The Wind and Its Ghostly Presence 2022-23 WITS Student Chapbook by Literary Arts

the wind and its ghostly presence

2022-23 wits student chapbook 1

The Wind and Its Ghostly Presence 2022-2023 WITS STUDENT CHAPBOOK

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

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

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The Wind and Its Ghostly Presence

This book may not be duplicated in any

2022-2023 WITS Student Chapbook

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, Bethany Byrd-Hill, Lydah DeBin, Rui Dun, Jennifer Gurney, Olivia Jones Hall, april joseph, Joanna Laird, Brandon Lenzi, Hope

Levy, Alexis Lopez, Jessica MezaTorres, Susan Moore, Jules Ohman, Liz Olufson, Leah O’Sullivan, Jyoti Roy, Alberto Sveum

BOARD OF DIRECTORS Bob Speltz: Chair, Joan Cirillo, Ginnie Cooper, Amy Donohue, Lana Finley, Sarah Gibbon, Jonathan Hill, Mary E. Hirsch, Mitchell S. Jackson, Susheela

Jayapal, Maurice King, Anis Mojgani, Corrine Oishi, Dennis Steinman, Geoffrey Tichenor, Chabre Vickers, Renée Watson, Marcia Wood

YOUTH PROGRAMS ADVISORY COUNCIL Jonathan Hill: Chair, Sandra J. Childs, Rose, Karena Salmond, Nancy Sullivan, Jacque Dixon, Andre Goodlow, Mary Amy Wayson, Tracey Wyatt, Sharon Hirsch, Maurice King, Briana Linden, Wynde André Middleton, Anis Mojgani, Joanna

ANTHOLOGY STAFF Editors: Olivia Jones Hall, april joseph, Jules Ohman, Alberto Sveum Cover image: “Looking Out Window At Wildfire Haze” by Cole Keister from Pexles.

Printed in the USA

Published by Literary Arts, a 503(c)(3) in Portland, OR First Edition 2023

WITS COMMUNITY 2022–23

WRITERS IN RESIDENCE Alex Behr, Brian Benson, Erica Berry, Monika Cassel, David Ciminello, Katie Borak, Caitlin Delohery, Ed Edmo, Vanessa Friedman, Elisabeth Geier, Meg E. Griffitts, Jeremy Husserl, Meaghan Loraas, Wryly T. McCutchen, Amy Minato, Damien Miles-Paulson, Laura Moulton, Valarie Pearce, Jennifer Perrine, Bruce Poinsette, Mark Pomeroy, Emilly Prado, Dey Rivers, Jen Shin, Matt Smith, CJ Wiggan, Cecily Wong

VISITING AUTHORS Anthony Doerr, Patrick Radden Keefe, Lauren Groff, Abdulrazak Gurnah, Ada Limón

PARTICIPATING TEACHERS: Ramey Adams, Ilsa Bruer, Breanne Carlisle, Zachary Carroll, Pam Garrett, Abby Griffin, Carol Hanson, Emily Hensley, Michael Hoang, Joel Jablon, Kelly Jones, Julia Kirkpatrick, Eric Levine,

Adam Mendola, Sydney Mulkey, Mary Rechner, Nina Rockwell, Kate Ruebenson, Charles Sanderson, Desmond Spann, Marie Taylor, Dana Vinger, Maria Vrana, Willow Weir-Mayorga, Kara Wendel, Alethea Work

WITS LIAISONS Paige Battle, Ilsa Bruer, Ayn Frazee, Cassie Lanzas, Stuart Levy, Betsy Tighe, Nancy Sullivan, Alethea Work

PARTICIPATING PRINCIPALS Whitney Alfey, Peyton Chapman, Chris Frazier, Bonnie Hobson, Filip Hristić, Molly Ouche, KD Parman, Adam Skyles, Erika Beddoe Whitlock, Curtis Wilson Jr.

CONTENTS

Introduction

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Ameia Wergeland • It Was a Long Walk

Luke Histand • Sentient Pile of Ground Meat Ellieanna Graves • My Lifelong Companion

Cassandra Camacho Rivera • Malo! Malo! Malo! R.T. • Forgetfulness

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Ele Haugo • Spring Dandelions

Isaac E. Pedersen • Self-Worth and Death

Ellieanna Graves • A World We Weren’t Promised 32 Stella Jackson • A New Day

Dots • Beauty of Crows

Augustus J. Martin • The Switcheroo: What Now?

Christian B. Roqueta • Choose Your Own Adventure Lydia Levy • Bed, Bath, and Be Gone

Marco Muscatello • Technology is in Costant Evolution Sarah Graff • Nouveau Monde Lillian Cross • Faces

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Eliana McCall-Petke • The Multilayered Culinary Adventure Mackenzie Strand • You Are What I Love Most Ashley Estrada • Bear

ODJ • A Brief History of My Relationships With Flesh James Thompson • Late to Class

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Claire Heiberg • A Journey to Nothing Writers in Residence 2022-23 Index

Youth Programs Support 2022–23

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INTRODUCTION

If we measure the 2022-23 year in numbers, it looks like this: 1,438 students participated in our Writers in the Schools residencies. Of those students, 104 submitted to the WITS anthology, and 68 are published in these pages. 75 percent of the students we worked with said they felt like more confident writers after engaging with our programming, and 84 percent of host teachers said WITS offered a meaningful creative outlet for their students. Zooming out to include our other programs, wherein we invite community volunteers to work with students on their college admission essays, donate books and tickets so students can engage with world renowned authors, and host two youth slam poetry competitions, we worked with 21 schools, 47 educators, 105 volunteers, and 27 teaching artists to reach 4,000 students. Numbers, of course, don’t say everything. They don’t show us the look on a young writer’s face when they receive praise for a poem. They don’t reflect the conversations overheard in a multigenerational essay workshop. They don’t show us a young person performing their work to an audience for the first time. They don’t show us a student finding their voice. This year was the first time that all our programs were operating in person and at full capacity since early 2020, and it felt like it. It can be challenging to see the heart of our work through the to-do lists, meetings, contracts,

emails, troubleshooting, pivots, and every other component of what it takes to bring these programs to our community. The creation of this book is one of the few moments in our year when we can slow down to really appreciate what we do and the people we do it for. I am so grateful to be part of this community, and to be surrounded by creative and brilliant students, and incredible and generous adults, including last year’s Youth Programs team: april joseph, Jules Ohman, and Alberto Sveum. Every day, we approach our work with the goal of fostering creative communities and helping students feel seen and heard. This anthology is the culmination of the love, hope, wonder, vulnerability, and pride that come to life in the Writers in the Schools residencies. We hope you enjoy it. As always, to the students who have shared their spaces and their words with us, thank you. Keep writing. Your voices matter. Olivia Jones Hall, Director of Youth Programs

