2014-15 WITS Chapbook: Exploring the Depths by Literary Arts

EXPLORING THE DEPTHS

EXPLORING DEPTHS THE

2014-2015 WITS Student Chapbook

Exploring the Depths

2014-2015 WITS student chapbook

Copyright 2015 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 Susan Denning Megan Gex Jennifer Gurney Amelia Ayrelan Iuvino Paige O’Rourke Mary Rechner Mel Wells Wits Interns Alex Corey Stephanie Wong Ken Board of Directors Jessica Mozeico, chair Betsy Amster Mike Barr Alice Cuprill-Comas Ginnie Cooper Rebecca DeCesaro Amy Donohue Theo Downes-Le Guin Marie Eckert Robert Geddes Pamela Smith Hill Karen Karbo Amy Carlsen Kohnstamm John Meadows

Deidra Miner Amy Prosenjak John Raymond James Reinhart Barry Sanders Jacqueline Willingham Thomas Wood Susheela Jayapal, ex officio Wits Advisory Council Susheela Jayapal, chair Amy Carlsen Kohnstamm Joan Fondell Diana Gerding Manuel Mateo Ana Muñoz Ramón Pagán Catherine Theriault Kristin Walrod Cindy Williams Gutierréz Tracey Wyatt Sharon Wynde Chapbook Editor & Designer Mel Wells 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

Writers in the Schools

Writers-in-Residence Turiya Autry, Alex Behr, Carmen T. Bernier-Grand, Cooper Lee Bombardier, Serena Crawford, Lisa Eisenberg, James Gendron, Amanda Gersh, Jonathan Hill, Jamie Houghton, Ramiza Koya, Kathleen Lane, Amy Minato, Laura Moulton, A.M. Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Malley, Mark Pomeroy, Melissa Reeser Poulin, Devan Schwartz, Carter Sickels, Evan Morgan Williams, Matt Zrebski

Visiting Authors

James McBride, Michael Chabon, Ruth Ozeki, Katherine Boo, Mitchell S. Jackson, and Carmen Bernier-Grand

Participating Teachers

Harris Ambinder, Amy Ambrosio, Matt Boyer, Barry Cochran, Stephanie Dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Cruz, Mykhiel Deych, Kathy Diamond, Jennifer Edelson, Jim Gardenhire, Emily Gromko, Zoe Edelen Hare, Mike Heisler, Emily Hensley, Jamie Incorvia, Cindy Irby, Aimee Jo, Karen Khalsa, Crystel Kinnee, Tina Kuchinski, Stephen Lambert, Dylan Leeman, Sarabeth Leitch, Morgan McFadden, Alethea Mock, Desiree Montoya, Dave Mylet, Cesar Ramirez, Mary Rodeback, Alicia Smith, Kris Spurlock, Amy Taramasso, Erin Tillery, Dana Vigner, Anna York

Participating Principals

Petra Callin, Carol Campbell, Peyton Chapman, Brian Chatard, Margaret Calvert, Paul Cook, Lorna Fast Buffalo Horse, Filip Hristic, John, Koch, Macarre Traynham, Juanita Valder, Curtis Wilson

CONTENTS INTRODUCTION ix

Exploring the Depths of Her

•

Jasmine Traversiej

A Slam that is Not Quite a Poem Secret Door FIFA

Deaven Edmonson

•

Sam Gavitte

•

My Life

The Road Trip • Madeleine Morris Inside, Outside • Haley Jackson Dodge, Parry, Thrust Subject 09

•

Sam Lesher

•

Sawyer Jackson

Donte Salazar

Claire Miles

The Man with the Briefcase

•

Paige Polte

The Friendship of the Dying Tree

•

Harmony Warford

Back to the Past • Amandla Nettelbeck

The Highlighted, Teacher-Approved Path

•

Army of Two

•

How I Feel

Jacob Britton

•

DJ McCord

Surfing • Andrew DiStefano This Place I Call Home Gatsby

•

Austin Grantham

•

55 56

Molly Cohen

•

Caroline Diamond 66 68

Asa Hack

Those Tiny Hands

•

Just Deal with It

Tajlynn Jenkins

•

Francis Tatum

The Tale of Timothy •

Anthony Nguyen

Isolated Space

Girls

•

Zachary Klockner 77

Lauren Littlejohn

Cholame Koford

•

Fireworks, Detroit Style The Plan

Haini Taka

•

Makayla Abell

•

The Red Button Thorn Bush Yellow

•

Zachary Irwin

•

Courtney Hensell

•

Izzy Schulenberg

A Breath of Fresh Air Free Treated The Subject

•

Syria

•

Ombre Dance

•

Simon Butson

•

Rio Eyestone

Neil McCarthy

Alex Chavez

Elijah Knutsen •

Steven Villanueva

•

Shoes for Nigel Art

Liam Comerford

True Freedom •

Guitar Inthisorn

•

The Observers

Meadow

The Purple and Gray House

•

Tyler Rodriguez

Pictures of the Mind

•

Sitivia Allen

Beauty and the Beast

•

Isabella Swalko

Columbia Slough Zac Effron

•

Throwback to the Past

•

Boredom

112

Kaila Le

First Heartbreak

•

Ruby Jude Jay-Mustafa

•

116 117

119

WITS WRITERS-IN-RESIDENCE 2014-2015 INDEX 127 SUPPORT 129

113

115

Kodey Kromer

Jordon Asher

109

Jordan Schuster

Ophelia Miracle

The Luck of the Snow I Am Not

•

Kimberly Gallucci

Stuart Axline

Unencumbered

106

May Stemple

The Beauty and the Beast Tick Tock

105

107

Love You Down to Your Bones

•

101

Cody Thompson

Hayden Smith

100

121

114

108

vii

Introduction Dear Reader, Closing the achievement gap between students of color and white students is a pressing concern. So is closing access and opportunity gaps. At Literary Arts we are working to address these gaps with youth programs such as Students to the Schnitz, which provides books, tickets and transportation for public high school student groups to attend Portland Arts & Lectures; College Essay Mentoring, which provides trained mentors to work one on one with high school students on their college and scholarship applications; and the Verselandia poetry slam, which elevates youth voices and the power of spoken word. Our Writers in the Schools (WITS) program inspires public high school students to write, revise, edit, publish, and perform their own creative writing. Semester-long residencies are taught by local professional poets, playwrights, graphic novelists, and fiction and nonfiction writers who model and share disciplined writing practices with students. Each residency is uniquely designed to support, deepen, and extend existing curriculum. Students become stronger, more confident, and more enthusiastic writers by learning new strategies for starting, sustaining, and revising their writing projects. Students don’t choose WITS, their teachers do, thus WITS reaches many students who don’t start off seeing themselves as writers, but end up saying things such as: “I learned from working with the writer that my voice matters.” “It’s okay to revise more than once; it’s actually essential to a good piece.” “I learned to never feel afraid to write down my thoughts. And I need to be brave enough to share with someone else.” “I have ability to write. Once I felt more confident I was able to write better.” “The writer got my imagination running more than usual.”

Residencies end with celebratory public readings and publication in our digital and print anthologies, one of which you are lucky enough to be holding in your hands. Our print anthology, Off Center, and our digital chapbook, Exploring the Depths, contain the final drafts of poems, stories, plays and comics written and revised by high school students in Portland and Gresham. For their help in making these books, we’d like to thank our interns, Stephanie Wong Ken, Portland State University MFA student, and Alex Corey, Reed College graduate. We’d also like to give a huge thanks to AHA! (Alling Henning Associates) for designing the gorgeous cover. Literary Arts’ own Program Coordinator Mel Wells (graduate of the Ooligan Press program at PSU) edited the anthology and laid out the interior. WITS is rich in partnerships. We want to extend a gigantic thank you to the 35 teachers at 11 public high schools who hosted 24 local writers in their classes; 11 school librarians who held poetry slams at their schools to prepare for Verselandia; 89 volunteer mentors who helped students generate ideas and revise drafts of their college and scholarship application essays; 4 local publications who honored students published in the WITS anthology; dozens of teachers and volunteers who went above and beyond to prepare and chaperone students attending evening author events at the Schnitz; and 11 community partners who hosted 15 student readings. We welcome new partners and supporters—if you, Dear Reader, would like to contribute to the work of WITS, you’ll find an envelope tucked inside these pages.

Mary Rechner Writers in the Schools Program Director

Exploring the Depths of Her

Jasmine Traversie

FRANKLIN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: JAMES GENDRON

To know her is to sail across the ocean to find the deepest parts of her. To land upon an island crossing paths among the sea discovering the unknown mysteries. To lose the generosity is to close thoughts and open empty feelings.

A Slam that is Not Quite a Poem

Makayla Abell

WILSON HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: JAMIE HOUGHTON

When I was little, I wanted to be somebody. Anybody, actually. I didn’t care who I was, as long as you liked me. As long as I could make you like me. So there you keep me, dangling from that small strand of hope. Because I was blind. Because I let you hurt me. Because calling me fat, ugly, pointing out my acne…was just you telling the truth, right? I mean, I had multiple mirrors in my house, I didn’t need to hear the facts, Heck, I could see them. I guess you have to see it, to believe it right? Well not in my case. But please tell me, what do you do when it comes to a negative father who would rather argue and fight than support you, To an alcoholic grandmother, To bullying, and switching schools, To mental illnesses, To you’re a liar. But let me tell you there are only two paths on this darkened road. You either keep on fighting or die trying. And I am not going down without a fight. Because you are Dr. Frankenstein, and I am the monster you created. And forget your fake promises of Perfection,

happiness, and rainbows. Because, Sweetheart, if you think that I’m gonna follow you back down that “magical” yellow brick road again you are sorely mistaken. I have struggled with self-harm, depression, and whatnot and still you do now. Yeah, I take pills for it, I meditate. In fact my life has probably gotten worse in the past couple of years. But I guess that’s why I’m still here, still fighting, living for the ones who could not. But that’s also why I’m sharing this story with you. Don’t give up you can’t let the pain win. You are Katniss against the capitol, Frodo against Sorahn. In fact you are freaking Harry Potter against Voldemort. Yes, I know I’m a nerd, but I don’t know how else to tell you. But don’t you see? You are the hero of your own story. And you have to beat the bad guys, because I believe in you, and we’re in this fight together.

Secret Door

Deaven Edmonson METROPOLITAN LEARNING CENTER WITS WRITER: JOANNA ROSE

I’m intensely ashamed that I’m looking for a secret door in my kitchen but my kitchen is too small for a secret door. The way things are going I think it would be better to search for a hidden hatch. This morning I finally found a hidden hatch. Then I disappeared like a shadow when the sun set and never came back.

FIFA

Sam Gavit te CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: LISA EISENBERG

My Life

Haini Taka

ROOSEVELT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: RAMIZA KOYA

I used to live in Tonga but now I live in Portland. I used to play rugby but now I play football. I used to speak Tonga language in my school but now I speak English in school. I change the way that we go to school, like, we run away from school, but now I go to school every day. I used to eat Tongan food but now I don’t. I used to be small but now I am big. I used to speak in class when the teacher said, but now I don’t because of the language. I wish that we together so we can change the wrong things that we do in the past. It is clear to everybody that I am from Tonga and everybody says, “Why are Tongan people huge and tough?” Speaking and writing in English is the worst thing I ever hear in my life but I try to improve because I live in environment English is their first language. I am a person who likes sports like rugby, football, tennis, and ping-pong no matter what.

The Road Trip

Madeleine Morris GRANT HIGH SCHOOL

WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

She had blonde hair, dirty from too many days spent with her head resting on the glass of a rusty pickup truck, sun bleaching it to mark its property. Her hair fell in soft waves around her tanned face. My mother used to say, “You never know whether it’s waving hello or goodbye,” and then she’d chuckle to herself. I never knew what that meant, but I don’t think she did either. M was my best friend. We’d only spent one year in each other’s acquaintance, but she warmed quickly and it took nearly no time for us to know each other as well as a turtle knows its shell. I remember the first time I looked at her—looked at her really. Her eyes were green like seaweed and blue like the sea and they were real crystal balls. You could see that she’d break your heart sooner than later and you would be so preoccupied with her ocean eyes that you thought you’d be okay with it. She and I met in sophomore year, right when the newness was wearing off of high school. On the first day of class, the teacher was reciting her first-day spiel and M suddenly stood up and walked straight out of the room. Just like that. Ms. Sievert was too shocked to do anything. M came in the next day, sat down next to me, and whispered in a chalky voice, “You have to set a precedent with teachers like this, gotta be careful or else they’ll expect something of you.” I grinned and suddenly we were joined at the hip. I don’t usually make friends that way, but I bet she does. For the rest of the school year she would show up on time every day, and then leave a couple minutes later most days. Ms. Sievert would give her a withering look every day as she strode out of the classroom, a silent plea that never did anything. My parents would’ve said she was a bad influence on me if they’d seen me walk-running after her.

We’d spend most days on the field outside of school. She’d smoke a few cigarettes, sucking in aggressively. Once she said it was because having lungs filled with smoke distracted her from her other problems. I think she said that to seem aloof and mysterious. But she did have problems. There was no contesting that. Her brother, who’d been a junior in college, had drank too much at a party and was just gone. He barely ever drank, but ‘barely ever’ was still too much. That had been three or four years before I’d known her, but it still stung her like a fresh wound. I think people as passionate as M never let things go, big or small. They can’t or they don’t want to, I don’t know. But they hold on to every little pain and heartache ever administered to them. M rarely ever got personal, though. Well, no. She got very personal, very often. I knew every little detail of her life, whether I wanted to or not, just not the tough stuff. I could list her top twenty favorite movies from the 1980s, and I could tell you her bra size, and what she would order every time she went out to dinner; I just couldn’t tell you the name of her friend who’d abandoned her for the popular group in third grade. I think a big reason she was so reckless with her life was because having a dangerous present distracts from a painful past. I think that’s where the idea for The Road Trip came from. It was two years ago now, mid-May, when she came to my house, wide grin on her face and said, “We’re going. Soon.” “What? Where?” I asked. “I don’t know!” She smiled at me, hopping from one foot to the other, electricity running through her. “Okay, please be a bit more vague,” I set down my pencil, I had been working on schoolwork, trying to become a model student in the two weeks before finals. M sighed heavily. “The truck. We’re going to go on a road trip. I don’t know where we’re going, you don’t know where we’re going—complete anarchy, it’ll be great!” Her pale pink lips were locked in an unwavering smile. “Please. It’ll be so fun. You’re always complaining about your family. You’re always saying how you hate the predetermined path your life is on. This sure as hell isn’t predetermined!”

