know. You’ll live your life acting like you will never know. I know you know. You chose to ignore it. You chose the easy way out. You chose the cowardly way out. You avoided everything and tossed it behind you because you knew. You didn’t want anything to do with it. You thought it was embarrassing. You couldn’t stand it. You backed out. You left me. You lied. You led me on. You gave me false hope. You pretended. And it hurt. It hurt.

BOY: I don’t know.

GIRL: You do know.

BOY: I don’t know.

GIRL: You don’t know.

BOY: Do you want me to know?

GIRL: You do know.

BOY: Do you want me to know?

GIRL: I want you to remember that you do know.

BOY: I know?

GIRL: Yes. BOY: I know?

GIRL: Yes. BOY: I do know.

GIRL: How could you?

BOY: How could I what?

GIRL: How could you ignore it?

BOY: Ignore what?

GIRL: Was it my fault?

BOY: It just happens. You mistook it for something else. It was something else. Then it just wasn’t. I led you on. You followed me. I stopped, you were still there. It just happens to be your fault. Your mistake.

Your aberration. Your illusion. It was an illusion.

GIRL: Was something wrong with me?

BOY: It happens to everyone.

GIRL: How could you not?

BOY: I don’t know.

GIRL: This time, you don’t know.

BOY: Why don’t I know?

GIRL: Because you don’t.

BOY: Why don’t I know?

GIRL: Because I don’t know if you know.

BOY: Why don’t you know if I know?

GIRL: Why? BOY: Why what?

GIRL: Why did you tell me?

BOY: What did I tell you?

GIRL: Why did you tell me about it?

BOY: What did I tell you?

GIRL: I didn’t want to know.

BOY: Because I knew.

GIRL: I don’t want it anymore.

BOY: You still do.

GIRL: I don’t want you anymore.

BOY: You still do.

GIRL: I don’t need you anymore.

BOY: Stop pretending. Because you know you still do.

Roosevelt High School

Jonathan Hill

A Forgiven Sinner Cynthia Brundege

77

Cleveland High School

79

She slyly slipped into the elevator at six-oh-four in the evening and pressed the bottom button on the metal number panel. There she stood, watching the lit-up number-filled circles change: 37, 36, 35, 34, and so on and so forth. After staring off into space for a while, something caught her eye. She realized what she had done was wrong. Very wrong. In a quick attempt to correct her error, she pulled back her sleeve and jammed her right pinky into the “28” circle over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. She then rapidly raced off the metallic moving box and proceeded to fly down the remaining twenty-eight flights of stairs heading towards the parking garage.

After finally arriving in the parking garage, she reached to pull out her car keys, managing to send all of the contents of her purse flying onto the floor. “Crap,” she exclaimed as she began to crouch down to collect them all. The first item allowed back into her purse was her work planner followed by her wallet.

She then crammed her sunglasses into the side pocket and her Chap Stick in the smaller outer one. A tube of black mascara was added to the ChapStick compartment, and then joined by a blue ballpoint pen. The nickel and five pennies scattered across the grey cement floor were promptly collected and then carelessly sprinkled atop the other objects. The cell phone was placed into her back pocket and the keys rode up front in the grasp of her left hand. She stood up quickly and suffered the consequences when she almost toppled over. After catching herself and waiting out the dizziness, she continued on her way to the red sedan parked between two white lines. As she headed towards her car, she gasped and ran back to retrieve the photo of her son that she had forgotten. She immediately picked it up and carefully dusted it off as she whispered, “I will never forget you,” almost inaudibly.

She reached the parked Camry and walked around to the driver’s side. She looked at the oddly shaped mass in her left hand and raised it to her face to identify the correct key to unlock her car. The little metal ring held an office key, a house key, a key card, an ID badge with a fancy little barcode on it, a Whole Foods rewards card, a spare house key, the key to the neighbor’s house for when she had to feed their cat, a key to the shed, her husband’s car key, and finally the key to her car. She put the metal piece into the lock, turned it one hundred and eighty degrees, pulled up on the latch, and crawled into her little red automobile.

She started up the car and then began brainstorming about which store to go to. “F-R-E-D-M-E-Y-E-R,” she spelled out loud. “No, that wouldn’t work.” Next on her list was Walgreens, which was also nixed. Finally she thought of Whole Foods, which fit the bill to a tee. She searched for the nearest Whole Foods, and then plugged the address into her GPS and found that the nearest store was ten miles away. She started up the car and then began to pull out of the parking garage while following the well-illustrated directions to the store.