Ameia Wergeland Franklin High School Jennifer Perrine

It Was a Long Walk

It was a long walk. 9:00 pm, November of twenty twenty-two. Out in the cold, one foot in front of the other. The breeze seemed to last forever, passing through my button up coat as if it held no protection. Just my bare body, the cold concrete that stood below me, and the dark blanket with thousands of stars above me. The moon showed only three fourths of its face. It was a long walk. There were small, warm yellow lights coming from the homes, and those lonesome streetlamps lined in rows, like wine bottles on an old shelf. Forgotten and left to rot more than they already had. Illuminating a dismal golden circle on the sidewalk. I looked upon a single traffic light in a four-way intersection nearby. I came to a halt. Oh, the thrill of each blinking flair. Red was such a daring color. I tried to imagine myself in the traffic light’s place. Hanging from a long, single strand of metal wire, alone in the bitterness.

And I wondered. Wondered what it felt like to lie stranded in the same empty spot. For hours. For days. For weeks. For months. For years. Watching over the beings below you, passing by your body freely. They could move, but you could not. And I wondered. Wondered how it felt for people to take you for granted. And yet you helped people, nonetheless. You were still important; you held your role firm. You had your purpose. It was a long walk. My feet had grown weary, and I wanted to stop. I had to persist. The park to my left was still. The grasses swayed in perfect unison, flowing softly like kelp under a perfect wave of ocean with a long and lowly swish.

No other sound was heard.

But there was still the wind and its ghostly presence. Passing through my ear. It wasn’t always this way, however. This quiet. This still. This empty. This lonely.

This emotionless. And I wondered. It was a long walk indeed…

Luke Histand

Grant High School Damien Miles-Paulson

Sentient Pile of Ground Meat

My sister stabs me in the throat. Sighing, I yank the cold butter knife out of my trachea and walk over to the whiteboard installed above the counter. Using my palm, I erase the current number— fifteen—scrawled in red Expo Marker, and replace it with a zero. I look up at the sign that says, “Days without stabbings,” in dismay. I rub my wound, a tingly warm feeling replacing the original pain, telling me that my cells have begun to regenerate already. Before I know it, my skin is completely repaired; the implanted stem cells constantly look for mistakes in my body composition. My sister Anna glares at me from across the room, arms crossed, still angry that I ate the last Eggo. I wave the soggy thing in front of her, then shove it in my mouth and give her a waffle-y grin. “I’m sick of you,” she mutters, and mopes off to her room. Turning around, I look at my reflection in our oddly iridescent toaster oven. You can’t even tell there was ever an injury. My hair falls into my view, and I shove it back on top of my head for the umpteenth time. I decide to go cut it off. I waltz outside, ululating to nonexistent music, and head to the barbershop. While I walk home, my new crew cut like sandpaper under my fingers, I get a call from my mother. She’s

usually illiterate when it comes to technology, so it’s surprising to see her use her phone. I press the little green button and hold the phone to my ear, my stud earring clacking against my screen protector. “ALEXANDER!” Jesus Christ! I rip the phone away from my face as fast as I can, almost hitting a pedestrian. I mumble an apology and then pick the phone back up, this time holding it much farther away. She seems to have lowered her volume level, but she makes up for it with the amount of speech, both Polish and English, often at the same time. I let her tire herself out, then ask her what she was trying to say. This is enough to send her back into a frenzy, and I repeat the process again until she’s coherent. Finally, I make out, “Alex, the government wants to see you. And scientists.” Since I’m not the best at Polish, I think I must have missed something, and ask her to repeat herself. After yet another bout of bilingual screaming, I don’t get a different translation. “Huh,” I wonder aloud, then tell her, “I’ll be right there.” Hanging up the phone, I resume the same leisurely pace, assuming it’s another weird prank generated by my mother’s twisted sense of humor. I am accosted by adults as soon as I arrive home. Cops, doctors, scientists, you name it, are at my impromptu house party. An ugly cop, who somehow thinks sideburns look good, tells me, “We have something very important to tell you.” “Fire away,” I respond, pouring out a bowl of sludge on my way to the table, a slushy kind of soup made with antifreeze, which surprisingly tastes pretty sweet. I’m always hungry—an unpleasant symptom of my stature. The policeman, miffed by my placid disposition,

blurts, “You’re never going to die.” “Yeah, I know, we discovered immortality like a decade ago.” “You don’t understand. You will never die.” Puzzled, I look at another, more professional-looking, adult. This one’s a doctor. Her nameplate is as red as her hair. It blares the name “NEENUH.” Neenuh elaborates in a more knowledgeable manner: “You must not have taken biology yet.” I nod in agreement. “When you’re born, you’re immediately injected with stem cells taken from a species of jellyfish whose cells can revert to an earlier version of itself. The cells work with your DNA to constantly regenerate, creating the immortality that we all have.” “Yeah, and when you wanna die, they inject you with a chemical that overrides the stem cells. I’m not eight.” Unphased by my bluntness, she continues, “We aren’t sure exactly what happened, but something about your DNA changed how the overriding chemical works, rendering it useless.” While I process what she says, she repeats, “You’re never going to die.” I pause for a few seconds, then ask, “So what would happen if I put myself in a massive blender and turned it on? Because I’ve heard you can’t save someone if there’s an extreme amount of damage.” “Well, it’s unclear. Maybe your cells would find a way to repair themselves and you’d be fine, or you’d just become a sentient pile of ground meat.” I laugh at the idea. Taking my empty bowl to the sink, I say to everyone, “Well, thank you all for telling me. Still not sure why you had to bring, like, the whole FBI, but I loved the fun we’ve had. Mom, what’s for dinner?” She walks up to me, mouth agape. “I made Pirozhki,