“Very true...I need to think, though. As much as I want to change my life’s path, completely shirking all responsibility may not be the most effective way to ensure a happier future.” M shrugged and began pacing around the room. “Okay, whatever. It would be really cool if you came along so it wouldn’t be boring, but I can survive on my own. I’ll be leaving on Thursday night. Eleven o’clock, I’ll come past your house and if you’re coming along you’ll be waiting on the porch.” M patted my back and strode out, slamming the door so it rattled on its frame. She wasn’t mad; she never got mad at me. But she was frantic. She had laid out the plan, or the skeleton of a plan, on Tuesday and the time between then and Thursday was a cacophony of hyperventilation and drumming fingers. Finally, at eleven p.m. on Thursday my backpack was nearly overflowing and I was waiting on my front porch. I had been sitting there for fifteen minutes, knowing that M was always on time, usually early. As soon as the clock struck 11:01, a dirty green pickup truck shuddered down the street. M, with wide eyes and red cheeks sat behind the wheel. I hopped in and threw my bag in the truck bed. “Hello,” M said satisfactorily. “Are you ready for an awesome adventure?” I smiled and nodded at her, still drumming my fingers with anticipation. She pressed her foot hard on the gas and my head shot back against the headrest, the first of many instances of whiplash. We sped quickly away from the city lights and soon discovered ourselves on a desolate highway. Glowing green lights told me it was 3:45 a.m. and the radio told me it was a wild world. M and I had been mostly silent. “You okay?” She jumped slightly at my voice. “Yeah. Everything’s good...the stars are gorgeous, huh?” I leaned forward and saw hundreds, maybe thousands of stars dappling the limitless dark. It looked like a picture of the earth at night, one of the ones where you see the glow of each city shining against the natural lightlessness. I wondered if there were aliens in the star cities, and if so, whether they felt wanderlust. We were silent for another few hours until M pulled to the side of the road and stopped the car.

“Now that we’ve left, there’s something I need to tell you. I was thinking about something...for a while. I’ve been thinking maybe we could just, you know, start anew. In a new city, new people, the whole shebang.” “What? No, no. Why would I be okay with that?” “I don’t know.” M looked at me, ocean eyes alert. “I can’t stay in Anaheim, and you can’t either! Your life is going to go to shit if you stay here!” “No...I’ve built a home for myself in Anaheim and I’m not going to throw it away for you.” The hurt swept across her face and caused a sting in my gut like I’d been punched. “You’re my best friend,” I said, “but I can’t live my life at your whim.” “Fine, it doesn’t matter,” walls stacked up around her, a disinterested facade forming. “I’m still going.” “If you think you have to, I can’t stop you.” “No, you can’t.” M had the stubbornness of a two year old, and it showed at the most inopportune of times. We spent a moment in silence before I slowly stepped out of the car, tossing my backpack out of the truck. Suddenly, I remembered something I’d been wondering for years. “Wait! Before you leave, can I know one thing?” “What?” She snapped. “What is your name? What does M stand for?” M was silent for a few moments, seeming to weigh each and every one of her thoughts before speaking. “Manic. Manic Pixie Dream Girl.” And she turned the car back on and quickly sped off, leaving my life with the same dramaticism as when she had entered it, and without a final glance back. And with that I began the long hitchhike back to my home.

Inside, Outside

Haley Jackson & Elyse King-Guffey LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: AMY MINATO

Inside she is full of purpose Outside sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s only a woman Inside she imagines a better life Outside she walks under the thick heat Inside she carries light Outside she carries water Inside he cries for her Outside he orders her Inside he prays for her Outside he curses her Inside he believes in her Outside he calls her useless Inside he cares Outside he canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t show it

Dodge, Parry, Thrust

Sawyer Jackson CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: LISA EISENBERG

Subject 09

Donte Salazar GRESHAM HIGH SCHOOL

WITS WRITER: SERENA CRAWFORD

My room is quiet, but every now and then the quiet is interrupted by the dripping of my faucet, causing me to snap back out of my daydreams and bringing me back to the reality: the reality that I will never be able to get out of this cell. Unable to see anything in this facility, not able to freely walk its floors without a guard and his sidearm lingering behind my back. The only thing that has ever given me comfort is the fact that I haven’t killed myself yet. Shhh don’t think about that, just do your push-ups. Doing push-ups helps me clear my mind, keeps my head out of the clouds and keeps it preoccupied. The sound of boots clacked in the distance, getting louder as they approached my room door, and slowly came to a stop. I heard the metallic jingle of keys followed by the grinding and clacking of metal on each other. “Come on, it’s time to eat” said the man. He was all suited in a neat and clean army suit. “Fix your bed in two minutes pronto or no food!” He yelled when he talked, making him more intimidating than he already was. He stood nearly seven feet tall and was in good healthy shape. As I ran through the facility, my drill sergeant was yelling orders into my ear. Every morning was like this, instead of just getting our morning rations we had to work for them. Every morning was a battle of the fittest, if you didn’t get through the morning you couldn’t eat. That’s just how it worked inside these walls. There are various areas throughout the facility that show it’s age, plants are one of the most welcomed guests and are treated with care by the scientists. Despite everything in the facility being indoors they manage to have

something that involves running, jumping, climbing, and swimming etc. Today was much different. After a short four-mile jog, the sergeant led me to a group of scientists. They all smiled in attendance; three of them stood with clipboards in their hands and pencils (probably to take notes). “Hello, Subject 09, my name is Jonathan Latsky. This is Veronika Yana, and Yuuto Takahito.” He had a deep and very relaxed, calm atmosphere about him. You could tell by looking into his eyes that he was one who liked research and craved discovery. The woman, Veronica, was beautiful, and had a very alluring sense about her that drew you in. She wore glasses that would often slide down her nose causing her to push them back up. Takahito carried a cane that he would push his weight on to steady himself. You could tell he was aging but despite the cane. His hair was snow white; if the lights hit it at the right angle it would cause his hair to gleam. His eyes were the most interesting, though, they had a deepness about them, like the ocean. If I looked at them too long I felt that they would pull me under. “We would just like to take a few moments to ask you a few simple questions and perform some simple tests.” When Latsky said this I could see a slight sparkle in his eye. “Ok,” was my simple response. Takahito looked me in the eye and drew his hand behind his back. “How many fingers am I holding up?” “How should I know?!” “Just guess, what’s the first number that you think of?” “Well, I’d guess that it would be… ah, four.” “You’re correct!” With this they seemed pleased. This time Yana was the one to ask, “What number am I thinking of?” “Eight,” I grumbled. Is this even necessary? “That’s good, ok, that’s all of the questions that we have for you.” With that Yana and Takahito left quietly. “I still have couple of a couple of tests that I need to perform; please step into the room behind me.” Latsky motioned to my sergeant, who walked off to do his other duties, leaving me alone with the doctor. The door swung ajar, revealing a plume of smoke, electrical wiring and monitors; some showed various names with faces next to them

followed by complex numbers and graphs. “Sorry it’s so cold in here,” he said. “We have to keep all of the electrical instruments cold, but please sit down. I want you to get nice and comfortable, ok?” Without a word I climbed onto the chair, its cold leather and metal stabbed into my skin making shivers crawl down my spine. “Sit up and take off your shirt.” I did so, causing the cold to rattle my bones further. After I removed my T-shirt, Latsky pulled out a series of wires. “I’m going to attach these to you, to monitor your heart rate and brainwaves,” Latsky said with a smile. “Ok, so now that you’re all strapped up and ready to go let’s get this started.” Before I knew it, I was in the mess room surrounded by other subjects who were eating with tenacity and zeal that would make anyone impressed. With a tremendous headache I groggily went over to the machine on the wall and it deposited a mushy green substance onto my plate. “Oy! You don’t look too good; it seems that you’ve gotten rung through the ringer.” I looked behind me to see a guy walking up towards me. His voice was loud and cheery with a slight British crisp at the end. He wore the same clothes as me, a plain white T-shirt with his subject number and blood type with black cargo pants. His hair stuck out in all directions, making him look like he put his fingers into an electrical socket. “Good to see you; I haven’t seen you around the place much with you being in solitary and all,” he said. “I don’t mean to be rude an all but…who are you?” I replied. He stopped with his mouth gaping and said, “You hurt my feelings, but it’s understandable given that you look like hell and have been stuck in solitary for four months. Anyway, let me reintroduce myself; the name’s Jax, Jax Fletcher. While you’ve been in the can there’s been some rumors dangling around the mess. Zap, the guy in the T-shirt with 27 sitting at another table, supposedly he saw a girl while going around the facility with his sergeant. Not to mention normally the scientists are not seen much, but these past weeks everyone’s been stopped and asked questions.” We carried on our conversation during lunch, when the time came

to leave we both went to our different cells. I didn’t go into the same cell this time. Hell, there wasn’t even a door, just a room with four beds that were built into the sides of the walls. “Welcome to your new cell,” sounded my sergeant. With that, ignoring the other three roommates that were curiously looking at me, I flopped down onto the bed and surrendered to sleep. The next morning I woke to the sound of a snap. It was loud, almost as if someone had put their fingers right next to my ear and snapped their fingers loudly. Jolting awake, I slammed my head into the bunk above me. THUNK! “God dammit, ow,” I said, “That hurt like hell.” After rearing from my pained head I decided to look around the room. While listening to the snores of my new fellow roommates, I heard the sound of glass sliding against the ground. I looked up to see a glass jar sitting by the front of the room. Quietly getting up from my bed, I picked up the jar. It contained a curious black liquid that I had never seen before. I poked my head out into the hallway. But to no avail, not a soul was even in sight. I drew my attention back to the jar. What is this stuff, I’ve never seen anything like this…granted I’ve never gone through these walls. I opened the top of the lid and was welcomed with a stench so foul that it brought tears to my eyes. Quickly closing the lid, I decided to take it and put it underneath my pillow for the night. Just then the jar began to jostle violently back and forth in my hands. I dropped it onto the ground. When it hit the ground the lid busted off of the jar, releasing a waterfall of black ooze I thought the little jar couldn’t hold. I jumped back, stumbling away from it. The ooze looked like a black puddle of water. After a few minutes it began to bubble up like boiling water, then rose from the ground in a wave, revealing a flurry of spikes from its back that slowly smoothed into delicate ebony feathers. The shape was slowly beginning to mold more and more; the ooze was starting to drip down and harden into a long sharp beak. A small hole no bigger than a dot of light began to open wide, revealing two portholes for eyes that glowed a sky blue. The ooze was no longer a shapeless ball. Instead it looked more like a giant bird with a hunched back that gave it the look of a beach wave. “Do not be afraid.” It did not speak words, but rather the words

were shot straight into my mind. “What is your name?” “I don’t have one,” I replied. He chuckled and his eyes’ blue glow changed a tint green. He spread out his wings wide as if to stretch. I said, “Who is it that brought you here, and not to mention what the hell are you?” “You ask a lot of questions, but that is no matter” After that his shape began to fold around me, encompassing me completely. The last thing I saw was the glass jar on the floor. Then it all went black END OF EXCERPT

Sam Lesher

Claire Miles CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL

WITS WRITER: A.M. O’MALLEY

My grandpa, my sister’s grandpa too, my mom’s father, my uncle’s father too, my dad’s father-in-law, my grandma’s husband, my grandpa’s self. He died at 2:07 AM on October 18, 2010. Cancer. He didn’t tell because he wanted to go to France in the summer of 2010. Who doesn’t want to go to France? We went. We didn’t know. Skipping forward a few months, Mom is always gone, visiting her dad. In only a few weeks the doctors change their minds about how long he will live a million times, but they never bring good news. They told us that he has six years. At least he has that long, I thought. In a few days they told us that he only had about six months left. Wow, just wow. Minds changing, emotions racing to be the one I feel; I feel them all. Six weeks left, just make up your mind! One week left, I know they’ll be back in a few days to tell us the bad news. Soon I hear that this is probably his last day. I come out of school, Mom, Dad, and Laura all in the car, sunglasses not holding back the tears, neither can I. No one says anything, no one has to, I know. My world is crashing and burning around me. Now I remember him fondly, white hair with a bald spot on top of his head. He had six siblings, all of which were redheads, and he was the only brunette. He was a captain in the army and he loved murder mysteries. He loved them so much that he knew everyone who worked at his favorite bookstore. Mom still can’t go in without crying, I’m guessing we’ll get over it, but we’ll never forget the terrible deed fate dealt to us at 2:07 AM, October 18th, 2010.

The Man with the Briefcase

Paige Pol te GRANT HIGH SCHOOL

WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

There might come a time when a man carrying a black briefcase stuffed full of papers seems odd. This, however, was not that time. So the man standing on the corner of the street, clutching a banged-up briefcase, went unnoticed by the people scurrying by. The man with the briefcase stood out amongst the regular morning rush; his ragged suit and visible nerves made him seem like a pigeon in a flamboyance of flamingos. It didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t help that he was taller than almost everyone. Despite that, the swarms of business people hardly gave him a second thought; they had far more important things to think about. The early morning fog swirled around the Briefcase-man and he switched his grip on the briefcase. Briefcase-man joined the clouds of people marching off to their offices. Another thing that set Briefcaseman apart was that he did not make the journey from the subway to the part of town full of office buildings every day; he visited his building as infrequently as possible. Briefcase-man became steadily more nervous as he continued. He felt as if there was a family of tap-dancing worms in his stomach. He was so caught up with his own problems he did not notice the man in front of him had stopped to read a map. He slammed into the back of the well-dressed man and his briefcase flew out of his hand. The man glared at him and demanded he watch where he was going. The glaring man glowered some more as Briefcase-man bent to fetch his briefcase, mumbling an apology. As he straightened, the man he had walked into adjusted the tie of his pristine suit and stalked off, before Briefcase-man could apologize. Briefcase-man shook his head wearily and bent down to pick up a few papers that had escaped his briefcase and stuffed them back in. Briefcase-man trudged on for a few more blocks of big gray offices, working himself well into a nervous wreck in the time it took to get