Upon arrival, she darted out of her car and into the store as if on a secret mission. She picked up nine of the plastic baskets, transferred them into the other stack, and grabbed the one on the bottom. She ran down to the freezer food aisle and opened the sliding glass door. After feeling a gust of cold air, she reached for a box of dinosaur chicken nuggets and placed them cautiously in her basket. She then went to the candy aisle where she picked up a box of fruit snacks and a bag of Twizzlers.

Once home, she fumbled with the keys once more, falling apart each and every time she chose the wrong one. Once she had cleared about half of the keys, the door opened and a warm and loving familiar face met her. He looked her in the eyes, and then gently took the bags from her hands. He carefully set the

Sara Jaffe

Ten Ana Canseco-Spiers

bags on the counter, and then prepared himself to ask the one question he had been dreading all evening.

“Sweetheart,” he started. “Why are you just getting home now? It’s past ten,” he asked already knowing the answer.

“Oh, I had to stop at the store. I picked up some dinosaur chicken nuggets, fruit snacks, and Twizzlers,” she responded enthusiastically.

“Damn it, Charlotte. You need to accept the fact that he’s gone. He’s been gone for ten months! You need to go upstairs now and get ready for bed. I’ll be up shortly.” As she began to walk away from her husband in shock, he gently reached for her arm and kissed her on the forehead. “We’ll get through this,” he whispered reassuringly and she continued up the stairs.

He picked up the fruit snacks and the Twizzlers and crammed them into the cupboard, and took the chicken nuggets to the garage. He opened the freezer door and placed the thawing box with the other 30 from this month, and headed back to bed.

The next day when the phone rang, her husband answered it promptly. “She should be home soon, it’s nearly ten. Oh wait—sorry, it’s the first of the month. She’ll be home around eleven.”

Meek Pro Tech High School

My name is Krystal. I am eighteen years old and stand at five feet two inches. I have green eyes and I tend to dye my hair a lot. I’ve been to Woodrow Wilson High School and Thomas Jefferson High School, I currently go to Meek Pro Tech @ Alliance High School. My freshman year was hard. Classes were big and I got made fun of a lot. I hardly got the attention I needed. Towards the end of freshman year I started hearing something I’m hearing now: “budget cuts,” “larger classes,” and “fewer teachers.” It didn’t matter then; it does now. My sophomore year was bad. Sitting in an English class of thirty-five, I know what it felt like to be ignored. I could skip and none of my teachers would notice. I barely went to school that year.

The next year, my junior year I changed schools and started at Jefferson High School. The school standing at around 400 students was still crowded; I didn’t attend school much while I went there. January my junior year, I heard of Meek and changed schools early February. Meek was a small school and I started getting the attention, the help I need to succeed. I get what I need here because of its small numbers. It’s a school that shouldn’t face budget cuts, teacher loss, or larger classrooms. The number 35 in a room doesn’t belong here. 10, 15, 20 do. Small. I get attention here, without Meek and the attention I get I would be a dropout.

I would be another number on a list of students who didn’t make it in a normal high school, a statistic to the country. Meek saved me in a way Wilson and Jefferson didn’t because Meek is different. I don’t want to be some number, some statistic, another failure and I was close to being one. Meek taught me more math, English, and history. It taught me to love school, love myself. I came to Meek over a year ago. I was alone, depressed, and behind. Meek helped me reach my goals. Meek gave me a reason to come to school and to do well. I know my education is important now, mainly because my teachers have time for me, time to push me, time to help me, time for me everyday. I can ask for help here and not be waiting for an hour or not get the help at all. I get help here. Meek helps me succeed every day. I know I can be more than just a number here. I know I’m just a student, a small one at that, but I hope you see that Meek isn’t just a school to me, it’s a home, my home. I get attention; I get help; I reach for my goals and more. I am proud to say I attend Meek Pro Tech and I’m a student at Portland Public Schools. Don’t make me ashamed of you. Thank you.

Laura Moulton

Remember?