but don’t you want to ask more questions?” “Seems pretty self-explanatory to me.” “Aren’t you sad?” “Well, yeah, but there’s not much I can do, so I might as well start living my… abnormally long life.” Everyone looks around, then Neenuh stands up, shakes my hand, and leaves. Everyone follows suit, leaving me with a sore hand and an empty house. “Well, my last hope was that it was a stupid prank,” I mutter and plop down into my seat. My mom brings out the pirozhki, and I dig in. “This is great, mom!” I say, but my family just stares at me. Anna asks me, “Has it sunk in yet? The fact that when the world ends, you’ll still be alive, held captive by your own body?” “Wow, Anna! Thanks!” I say, “Really nice of you to say that!” Feeling no sympathy, she takes another bite of her food. Mom asks, “I thought you would be sadder, or angrier, or just something. You seem completely normal.” “Well, when something like this happens, I can be as angry as I want, but nothing will actually change. Nature doesn’t hear reason. So, the best thing I can do right now is just ignore it. Live my life like I’m a normal person, and when the time comes for me to die, I just won’t. I’ll find things to do, learn everything, cure some diseases. I could invest my life savings into a mutual fund, lowinterest stock, bury myself for a couple of centuries, and break the bank system while taking the money out. Or I could become a malevolent overlord and try and control everything if that’s my fancy. Whatever I choose to do, one thing’s for sure, I’ll have time to do it. And when society inevitably falls and the world inevitably burns up, me along with it, my sentience will float around for

eternity, probably not even physical. So that’s fun. But right now I can just be grateful to be with you guys, because in the grand scheme of things, this moment will be nothing.”

Ellieanna Graves Lincoln High School Monika Cassel

My Lifelong Companion Soft and stuffy Cute and cuddly A present my 1st Christmas Still sleeps in bed One eye’s a button He knows all my fears Felt all my tears Protects my dreams A teddy bear soldier One tear in his shoulder He’ll never get older No longer sits He bends and folds over He knows no other person No other fear No other tear He knows only my hugs Only my love We’ve only known each other Since 1 it was done He’ll have his own graduation My thank you of course We’ll soon be 18

Still many years to go Forever together He’ll stay in my arms Been around the world Still in my hand Alabama and New Hampshire Paris and London A little stop in Iceland with so little demand Our next chapter unfolding Both college bound Our new life beginning Our growing new talent He’ll stay in my arms No matter where I go He’ll always be there

Cassandra Camacho Rivera McDaniel High School Damien Miles-Paulson

Malo! Malo! Malo! It was a weekend morning, and my father, being the one who works, has very little experience cooking compared to my mom who cooks for us morning, day, and night. But that day, mother needed a break from her usual day-to-day routine. My siblings and I were young (around 9-10 years old), and we were not an option for being chef for the day. The only option left was my father; immediately we said “NO,” whining to our mom. “Pleaseee don’t let him cook, he’ll poison us!” While my stubborn father gave us a death stare, his bushy eyebrows lowered, you could see he was offended through his big honey eyes. He said he would prove us wrong. A terrible lie. Starting off strong, he didn’t even know where the cooking pans were. That morning he made quesadillas with chorizo—a type of pork seasoned and grounded, wrapped into a long sausage form. We watched him from a distance wandering around the kitchen like a new student on their first day of school. He fried the chorizo and broke it down into pieces, and he began heating up the tortillas on the other side of the stovetop. In the end, we all sat down on our kitchen table; my dad had already plated the food. We stared into each other’s eyes in hopes that food would be edible, as our stomachs were growling and the sentiment of being “hangry” was in the air. The outcome of two hours

in the kitchen was a burnt tortilla folded in half with mozzarella cheese that started out white that melted and slowly became this old yellow translucent color. There was an unproportionate amount of chorizo compared to the cheese. Every bite was 3/4 chorizo, 1/4 cheese, to the point I wasn’t sure it could still be considered a quesadilla. I still have flashbacks of the tortilla—cold and stiff with a feel of dryness.

R.T.

McDaniel High School Daniel Miles-Paulson

Forgetfulness You don’t notice it at first. You go about your day as usual. You get up, eat, get dressed, brush your teeth, get your things—keys, wallet, bag—then leave. The exact sequence you’ve repeated every day for the past forty years. The next day you do the same, but you can’t find your keys. They aren’t where they’re supposed to be by the door. You walk around for what feels like an eternity, when you look down and see they’re already in your hands. You continue about your day as usual. This continues on. Eventually, the forgetfulness and confusion make sense. You try to explain your new reality to others, but they just look at you with pity, as if they no longer know you. You try to make them understand the basic concepts about how the world works. While you only recently gained understanding, the truths seem so simple, so basic now. But no one wants to listen. They say you’re crazy. They take you to the doctor. Claim you can no longer make choices about your life. You’re forced to let your child make decisions for you. You beg them not to put you on meds, say that this is the first time you’ve thought clearly about life. They don’t listen. The meds you take make the understanding and clarity go away. The forgetfulness and confusion go back to being just that: forgetfulness and confusion. No more new truths, no more understanding. Your memories of that time disappear.

Slowly your memories of your earlier life disappear as well. It gets to a point you no longer remember anything, anyone, at all. You become a shell of the person you once were. Eventually, you’re just a memory.

Ele Haugo

Franklin High School Jennifer Perrine

Spring Dandelions We tower over a dense forest of grass, Swaying in the wind above lawns and parks. Our smooth stems hold up, A beautiful yellow bloom, Sparkling against the endless green, Like a star in the night sky. Those yellow blossoms stand out, Misfits against that green carpet, Too big for carefully crafted daisy chains. Too ugly to be tucked gently, Into someone’s hair. Subject to weed cutters, lawnmowers, And a homeowner’s disapproving eye. But our potential is not lost on all, Sticky toddler hands and chubby fingers, Yank those smooth stems from the grounds, Big eyes stare on round faces stare, At the gray cloud of seeds, Born from the wilted yellow blossom, Each seed, a little airplane. Armed with a wish they fly, Powered by the youngling’s breath, No longer tethered to the earth. No longer a tall forest tree but now, A bird on the breeze. And when the birds fly to their nests,

The seeds slowly spin back down to earth, Through that forest of grass, And onto the cool ground. They will sink into the ground, So then the cycle of smooth stems, And yellow blossoms, And flying seeds, May begin again.