from the map and the glaring man to his building. When he fell away from the crowd, he faced a tall grey cement building similar to all the buildings around it. But unlike the other buildings it loomed ferociously, as only buildings home to something terrifying can. This was his last chance. If he didn’t impress him this time, well, Briefcase-man didn’t really want to think about it. He glanced up at the address over the glass double doors; it read 909. He thought as he always did when coming here, of the irony that his lucky number, nine, would be plastered on his least favorite building. That thought made him want to laugh like a madman. A strangled chuckle burst forth and a woman passing by gave him a strange look. Now he really seemed like a nutcase. “Alright,” he muttered to himself, “get on with it.” With his heart rattling around his ribcage like marbles in an Altoid tin, Briefcase-man switched his grip on the briefcase and, feeling like he was jumping off a cliff, pushed open the door. He stepped into the marble-floored lobby and was hit with a breath of sluggish, unpleasantly warm air. Briefcase-man contemplated walking back out, one foot in the doorway and the other still clinging to the outside, but the receptionist was looking at him, irritated. “Sir, please shut the door,” she said, waving her wet nails in the air. Blushing, Briefcase-man let the door swing shut behind him. He ran his fingers through his thinning grey hair as he walked to the elevator. The marble floor was so clean and slick he had to consciously concentrate on not falling on his face. Once he got to the elevator, his hands were shaking so bad that he missed the button the first time, and the second. The receptionist gave him another disapproving look. Briefcaseman redirected his eyes to his brown leather shoes. His shoes hardly belonged on this floor; the shoes were too beat up and the floor was too perfectly white and clean. However, it was a pleasing juxtaposition. Briefcase-man realized while waiting for the elevator, and staring at his shoes, waiting while you are nervous is hell. (He also realized he should probably get some new shoes.) It is so unpleasant because when you’re nervous you just want to move around and walk the nerves out, but you can’t really do that under the sharp eye of a judgmental receptionist. Well, you could, Briefcase-man thought, but it wouldn’t really

help the nerves. The elevator dinged happily. Briefcase-man had stepped inside before the doors had even opened all the way. He punched the button for floor fifteen, mentally congratulated himself for hitting the button first time, and then stood awkwardly waiting for the doors to close. As the elevator glided up, Briefcase-man was regretting his decision. I should’ve taken the stairs, he thought. Being trapped in an elevator with a bundle full of nerves was far worse than being in the lobby. At least there he felt as if he could breathe. When the elevator woman announced in her monotone voice, “Fifteenth floor,” Briefcase-man spilled out in a sweaty rush, nearly dropping his briefcase and slamming into the wall opposite. Another receptionist looked up from her desk next to the door holding his doom. “You alright sir?” she asked. She looked genuinely worried for his wellbeing. Her hair was pulled into a tight no-nonsense bun, and unlike the receptionist downstairs, she appeared to be working. Briefcase-man was pleased to see her. “Yes, Mandy, just lovely,” he said reorganizing himself. “You sure?” He nodded and ran his fingers through his hair. “You here to see him?” she asked, gesturing towards the door next to her. “Yes.” Briefcase-man let out a shaky breath. “Alright, go on in and good luck to you.” Briefcase-man set his face in a determined expression, tightened his grip on his briefcase, and pushed open the heavy wooden door. Briefcase-man was now standing in a large office. The office was brightly lit by fluorescent lights that ran down the middle of the ceiling. There were mammoth windows that stood behind the desk, but they were hidden behind grey blinds. Every time he had to come into this office, Briefcase-man wanted nothing more than to turn off the horrid ceiling lights and open the blinds. But he would never in a million years, or for a million dollars, actually do that, the man sat behind the desk would have his head. The man was stout with dark hair, a bald spot, and eyebrows mimicking wooly caterpillars. His desk was far too big for him; it was a grand old mahogany construction, and at the edge on the far-right

side was a brass plaque reading, “Geoffrey Hiddlesticks”. “Hello,” said Briefcase-man, fixing his hair. “I see the most incompetent of my writers has returned,” Geoffrey sighed. “Sorry, sir, but I think I’ve written something decent this time,” Briefcase-man said, gesturing to the briefcase. “It doesn’t matter what you think. It only matters what I think of it. Let me remind you the only way your useless self is ever going to get published is through me. Now, give it to me,” he said, reaching for the briefcase. Briefcase-man slid the brief case across the desk. Geoffrey flicked open the latches and gingerly took out a sizable stack of papers. He set the papers down and said, “Take this disgusting case back, I don’t want it. And get out of my office; I will call you once I have decided what to do with this train wreck.” Briefcase-man left the office, and with a nod to Mandy, got in the elevator. He felt better now, the sickening nerves had dissipated, but he dreaded the coming days. He would have a heart attack every time the phone rang. But he was hopeful; he was so proud of this story that he thought there was a teensy chance it might end up as a book. However, Geoffrey Hiddlesticks hated him, and he was the kind of person who sabotages someone just because he didn’t like them. Briefcase-man passed the snooty downstairs receptionist and then was finally out of the building; he took a deep breath, and started off for home. He wasn’t contacted by Mr. Hiddlesticks for almost two weeks. During those two weeks he spent most of his time alternately sitting by the phone and hiding from it. He also read nearly every book in his house, which is a considerable number. But who could blame him? He was self-described as a nervous reader. When the call finally came, Briefcase-man was upstairs reading, and the phone was downstairs. Somewhere. He had kind of lost track of where it was, forcing him to sprint around downstairs trying to find it. Once he found it, it was in the cereal cabinet. He saw the caller ID and his stomach dropped out. He answered, “Hello?” “Yes, is this Gary Mordan?” asked Mr. Hiddlesticks. “Yes, sir,” answered Gary, his heart in his throat. “Well, I read your book,” Hiddlesticks paused.

“And?” “Why haven’t you written like this before!? You could have been published years ago. It’s beyond me. Well, either way it’s too good not to publish. You have a meeting with your editor at 2:20 next Tuesday.” Gary was speechless. “Uh-um th-thank you, sir,” he stammered. “Alright then. Do not miss your Tuesday appointment; I will talk to you then.” “O-okay, Tuesday. Right. Uh, see you then.” Gary had not ever expected that answer, but he was gleeful as a child at Christmas that he was finally living his dream. This was certainly worth those nerves in the office.

The Friendship of the Dying Tree

Harmony Warford WILSON HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: JAMIE HOUGHTON

The moment before the girl is lost forever in the suffocating waves she remembers an image An image of a beautiful dying tree, reaching out to her with its strong, twisted hands. Silently calling out to her as it waltzed with the wind. At that moment she realizes just how much she had in common with that twisted tree. Both were broken, on their way to unavoidable death. While both the girl and the tree looked strong on the outside, inside they were crumbling like a dry cake, The tree was lonely, its time of watching picnics from above and hiding sneaky climbers was over. And the girl? She was lonely as well. Having lost all of her

friends while trying to escape the maze that was her mind. And as this misunderstood, wonderful girl sinks, she smiles at how crazy yet undeniably wonderful it was that she had found a friend in this twisted, dying tree.

Back to the Past Amandla Net telbeck CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: LISA EISENBERG

The Highlighted, Teacher-Approved Path

Lauren Lit t lejohn GRANT HIGH SCHOOL

WITS WRITER: KATHLEEN LANE

The automated voice recording blurted, “Leave a message after the beep…” I paused momentarily, cleared my throat, took a deep breath and began my message. “I don’t know where they took me or how long I’ll survive. I’m sorry…” My story began in a small, cramped classroom lined with bookcases and flooded with florescent light. Promptly, as the bell rang, Ms. Westmire chided, “Class, I have an announcement, or rather, I will present you with an opportunity.” She proceeded to inform my classmates and me that our generic, public middle school was given funding to sponsor a service trip to a third world country. The room immediately erupted in applause, then fell silent when Ms. Westmire announced the funding only allotted twelve students, and that the application requirements would be rigorous. Looks of despair crossed the faces of nine of the students, and it was obvious they acknowledged the fact that they wouldn’t be accepted and essentially gave up on applying. Nevertheless, seventeen students were prepared to battle for one of the twelve coveted spots. Kate Burton, the stuck-up genius, instantly began writing a packing list, which consisted of nearly three pages of bullet points, and a shopping list that rapidly surpassed the other list in length. Kate’s studious, confident, and bossy demeanor caused many students to fear her and stay away from her. Due to the fact that she had the best grades in the class and was the evident teacher’s pet, it was assumed she would be accepted. I, however, was the clear underdog of the group. I sulked in the back of the room, trying to convince myself to join in with the other cheering kids, yet as per usual I couldn’t summon the courage. The remainder of the eighth-graders who planned on applying were alike; they had

good grades, cliques of friends, and came from middle-class families. I vowed to do everything in my power to ensure I could go on the trip. Slouching into my chair, I told myself the all-expenses-paid service trip might be the only chance I would ever get to travel out of the country and the perfect time to form friendships. The application assignment was to choose a third-world country individually and present to the school why the country needed help and how students could make a difference. For three weeks, I researched Haiti and studied the devastation caused by the earthquake of 2010. On the day of the presentations it was announced that the audience would vote on which country needed aid most urgently. Amazingly, my speech was voted upon and we moved into the next phase of the application process: forming a detailed plan of action and list of materials necessary for the trip to Haiti. We received minimal instructions and were split into groups to research, plan, and fundraise for the trip. For the duration of the collaborating, Ms. Westmire hung over our shoulders, judging students’ ideas and ensuring that everyone participated. Every day after school I treasured the time we worked together, when I felt like I was a part of something and when there was something worth working towards. But when we finished our work session and when parents came to bring their kids home, I was reminded that I lived a separate life than the other kids. I would walk aimlessly through the streets, climb up our trailer steps and open the door to silence. My father was nonexistent, and keeping track of all my mother’s voyages was practically impossible. I survived off of the breakfast, lunch, and snacks the school provided and was accustomed to collecting clothes from various shelters. Before being forced to interact with my peers on the research project, I lived in constant solitude—afraid that if I made friends they would make fun of my home life or report my parents to the authorities. After nearly two months of planning the trip, a mere fourteen students remained interested. As we geared up to complete the final phase of organizing materials, two more people dropped out, leaving the twelve most dedicated students. Kate became the group’s ringleader and, in her white button-down shirt, she aimed to dress the part. A week later, we were hauling our duffels off the plane and were bombarded with a wave of heat. Following our arrival in Haiti we

brought the duffels of food, tarps, first-aid kits, and water filters to a massive tent that served as the main storage unit for supplies. I gawked at the earthquake’s impact on the country; entire buildings were obliterated to piles of cement, tires and trash were strewn across the street, and people lived in a mass of tents constructed out of tarps. Next, we broke into pairs and were sent to find nearby aid tents. I accompanied Kate and a quiet, observant girl named Willa. “Hurry up, guys, we don’t have all day,” complained Kate as she shuffled away from the group, adding, “I think I found a shortcut and can you guys like bring one of those backups of supplies just in case we find someone that needs it?” Willa, afraid to cause drama, agreed immediately and jogged alongside Kate to match her quickening pace. I looked from the map to the road we were supposed to take to the narrow alleyway Kate began down, shaking my head and proposing, “That’s not what the map recommends and this little alleyway isn’t even on here. We should probably go on the highlighted path because it leads east, whereas this is going in the opposite direction. How do you even know if it’s safe, Kate?” “Oh my God. Relax. This is just a shortcut. Plus Willa wants to go this way too!” chimed Kate. Willa shrugged her shoulders and mouthed “sorry” at me as I took a hesitant step backward. I chose to walk down the highlighted, teacherapproved road even if it meant I would be alone. That was my first mistake. My second mistake was answering a native’s question. A man in a tattered gray shirt and stained, fraying khakis stepped from the shadows and asked, “Where are you from?” Without pausing, I replied, “Oh, I’m from the United States, and I came with my school. Do you need anything or any help?” The man motioned to the bag I was carrying and signaled that he wanted whatever money I possessed. However, when I explained that my teacher Ms. Westmire had money, but I didn’t, his smile faltered. Within seconds his face grew red with anger and rage filled his eyes. He sprung onto the road and in a fluid swing of his arm he brought me to his side and clamped my mouth shut. The next hours of my life were a whirlwind of being prodded across uneven terrain and dragged through dilapidated doorways. Dust

swirled around me and occasionally I was led past graves from the earthquake, causing knots in my throat to form and a burning sensation to flood my nostrils. I was positioned against a tree trunk, and a rope tied around my torso kept me from fidgeting. Another man approached me and unceremoniously knotted a rag over my eyes and mouth. I gagged at the cloth’s burnt smell of sweat and urine and fell asleep listening to the hiccups that punctuated my sobbing. My chin hung precariously onto my chest, and my shoulders quivered whenever the leaves around me rustled or when I heard the gruff men approaching. Sometime after I dozed off I felt a gentle pat on my hand and a barely audible voice murmuring, “Shh, I’m here to help.” Seconds later the cloth was adjusted to create a slit just large enough for my eyes, and a huge phone was pressed into my hands. While I couldn’t turn to see who was helping me, I heard him urgently instruct me to dial a number for help and leave a brief message. I paused momentarily, cleared my throat, took a deep breath and began my message: “I don’t know where they took me or how long I’ll survive. I’m sorry…” Suddenly, the phone was torn from my hands, and the Haitian ended the message by saying how to find me and to bring money to pay my ransom. Through broken English and a thick accent I deciphered his instructions as, “Come to the market located in the center of town with 3000 gourde. We have the girl. She is safe for now.” The figure stepped into my line of vision and squatted to revel it was a young boy with cropped hair and a visibly bony body. He clasped and unclasped his hands continuously as he whispered through gritted teeth, “We stole this phone from an aid worker to contact your teacher. I’m sorry they took you like this, but no one has helped us recover from the earthquake and we need money to survive. Don’t worry.” While huddled against the tree I reflected on my life. For many years I had to advocate for myself and be self-sufficient. I was accustomed to feeling in control; however, it felt counterintuitive to be tied, and essentially immobilized, to a tree. Secondly, so far my life had been full of emptiness—no family, no money, and, until working on this project, no friends. For once in my life I bonded with my classmates and thought my future would be full of sleepovers, busy Friday nights,

and birthday parties. Who knew what would happen next? Were all my efforts to be social worth it? Did my peers care about me enough to come find me? Did they even know that I was gone? I fell back asleep questioning if I would be safe come morning until I heard a familiar, defiant click-click-clicking. My heart rate soared when I promptly recognized the sound as Kateâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s habitual tongue clicking that occurred whenever she was deep in thought. I was overwhelmed with gratitude that she put herself in danger to find me. A wave of appreciation, happiness, and relief overcame me instantly.

Army of Two

DJ McCord GRESHAM HIGH SCHOOL

WITS WRITER: MATT ZREBSKI

CHARACTERS SNOW: 23, natural leader, brave, strong willed GHOST: 21, hardy, strong, smart TIME: Present PLACE: Hostile Middle East

(A tiger cage, dirty and grotesque. A bright green light cuts through the damp moldy air. Snow and Ghost are lying in separate corners) GHOST

You left. SNOW

You don’t understand. GHOST

I understand enough to know you left me to die! SNOW

I had to flee; they were right on top of us and you know that. GHOST

...I would’ve died for you out there, man. SNOW

Is that what you want right now? They would’ve killed us both had I not ran. You couldn’t shoot; you weren’t a threat. GHOST

No man left behind... You said that yourself, Mr. “Leader!” SNOW

I didn’t leave you, are you kidding? I got myself captured trying to save you!