Krystal Shillingford

81

Lincoln High School

83

Inside the black silk envelope sat the baseball card. It was a Hank Aaron baseball card, featuring a photo of the baseball player holding a bat and smiling ever so slightly at the camera. She’d found the card on a secluded suburban street corner two years prior and, without thinking, picked it up and stuck it in her purse, which had remained its home ever since. She was constantly pulling it out while searching for her wallet, or lipstick, or watch (which she never wore on her wrist), but she didn’t find it a nuisance.

In November, Hank Aaron had spent exactly twelve days (the ones between the third and sixteenth of the month) sitting on her dresser. She had placed him there while she emptied her purse of old receipts, and had simply not returned him to his home right away. When she finally did put him back, it was with the added protection of the black silk envelope, which had once held a pair of tasteful and expensive earrings.

(She did not own any other kind.)

In a shoebox far underneath her bed (and underneath another shoe box) sat a carefully wrapped coffee mug carrying the phrase “World’s Best Dad” in a silly, slanted, red font. It was ugly. The mug was not tasteful or expensive, and she had neglected to give it to her father for the past three Christmases.

On one especially productive Sunday, as she was sorting through boxes, she came across the carefully wrapped mug and stood contemplating its future. In the background the handsome FBI agent in her favorite television show was explaining emotionally to his partner that the large anchor-shaped belt buckle he always wore had been a gift from a friend (a “buddy”) with whom he had served in the Navy. She placed the ugly coffee mug in her “donate” pile.

Later that day she accidentally pulled the baseball card (inside the black silk envelope) out of her purse, while she was paying for groceries. Thankfully, the mistake was easily correctable.

Joe Rogers

Inside the Black Silk Envelope Hallie Blashfield

Franklin High School

You don’t need to do that.

You don’t need to be different or rebel against yourself.

I know the only way to fit into this world is to be different Just like everyone else But you don’t need to do that.

Because once you fit in, there is no guarantee you’ll like it.

I’m not telling you to be yourself.

I’m not telling you to be like them.

I’m not telling you to be what they want, or to be what you want I’m not giving you that overused advice that people tell you every day to make you “feel better” when it actually makes you feel worse, Because in reality, nobody understands.

But deep down they do.

They understand that the only way to be known is to be like everyone else.

To be everyone else.

But they give you that advice anyway just so that they can sound like everyone else.

So I guess I’m saying, don’t be anyone.

Or be someone.

Just be someone you like.

You can be whoever you want.

Be the president for all I care.

But don’t make it too cliché.

Chuck Carlise

Just Like The Rest Muriah Murray

85

Open Meadow High School

Me and my friend bond together to race Waiting patiently to begin suddenly, A huge cloud appears like a Shape of a walnut All of us wearing shorts Not knowing what to do, Then Later The huge cloud suddenly Goes away The horn went on I pedalled fast as I could To make it to the finish line I used my strength and my feet to win I finally won the race No matter what ‌ We all won and had fun!

Elyse Fenton

Bike Gang Junior Sanchez

87

Benson Polytechnic High School

Jason, that’s my name. It’s the name of my mother’s first love. Marshall, my dad’s last name. Passed down from generation to generation, keeping the bloodline strong. Lee, my mother’s maiden name. Taken cause I didn’t want my father’s last name. It wasn’t like this in the beginning, but somehow it got here, to this point.

1s2, 2s2, 2p6, 3s2, 3p6, 4s2, 3d9. That’s what I thought I use to be, but now it seems that I wasn’t Cu at all. Turns out, I am greater than copper. With the atomic number 79 on the periodic table, whose atomic mass is 196.97g, I am Au, known as gold. I thought freedom was something I couldn’t obtain, yet I never knew it was standing next to me all this time. Creating a wall that wasn’t supposed to be created, I made everyone believe that I was perfect, but I wasn’t. Not one bit of me was perfect.

To know me is to know my story, so listen. It wasn’t like this in the beginning. I never seek attention like other people, yet it craved for me. I don’t—didn’t understand it. I’ve done nothing wrong that deserves this. Always giving more than I could take. Pushing my desires aside so that someone else can have their happily-ever-after ending. Enduring the hardships that came from the school bullies. The punches and kicks and throws, I took it all in. Why? Because I couldn't do anything then, but now it seems the situation has changed. The broken heart I receive was unbearable, yet I didn’t do anything about it because it seems that I truly loved her, so I forgave her. Getting kicked out of the house by my stepmother and I didn’t even argue back because I knew my dad would have sided with her more. I’ve gone through so much misfortune, but through these hardships, I got stronger. I learned a lesson: trust less, talk less, and never ever get attached.