Isaac E. Pedersen McDaniel High School Damien Miles-Paulson

Self Worth and Death My sophomore year, I was hit by what at the time seemed to be the worst of all possible events. An individual who had manipulated me years prior started a rumor about me; this rumor resulted in the majority of my high school hating me for something I hadn’t done. Attempting to convince people that the rumor in fact held no weight was exhausting and painful. While I to this day struggle with the ripples of this event, I was able to remain relatively sturdy because I had a person I could trust. Olivia was my go-to for everything; anytime I had a problem she was first to know: every success, every failure, every molehill I made into a mountain, she was there. My junior year is when I realized that the rumor was not my biggest obstacle, it would be the death of Olivia. Since I had always used school to measure my selfworth, I was usually tunnel visioned on grades. For most of my life, this was okay because I never really struggled with school. When Olivia died, the tunnel went dark; there was no beacon for me to reach, no academic goal for me to strive for—school had completely dropped off my radar. My teachers, parents, friends, and sister spent months trying to motivate me, but the void had swallowed me. The only glimmers of the true me were seen in debate. Not long before her death, I was invited to a national

debate tournament. As this was my first year doing debate, this felt like a massive accomplishment. Nationals was at the top of my to-do list. I spent hours diving into arguments and pieces of evidence. The people around me thought I was distracting myself with work, but I was genuinely intrigued and invested. My partner and I placed fifth at nationals, narrowly losing to a team from Silicon Valley. When the curtains closed on my debate season, I was able to reflect on my progress. Even though we had not placed first, we had done extremely well, and I was happy. Knowing this, I came to a conclusion that would shape the rest of my life. How I value my worth as a human being should not be linked to the letters on my report card. My worth should be based on my commitment to the people and things that I love. College applications are a perfect example of how this concept is playing out in my life. After taking the SAT, I was torn because of how unhappy I was with my score. With the amount of reflection I have done, I still desire a higher score, so I will retake it. However, the number is no longer discouraging me from applying to my dream schools: The schools where I will be able to thrive and gain the skills I need to support communities: The schools that pride themselves on developing future leaders and strong communicators. I still recognize the importance of education and knowledge, but now I know that what matters more than a number or a letter is my desire and dedication. When most people share stories about the passing of loved ones, the moral tends to fall along the lines of treasuring how short and beautiful life is. It’s an overarching concept, it makes a broad statement about our lives which is fair. Especially seeing as those lives ended

in their entirety, causing us to reflect on our own lives holistically. That’s why it feels weird to write about death in relation to something so specific. Because, while Olivia dying majorly impacted me in a number of ways, the longest lasting effect has been the improvement of my view on school and my own self worth.

Ellieanna Graves Lincoln High School Monika Cassel

A World We Weren’t Promised The world we envisioned as kids It wasn’t real It was green It was clean There was no worry of taxes No worry of debt No worry of being hurt It was all covered Covered by a haze A haze of candied gaze Created by cartoons and dramatic swoons Our brains all candy Not caring for the news Not about schools with fools Now we go to those schools We watch the news Scared we’ll make the headlines We can see the world once hidden from view A world so brutal we were not told We watch as we fight for rights that should’ve never been sold Our eyes once covered can now open Open to the lies that make us cry

Cries from Women and mothers Cries from Men and fathers Cries from parents, brothers and sisters Siblings who never said goodbye Our ears can hear it all All the fake news and hate news They tell our brains to run or fight When shots are fired we all become tired We hear these new rules against our friends Now checking genders to play sports No saying Gay No period products in Idaho because it’s too woke Young children in need of these products Crucial to us all Now see blood and bodies in the streets In the news But worst of all they see it in school In 2023 we’ve made a new normal A normal of death and pain 184 mass shooting in 122 days This is normal There was no preparation for this world we weren’t told We watch as people in power who have the voices we need lose their power over the people who found their voices It woke us up The news showed us the truth Told us of lies 4th of July won’t ever be the same

Won’t feel the same Not when we know fellow have no control Not when children have children Not when new oil rigs get built in land that isn’t theirs This anger I feel We all feel It leads with an iron fist It has lead us through war before It leads us to wanting more Leads women and children Leads men and parents Leads all humans to call for some action All eyes rest open Truths are spread No longer those lies The abuse we once took is being fought with heads high We breathe a good sigh One held up in the sky A breath we’ve been holding inside all this time Mother Earth too sighs for life A struggle she’s had to deal Now she can breathe while we all work together This world wasn’t what we were promised It’s clear to see now But now we have hope The future not so bleak We hope for the future that we were promised The world that is green That is clean Our hands now linked together and our heads held high Working together has shown us we’re strong

Stronger than before

Stella Jackson

McDaniel High School Damien Miles-Paulson

A New Day My alarm jolts me awake. My hand slides down my face, and I regretfully open my eyes, the sun stabbing me from above. I groan and swing my legs over the side of my bed. I sit up, the birds softly chirping outside my window. Suddenly, a strong crash shakes my home. “Jesus… what was that?” The drawl of my voice echoes back to me and I turn, slowly opening my curtains sheathing the world. Instead of the usual, never-ending roadway, trees fill my line of sight. Birch, oak, maple, and… something else. Something abnormal. A large, reptile-like creature blending in with the leaves. The smell of rotten eggs begins to leak through the cracks of my walls. It invades my nasal cavity, and my vision begins to fade. I collapse. ~~ “Wake up!” My heads slams against a solid surface as I sit up, and my eyes shoot open. In front of me is… just staring at me… is something indescribable with narrow slits for pupils; river-green, slimly, scaly skin separated by large gaps where deep-red, flickering worms crawl; human clothes that barely fit around its substantial frame, and a ball-cap hugging its all-too-familiar shaped head. “What are you?” my voice trembles. “That doesn’t matter; what matters is getting you out of here.” The voice of the creature is deep, masculine,

and raspy. The words being formed look unnatural in its mouth. The thing grips my arm and effortlessly pulls me up. I don’t even have time to recoil before it’s off, running down a white, sterile-looking hallway. “What is going on?”

Dots

McDaniel High School Damien Miles-Paulson

Beauty of Crows Crows are beautiful creatures. They have unique shades of black on their feathers that shine in the day but could never be seen during the darkest of the night. Sharp claws and long sharp beaks coded in an endless, void shade of black that never shines even in the sun of daylight. They remind me of the cold winter night as it is peaceful and unbothering, nothing moving or making sounds in the endless winter wonderland of mine. I love admiring these irresistible breeds of bird. I’m glad I lasted this long. It was getting harder to keep my vision clear as these exquisite corvuses shred my organs apart to satisfy their hunger for another day. Even feeding on something so red and so messy, it never changes the charming shade of black on the birds, only making it darker and yet so lovely. I should have been more careful walking on the road to get a closer look at these gorgeous creatures, as I couldn’t see that car driving right at me. They left me torn up in a messy pile, but it didn’t matter, I can admire the bird more before my last breath as I fall back into the void being in my winter wonderland once again, as I always will see crows as beautiful creatures. I was always told to never admire things in life to the point where my whole body focused on that only, missing life itself till it hits me in the end and it’s over—nothing more and nothing less.