GHOST

I understand that, but sometimes in life there’s things you just can’t run away from. SNOW

I understand that...just, we need to get out of here. I don’t care if I left you. We, or at least I, need to get out of here. GHOST

I’m not going anywhere with you...traitor. SNOW

I can’t believe you of all people can call me a traitor. GHOST

Stop, don’t bring it up...you know how pissed I get. SNOW

Do you remember when I covered your ass when you disobeyed direct orders and blew up that village? I did it because you were my friend and because you’ve always been there for me. I trusted your judgment so I kept the LT off of you. Now you’re over here calling me a traitor when I came back for you? GHOST

Snow, I told you not to talk about it. I killed innocent kids, hundreds of them. But I’m not a traitor for it. That village needed to burn...you left me to die. SNOW

Do you hear yourself right now? You just said that village needed to burn. That hundreds of innocent children needed to die. Who are you, man? GHOST

I’m a man who knows what needs to be done. What needs to be done to protect our nation. You, on the other hand, do not. SNOW

You’re so full of yourself, you know that? GHOST

They never told you who I really am, did they?... Did they? (slight chuckle) Poor agent Snow, if only you knew the reason I call you a traitor. It is not because you left me but because you are simply human. I, on the other hand, am not.

SNOW

What are talking about? You’re human. I’ve been with you the past five years. GHOST

Yes, actually humanoid. I look like you but my brain is at a superior level than yours. I call you a traitor because your race stole everything from my people. All because of one mutation my planet was changed. The mutation developed your race of humans and killed mine of the Keososis. I was forced to land on Earth with the rest of your kind while the rest of mine was slaughtered. SNOW

Why are you telling me this? GHOST

I’m here because your planet is about to have the same thing happen and I’m prepared to stop it. That’s why I’m telling you this. I’m calling you a traitor because I do still hate your race for killing mine. SNOW

Do you know when the mutation will start? GHOST

Honestly, I have idea; I just know it’s soon. My body tells me soon. SNOW

I mean, I’ve trusted you before. GHOST

You know, out of all the humans I’ve had the pleasure to cross paths with over the last hundred of years I’ve been on this planet, I probably hate you the least. SNOW

Yeah, why’s that? GHOST

You’re not fake—you do almost everything perfect. Almost like a Keososis, just human. (slight laughter) SNOW

So if you’re so superior to me, how ’bout we break out of this cage?

GHOST

We’re already out. Door’s unlocked; leave when you want. I was just enjoying our little chitchat. SNOW

This whole time and you didn’t tell me? Really? GHOST

What, our talk was important, wasn’t it? I mean considering life as we know it could be over soon. SNOW

Why do you seem so sure, Ghost? Know something I don’t? GHOST

Well, the mutation speaks in an ancient tongue I’ve only heard since the attack on my home planet. Lately I hear the language whisper to me. Threats. Snow, I cheated death; I’m not supposed to be alive. The mutation didn’t know I existed until recently. I’m the reason it’s coming to kill me. SNOW

So what you’re saying is you’re bringing the mutation to us? GHOST

In a way, yes. But that’s not a bad thing; we have a chance to kill it. If you won’t help me I can do it myself. SNOW

Ghost, how many bullets have I laid down with you? GHOST

I don’t know; more than anyone else ever has. SNOW

How many times have I cheated death with you? GHOST

Too many times to count. SNOW

So what makes you think I’d back down now? GHOST

Its just the mutation is stronger than you think—probably stronger than I even think.

SNOW

That’s the thing, Ghost, I do know how strong it is. Have you ever noticed you’re not that much more superior than me? You wanna know why that is? Because I was there the day it destroyed our home planet. GHOST

Ihere’s no way you’re one of me...You’re human. SNOW

You’re right; I’m the original human made to be perfect. But when your people started to attack, the mutation became furious and started corrupting its creations. It made humans to resemble you, what it thought was pure perfection. You all turned on it, causing it to destroy you. You did it to yourselves GHOST

Is that what really happened? I just saw explosion and then that thing killing everyone. I had to run and survive. I had to preserve my race. I knew no one else would. SNOW

It was a single Keososis with a longbow who started the battle. GHOST

So it was all just a misunderstanding that cost my people their lives? SNOW

Yes, and quite possibly yours. GHOST

What do you mean? SNOW

You say you have a feeling it’s coming...I do, too. And it’s stronger than before. GHOST

I guess all I can say is, let’s get it. SNOW

Hoo rah! Let’s get it!

How I Feel

Jacob Brit ton FRANKLIN HIGH SCHOOL

WITS WRITER: JAMES GENDRON

Yesterday I felt like I touched the tip of every mountain there is. I felt all the chills it gave me, and I felt my breath run away every time. Today, when you’re with me, I feel the sun surround me, and I melt in seconds’ time. Tomorrow I will feel the wind on my back and sunshine on my face.

Surfing

Andrew DiStefano CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: A. M. O’MALLEY

The surfboards rattled on their racks as the cars hit a small pothole. My dad looked up at them to verify that they weren’t on the side of the road. They were secure. The sun, high off the horizon, glinted off Ventura waves, lending a sense of adventure. “We’ll be there in under a minute,” called Steve from the front. “This is our favorite place to surf.” I had never gone before, but the Richardsons had two daughters in the car behind us who had gone many times, so it couldn’t be that bad. Suddenly the minivan spun a hard left onto the beach’s parking lot. No other cars were there, so we got a good spot, our tires making popping noises from the gravel. As Steve handed me my board I glanced at where we were. Large boulders were studded along the short path and the back of the beach— shiny, sharp boulders that were black as the pupil in one’s eye. The flow of the waves was consistent, and the waves themselves were cleanly picturesque. At noon, we would have plenty of time to enjoy this. Macy and Reilly, the girls, began running in the stubby way small kids do, while they held their surfboards atop their heads. They looked like they knew this place as though it was one of their parents. Not ones to be patient ourselves, me and Jason tore after them and the white surf, our boards slapping our thighs and our wetsuit zippers bouncing on our backs. When we got to the water, the waves turned out to be comfortably warm, quite unlike the frosty Oregon coast. My blue surfboard floated and bobbed on the tight waves. Macy had waxed my board the other day, and it felt slimy under my hands. A wave brought the board up and into my face. The dull, running pain in my nose made me trip. Kim, Steve’s wife, ran over, her own board being tugged behind her like an obedient dog or a very rare cat.

“Dude, you alright?” Kim came over. After helping me to my feet, she gave me the ultimate question: “Need me to teach you?” I didn’t know which waves to ride, which end of the board was the front, nor how one “popped up” to stand. I looked at my wetsuit. “Yes.” She grabbed the front end (not the one that I thought was the front) of the surfboard and pulled it into the waves. “Lay on top and paddle out to where Steve is,” she cried over the roar of the shattering waves. “If a wave’s too big to float over then you can swim through it.” I nodded, and climbed on rather messily. My hands became little paddles, but as I started to row it became obvious that this was my first time. I was really, really slow. The waves got bigger, each more than its predecessor. Fear had started to wheedle its way into my throat. These were waves I could drown in. This is a painful realization, one that comes when you look down while rock climbing, stare at the slope while skiing, or riding a bike for the first few times. You suddenly accept that you could get really messed up or dead while you’re having fun. After a solid five minutes of paddling, I was where Steve was. He’d even got time in to take a wave. Being eleven, I couldn’t exactly touch the sand, so I treaded messily. Kim appeared on my right, and started the lesson. “When a good wave comes, paddle with it. It’ll catch the back of the board, and when it does, I want you to stand up. You’ll have to hold on tight, and when you get stable, you can either jump onto your feet, or crawl. You can probably stand up without falling before we’re done today.” Steve snagged a wave that I ducked under, and as I swept saltwater out of my eyes I saw him rocket towards the shore. I hadn’t noticed that the waves were pretty speedy, and the sudden fear fell into me. It didn’t take too long for Steve to reach shore. He high-fived my little brother Jason, who had given up surfing and was now boogie-boarding and building sand castles. Suddenly Kim spoke up. “Here’s a good one, go for it!” I did not know what a “good one” constituted, whether it was fast, slow, or full of white water, so I didn’t judge as I began paddling away from it, ready to rock. The roar of the wave consumed me as I felt my board lift up. My hands touched the surf wax as the wave rocketed me

forwards. I had actually gotten a wave on the first try! With triumph, I sprung up and onto my feet. Sort of. I had jumped up too high and the board crashed beneath me. It wasn’t long before I was feeling the sensation of a washing machine, what with the white water churning around me. It was a couple seconds until I found the sand beneath me and stood up. It wasn’t very deep, so I stretched and breathed in. A clamp tightened around my throat. I couldn’t breathe. The animal fear slammed into me, as I tried to figure out what was happening. My lungs felt as though they could fold over; my brain felt like it was being pressed in a juicer. I sat down in the bubbling white water as my thoughts narrowed into a single point: breathe. And then release came in the form of a gust of air. It sank into the pits of my lungs, tasting wonderful. I must have had the breath knocked out when I got hit by the wave. It wasn’t long before my body was wobbling on top of a speeding surfboard again. Kim, seeing how bad my first run was, told me to just lay on the board until I hit shore, saying it would help my balance. She’d call out a wave, and I’d either start cascading towards the shore, or I’d be coughing out seawater after one knocked me down. The latter was more common, as one would imagine. Steve began doing small tricks on his board, and I could see him jump in the air and land perfectly. This caused me some distress, as the most I could do at the moment was stand up for maybe a couple seconds. We were out for about an hour before I realized one key fact: I was getting cold. Every wetsuit I’ve ever had has always ended with me being somewhat cold at the end. With the 3:00 p.m. sun warming my back, my feet started to get chilled. Sure, I had gotten much better at standing (I could almost make it to shore) but the temperature of my hair was beginning to ruin it. As I sat down to warm up for a moment, Jason started talking. “You’re looking good!” He patted a rather sloppy looking sand castle with a stubby plastic shovel. “You crash a lot though.” Jason’s teeth had a massive gap between them at the time, and his S’s whistled due to it. “It’s fun. You should try. Rielly is six and she’s better than me!” He shook his head. Adjusting his small tan sunhat, he huffed, “Sandcastles are too much fun.” Jason then proceeded to destroy the small little castle he had spent the past quarter hour building. He sprayed spit on the ruins as he made an explosion noise. “Boooooom!”

I ran out again, the sand chafing my ankles, the wet ankle leash bouncing around me. The sun had become horizontal when we began to pack up, its light splayed across the water, giving it the cliched look of a Thomas Kinkade painting. My damp wetsuit felt a bit like I was being hugged by dozens of eels. Sand was in every joint of it, causing red burns in the crooks of my elbows, knees, and shoulders. Kim grabbed my board as I sat on a towel in their car. I wondered if my wetsuit would go through the towel and stain the seats. It probably wouldn’t. “You guys did awesome!” Steve said as the minivan bounced along the gravel towards the road. “This was your first time?” “Yeah.” My dad turned to look at me. “From what I saw of you, you did pretty well. Did you get to stand up at some point?” “A few times.” I chuckled. Steve laughed really loudly, even though it wasn’t really a joke. We sped up into the road, with our car and the girls close behind. Toy buckets rattled in the trunk and the sun pierced through my window. It rippled off the water, and where we were now, the waves looked like folds in a piece of paper. I was down there minutes ago, riding on the force of the ocean. Suddenly I realized how big the horizon had became. Flat, blue, and far away enough that it would take days to reach. “Woo!” Steve broke my moment of thought with a loud cheer. “Drunk!” He turned around. “Don’t get drunk, kids.” I laughed with heavy confusion. “You okay with tacos tonight?” Dad pointed at me and Jason. “Steve wants to take us to one of his favorite Mexican places. They’ve also got huge drinks for adults.” I could pretty much have eaten anything at that point, so I nodded as the evening sun lit up the coast.

This Place I Call Home

Cholame Koford METROPOLITAN LEARNING CENTER

WITS WRITER: MELISSA REESER POULIN

This is Portland. It’s where nothing really happens. Where no one is really rich, and everyone seems poor. Where there are unpaved streets and broken Glass. Where fights are broken out and guns are pulled. Where the hipsters come and play, Where white girls drink their coffee from Starbucks. Where there’s a Starbucks on every corner. I bet there’s more of them than actual stores. Where there are people on the sides of Streets begging for money, or a job, or Some place to stay. Where people Destroy their lungs with cigarettes, Then blow the smoke in your face. Where people keep it weird. Nothing really special about here, it’s always Rainy and cold, rarely snows or shines. But It’s where I was born and raised, and will always be called home.

Gatsby

Austin Grant ham LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: JONATHAN HILL

Fireworks, Detroit Style

Caroline Diamond CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL

WITS WRITER: A.M. O’MALLEY

“Order up!” yelled the lone cook in Kat’s Diner, signaling for Theo to come retrieve the fragrant dish. Theo jumped up from a table located in the back of the kitchen, eager to get a break from his homework, and took a plate of heavily seasoned lamb skewers with a side of spanakopita from the order window. His yiayia watched intently as Theo’s little hands trembled nervously under the dish. “Careful, Theo, don’t drop that,” she warned. Katarina felt badly for her young grandson. She had demoted him from working in the kitchen to being a server. After Theo’s father was arrested at the diner two weeks before, Theo had been distracted, especially while cooking. He had ruined multiple dishes as well as forgotten recipes that he had memorized three years ago when he was six and first started helping in his family’s diner. Theo carefully set the hot food in front of one of the diner’s most faithful customers, Andy. “Sit down for a minute, talk to me,” Andy said to Theo, while smiling across the room at Katarina. Andy never married, and never had kids, but ever since Katarina’s husband died years ago, Andy had eaten at the diner daily. Andy switched between reading the newspaper, eating his lamb, and talking to Theo. He pointed to an article, “I just read here about the firework show tonight celebrating the Fourth of July. Is your yiayia taking you?” “Yes!” Theo answered excitedly. Because of Detroit’s high crime rate, including arson and ever-present violence that always increased on the Fourth of July, it was essential to have a citywide curfew for people under the age of eighteen. Unless they are accompanied by a parent or guardian, all minors must be at home before 8:00 p.m. that night.