On the surface, I may not look much, but underneath it all is a whole ’nother story. So get to know me before you judge me. Truth be told I ain’t that bad to be with.

My name is Jason Marshall Lee and I wasn't always gold. I shed so many layers to get to this point, so it’s time to set me free, so free me please.

Ramiza Koya

Free Me Please Susan Vang

89

Madison High School

Sitting quietly, alert, She receives a text, Looks at it in a heartbeat.

Laughing as quiet as a bell, Her eyes light up like a kid buying candy, Her hair as black as the night sky.

Her friendly smile melts hearts, Walking briskly through the hallways, With her sparkly, purple, squeaky boots.

Without her glasses, she is like Superman and kryptonite: Impossible.

I look at her now and think: Wow, this girl will make a great business lady.

Javier Hernandez

Victoria Rukia Hussein

91

Meek Pro Tech High School

Laura Moulton

Learning From Darkness Shanon Crawford

93

As for the child, it did not grow up to be me. This child chose to follow a different path during 8th grade.

This child, confused as she was, tried to grow up faster than needed; she wanted to try to grown up things.

Caught up in Lust, Lies, and her love for ‘Fun’ brought this child to a dark place. Someplace like a forgotten cave where you know there is an ending, a light of some sort but its too dark to see just yet.

She thought it was Love like every other fifteen-year-old romantic. He was the love of her life since she was four. One night the opportunity came. Feeling fingertips dance across her skin was a whole new feeling,;she took that feeling for love. So she gave him what every mother tells her daughter save for someone special. Well, he was special. Right? She should have listened; Mother was right—he only wanted sex, nothing else. She learned this when he discarded her like an empty soda can and moved on to his next victim. After this she thought there was no love, only lust. So sex had no powerful meaning anymore and that’s when she just let go and wandered into darkness. Lying became a habit about where she was going, what she was doing, and what she was ingesting. She used to be a good girl, mind clouded with Mother’s love, never got in trouble, always did the right thing and told the truth. In her mother’s eyes she was still that sweet little girl; Mother was oblivious to the second life of ‘fun’ that her daughter lived every time she walked out the front door. Sometimes it wasn’t even the front door—at night “fun” called her name out her bedside window.

After three years of this, she thought it was the place where she belonged, the place where she was to grow and blindly try to find herself in the endless space of possibilities, so she wandered here for a while.

Being homeschooled gave her a lot of time to play with the monsters sneaking around in the darkness. “Here.

Try this, it will make you happy. That’s all you’ve been looking for right? To be happy? Take another, it will bring you to a whole new world …” their whispers echoed in her ears. With her whole body feeling as if all her nerves were vibrating and the dancing lights slowly fading behind her closing eyelids is when the fear set in. The fear of going too far and not coming back.

After feeling the pain, fear, and the bleeding of a broken heart, realization finally came. She understood that all the “fun” was just pacifying her, hiding reality from her. This child felt she could now emerge from that darkness, reborn to the light of knowledge, experience, and finally happiness, and grow up to be the experienced woman I am today.

Roosevelt High School

I remember not crying throughout my entire childhood.

I remember the divorce.

I remember moving away from the pain.

I remember not being able to love a man because of him.

I remember one-minute phone calls from him twice a month.

I remember becoming angry and no longer caring for him.

I remember when he cared for his other children.

I remember needing someone with his title in my life, infatuation and heartbreaks occurred.

I remember “my father� not being there.

I don’t want to remember.

Ramiza Koya

I Remember Jocelyn Guzman

95

Lincoln High School

Joe Rogers

Chem Class Alexandra Pidwerbecki

97

The phone went off in his pocket. Mom, not again. She would soon have to stop calling—one can only bug someone so much. Right? Kirk ignored her calls. But because of the fight last week, with the pain-inthe-ass teacher that everyone had, he got a transfer from that piece-of-crap poor high school to go to some new, shiny, better school. School would start in more or less five minutes. Right now, he sat out on the paved steps looking up at the building that would be the key to his future. If only he could make it through the agonizingly long days.

Day passed into weeks; every day started this same way. They all ended the same way, too, with Kirk skipping some class to go to hang out with his friends. They mostly hung out in the bars or clubs in the City. How else is a teenage boy able to blow off some steam?