Augustus J. Martin Grant High School Damien Miles-Paulson

The Switcheroo: What Now? Act One Scene One - The Confrontation John (in Oliver’s body) enters the school library and sees Oliver (in John’s body) sitting alone at a table, reading a book, perhaps Cloud Cuckoo Land by Anthony Doerr. At this point, Oliver thinks he’s John. I will clarify who is who in the first few lines, but it should be established. I will eventually just refer to John (in Oliver’s body) as just John, and Oliver (in John’s body) as just Oliver. It may be confusing, as they will address each other by each other’s name. The name in bold is always the real person in the who’s who. [Oliver in John’s Body] Hello Oliver [Speaking to John in Oliver’s Body]. Do you need something? [John in Oliver’s Body] John, we need to talk about something. [Oliver] Do we? Please elaborate. [John] Have you noticed anything off about yourself this year? [Oliver] Incredulously—Like what?! [John] Nervously—This might sound more than a bit crazy, but, well, um—well—I have recently come into possession of some rather disturbing information… [Oliver] Go on. [John] We may have switched bodies at the start of the year, when you, I mean, me—when I fell off that

scooter in front of the entire grade during freshman orientation. [Oliver] Now that you say it, I do remember watching it and thinking to myself, “That should have been me,” and then, something must have happened, because the next thing I remember is getting up off the gymnasium floor wondering what had just happened. [John] I remember volunteering for that race, but I don’t know what happened next. [Oliver] I—I think you might be right. We switched bodies! [John] I need to get to class now, but we need to follow up on this. [Oliver] Oh my, look at the time. I need to be somewhere, too. They both get up and leave, each with an uneasy feeling in their stomach. Act One Scene Two Oliver calls John later that afternoon, after the conclusion of the school day. John is lying on a couch; the couch is his favorite couch. Oliver, on the other hand, is pacing back and forth in a bedroom, presumably the bedroom that belonged to John before they switched bodies and lives. [Oliver] Hi, and a very pleasant Tuesday afternoon, wherever you may be. [John] I’m on the couch. [Oliver] Is it a nice couch? [John] It is a very nice couch. [Oliver] Seriously, though, what are we going to do about The Situation? [John] Is that what we’re calling it now?

[Oliver] Well, what are we going to do about it? [John] Wait, are we even sure about it? [Oliver] You were the one that came up to me and told me about this. You know more than I do. Please tell me you weren’t wasting my time back there. I was in the middle of a very good book. [John] I know, I know. I hope I didn’t waste your time and prevent you from reading that book. I quite like it myself. I’ve just been thinking about how insane the idea of us switching bodies and lives actually is. [Oliver] I know. It’s a difficult situation for both of us, and I want you to know that I’m here for you. I kind of have to be, because I need a bit of a distraction from this, or else I may go insane myself. Being supportive here is the best distraction available to me right now. [John] Thanks for the support…? [Oliver] But back to the all-important topic at hand. Even if we aren’t certain about this, what shall we do if it is true? [John] We try to find a way to switch back! [Oliver] What if there isn’t a way to switch back? What if it’s permanent? [John] It must be possible. Don’t you want it? [Oliver] Um, well, errr, um… [John] Do you? [Oliver] Well, no, actually. I have quite enjoyed being John. Life has been significantly simpler for me. I’m not attracting attention from random people I’ve never met anymore. I just get to be a person. [John] To be honest, I’m quite overwhelmed by your life. How did you manage it all? I’ve felt like everyone wants a piece of me, often because they want to feed off of the attention you—I receive. [John] Please. I don’t know what I’ll do if I’m stuck

being you forever. [Oliver] Oh, John. I just don’t know. I just don’t know…

Christian B. Roqueta McDaniel High School Damien Miles-Paulson

Choose Your Own Adventure The doors: One day, Jackson was cruising down the street. Mysteriously, he saw a key on the floor and picked it up. When he saw the key, he was suspicious of it because it was in front of his neighbor’s house. He was very suspicious of the house for a while, because as Jackson went to sleep at night, he would always see weird things as if they were moving weirdly, but when tonight came, it was just plain, blank in-home space, as if they were robots. Days went by. When his neighbor left for a while, Jackson eyeballed them as he’d been waiting for this for a while. He was scared to even walk up the house, but had the strength to either way, as he approached the house, he had the choice to go to the house or ignore it. Chapter 2- enter the house Chapter 3- ignore the house Chapter 2- Jackson entered the house, feeling scared as he walked through that door, and as he walked in, the door behind him closed shut, with no one pushing it or pulling it. And as he looked around, all he saw was darkness, feeling like a black-box experience which then caused him to be frightened. After some time, a light turned on. Around him he saw two doors with

symbols, one which was an angel door to his left, and on his right was a devil door. Within that room, there was a one-minute timer that was ticking down. And as he panicked, he had to decide to either go to the left where the angel door was or go right, to the devil door. Or he could wait for the timer to go down. Chapter 3- he ignored the house and dropped the key where he found it. But his curiosity was still running through his mind. Chapter 4- wait for the timer Chapter 5- choose the door on the left, with a symbol of an angel Chapter 6- choose the door on the right with a symbol of a devil Chapter 4- Jackson stayed and waited for the timer to go down. As the timer went down, a flame from the bottom rose and killed him. Chapter 5- He entered the angel door on the left. He had survived and was frightened and confused about what was going on, but as he wandered around a black room, a light turned on suddenly, and he was met with the same situation he experienced in the previous chapter. But now the difference was that at the bottom of the devil-symboled door, there was a light shining underneath the peak of the door and it was on the left side of the room this time, and at the peak of the angel door, it was dark, and no light was shining underneath, and the angel door had switched to the right side of the room. This really got to him because as he thought about it, he panicked. At that moment, he was really

rushed because the timer was now fifty seconds and counting down. He could have chosen to stay and see what awaited him as the time passed by, too. Chapter 6- he chose the door on the right with the symbol of the devil. He was eaten alive and died from the lion behind the door who hadn’t eaten in months. Chapter 7- choose the door on the left with the devil symbol Chapter 8- choose the door on the right with the angel symbol Chapter 9- wait for the timer Chapter 7- He entered the devil door. Jackson survived an almost-sudden death. Now being filled with fear, agony, and regret that he had entered the house in the first place, he just wanted to just leave the house. But as he entered the room, Jackson encountered a devastating feeling as he was looking in front of him. He saw a covered tomb and was curious about what could be under the cover. There was an opening to the door on his right, where he could finally discover what he longed to achieve. Chapter 8- Jackson was killed by a room full of snakes which are deadly types of snakes, including anacondas and some paralytic snakes. They devoured his body and he was bit by a blue coral snake which caused a paralyzation, so he could no longer move because of how he had been bitten by a deadly snake. He was then forced to stay there, lay dead and feel all the bites and the poison and all the torture.