“Be careful out there tonight, Katarina, I don’t want anything happening to you or Theo,” Andy said. “Thee mou den! We’re definitely not going!” Katarina said quickly. “We’re not? But I want to! Please, Yiayia?” Theo whined and tears started to leak from his eyes. “No, it’s too dangerous,” she replied. Andy was relieved that they weren’t going. Theo stormed out of the diner and nobody tried to stop him. They all knew where he would go. He ran down the crowded sidewalk, winding around sad homeless people and bags of trash. The air was humid and smelled of factory waste. Theo did not slow his pace until he had run through the crumbling entryway of Greektown. He started to walk as he arrived on the streets of a forgotten neighborhood. Empty fields filled with broken bottles separated deteriorating brick homes from the 1920s. Theo stopped at one particular house with grass that came up to his hips, the home of his deceased pappous. He tried to imagine the large, loving family that had once lived there. He wondered how his own family could be such opposites of them. How could they leave him with just his yiayia and a diner that barely supported them? ••• “I’ll make a deal with you, Theo, because I know you really want to go to the fireworks,” Katarina began, “I’ll take you to see them if you promise to come to church with me tomorrow.” “Yes I will! Thank you, Yiayia!” Theo yelled while running around the diner, his dark curls bouncing. ••• Katarina and Theo weaved through the crowds of people finding a place in the park to watch the firework show. Lit cigarette butts and fireflies made small flickers of light in the dark night. A still barge sat in the middle of the Detroit River; small figures ran atop it, getting ready to set the fireworks off and please the crowd. Drunks wandered around, crashing into onlookers. One rammed Theo, knocking him to his knees in the dead, scratchy grass. “Watch out!” Katarina yelled as the man stumbled away. “It’s okay, Yiayia.” Theo said in a calming voice. Theo chose to ignore that he had been pushed down because he finally had a distraction from his home life. However, Katarina knew that coming

here was a bad idea. Andy had reason to worry. The first firework lit up the sky; blue and red fell like rain drops into the river below while Theo’s eyes sparkled with happiness. A young couple next to Katarina and Theo passed a joint back and forth, but their conversation was lost in the constant hum of the crowd. While Theo, innocent and unaware, was immersed in the colorful celebration, Katarina began to worry about the safety of their surroundings. Sirens had commenced in the distance. The man of the neighboring couple slapped the joint from his girlfriend’s hand, causing it to land on the ground. Immediately the grass became ablaze with a small flame that was on the brink of letting lose and racing into the crowd. “Who lit this?” a man asked furiously, pointing to the flame. Someone else pointed to the suspect. “Let’s go!” Katarina said frantically, panic in her voice. She grabbed Theo’s hand and began to pull him away from the fire and the angry crowd. “Okay!” Theo followed without hesitation as his eyes landed on a silver object emerging from a nearby man’s coat. The two ran as the gunshot rang out, blending in with the booming fireworks and the screams of many people. ••• Andy greeted them at the entrance to the diner. He did not ask any questions as to why they were back so early for the reason was clear on their faces. “Come up to the rooftop. I have a surprise.” Andy said to Theo. The three of them walked through the diner. Katarina reached out to realign a checkered tablecloth. The wooden stairs creaked as they walked up them. The door at the top labeled “Employees Only,” swung open to reveal a group of peaceful people. The cook from the diner waved Theo over. Andy sat him down on a soft picnic blanket and handed him a glass of ice cold lemonade, “Look.” Above him were thousands of stars and in front, the bright lights of Detroit. Far away on the river, a familiar barge floated. Just then, the firework finale began. Colors exploded in the sky, illuminating the faces of those surrounding Theo. This was his real family: his yiayia, Andy, the cook, and many other regulars at the diner who cared about him. Theo felt safe and content.

The Plan

Anthony Nguyen BENSON HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: CARMEN BERNIER GRAND

Every day I would comb my hair, trying to do the best I could. As I walked around the house, I saw a family photo of us on the beach on a family vacation and I remembered the sound of the ocean waves hitting the beach and the seagulls making noise but that was all in the past and I smiled while walking away from it. As I got ready for school, my friends were already waiting for me outside. I stepped outside to be hit by a gentle cold breeze and I knew that fall had just begun. On the way to school, we passed by my old home that had once stood there. I started tearing a little bit as they told me that it was okay. As the day went on, I tried to make a plan to make the people remember me but my plans were delayed because of the fire. When I got home from school, I paced back and forth across my living room thinking of a better plan. But my enemy, who used to be my friend, betrayed me and took my plans that night so that he could be remembered instead of me. I had just thought of a new plan and couldn’t tell anybody so that the word would pass along to him. It was a great plan, maybe the best plan I ever had. But I’d hoped that my dad’s corporation would help me in this plan. I went to ask the CEO, who was also my dad’s friend, if I could come over and have dinner with his family and talk. When I came over I saw my enemy, Andrew. We met eye-to-eye and his dad asked if he knew me. We both said we went to the same school. His dad said, “Well, you two should go and get to know each other.” But what was in my mind was that my worst enemy’s dad was my dad’s friend and CEO of the corporation. He asked me if I wanted to stay for dinner and I stayed for a bit. While we were eating, I asked to go to the bathroom but I wasn’t actually going; I was looking for any clues to help me put him away. A

folder caught my eye. It looked interesting and really important and I took it with me. After I got home, I looked into the folder and it contained the details of the fire that killed my family. The next day I planned how my other plan was going to go down tomorrow and I asked my friends to help me with it. I told my friends the details of that fire and they were surprised that Andrew would do that just to make him feel better. They told me they would go with the plan to put Andrew away forever, just for doing that to my family. In the morning I woke up early to get ready for the big day tomorrow. It was also the anniversary of the fire and it was gonna be the day to get me to put him away. I set up cameras and went over to my enemy’s house so I could ask him questions about the fire and where he was the day it happened. He told me everything but all of it was a lie and I showed him the folder and he told me, “Give it back or you’ll pay.” But I said “No, you’re gonna pay for everything that has happened.” He released his dogs on me and I ran to the police station to tell them everything, but I tripped and fell and felt my face hit the cold, smooth concrete of the sidewalk. A friend came out of nowhere and picked me up and told me to keep going and that he would take care of the dogs no matter what. Eventually I made it to the police and they said they would take care of Andrew and put him away for all the bad things he had done.

Isolated Space Tatum Francis

METROPOLITAN LEARNING CENTER WITS WRITER: MELISSA REESER POULIN An isolation of nature stretches out around the crumbling shed Its tarnished and darkened walls a juxtaposition to the light pouring through tree branches, gracing shadows with a softened glow Rich grass blankets earth, only disturbed by the rough dirt path, striking through green with smooth pebbles This place is a scene from a fairytale But there is a trace of stillness in the air As if this space had been long forgotten— The wind whistling softly as if to tune out the tone of bitter regrets, which cut through the shed with an edge as sharp as a dagger— Stabbing through the onlooker who gazes from a distance, coursing through their shivering body, coloring ice blue eyes with frozen fragments of long lost memories They make no effort to resist the unsettling sensation They stand still and quiet, allowing the feeling to wash over them, coating their skin in the prickling blanket of familiarity And now the tunes of the wind serve as a scolding figure, shaking the limbs of the trees in a way a mother would shake a finger at her misbehaving child Because the onlooker had long ago loosened their grip, letting the memories slide away from their adult mind, But now the wind lends it support as it sings out the words the standing figure now so desperately breathes in— Enveloping the onlooker in contentment as the fog in their mind slowly clears, and they begin to remember: Safe. Home. Laughter. These words made up the creakings of the shed, each blade of the untouched grass As the onlooker blinks dazedly— Reuniting with the smiling ghosts of their childhood at last.

The Tale of Timothy

Asa Hack

CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: LISA EISENBERG

END OF EXCERPT

Girls

Molly Cohen WILSON HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: DEVAN SCHWARTZ

Girls will wear a soft pink hat and a new blanket as they lay in their crib in the hospital. Girls will wear pink tutus and plastic high heels. Girls will wear their motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s makeup and try and act older. Girls will wear tears across their faces as they have meltdowns because they arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t the center of attention. Girls will wear the clothes that they picked out themselves, proud of growing up. Girls will wear hair bows and their matching backpack and lunchbox on their first days of kindergarten. Girls will wear matching necklaces with their best friends as a sign that they will be friends forever. Girls will wear brand new dresses and their first pair of real high heels to their first school dances. Girls will wear big smiles across their faces as they come home from their first dates with someone who they have had crushes on for the longest time. Girls will wear the face of determination as they study for finals, determined to graduate in the spring. Girls will wear sweats and no makeup after they have their first real breakup with the first guys they ever loved. Girls will wear graduation caps with pride as they walk across stage and receive well-earned diplomas. Girls will wear the title of a scholar wherever they walk. Girls will wear the look of agony and grieve as they get the phone call that their mother has passed away from an unknown illness. Girls will wear the name of anorexic or sick, not being able to eat from the loss of their mother.

Girls will wear a nametag on their clothing signifying that they have completed their schooling and are ready to work. Girls will wear brand new dresses as they go on dates with friends. Girls will wear smiles again and with new hope. Girls will wear gorgeous engagement rings on their left hands telling everyone that they have found the one. Girls will wear the weight of the world on their shoulders as they plan their weddings and the rest of their lives. Girls will wear elegant dresses as they walk down the aisle, vowing their lives to someone else. Girls will have bright futures. Girls will wear the look of confidence as they know that they can accomplish anything that they put their minds to.

Those Tiny Hands

Zachary Klockner GRANT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: JAMIE HOUGHTON

Those tiny hands, smooth and soft, reach out I let her grab my nose with her small delicate hands that reach, always reach Just like a koala gathering his meal in the Australian forest. She reaches higher, past my nose toward my hair In a slow steady manner, nothing moving too quick “Peakaboo, peekaboo, ah where’s your nose,” She stares back with wide light blue eyes and giggles

Just Deal with It

Tajlynn Jenkins FRANKLIN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: EVAN WILLIAMS

The Red Button

Zachary Irwin GRESHAM HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: SERENA CRAWFORD

Welcome to the place where you don’t want to be: a small apartment with few rooms and little to no windows. This is where you eat, sleep, shower, and watch TV. There isn’t even room for a refrigerator, a bed, or a stove. But there is a hidden red button on the left side of the door. “Well, here you are, enjoy,” the manager said as he left the room. I walked over to the button as the door closed behind me. My hand moved to the red button, made contact, and I slowly pushed it in, thinking twice if I should. I pushed the button all the way in. Nothing happened. Then the lights started flickering on and off; the room felt like it moved down. It stopped. There was no door, no button. I was trapped. There was a small bobbing feeling like I was in water. There was a small hatch at the top of the room I didn’t notice before. Pushing it open, hot rays from the sun beat down on me. Where was I? I wasn’t here before. Where were the skyscrapers, the roads, the cars? There was a small island not far off but I was afraid to go into the tropical water that might have sharks in it. I waited to see if someone was coming for me. I sat on top of the room. Then I had to go in because the sun was starting to burn me. Around four or five o’clock I poked my head out. The sun was going down with a bright pink and red glow. Still, no one. No island now, I floated away. Just the sunset and the tropical water. I saw something in the distance with big white sails. It was heading right to me. I started waving my hands yelling, “Help, help!” The boat started to slow down as the sail fell and someone in a red jacket with a wig popped his head over the side of the large wooden boat. “Can I help you, sir?” said the man on the boat.

“Yeah, I’m stuck out here, I don’t know how. I was in an apartment building and I got here.” He dropped a rope and I started climbing up to the boat. “Come on, hurry, we don’t got all day.” I got onto the boat and I asked, “Where am I?” “You are on the seas of England. We are a military supply boat heading back to get supplies for the royal navy.” “I’m sorry but what year is this?” “1600.” “What, that can’t be right; isn’t it 2015?” The sailors on the boat started to laugh.

Thorn Bush

Courtney Hensell WILSON HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: AMY MINATO

One nice day, when I was younger, I was at my grandma’s house riding my bike and using my imagination when something bad happened. I was riding my bike off on the side of the house. My cousin, Sidney, was there hanging out, too. It so happened that I was going a little too fast and right in front of me was a thorn bush. Luckily, off to my left, there was a fence. I was going so fast that I couldn’t slow down in time, so I grabbed the handle part on top of the fence and swung right into the thorn bush. It didn’t hurt, luckily, but I didn’t know what to do. So I called out to Sidney and told her to go get Grandma. My grandma helped me out of the thorn bush and into the house. She walked me to the bathroom to get washed up. The accident didn’t hurt at all, until my grandma smeared rubbing alcohol all over my arms and back.

Yellow

Izzy Schulenberg GRANT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

Sara sits on the couch in her floral onesie, bouncing on one leg with her thumb in her mouth. She has a sparse covering of black hair on her head and eyes the color of perfectly browned toast. She watches The Simpsons and laughs when the yellow children appear on screen. She loves The Simpsons, even though she doesn’t know how to talk, let alone listen and comprehend. Ara washes her hands in the metal kitchen sink while listening to her daughter laugh. She looks out the window and sees the first daffodil of the season, its petals full and waxy and yellow. After drying her hands on the rough brown rag, she picks up a bowl of peanuts and joins Sara on the couch. She pulls her daughter onto her lap and into her arms, trying to get situated. Ara is too late. The episode is over and her daughter is itching to escape her prison-like arms. Instead of letting up, Ara keeps her arms around her wriggling, precious child, and stays there until the Family Guy credits roll thirty minutes later. By this time, Sara is asleep. Ara lays her down in her crib, and takes herself to her own room, with the faded yellow armoire standing guard in the corner. •••

“Il fait du vent,” Sara mumbles. She is teaching herself French out of an old, yellowed book—one she stole from the public library she volunteers at. She’s only thirteen, but she has grasped a handful of French and taught herself the only universal language other than numbers: music. If you ask her, Sara can recite endless facts and tidbits about music theory off the top of her head. Sara spends her time pushing up the too-big yellow reading glasses she bought at the Dollar Tree and trying to understand human interaction. She self-identifies as socially awkward; she can feel the disappointment

coming off her mother in waves directed at her. Ara expected her to become a well-rounded young woman—the girl who smiled at everyone and looked pretty without makeup, the girl who had friends, but the good kind, the close kind, a small group she always hung out with. Sara doesn’t have any friends. She prefers being with herself, and she doesn’t see a problem with that. On her way out of the library, she is jostled by a large boy who goes to her school. He calls her a “bitch” and continues on his way. The wind dries her eyes instantly, and it’s a mystery whether or not she would have cried. ••• “Come here, honey. Ooh, you sweet little thing! How much you’ve grown, baby doll.” Ara’s mother gives her granddaughter a big ol’ sloppy kiss on the cheek and wraps her up in a breathless hug. For thirty seconds Sara is surrounded by wrinkly, yellow-toned Armenian skin, and powdery floral perfume. “Alright, Mom, leave her alone.” Ara smiles and winks at her daughter, but the only thought in Sara’s head is eff you and it’s on repeat. Sara’s peers have all finally reached the age where they realize their parents don’t have the answers anymore, but Sara has known that her whole life. “Hello, Dada.” Sara smiles through the makeup that her mother begged her to wear. It’s not that much, but it feels like a mask. “Hello, sweet girl. You look more beautiful than ever. How old are you now?” “I’m almost fifteen.” “Oh, boy, how time flies! I swear yesterday I was meeting you for the first time. When your mother introduced me to my beautiful granddaughter...” Sara’s grandmother continues to talk about when her mother first decided to adopt, and Sara tries not to flinch. “Oh, sweetie, tell your Dada what you’re doing tomorrow night!” Ara gives Sara a little nudge with her elbow. “I’m going to a concert with my friend, Lily,” Sara deadpans. They both look expectantly at her, smiling like the mannequins that used to scare Sara in Macy’s. “I’m going to use the bathroom; please excuse me.” Sara removes

herself from the situation, like her therapist suggested whenever she gets frustrated. She sits on the closed toilet lid, playing with her long-sleeved white cardigan’s hem. The bathtub is yellow, the rug by the sink is yellow, and the vase full of daisies is yellow. Sara hates yellow. •••