March 15, Kirk found out.

Chem class was ticking along at the pace slower than a snail, but that was all okay for a while. Well, at least as long as he got to look at the new girl sitting across the walkway. Her body was the tightest thing in the class. Even more so than Ms. Olson’s lips, which if you saw, you would think, How would she eat an apple?

Her mouth wouldn’t even be able to open wide enough to take one bite. The girl’s long blond hair flowed over her shoulder and around her neck, draping down below a belly button that was just visible under the sheer button-down collared shirts that they were all forced to wear. He needed something. Something to make her notice him more than any of the other guys in the school.

He scribbled some ideas in the science notebook that no one used. Hey girl are you made of... What to say next? There had to be some way he could relate it back to science. A word. CUTE! Ummm...what could it be? Carbon, Uranium and Titanium! That’s it. Hey girl, are you made of Carbon, Uranium, and Titanium?

Because you are C-U-T-E cute.

While the rhythm of the day’s experiment set in, her phone buzzed. She looked at it, smiled, then put it down. Who could it be? Maybe her boyfriend that went some Ivy League school, that no doubt she and almost every other brainiac in this place would be applying to. But don’t think about that. It just reminded him of how awkward he was here, at the only school without a sports team in sight, if you didn’t count the geeky geeks on Debate Team.

More bells. Kirk walked quickly down the hallway trying to catch her. “Hey! Are you made of ter..ti... ti..titanium, er, uranium and cryptonite ’cause you are too cute.”

She slowly turned around and gave a smile that said, That is the best you got? “No, I am not made of those things, believe it or not. Are you?”

Kirk reached up and scratched his head intensely.“That’s not what I meant. Oh gosh, I must really be messing this up, aren’t I?” She raised her left plucked-to-perfection eyebrow at him.

Looking at the ground, he mumbled, “I guess I am. Kirk. What about you?”

She smiled. The sharp, witty tone in her voice told Kirk that she was glad to know his name. “Is it any of your business?”

“Well, I guess not, but I was wondering if maybe one day if, um, this week or anytime really, if you um would like need help, like for class.”

“I think I can manage on my own, but thanks for the offer.”

“But wait! Nevermind. Well, I guess if you ever need anything you can just ask.”

She sighed, saw his phone in his hand, grabbed it, and quickly entered her phone number: 646-298-3342.

While she sauntered off, he looked at his phone.

No name still. Just a blank where it should be.

Madison High School

99

My friend showed me a movie that was very scary. They were killing people and it was bloody but my friend said, “It isn’t real.” Even though she said that, I didn’t care because I have nightmares about chasing person. She watched the movie and went to sleep with no problems. In the movie, they were monster zombies.

When it was the killing part I hid my eyes under my blanket and covered my ears so that I couldn’t hear the noise. She kept watching it and said, “This ain’t nothing.” As far as the movie was going, I still watched it and put it in my mind that it was not real. So when the movie was over my friend turned off all the lights to try to scare me, but I ran up the stairs and told her it was not fun, and don’t be playing like that.

Two days ago I had a bad dream about the movie I watched with my friend. The dream was about me and my parents and some other person that was male. As far as the dream goes I told my parents that I’m going after that person. But the person was faster than me. I chased him and he went in the restaurant that had people eating humans: as soon as I entered, I saw cut heads on the table. I ran out and told my parents to run.

Some other day I will get my friend back by watching a scary movie that she never watched and turn off lights and scare her like she did me.

Amy Minato

Scary Movie Safia Salah

Lincoln High School

A blind woman walks into an ice cream store EMPLOYEE: Hi there! Welcome to Baskin Robbins! Would you like to try one of our thirty-one flavors today?

CUSTOMER: Hi! Could you please read me the flavors?

EMPLOYEE: Of course! We have..

1. Vanilla 2. Chocolate 3. Caramel 4. Fudge 5.

Snickers 6.

Heath Bar crunch 7.

Cookies and cream 8.

Oreo crunch 9. Mint 10.

Mint chocolate chunk 11. Reese’s 12. Coffee 13.

Rainbow sherbet 14.

Orange sherbet 15.

Raspberry chocolate swirl 16.

Brownie fudge sundae 17.

Pralines and cream 18. Banana 19.

Green tea 20. Cheesecake 21.

Blueberry cheesecake 22.

Raspberry cheesecake 23.