Chapter 9- he waited for the timer and was killed by the flames that came from the ground. He was flamed to death and tortured by the burning flames burning his skin and was then killed after all that torture. Chapter 10- enter the room to the right Chapter 11- explore the tomb/room Chapter 10- he went into the room and finally discovered what he longed to do and was devastated by the discovery he had made. To be continued… Chapter 11- Jackson explored the room, and as he explored, he stepped on a pressure plate. With one step of that pressure plate, something happened but not as sudden. The tomb behind Jackson started to open, as he explored the room, and as he opened the drawers, he saw a dagger within those drawers, so he grabbed it. Jackson felt something devastating behind him. As he turned to look, Jackson saw a mummy holding a scythe. Jackson used the dagger to swing at the mummy, but no damage was inflicted, and as he swung more, Jackson started to feel helpless. Then the mummy swung at him with a long scythe and he was sliced in half, and that was ending of his suffering.

Lydia Levy

Lincoln High School Dey Rivers

Bed, Bath, and Be Gone Blade grew up in a world of white and blue plastic. Everything he ate was white and blue with a plastic texture; everything he wore was white and blue plastic; everything around him was white and blue plastic. While Blade himself is not plastic—he is human like you and me—his skin is paper white, creating a stark contrast to his deep midnight-blue eyes and hair. This world exists on a tiny mushroom. Blade lives on the Mushroom of Bed, Bath, and Beyond. He frequents Bed, Bath, and Banh Mi as well as Bed, Bath, and Books. He used to love it there—family and friends all around and the familiar scent of sweet must. Now he notices more must than sweet, he notices that everything is breaking or cracked, and he realizes what a sad world he’s been living in. To Blade, there is nothing left for him at home. He spends hours every day lying on his plastic bed, in his cracking plastic house, wondering when he will crack, and when he will crumble to dust like everything else in this sad world. It is not uncommon for people to leave Bed, Bath, and Beyond; many neighborhoods are completely abandoned, leaving behind dark blue homes to bleach in the sun and turn light blue. The depressing nature of these neighborhoods have kept Blade at home, but one day, as he mopes slowly down an abandoned street, he sees a flicker in a streetlight. Something he has never seen in his entire seventeen years of existence. It is

there for a second, and in a blink, it is gone. While just a flicker of light, that spark lights something inside of him. A fire roars from deep inside Blade; he wants to make his life better. So, leaving behind the plastic house he’s lived in all his life, his family, and all his favorite places, he heads out in search of somewhere better— somewhere more fulfilling. With a backpack almost bigger than him, Blade starts crossing the first bridge. You see, there are pencilthin rope bridges connecting each of the mushrooms in the ring, in the forest, in the backyard, in the city. Bed, Bath, and Beyond is right next to Apple, but the cities could not be more different. Unlike Bed, Bath, and Beyond, on the Apple mushroom, everything is state of the art, shiny, and new. There is a constant buzz from construction and cleaning to keep things sparkly and fresh. Nothing here is breaking, thinks Blade. This is amazing. Blade wanders the streets, which are organized in a perfect grid, looking at angular architecture and concrete sculptures. He has never seen somewhere so modern and aggressive. While walking along one of the many identical streets, Blade notices his stomach gurgling. He goes to a street corner and yells out, “Hey Siri, find me the nearest restaurant.” An Australian voice descends from the sky: “Walk two blocks, then turn left on 233rd street; iFoods will be on your right.” Two blocks and a left turn later, there is iFoods. The exterior is all shiny and white with a singular door that you could miss if you didn’t look hard enough. After many attempts, Blade finally pushes the door open. Inside he is greeted by a white abyss and hologram menus. Blade laughs to himself when he sees what the menus read. The apple meal consists of a meaty iPhone with fried cords, but Blade is craving something

sweet. He goes for the AirPod pie. Warm spices fill his nose, and he sighs, relaxing into the home-like scent. However, his peace is quickly replaced by a loud droning beep coming from the floor. Soon after the beeps starts, a bright red hologram appears in front of Blade saying, “Insufficient Funds, Please Return Purchases.” Appearing so quickly it seems like magic, a drone approaches him, stating in a robotic voice, “Please return your purchases.” Stunned, Blade does not move, prompting the drone to lurch forward. Robotic hands extend from its rectangular body, reaching out and grabbing the pie from a shocked Blade’s hands. While all this is happening, Blade doesn’t notice that the floor is moving, inching him closer and closer to the door. When the drone finally stops yelling, the invisible door he came through reopens and an invisible force pushes Blade out before quickly snapping shut. After standing still in silence on the sidewalk for a few minutes, Blade shakes his head, confused by the recent events, before he continues walking. For the first time, Blade truly takes in his surroundings. There are no people, only endless rows of identical buildings. Yes, this place is modern, he thinks, but it is cold and uninviting. With that realization, Blade hurriedly walks to the nearest bridge, this one leading to the mushroom of JC Penney. When he arrives at the JC Penney mushroom, Blade can feel an immediate switch. There are people, real people, everywhere. They are talking, wearing bright colors, and many say hello to Blade as he passes. “I could get used to this,” he mutters to himself. Thinking he has finally found the place he belongs, Blade wanders down Main Street. While things aren’t as high-tech or luxurious here compared to the Apple mushroom,

something just feels right to Blade. There is a familiar scent of must in the air, but unlike the mushroom Bed, Bath, and Beyond, the scent is faint and drowned out by sticky-sweet vanilla. Soon, Blade sees a sign for the capitol. He has never been to a place with a capitol; intrigued, he follows the signs all the way to D.C. Penney. When Blade first arrives, he is blinded by a bright light, but as his eyes adjust, he realizes that it is not a light—it is a massive penny. “What… the… fu…” Blade can’t even finish his sentence. In an instant, his potential new home has gone from the best place he’d ever been, to a weird fever dream—no—nightmare. Blade thinks to himself, Why is there a massive penny here? “Penney” isn’t even spelled like that. Even more confused than when the drone yelled at him and pushed him out of iFoods, Blade moves closer to the penny. As he gets closer, a deep rumble comes up from the earth. He moves closer still. “What… the… fu…” yet again, Blade is speechless. The rumble isn’t an earthquake or some random car, it is hundreds of people bowing down and worshipping the penny. Nope. Blade runs away from the ceremony faster than he has ever run before, but with every street he turns down, he finds more people chanting. It gets louder, and Blade can finally understand what is being said: “Vivat Regina Penny.” He doesn’t understand what they are saying, but he knows it doesn’t mean anything good. Finally, Blade finds an empty street, and at the end of that street is a bridge. Blade doesn’t know where this bridge goes, and he doesn’t care. He knows there is only one way. Without slowing down, Blade runs. He runs to the middle of the bridge before leaping off with a dive of beauty and grace. As Blade falls, he imagines the end. What will

death look like, smell like, sound like? He finds comfort in a thought that for many causes anxiety. Part of Blade knows that he could have kept living, that he even may have been able to find a path to happiness, but the other part of him understands that he can never be fulfilled. No, Blade can never be happy… Splat.