Every single flower at the funeral is yellow. Sara feels like she’s going to vomit. Not just because the color is harsh on her eyes, but because her mother lies in the rich mahogany coffin. The centerpiece in the center of a sickening feast between crying children and weeping coworkers. No one accompanies Sara. She doesn’t need someone to pat her grey-clothed back. She doesn’t need someone to stroke her newly cut black hair. She doesn’t even need a tissue. The break from her mother was swift and clean, like a sharp knife slicing through raw chicken breast. She turned eighteen, picked up the suitcase she packed, and moved into the condo they had been renting out to other tenants. It was on the eighteenth floor in an apartment downtown. By the river. She was quite lucky to have an option like that available to her. She made sure that all the furniture was grey, and the only spot of color was red. Never buttercup or gold, never yellow. “I’m sorry for your loss.” “If you need someone to talk to, I’m here.” “We’ll be praying for you.” Sara mutters thank you and moves quickly between relatives. She’s going to throw up. The bile is building in her throat. It’s coming up and up and up and— ••• It’s the thirtieth anniversary of her mother’s death and Sara can’t remember what her voice sounded like. The only thing she kept is a dry, yellowed photograph of her from eleventh grade. It’s framed by her bedside. Sara is devastated because she never even tried to know her mother. She was an ungrateful little brat, and now she lives with her boyfriend who doesn’t even know her mother is dead. Dead and never going to see Sara down the aisle. Never going to whisper hello to her grandchildren. Sara has to act like she is okay. Like she is healthy and feeling safe. She drags herself out of the black and white Ikea sheets and into

the dull, colorless bathroom. She brushes her teeth with no vigor, no enthusiasm or energy. She dresses in her wool dress and black stockings. Black heels. Black teardrop earrings. She walks out into the kitchen, and begins to fill up a glass of water under the faucet. She looks out the window; there is her boyfriend wearing a soft yellow button down T-shirt and picking a waxy daffodil. Ara’s favorite flower. Once the tears start, they don’t stop. “I love you, Mama.”

A Breath of Fresh Air

Ombre Dance ROOSEVELT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: RAMIZA KOYA

I ode to music. A song called “A Breath of Fresh Air” because we all need it. Let’s take…”A Breath of Fresh Air” is like the waves hitting the rocks, just the way it sounds. Just the way it sounds is nice. I need a breath of fresh air because I constantly make mistakes. Like an earthquake making the ground rumble, this song has you think of the struggle you’ve been through and the accomplishments you’ve been through. When you think about what you have been doing, you’re gonna need a breath of fresh air. Life is hard, no easy way out, just need a breath of fresh air to clean your mind.

Free Treated

Guitar Int hisorn FRANKLIN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: JAMES GENDRON

imagine how many people were mad imagine how sad it is imagine all the guns that they need imagine all people that laid on the ground many people with nice attitudes many people with good lives getting a bite from bad people they did not do anything wrong and now they have to watch out for what? I don’t understand come on man, I’m done with it you did this to us, then what if your kid got this problem too? would you guys still laugh? see, what I tried to say is don’t treat us like a pig because we are human! same species as you I’m getting tired of it how many times where this…happens that’s why people get confused I hope people have learned this lesson freedom, free attitude, free treated act nice! say hi!

The Subject

Liam Comerford CLEVELAND HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: LISA EISENBERG

The Observers

Steven Villanueva METROPOLITAN LEARNING CENTER

WITS WRITER: MELISSA REESER POULIN

From the train whistle that shatters glass of old warehouses, to the teenagers who blitz through the day burning the rubber off the screeching tires melting the smell into the noses of the kids who stay out until the moon rises above the clouds. Where old people sit on their porches, staring off into nothing but still searching for their lost time, instead finding a barren wasteland full of strip clubs splintering them apart one memory at a time. And that bright red sign that screams STOP! but is never heard choked out by bones snapping of countless pets who cross only to find darkness, their bodies lay underneath the tree displaying the ugliness of the world onto ones who don’t give a damn, a care, or even a thought to the ones that are insignificant to them, turning away from what is in front too afraid to face the ones who love them. Bringing forth the sadness within people who look, and see what’s before them making them turn in shame and live on for those who can’t live alone.

True Freedom

Simon Butson WILSON HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: DEVAN SCHWARTZ

I feel free like an eagle as I soar through the air. My senses heighten and focus as I glance at the ground below. Time seems to have slowed and the world around me appears to have vanished. All of my worries and regrets have left me and the only thing I think of is myself. I feel free. But this sense of freedom has to end eventually, and I land on my feet. I am not upset though because when I am Freerunning, I can move freely, without limitations. To me, that is true freedom.

Meadow

Rio Eyestone FRANKLIN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: JAMES GENDRON

a meadow so calm and serene glistens beneath the seams of a wooden glen tucked away until dawn became day when the sunrise hit your eyes and the children laughed and played but you stayed there in the fall til then all that was left was the end no children laughed and played our meadow enveloped in flames

Syria

Elijah Knutson METROPOLITAN LEARNING CENTER WITS WRITER: JOANNA ROSE

I was 16 years old when I was killed fighting for my country. My family was killed by gas not seen since 1914. Fighting with my brothers, the only ones I have left. The Syrian countryside is beautiful and I wish to be part of it one day. Jets prowl like snakes. Helicopters float like elephants bombing cities. 16 years old when I died, bombed fighting for my country against my country.

Shoes for Nigel

Neil McCart hy GRANT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

Standing eight feet tall, and wearing a size twenty shoe, Nigel is the tallest man in the world. People looking at him may be a bit frightened. He has a really huge head that isn’t shaped the way most skulls are shaped. Because he is bald on the top and sides of his head, people notice that the top of his head is big, and the sides are much smaller. It looks a little like an alien head. The hair he has left on his skull starts midway down his skull and has a look like he stuck his finger in an electric outlet and was severely shocked. His face has ripples and brown spots that resemble a cow. Nigel wears black, thick-framed glasses and has lips that look like prunes. For being so freakishly tall, he is actually pretty thin. So thin it looks like he would have a hard time supporting his huge frame. Growing up in a small town, there really wasn’t much going on in the way of cool fashion, and even if there were, because of his size, he had to make most of his clothes. Aside from all the issues Nigel had with the way he looked, he also had a problem getting shoes. This changed when Nigel came up with the idea to create a model to fit his foot and create his own shoes. The idea to create his own shoes hit him like a ton of bricks and he couldn’t wait to get started. To get ideas of other shoe colors, designs, shapes, and materials used, Nigel started subscribing to shoe magazines and looking on the internet. Now that he had his plan, finding the perfect place to make his shoes was his next step. Nigel was looking for a place that was not too flashy but not unnoticeable. Nigel finally found a place right on the corner near the house he grew up in, and where his parents still lived; Nigel often took lunch breaks to his parents’ house. When he got his shop, Nigel was so ecstatic he could barely breathe! When decorating his store, he wanted to make it look very modern and

sleek. He made it with wood floors and with black and white couches in the middle of the store. He created stations where people could customize how they wanted to make their shoes. The most popular shoe people wanted to design was Nigel’s signature shoe that he created himself. To get many of his ideas for his out-of-the-box designs, he contacted a Louis Vuitton designer in New York, explained what his idea was, and said if he could use them in his creations, he would give them a percentage of his profits. Louis Vuitton jumped on that bandwagon and said they had a deal. Because Nigel had a relationship with Louis Vuitton, his store was just one of the very few shops where customers could customize their own shoes and legally have legit Louis Vuitton parts on them. Part of the deal was written permission from Louis Vuitton to be able to put their famous logo on his shoes for his customers. Nigel’s store was pretty pricy to get shoes made, so Nigel normally saw a lot of celebrities visit his store. One of his most famous customers was Jay Z. Jay Z was always known for his freakishly cool shoes, and by regularly visiting Nigel’s shop, it helped boost the recognition for Nigel’s business and continue getting Jay Z’s shoes in all the magazines. One day Nigel was sitting in his store and suddenly felt a drop of water come through his roof, drenching his head like a flood. A few days prior, there was a huge rainstorm in his town. Nigel hoped that his shop would not get saturated with water and cause damage. He worked so hard to get his business up and running, that a flood would destroy everything he worked for. One soggy morning, Nigel arrived to find his whole store was swimming in water. Looking up at the ring around his ceiling, Nigel said to himself, “Oh my gosh, what am I going to do about all this water in my shop?” Nigel quickly got on the phone and called a guy named Rex to come fix his shop. After Nigel talked to Rex on the phone, he was relieved to hear the plumber say, “It’s not going to be easy or cheap to get this job done, but I will do it as good and as fast as I can.” Nigel felt a ton of weight lift off of him, and was happy that his shop would soon return to normal after Rex fixed it. The process was weird to Nigel because for the two weeks Rex was working on the shop, Nigel had to work from his house and produce all the shoes in an area not equipped to make shoes in. Instead of working in a large, open space, he had to maneuver around corners and go in and

out of much smaller rooms than he was used to in the shop. The ceilings were much smaller, too, which created a bit of a claustrophobic feel. Nigel got through the two weeks, and then Rex gave him a call. Rex said, “You can go back to your shop now; it’s all fixed up!” Nigel was relived that he could go back to his store. When the job was done, Nigel made extra sure when there was going to be a storm, he was going to plan for it. Although the shop was fixed, Nigel was still left with a huge debt. Not knowing how to pay his debt to Rex, he had to close the shop for a few days to get his problem figured out. After a few days of the shop being closed, Nigel got a call that would change his whole money problems. Nigel answered, “Hello?” The voice on the phone sounded familiar, but not someone he would expect to call. “Hey, Nigel, it’s Jay Z. I heard what happened to your shop, and I want to help support you in getting the shop up and running again.” Nigel couldn’t believe it! His first thought was, “How is Jay Z going to do this?” Jay Z told him what the plan would be: Jay Z would hold a street concert right where Nigel’s store was located. He would have his agent make all the plans in getting the word out to the public, hyping the event up and giving a price to come see the concert. Nigel was so excited on the night of the concert. The weather was perfect. The temperature was in the seventies and it was sunny. Because a lot of people couldn’t fit in the small area that the concert was going to be, the cost to attend was one that only celebrities could afford. The night was a huge success. After the last song, Jay Z called Nigel up on stage, and presented him with a check for five million dollars. At first, Nigel couldn’t accept so much money, after all, the cost for the repairs wasn’t even close to that amount. Jay Z told him that he was happy giving him the money, and told him to put the rest away for a rainy day.

Art

Alex Chavez WILSON HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: DEVAN SCHWARTZ

In my eyes, I believe everything is an art piece. When my pencil or charcoal is etching across the blank page, all my ideas come to me as I go on. As I come across something I somewhat like, I declare it a good art piece because everything is art. Many people might look at a simple object or drawing and say that it is not art and it has no value or meaning. The people that say this are closed-minded and they are dumb. But when I see something simple I see the art in it. There are many basic design elements, and if one is used, you will create an art piece. This has happened to me before in my life. I start out with a simple line, a mildly curved line. The curve, to me, looked like an edge of a leaf. I begin by outlining it, shading it, giving it texture, and making a composition. I see the leaf coming together but I realize I messed up. I leave it not crumpling it or discarding it but declare it as one of my finest art piece.

The Purple and Gray House

Tyler Rodriguez ROOSEVELT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: MARK POMEROY

Where I live, where I live, I live in a purple and gray house. I live in a society where they say this is the land of the free and home of the brave. The home of the brave brings truth, yet land of the free does not exist here. You see, this thing called the government decides what’s safe and what’s not. I live in a world where smart cars are taking over the road. I live where rock n’ roll and metal music play loudest. I live in my small purple and gray house with a backyard, in Kenton.

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Pictures of the Mind

Sitivia Allen FRANKLIN HIGH SCHOOL

WITS WRITER: EVAN WILLIAMS

It is an ominous and melancholy day in the outskirts of beautiful Albany, New York. The sky is filled with clouds that are producing severe thunderstorms. There’s a lone house—a rundown cabin in the woods located near the base of the Catskill Mountains. A short and hunchback young lady, Lora, lives in the house. Lora has a sense like none other: photographic memory. Lora’s photographic memory is far more vivid and peculiar than others. Lora rarely ever goes out in public because she’s embarrassed by the way she looks and how she acts. Every time Lora does go out, even if it’s to go to the store, something strange and dark happens! Being that she lives in the outskirts of Albany, the area is quite desolate. Everyone in the town knows each other, but Lora does not live within the town’s boundaries. No one ever visits Lora because she mysteriously knows when someone is going to die (and possibly kills them). The only day she’s able to come out is on Halloween due to the witching hour and devil’s night. “Lora, Lora, who are you trying to make a gore-ah?” say the townsfolk that walk past her in the store. Everyone teases her, and the only defense mechanism she has is to mysteriously kill them with her presence. As she thinks to herself, If only I didn’t harm people; if only people would see me for who I am and not some mind monster, she gets depressed. She’s a young lady with a lot of potential, but no others give her credit for it; they just assume she’s evil. As she sits in her home, she talks to herself. Why am I still around? Why won’t my mind kill me off already? I just wish God would answer me! I’m not a bad person! She’s sick and tired of everyone avoiding her like the plague. She plays with her hands and looks out the window to see if she has company, but there is no one.