Cotton candy 24.

Rocky road 25.

Eggnog 26. Peppermint 27.

Gold Medal Ribbon 28. Coconut 29.

Roasted coconut with chocolate chunks 30. Bubblegum 31.

Love potion CUSTOMER: Thank you … Hmm … I think I'll just go with vanilla today.

Amanda Gersh

Ice Cream Shop Gigi Downey, Marguerite Newton

101

103

Writers-in-Residence 2012-2013 Carl Adamshick is a poet who recently won the Walt Whitman Award and the Oregon Book Award for his collection of poems, Curses and Wishes.

Lorraine Bahr is an award-winning actress, playwright, and director. She teaches Acting at Portland State University, Washington and Oregon high schools, and at Young Musicians & Artists; she is co-founder and Associate Artistic Director of Sowelu Ensemble Theater in Portland. Lorraine is also a regular performer for Portland Playhouse. Her produced plays include Life Alone, Bottomless, Count Time, Charlie Stone, and Live Nude Fear. Her monologue, “Eight Break-ups” has been published in Poetry Northwest.

Carmen Bernier-Grand is the author of eight books for children and young adults. Her César: Yes, We Can! ¡Sí, se puede! and Diego: Bigger Than Life have been Oregon Book Awards finalists. Those biographies and her Frida: ¡Viva la vida! Long Live Life have received Pura Belpré Author Honor Awards. Bernier-Grand also teaches writing in the Whidbey Island Writers MFA program. In 2008, the Oregon Library Association’s Children’s Division gave her the Evelyn Sibley Lampman Award for her significant contributions to the children of Oregon in the field of children’s literature. In 2010, she received an Oregon Literary Arts Fellowship to research her book Picasso: I the King, Yo, el rey, published in 2012. Her latest book, Alicia Alonso: Prima Ballerina, received starred reviews from Booklist and Publisher’s Weekly. She lives with her husband, Jeremy Grand, and Maltese dog, Lily, in Portland, Oregon.

Chuck Carlise was born in Canton, Ohio, on the first Flag Day of the Jimmy Carter administration, and

has lived in a dozen states and two continents since. He is the author of two chapbooks, A Broken Escalator Still Isn’t the Stairs (Concrete Wolf Poetry Series 2011) and Casual Insomniac (Bateau 2011; “Boom Contest” winner). He recently completed his PhD at the University of Houston, where he was awarded the 2012 InPrint/Paul Verlaine Poetry Prize and served as Non-Fiction Editor of the journal Gulf Coast. His poems and essays appear or are forthcoming in Southern Review, Pleiades, DIAGRAM, Best New Poets, and elsewhere.

He currently lives in Portland, Oregon, and Santa Cruz, California, where he teaches part time at UCSC.

Lisa Rosalie Eisenberg is a cartoonist and illustrator. Her comics have appeared in the anthologies Papercutter, So…Buttons, Bearfight!, Digestate, Runner Runner, and The Strumpet. Since 2008 she has self-published the series I Cut My Hair, a collection of fiction and nonfiction comics. She is a teaching artist with Young Audiences and a Comics Certificate Program Advisor at the Independent Publishing Resource Center. Lisa has also taught comics classes at Open Meadow Middle School, Stumptown Comics Fest, and Caldera.

Elyse Fenton is the author of

the award-winning poetry collection Clamor. She has published poetry and nonfiction in the New York Times, Best New Poets, American Poetry Review, and Pleiades, and has been featured on NPR’s All Things Considered. She received a BA from Reed College and an MFA from the University of

Oregon and has worked in the woods, on farms, and in schools in the Pacific Northwest, New Hampshire, Mongolia, and Texas. She currently teaches at Portland Community College.

Amanda Gersh is a South African-born writer of fiction and humorous nonfiction. Her stories have appeared in Tin House, One Story, Open City, The Believer, and The Mississippi Review. Writing as Amanda Howells, she is the author of a Young Adult novel, The Summer of Skinny Dipping (Sourcebooks, 2010). Amanda has an MFA from Columbia University and has taught fiction writing at PSU and Gotham Writers’ Workshop.

Poet-dramatist Cindy Williams Gutiérrez collaborates with musicians, thespians, and visual artists.