Marco Muscatello Lincoln High School Monika Cassel

Technology is in Costant Evolution

Sarah Graff

Grant High School Damien Miles-Paulson

Nouveau Monde Clack

Clack Clack Clink Clack My boots met the metal ground, making a clicking sound as I ran. I was almost out of breath as a gruff voice yelled to me, “Hey! What are you doing here?!” I whipped my head around and keep running at the sight of someone wearing a uniform. It wasn’t supposed to happen that day. Or any day, really. If my thoughts hadn’t lingered on wanting to go back to what could have been my home for much longer than planned, I wouldn’t be here in this position. It was a normal morning in my apartment. A fresh yet faint smell of acrylics wafted through the rooms from ideas thrown onto canvases. Colors and the vibrance from the paintings scattered around. My bedroom had very few items in it. It had my bed with chains, my father’s compass, flower garlands, and other things of that sort around one of the posts connected to the headboard of my bed. There was also my nightstand along with a desk and paintings hung up on the walls. The Rhodes piano was placed in the center of one

of my walls, close to the kitchen, but far enough where no food would somehow spill on it. Sheets of my own composed music surrounded it on the floor. As I cooked my breakfast, the eggs were sizzling. I took the spatula and flipped them over, steam coming out from underneath. My toaster made a popping sound. I grabbed the freshly toasted bagel, put it on a plate, then returned to making eggs. Once they were done, I put them in between the bagel slices. I always look out my window onto the world below while I eat this. The sun was out. Almost all the flowers have bloomed by this time of year. There are never clouds in the sky because in Nouveau Monde, everything is a bit different than Earth. I was brought here on this new planet when I was eight. During my time on the spaceship, I was able to learn some French, which is needed for talking to others because Nouveau Monde was founded by the French. I learned there that Nouveau Monde means “New World.” At that time, I didn’t know why we had to move. I didn’t understand what it meant, either. Here in Nouveau Monde, life is good. The economy, the people, all the forestry and plants around me. But there are still people on Earth that I miss and want to see again. Really, I just want to see what Earth looks like—if it feels like home any more than here. At times my thoughts are overwhelming. “But what if I could?” “Would it work?” “Would it really be that bad if I did?” I stop for a second and think, “No. I could never.”

The thought of it is exciting, though. It’s something new and something I have been wanting for a long time. Just to see it—to experience it. I finished the bagel sandwich and decided to call my mom and dad. The ringing sounded for a moment and then I heard static through the microphone. “Hello?” my mom said. “Hey, Mom, hey, Dad.” “Everything ok?” my dad said with a hint of concern. I never call this early in the morning. “Yeah… yeah it is. I just… I think I want to go back— ” “What!?” they said in sync. “I-I just think I need to, like I need to go and see what it’s like there. If it’s anything like how it was before we left.” There was a moment of silence. I didn’t know what they were thinking, how crazy they thought I was for wanting to go back so suddenly. “I’m sorry I just think—” “No, no, don’t be sorry. It’s just so…” “Sudden?” “A bit,” my dad replied. “I know. I just wanted to say that if you don’t hear from me for a bit… well…” I paused a moment, hesitated on the words I should have said, “I love you, and thank you. Bye.” “Wait, please just let us know if you really are—do you even know how expensive those trips are?” My mom said, praying I won’t really go through with it. “I’m sorry, I just think I need to.” I hung up the phone, realizing I just put my parents through something I didn’t intend to, but did. I said it and couldn’t imagine going back on what I just set

myself out to do. Without a second thought, I slipped on my boots. I threw some snacks, a bottle of water, my phone, and my dad’s compass into my painted fanny pack. It was one of my earlier projects in my ‘‘painting on fabrics” era, the painting itself inspired by sixteenth century paintings. I opened the door and looked out for what would be the last time, for now, at the view from my door. I was finally there, and my heart raced. Go in. It’s just one foot in front of the other. Finally convinced that what I would do would all be worth it, I let myself go in. It was a big metal structure that held all of the spaceships in it. There were daily rides back and forth from Earth to Nouveau Monde—they were just thousands of dollars to get on. What I was going to do was simple, I just had to pretend I was paying for a trip. I had already gotten in through the back, for one of the guards had left the door open a little too long. I saw where I needed to go—a space shuttle for one. I ran. I ran and kept going as fast as I could. As I did, all my thoughts left. All I had was a sense of excitement and longing. Like a bird migrating back to their real home in the early spring. My boots clacked with each step I took on the metal floors. My bag jingled from my keychains on it. I’m almost out of breath as I heard, “Hey! What are you doing here!” From a gruff voice. I whipped my head around and kept running at the sight of someone wearing a uniform. “Oh god,” I thought, “What the hell did I get myself

into?” I kept running as I felt the presence of the guard following me. As I got to the door of the space shuttle, I grabbed the keys hanging by the door. I then pressed the button to open the shuttle’s door. As it went slower than I would like, the guard almost got to me right as I slipped in and slammed the door behind me. I fumbled with the keys for a second before slipping them into the keyhole. I pressed some of the flashing buttons before pulling the lever to make it start. The ship started to levitate, and my heart started to race even more. My hands were shaking as I steered the ship out. I pulled out my father’s compass from my bag and made sure it was pointing north. I did it. I was on my way back. As I comprehended everything that had happened, I was in a bit of shock, but felt excited and like I did something I really wanted to. I stared out into the space around me and looked at all the stars, planets, and moons. After some time, I finally spotted where Earth was. From here you could see the colors of it. Greens, blues, and some whites in a mixture on a ball. As I got closer, I could see the clouds, my favorite part of Earth’s landscape.