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The seasons change, but poor Lora hasn’t changed at all. The winter’s harsh snow and frigid mountain fog settles along the creeks, rivers, and base of the Catskill Mountains. Winter is a season that happens to make everything more ominous than before. Lora loves the gorgeous winter holiday, for it brings warmth into her heart, but she has only herself to love. She stays home, lurks around on her acres, and plays in the snow as if she was a child again. Playing in the snow brings back childhood memories of when her mom was still alive—before she was killed by Lora. She can’t fully remember why she killed her mother. She changes her mind about how her mother was killed every time she thought of it. But vaguely, she remembers her mother taking sides with another child that was bullying Lora. Lora pictures her mother as a gray figure with blood and a TV antenna going through her chest. Both the cardiothoracic and cardiac surgeons were unable to safely remove the antenna and her mother started to circle the drain. Her mother’s vitals kept on decreasing until the surgeons called time of death. The surgeons went to give the news to Lora, but when they went to tell her, she was nowhere to be found. Children go to the woods to play hide-and-seek near Lora’s home today. Lora comes out to greet them with no potential threat of harming them, but they assume she’s going to. As they run away, they scream offensive phrases like, “Lora, you’re an eyesore, you gore but not gorgeous insane clown!” They incite Lora to become angered. As she gets angered, the strange and dark things start to happen. Her mind starts taking pictures of the children running into spiked fences; they’re gray, but everything else in color. Like a dead-set target scope on a militiaman’s sniper, but with her own mind! The children become covered in their own blood and then Lora faints in despair. Two hours later, Lora awakens and realizes there are figures lying in her pretty and sparkly snow-covered yard. She gently shuffles her bare feet through the snow and realizes that the children died! “Why, why am I like this? Is there any way I can be changed? This is devil’s work, I don’t like the devil!” She screams loud enough to hush the howling wolves.

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She starts crying and repeating the Bible’s commandment Thou shalt not kill ten times. She’s in pain. As she sobs, she gets an idea of making the children as stuffed trophies for their parents, as if they were animals that one puts on the wall after killing them! Then she realizes that that’s not a good thing—that she’ll bury them in the woods and their parent will never know. They’ll just think they got lost in the woods. Three weeks later, the parents are getting worried about their missing children. They go to the woods. Lora sees them and runs into her home and they run after her! “Oh my gosh, they know, they know their children are dead, now I’ll be dead … hmm, now I’ll be dead? That’s all I’ve ever wanted, in order to make this terrible stuff go away,” Lora says delightedly. They’re at her door. She then opens the door and greets them all rationally and respectfully. They act surprised and then beat her to the floor! Her mind starts taking pictures of them dying, their bodies are gray, but everything else is colorful. She imagines them covered with a thousand paper cuts, bleeding from every pore. She falls to the ground again! Two hours later, Lora awakens like previously and realizes she killed the parents of the missing children. She then buries them with their deceased children. Three months later, it is now March and the snow melts slowly, revealing the burial sites. While Lora is out at the store, the townsfolk go to the woods to excavate the ground to build more houses, but they find burial sites near Lora’s house. “I knew she did it!” all the townsfolk say. They dig up the sites and see perfectly preserved bodies underneath which is incredibly breathtaking. They take the bodies to an embalmer, so the bodies can have proper autopsies done. They don’t care about putting the dirt back into the sites. A couple of mischievous teens vandalize her home and acres. They commit many crimes, but the police are on their side and don’t take them into custody. When they’re all away from her property, Lora arrives. “What happened to my property? Who’s done this? Whoever it was, they are going to pay for it!”

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She runs over to the burial sites and gets very angered when she discovers the bodies are gone. She starts to pray to God, then says, “It’s no use! He doesn’t listen to me anyways, ugh!” She has to make another kill! Then she goes to the town and has a vision of the teens who were involved in the act of destroying her property and threatens to kill them! All of a sudden, God tells her to stop. He pours himself into her body and she knows she’s not herself. She asks God to take away all of her sins and crimes and to replenish her with his blood and to drain her bad blood. Her memory then clears and she’s also cured. She suddenly drops to the ground and quivers. “What took you so long to save me from my evil ways? I’ve been waiting for a long time.” Then, before she knows it, she gets attacked by the townsfolk. They’re grabbing her hair and limbs! The townsfolk torment her the whole time. God tells her, “Do not do anything, you have the power of Christ now; don’t harm anyone.” She accepts the tormenting. She is brutally beaten, but just accepts all the pain. It lasts for an hour until she is a bloody pulp. Before she dies, she pictures a gray individual covered in blood from getting beaten to death. She then hemorrhages. “What? I don’t believe it!” says a teen. “I … I have no words to explain this, this weirdness at all!” says the parent of the teen. “Her spirit has angel wings; she’s very beautiful!” says the reverend. “I’m surprised she’s gone,” says Tommy, a store clerk. “I wish we would have given her a chance,” the teens say. The townsfolk forgive Lora and realize they miss her, but it’s too late to tell her. Lora finally knew where she belonged. She belonged in Heaven, not on Earth. They only judged her because of the incident with her mother long ago, not realizing that she’s not a bad person at all.

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Beauty and the Beast

Isabella Swalko WILSON HIGH SCHOOL

WITS WRITER: DEVAN SCHWARTZ

There once was a girl who lived in a small town. She was the prettiest girl that anyone had ever laid eyes on. She had long brown wavy locks of hair with golden auburn highlights that glistened in the heat of the sun. She was the sweetest person you would ever meet; her name was Bell. Now, Bell could get any guy in the town she wanted, but she had her mind set on someone unique, someone different. So one day Bell took a stroll into the deep, dark, mystic woods. As she was walking she felt a strange presence, as if someone was following her. She nervously walked in the woods. She gleamed around to see if there was anyone. She decided to head back home and as she turned around, there she saw a black figure of a man in the hidden fog. She gasped and reached for anything to protect her. The man grew closer towards her. She backed up and then stumbled onto the ground. She reached for a stick, and the fear grew wider in her eyes. The man came and gripped onto her, his face was angry and looked like a cold hard killer. She struggled getting out of his hands. He knocked her out and brought her to his house. This house was a mansion; it was old and abandoned and was in the middle of nowhere to be seen. He tied her hands up and kept her in a dark room. Bell woke up in the dark room dazed and confused, she tried to look for help. She screamed, and the man came in. He threatend her to be quiet. She asked, “Who are you?” He didn’t answer. She took a glance at him. He was fairly tall and handsome. He had blonde hair and blue eyes. But Bell’s concern was Who was this guy, and what was he doing with me? She began to fall for him his mysteriousness and handsome features made her somewhat attracted. He glanced at her and saw her beauty and he smirked and felt somewhat of a connection also. Love was in the air.

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Columbia Slough

Cody Thompson METROPOLITAN LEARNING CENTER WITS WRITER: MELISSA REESER POULIN

The Columbia Slough, the smallest natural environment in Nopo. You are filled with the hidden objects of our past, entombed within your vines and buried at the bottom of the slough. You house the wildlife who cannot seek no home, for the city has taken most of your home. You stand as a place of peacefulness for the bike riders, fishers, and hikers. Your path twists and turns leading you to unknown adventures, but you are never alone. You are never alone for you have the golf course as your company and the animals that reside within your wondrous sanctuary. In the winter you are a cold and heartless mother but very stern and strict, for you challenge whoever decides to reside in your home, the challenge of surviving the cold heartless Portland winters. In the summer you are as kind as Mother Nature yet you still hold your stern grasp of survival of the fittest. You are an unknown place of beauty only for those who are worthy enough to find you, for not everyone knows of the beauty you hold.

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Zac Effron

Hayden Smit h WILSON HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: JAMIE HOUGHTON

His muscles fall like hot chocolate cascading down a crunchy apple. His eyes are the ocean with shooting stars glimmering above. God knew he had to create a perfect 10 and October 18 of 1987 was the date he finally succeeded. Straight guys’ hearts skip a beat when they glance at him, then look away, then at him once more, finally letting their eyes hit the floor feeling their skin get burnt from the inside out. Nervous and shaky. He smiles. You feel tears start to surface in your eyes, you hold them back just in time! His happiness radiates through all our hearts. When his lips move to form the words you wish were your name, you hear an angel’s lost son. Your lungs get full, not of oxygen but love. You can’t breathe. It’s taken fifteen long years, but you have finally come to understand love. Thank you, Zac Effron.

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Love You Down to Your Bones

Ruby Jude Jay-Mustafa FRANKLIN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: JAMES GENDRON

love you down to your bones my little pink-haired girl mind as sweet as tea my own worst enemy my partner in crime the Yolandia to my Ninja the Kanye to my Kim the one who I know would get me out of jail the one who I know would put me in my own lil Champagne Papi voice as loud as 2 uzis words as soft as fur

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Throwback to the Past

May Stemple GRANT HIGH SCHOOL

WITS WRITER: COOPER LEE BOMBARDIER

I walked out of my small but quaint house. I felt the cold autumn air brush against my face. It smelled of wet concrete and wet grass. It was a peaceful morning; I loved walking to school on mornings like these. It always put me in a good mood to see everyone. My friends are quite the bunch; they’re really loud, really funny, really amazing, but sometimes it’s too much to handle. The familiar scenery of my school started to appear from the corner. I walked through the front doors and to where my friends would be. From afar I saw Emily and Hannah. All of us had almost all our classes together because we’ve all been friends for so long. As I approached my friends I saw Emily talking to a stranger. When I got to Hannah, she screamed my name, “Dezi!” I acknowledged her with a big smile and a warm hug. Hannah was one of my favorite people in the world; she’s always so funny. “Dez! You need to meet Kahvan! He just moved from Hawaii! He lives right next to me now,” Emily spit out at me, taking my attention away from Hannah. I looked at the tall figure next to Emily. He had dark hair and big hazel eyes and his cheekbones and jawline were so prominent. He was so attractive. He was also really tall which made me intimidated. “Hi, I’m Kahvan, nice to meet you.” He chuckled while speaking, sensing the awkwardness in the air. “Uhh...hey I’m Dezi,” I replied shyly. “Nice to meet you, Dezi. Well, Emily, thanks for introducing me to your friends and Dezi see you around.” He smiled and winked at me as he left. I didn’t take the wink as much even though I wished it was more. He was so mysterious, like instantly I just wanted to know him better. “Christ on a cracker, Emily, he is so attractive!” Hannah gushed, not able to hold back the blushing.

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“I know, right? His parents are friends of my parents; it’s kind of convenient. Hate to admit but I have a boyfriend otherwise I would be after that.” She laughed as she said it. I just stood there unable to hold back my growing smile. He seemed too nice. “Bye, Emily, bye, Hannah,” I said as I left to my next class while rolling my eyes at their conversation. buzz buzz I looked down at my phone. 971-446-4564: Hey :) this is Kahvan, I hope you don’t mind but I got your number from emily. I was wondering if you want to hang out after school and show me around? To Kahvan: Oh yeah it’s fine. And yeah of course meet me out from at 3 :) see you then I walked into my almost-full classroom. I sat in my seat next to Emily. “So, Dez, Kahvan asked for your number!” Emily excitedly spoke. “I know.” I smiled to myself. “He asked me to show him around after school today. He seems really chill,” I said, trying not to make it obvious I was developing a crush on a guy I just met. “Really! Dez you guys need to get together; you would be so cute.” She grabbed my hand while she told me this “Ha, Em, don’t get ahead of yourself. I just met the guy.” I couldn’t help but think she was right. But how can I have a crush on a guy right after I just met him? It was the end of the day and I ran to my locker as fast as I could. I opened it and looked in the full-length mirror I put in it. My dark, curly hair wasn’t as messy as usual. My red lipstick needed to be re-applied. I took care of what I needed to and headed to the front of the school. I stepped outside of the big doors looking at the sky. It was dark and cloudy as if it was going to rain. I hoped it wouldn’t rain while Kahvan and I were outside. “Dez!” I heard an unfamiliar voice call my nickname. I turned around to see Kahvan behind me. “Hey, Kahvan,” I said, smiling. “So, ready to show me around?” he asked. “Yeah, of course,” I replied, starting to walk in the direction of downtown. Kahvan and I walked in silence for about yrn minutes. Another few more minutes passed by before a word was said.

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“So, Dez? Thanks for doing this, but I already know my way around,” he said. I gave him a confused look as he went on, “I really just wanted to spend time with you. I don’t know if you remember me but we were great friends. When we were little we lived next door. I knew who you where as soon as I saw your bright blue eyes and dark long hair.” He stopped and looked at me. Kav?” I said with my eyes getting bigger by the second. He and I were so close until he moved away before sixth grade. We were so inseparable until his parents took him to Hawaii. I was so sad because we would do so much together. A bunch of our old memories started to popping up in my head one after another. “Yeah...I was waiting for you to recognize me,” he said kind of awkwardly but with a smile on his face. “I can’t believe it’s really you, Kav! I honestly thought I was never going to see you again.” I gushed and hugged him. He hugged me back. It felt good to be in his embrace again. “I know, I honestly didn’t think I was coming back but my folks got separated and I move here with my dad,” he said, starting to act like not a year went past. We automatically walked to our old favorite cafe like the old days. Kavhan and I would come here as kids all the time for their hot chocolate. “I guess it’s a force of habit,” I smiled while I said it. “I guess so.” He smiled back. We talked for hours on end not even looking at the time. We gushed about the past and all of our old crazy stories. We talked about our new interests and hobbies. It was great to talk to him like this again. I thought was never going to see the first boy I loved. Kahvan and I always said we would get married. It was slowly but surely getting back to old times and I was excited for our new memories together.

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Boredom

Kaila Le FRANKLIN HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: JAMES GENDRON

Boredom is now plastered on me The moment I walked to the other side It hit me right in the face I now feel a void in my space No life in my eyes No sound from my mouth No emotion taped on my forehead Nothing to do in this atmosphere Nothing but to wonder about many things I feel like a dead corpse while Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m bored

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First Heartbreak

Kimberly Gallucci GRESHAM HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: SERENA WILLIAMS

The girl is at her locker putting away her notebook when her boyfriend comes up to her and tries to kiss her. She hasn’t had her first kiss yet and she wants it to be perfect/special. He gets mad and grabs her face and pulls her towards him. She says, “No, I’m not going to do that when people are watching; you know how I feel about kissing!” Her boyfriend slams the locker in her face and walks away with anger and ignores her while she’s screaming his name across the hall. Everyone is looking at her while tears roll down her face. She runs to the bathroom and skips next period. After the bell rings, she goes up to the nurses and says, “I don’t feel good.” She calls her mom and asks if she could pick her up. Her mom of course knows something had happened so she picked up Bri. Bri was crying the whole way home; her mom didn’t want to ask until she was calm. Her mom opened up the door and Bri ran up the stairs to her room and slammed her door. Her mother knew that this fight was horrible so she went out to the store and got ice cream, chips, soda, and Taco Bell. After she came back home she knocked on Bri’s door. Of course Bri was still upset. Her mom comes in with all her favorite snacks and Taco Bell food. Bri felt a lot better but she was still sad. She starts to vent to her mom like she always does because she knows that her mom won’t tell anyone. Bri told her mom that Max had tried to kiss her at school and then he got upset and slammed her locker in her face. Her mom hugged her and said, “Maybe you should just kiss him and get over it. I mean, it’s up to you, but I don’t want you to feel pursued.” Bri sniffles her nose and says that she’s ready but is afraid that if she does it and he doesn’t like it that Max will break up with her. “It would be a whole year for waste.”