Her collection, the small claim of bones, is forthcoming from Bilingual Press/Editorial Bilingüe (Arizona State University). Poems and reviews appear in Borderlands, Calyx, Harvard’s Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion, UNAM’s Periódico de poesía, Portland Review, and Rain Taxi. Her CD, “Emerald Heart,” re-imagines Aztec poetry accompanied by pre-Hispanic music. Her plays have been produced by Miracle Theatre Group and Insight Out Theatre Collective. Cindy earned an MFA from the University of Southern Maine.

Javier Hernandez is a journalist. He most recently worked as a staff reporter for the New York Times,

where he wrote about everything from the unknown risks of government cancer-screening programs to the lives of nighttime beach wanderers. A graduate of North Eugene High School, he studied government and music at Harvard. He has appeared on national and international news programs, and his work has been quoted by US President Barack Obama.

Jonathan Hill is a graphic novelist cartoonist, and illustrator. His first graphic novel, Americus, a collaboration with MK 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 his next graphic novel, The Searchers.

Hunt Holman is a playwright whose Willow Jade premiered at Portland Playhouse and received a 2010 Drammy Award for Outstanding Original Script. His other plays include Spanish Girl, which premiered offBroadway at Second Stage Theatre in their New Plays Uptown Series and was published in the anthology New Playwrights: The Best Plays of 2003. His play Gun Club was developed in Cherry Lane Theater’s Obie award-winning Mentor Project and later premiered at Hypothetical Theater, and his play The Dawn Patrol received a staged reading at Williamstown Theater Festival. Hunt graduated from Columbia University’s School of the Arts.

John Isaacson is a cartoonist and writer whose comics and journalism have appeared in the Willamette Week, The East Bay Express, The Santa Barbara Independent, and the Side B and Bridge Project anthologies. His first graphic novel, Do It Yourself Screen-Printing, was published in 2007. He currently self-publishes a mini-comic, Feedback, which reviews concerts by local bands in comic form.

Sara Jaffe is a fiction writer whose short fiction has appeared in numerous publications, including Paul Revere’s Horse, NOON, Fourteen Hills, and Encyclopedia. She is co-founder and co-editor of New Herring Press, a purveyor of innovative prose chapbooks, and also edited The Art of Touring, an anthology of writing and visual art by touring musicians, available from Portland’s Yeti Publications. She received her MFA from the University of Massachusetts Amherst.

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.

Jennifer Lauck is a three-time Oregon Book Awards finalist and has penned three memoirs, including the New York Times bestsellers Blackbird, Still Waters, and Found (March, 2011). She has a collection of essays titled Show Me the Way, worked nearly ten years as an investigative reporter in TV news, and has a BA in journalism from Montana State University. Lauck received her MFA in creative writing from Pacific Lutheran University in 2011.

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 Arts Fellowship. She teaches creative writing independently and through Fishtrap, Breitenbush, Sitka, and Opal Creek.

Laura Moulton is the founder of Street Books, a bicycle-powered mobile library that serves people who live outside in Portland, Oregon (streetbooks.org). 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. For more information, visit lauramoulton.org.

Mark Pomeroy grew up in northeast Portland. 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, the Waco Tribune-Herald, 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. He lives with his family in northeast Portland, where he’s at work on a novel.

Ismet Prcic is a Bosnian-American writer, teacher, and theater artist. His debut novel, Shards, won an L.A. Times Book Prize for First Fiction and was a finalist for the Dayton Literary Peace Prize. Ismet is the recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts Literature Fellowship for fiction in 2010. His work has appeared in McSweeney’s Quarterly Concern, Bat City Review, Faultline, Prague Literary Review, and elsewhere. He is an adjunct instructor of theater arts at Clark College.

Joseph Rogers is an award-winning writer whose work has been published in places such as Pindeldyboz, Opium, Bridge, Verb, Exquisite Corpse, and Painted Bride Quarterly. He has an MFA from Brooklyn College, where he taught fiction for five years before heading west. When he's not teaching at Portland Community College, he writes stories and songs that are rarely performed.

Desmond Spann is on a mission to motivate and inspire positive changes in people's lives while having

a crapload of fun. Under the name DLUXTL (TL=The Light) he performs spoken word, plays keyboard with Hip-Hop fusion band Speaker Minds, emcees (rap), and produces. He has dedicated his life to creating more passionate people who express themselves freely. Desmond uses rap, poetry, and performance as vehicles to encourage students to be bold in finding their unique voice.

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.