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The Beauty and the Beast

Jordan Schuster WILSON HIGH SCHOOL

WITS WRITER: DEVAN SCHWARTZ

I lay in my bed tossing and turning, the haunting nightmare pounding against my skull. I let out a scream as I woke up sweating from a terrible myth that haunts our town. The Beast, as everyone as calls him. And as you may have guessed, yes, my name is Belle. Papa came running to my side comforting me trying to calm me down. The same dream happening for weeks. The Beast captures me from the cold snow where I have fallen. He beats me to death in a cold, locked cell in the dungeons of his dark castle. Over and over I watch the light drain from my own eyes. Limbs go limp. Papa is an inventor, but not the fabulous appreciated by all kind: the hated foolish. In the next town over, the thought-to-be great minds will gather to share brilliant ideas. Papa is one of them. A great deal of work has gone into the great machine that has become the Maurice machine. The more things that move, he says. As he drags the gadget out of the basement, people gather to cackle and howl. As he left they cheered and I shamefully watched from the grey frosted window. As the town watched Papa leave for the last time so did I, hobbling into the woods, bits and pieces trailing behind him. A tear ran down my dry cheek. Goodbye, Papa. Three days later the horse aimlessly wandered to the house, flushed and brain dead. No rider. Papa was gone. The Beast had took him. I climbed aboard the lost horse and followed his footsteps back the way he came. Strained, the horse reluctantly followed my orders, seeming timid and afraid of what may lie ahead. A dark shadow loomed ahead. I knew the shadow was no shadow but the same dark castle that haunts my dreams. The same dark castle that has pounded itself into my skull and out the other side. I see Papa on the ground torn to bits like no one ever thought would happen. I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t go back, not now, not ever. The castle is my only hope if I want a different fate for myself than my dear Papa. As I knocked on the doors they opened and a hand protruded towards me extending closer and closer till it took me. My worst nightmare came true. I had been taken by the monster.

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Tick Tock

Stuart Axline WILSON HIGH SCHOOL

WITS WRITER: JAMIE HOUGHTON

Tick tock, I sit down. Then get up. Then down. And up. Down up down up, tick tock goes the clock. It felt like my mind had gone to hell. And back. And back to hell and back again. In the flesh, I am a man. In the mind, I am a monster. You see a boy, but if you could see inside, I assure you, my friend, You would run, cower, and hide. I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t decide whether to eat, or leave it there to rot. I swam in blood, and dined in the flood, trying to decide to devour, or not.

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Unencumbered

Ophelia Miracle GRANT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: JAMIE HOUGHTON

the stars are bright and the moon is my night light. at the end of the day music will always make it okay this much I know is true. I sip iced tea in the sun the summer is full of endless fun. flowers stretch and grow watering the garden makes streams flow. this much I know is true. lips that taste like cherry the light makes her eye color vary. the sun holds joy and sweet kisses the kind of thing a winter birthday misses. this much I know is true. with secrets whispered in my ears Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve gained knowledge over my years. her nails chipped and pink it makes you want to think how much of what she thinks she knows is true.

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The Luck of the Snow

Kodey Kromer GRESHAM HIGH SCHOOL

WITS WRITER: SERENA WILLIAMS

He pulls up on a snowmobile to his new log cabin. It takes about one hour just to shovel about three feet of snow. Once he gets to the copper door handle, he remembers he has his key in his pants pocket, beneath his overall snow pants. He would have to take off his coat and overalls just to get to the copper key to open the oak wood door. He yanks his coat off, exposing himself to a cold breeze, careful like a doctor giving surgery, so he will not rip his snow coat, and persists with the snow overalls. He pats his sweatpants trying to find the key. Then he remembers he had the keys attached to the snowmobile key, and since he had to put the Ski-doo Skandic into the shed attached to the west side of the house (where they put the food that they had hunted the summer before and the vehicles) he would just go in that door instead. He just took it into the shed-type thing on the west side and sat there. He slowly gets off and heads to the door and unlocks it and walks in. All he smells is the oak wood and it reminds him about the time when he was in third grade that his stepdad lived in a cabin. That was a long time ago, considering he is now thirty-seven years old. He kicks off his snow boots in the middle of the kitchen. He takes off the rest of his clothing, coat, pants, and at this point turns his bath on as warm as he can get it. Slowly he relaxes in the warm steamy water, first feet and ending with his upper chest, then jumps into his bed after his bath. The next day he wakes up cold, thinking about the three years of Boy Scouts getting his Eagle Scout merit badge at age fifteen, and wants a fire. But the minute he goes out he is thinking about how much wood to get in this cold weather. If he gets a little he will have to go back out in a little to get more, but he would be out there less time. And if he

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gets a little, he would be more cold coming back in. After he closes the door, he remembers he had forgot his keys, seeing them on the table and trying so hard to open the door but he couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t open it. At this point he has frostbite on his left foot, but just a little of it. He canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel it because the adrenalin is rushing through his body. Then, after he mellows down, he remembers the backup key in the shed about a half a mile away. So he runs as fast as his legs will take him. He steps on a stick and it goes through his right foot. He falls down beneath the old willow tree (it had to be at least 150 years old) and limps to the shed, grabbing the keys. Then, all but crawling, about a half hour later he gets back and opens the door, forgetting the wood. Taking care of his feet, which the frostbite has spread to the right as well. The whole time he had the keys, patted around in his left pocket. The keys he was looking at were for the gun safe in his room.

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I Am Not

Jordon Asher ROOSEVELT HIGH SCHOOL WITS WRITER: RAMIZA KOYA

I am not a Spanish speaker I am not a writer I am not tall I am not the GOAT I am not a fighter I am not the one to take everything serious I am not Jesus I am not dumb I am not, not good at sports I am not one to stay on task I am not one to sit and be quiet I am not able to do stuff without asking my parents I am not the best person in the world But I am myself

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Writers in the Schools Writers-in-Residence 2014-2015 Turiya Autry is an author and performer whose work explores culture and identity. Turiya has been a featured performer at colleges and community venues across the country. As a teaching artist, she’s provided assemblies, workshops, and residencies, and in addition, she teaches college courses in several disciplines. Her poetry collection Roots, Reality, & Rhyme, is a poetic journey that bridges the personal and political, the mythic, and the real. Alex Behr completed a WITS Residency at Roosevelt High School last spring, where she taught creative nonfiction. Her short stories, essays, and interviews have appeared in Tin House, Utne Reader, Salon. com, Propeller, Oregon Humanities, and elsewhere. She has ghostwritten books for kids and has performed in obscure rock bands. She is currently writing a memoir about punk rock and adoption. Carmen Bernier-Grand is the author of eleven books for children and young adults. Three of her biographies have received Pura Belpré Author Honor Awards. She teaches writing at Writers in the Schools and the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts 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. Bernier-Grand grew up in Puerto Rico, but now lives with her husband and bilingual dog in Portland, Oregon. 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:

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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.

Serena Crawford’s fiction has appeared in Epoch, Ascent, Beloit Fiction Journal, The McNeese Review, Other Voices, Another Chicago Magazine, The Greensboro Review, Nimrod, Sonora Review, The Florida Review, and elsewhere. She has received fellowships from Literary Arts and the National Endowment for the Arts. She holds an MFA from the University of Oregon, where she also taught creative writing. Lisa 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. She is currently at work on a graphic novel. 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. Amanda Gersh is a South African-born writer of short fiction and Young Adult novels. Her stories and humor pieces have appeared in Tin House, The Believer, Open City, One Story, and The Mississippi Review. A former ghostwriter of pulp novels for teen readers, Amanda is currently working on her own YA novel, Mother’s Helper. She divides her time between lying on the floor and sitting at her desk. Jonathan Hill is a 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 two new graphic novels and a children’s book.

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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 nâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; 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. Ramiza Koyaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;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. Kathleen Lane is a fiction writer, visiting artist at Pacific Northwest College of Art, and co-creator of the art & literary event series SHARE. Her middle-grade novel is forthcoming from Little, Brown, and her stories have been published by Swink Magazine, Chronicle Books, Poor Claudia, Forest Avenue Press, and elsewhere. Before Portland she was a staff writer for Wieden + Kennedy Amsterdam and co-founder of ART 180, a nonprofit in Richmond, Virginia that gives kids living in challenging circumstances a voice through the arts. 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,

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immigrants, prisoners and students. She earned an MFA from Eastern Washington University. For more information, visit lauramoulton.org.

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, is forthcoming 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 non-profit in Portland, Oregon. Mark Pomeroy glives with his family in Portland, Oregon, where he was born in 1969. 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, 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, where he was a Fellow in Teaching. His first novel is The Brightwood Stillness (Oregon State University Press). Melissa Reeser Poulin is an award-winning poet and writer. She received her MFA from Seattle Pacific University. Her work has appeared in Calyx, Catamaran Literary Journal, Ruminate Magazine, Sugar House Review, and Water~Stone Review, among other publications. Melissa has worked on organic farms and is the editor of Winged: New Writing on Bees. Devan Schwartz has an MFA from Portland State University and a BA from Whitman College. He has taught writing to everyone from elementary school students to college students to prison inmates, and previously taught with WITS at Jefferson High School. Devan’s writing has appeared in a number of magazines and journals. He recently worked as a public radio reporter and is revising a novel. Carter Sickels is the author of the novel The Evening Hour, a finalist for the 2013 Oregon Book Award, the Lambda Literary Debut Fiction

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Award, and the Publishing Triangle Edmund White Debut Fiction Award. Carter is winner of the 2013 Lambda Literary Emerging Writer Award, and the recipient of a 2013 project grant from the Regional Arts & Culture Council. Carter has taught creative writing classes for the Attic Institute, Hugo House, and Gotham Writers’ Workshop. He is currently Visiting Faculty for West Virginia Wesleyan’s Low Residency MFA Program. Carter lives in Portland, Oregon.

Evan Morgan Williams has published over 40 stories in literary magazines including Witness, The Kenyon Review, and Antioch Review. His book of stories, Thorn, won the 2013 Chandra Prize at BkMk Press. He attended Colorado College and the University of Montana. He lives in Portland with his family, and he is hard at work on a novel and a new collection of stories. 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.

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Index Benson High School Nguyen, Anthony 66

Kromer, Kodey 117 Salazar, Donte 27

Cleveland High School Comerford, Liam 90 Diamond, Caroline 63 DiStefano, Andrew 56 Gavitte, Sam 17 Hack, Asa 69 Jackson, Sawyer 25 Miles, Claire 32 Nettelbeck, Amandla 40

Lincoln High School Grantham, Austin 61 Jackson, Haley 24

Franklin High School Allen, Sitivia 101 Britton, Jacob 55 Eyestone, Rio 94 Inthisorn, Guitar 89 Jay-Mustafa, Ruby Jude 108 Jenkins, Tajlynn 77 Le, Kaila 112 Traversie, Jasmine 13 Grant High School Klockner, Zachary 76 Littlejohn, Lauren 45 McCarthy, Neil 96 McCord, DJ 50 Miracle, Ophelia 116 Morris, Madeleine 20 Polte, Paige 33 Schulenberg, Izzy 84 Stemple, May 109

Metropolitan Learning Center Edmonson, Deaven 16 Francis, Tatum 68 Knutsen, Elijah 95 Koford, Cholame 60 Thompson, Cody 106 Villanueva, Steven 92

Roosevelt High School Asher, Jordon 119 Dance, Ombre 88 Rodriguez, Tyler 100 Taka, Haini 19 Wilson High School Abell, Makayla 14 Axline, Stuart 115 Butson, Simon 93 Chavez, Alex 99 Cohen, Molly 74 Hensell, Courtney 83 Schuster, Jordan 114 Smith, Hayden 107 Swalko, Isabella 105 Warford, Harmony 38

Gresham High School Gallucci, Kimberly 113 Irwin, Zachary 81

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WITS Support 2014-15

$500+ Autzen Foundation

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Mike R. Barr

Ginnie Cooper

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The Bloomfield Family Foundation

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The Boeing Company

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Philip S. Harper Foundation

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The Bill Healy Foundation

$200-499

The Holzman Foundation, Inc.

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Irwin Foundation

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Anonymous

Kinder Morgan Foundation

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The Nara Fund Jan Oliva Amy Prosenjak & Steven Guy Hilary Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Hollaren Jon Raymond Harold & Arlene Schnitzer CARE Foundation Susan Dee Schnitzer Family Fund of The Oregon Community Foundation Shirley Skidmore Kaarin & Van Smith Herbert A. Templeton Foundation

Peter & Sister Bragdon Ellyn Bye Rachel Cody Rick Comandich & Maya Muir W. Bruce and Mary Louise Cook Foundation Alice M. Cuprill-Comas & Richard M. Short Jodi Delahunt Hubbell & Todd Hubbell Justin Dune & Carol Sanders Penny & Ken Durant Jill & Bart Eberwein

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Joe Walsh & Miriam Sontz Dan Wieden & Priscilla Bernard Wieden Tom & Marcia Wood Dr. Candace Young & 139 Portland Arts & Lectures subscribers who, together with NW Natural, raised over $20,000 to Send Students to the Schnitz.

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Ellen Fortin Janis Fujii Diana Gerding Lesley & Bob Glasgow Molly Gloss Nancy & Ronald Gronowski Pat & Kelley Harrington Susan Hathaway-Marxer & Larry Marxer

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$100-199

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Jim Rondone

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$50-99

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Francie & Michael Royce

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•

& many more generous donors

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Wr i t e r s i n t h e S c h o o l s 2 0 1 4 - 2 0 1 5 Student Chapbook

The core of the Writers in the Schools (WITS) program is semesterlong residencies taught by local professional poets, playwrights, 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 2014-15, WITS placed 24 local, professional writers in 42 classrooms at Portland public high schools and alternative programs. These writers worked with 1,049 students who wrote, revised, edited, and performed their own creative writing. This anthology is a showcase of their poems, plays, fiction, creative nonfiction, and comics. WITS is a program of Literary Arts, 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. “I learned that quality is better than quantity and you must revise over and over to obtain a pearl.” —Grant High School student "I feel more confident writing and reading my work in public." —Madison High School student