Lillian Cross

Franklin High School Jennifer Perrine

Faces Reality shatters in crystal refractions, like a quantum magnitude of heat base film. The air is sickly sweet of nectar, pollen, and grass, baking in the sun, distorting into a more ugly version of itself, becoming hard, harsh, and so potent it’s off-putting, almost ghastly and overt. Sweat drips in slow riveting drops of glassy profuse tears, soaking skin. A frisbee is thrown, a ball kicked, children run, muffled by the distance and light breeze, blue sky void of clouds like a crowd of nudists A lost pink sea Solemn roses forged By black matter, in space

Eliana McCall-Petke McDaniel High School Damien Miles-Paulson

The Multilayered Culinary Adventure As I bit into the crispy outer layer, warm dough hit my tongue – sweeter than I’d pictured– and finally, a delicious mixture of black beans and thick paste. The combination of oily, crunchy, soft, and moist. All my senses satisfied and wholly surprised by the pop of sweet within a savory sea. The object of my affections is nothing other than a black bean empanada.

Mackenzie Strand Parkrose High School CJ Wiggan

You Are What I Love Most Darling, I genuinely cannot even begin to comprehend how beautiful you are. Whenever I lay my eyes upon your brilliant self, my breath is taken from me. When I look to you, my love, I am filled with the utmost overabundance of joy and love knowing I am the one who holds your heart and will get to spend the beautiful and unique creation that is life with you, my dear, for such grace and artistry was unbeknownst to my eyes before they made their rest upon you. I simply cannot take in my mind a full grasp of the fact that you are mine. For I could write for hours of the way your smile makes my heart feel light in the warm embrace of your love. Or the way your eyes are a perfect mirror of the entities that my heart holds dear. For your eyes remind me of freshly brewed coffee and leather-bound books. They prompt sweet memories of climbing trees and staring in awe at the beautifully unique bark each individual tree holds. My beloved, I could write novels regarding the way your touch makes my heart flutter. Of the contentedness I feel knowing I am the one you hold. That I am who your heart finds home in. For you, my love, my heart is open. The once heavily guarded and herculean walls that I had constructed fall away to stones as small as gravel with one look.

For your touch leaves sparks; home’s embers set my heart ablaze and keep me warm throughout cold nights. In you I find my home, a place my heart feels sheltered and protected, for I know with your love, even the harshest of battles can be won. The demons that once haunted me, creeping from shadows to attack, have been vanquished in the light of your love. My heart which was once fragile and broken easily has grown strong in the companionship of your love and strength. For with you, I know I have someone to lean on who will hold me as teardrops make their descent from my eyes. You, my love, have made me exceedingly stronger in your presence. For even as demons threaten to raise chaos in my mind, you are there to make them disappear in the radiant light that is your love. Though I once thought such a deep and knowing love was inconceivable and unattainable, I find myself falling deeper and deeper each passing day I spend with you, my love. For to me, you are the light that radiates through the tenebrous night. My darling, in all the world, you are what I love most.

Ashley Estrada

McDaniel High School Damien Miles-Paulson

Bear Whose teddy bear is that? I think I know Its owner is quite angry though! I watch his wings spread, I cry hello I want to keep the odd, furry teddy bear But he has promises to keep Tormented with nightmares the owner never sleeps Teddy bear is what he should keep The owner awakes from his cursed bed Bad thoughts in his head A flash of rage and he turns red! Without a hesitation I turned and fled.

ODJ

Grant High School Damien Miles-Paulson

A Brief History of My Relationships with Flesh Before I start, I would like to say that I needed to go out of my way to write this and I don’t want to. I have been thinking of writing this for the past fifty years, but only now I feel people would believe me. Like many others, I am just trying to get by right now, but I feel obligated to record my unique experiences in relation to the flesh. I grew up in the late ’60s in a suburb of San Francisco. I had a pretty stereotypical family, and things were quite simple. I vividly remember that when I was about seven years old, I was in my backyard poking at an anthill with a stick, waiting for my mom to finish making me lunch when it happened. Suddenly, an almost pebblelike object fell from the sky at extreme speeds, but my mom called me inside before I had time to examine it. After lunch, I went back to look at it, but it wasn’t there. At the time, I didn’t think much of it, but about a week later there was what appeared to be a partially charred thumb sticking out of the ground in the same place that it landed. I reached for the stick that I’d used to poke the anthill time and time again, and when I poked the thumb with it, the stick became lodged in it almost instantly. I picked up some dirt, threw it at it, and the same thing happened to the dirt. I felt both curious and terrified, so I put a rock on top of it and went back inside. The next day when I lifted the rock, the thumb was there, but

both the dirt and the stick were gone. For about a year, I never dared lift up that rock, and in fact, I almost forgot about it, but one day something horrible happened. I was playing with my friend David in my backyard, and I saw something strange. There was a large, red tendril poking out of the ground that looked like a nerve ending that was swaying as if it was under water. Since we were dumb kids, I dared him to touch it. As he touched it, I immediately regretted daring him, because I realized that it was right next to the thumb. I yelled out for him to stop, but it was too late. He looked me dead straight in the eyes, terrified, and I saw him mouth the words, “my hand is stuck.” He started to become pale and tried to let out screams, but nothing came out. Eventually, his skin started to peel off and his eyes shriveled up. I watched him slowly and painfully get absorbed. By the end, there was nothing left. The rock next to the nerve was flipped over, and under it where there used to be a thumb, there was what appeared to be a hand. From that day on, I never went into my backyard again. I never told anyone why because I thought they wouldn’t believe me. I was constantly urging my parents to move houses, but they never would. At one point, my parents had me go to a psychiatrist because I would stay home instead of going to school to make sure that nobody went back there. I became so incredibly paranoid about it that at one point when I was older, I welded the door to our backyard shut. One day when I reached my mental limit, I ended up stabbing my mom’s leg when she was tried to go into the backyard.

Eventually, I was admitted to a psychiatric ward. It was a humiliating experience, and after about a month, I finally managed to convince my psychiatrist that I was sane enough to leave. When I came back home, my parents were gone and there was a large tarp around my house with people in hazmat suits coming in and out. There was a huge truck next to my house that I heard banging coming from, but as I approached it, they ushered me away and It said in John D. Clifton’s will that his memoir must be published unedited. Sadly, he passed away due to living conditions as he was writing.

James Thompson McDaniel High School Damien Miles-Paulson

Late to Class Sorry I was late to class. I hope I can still pass Do you have a reason for passing on class? Yes, my pet shrimp was a bit crass. Your pet shrimp was a bit crass? No, I said my fretting mother fell down on her ass. SHE WHAT IS SHE OKAY?! Sure she’s okay, but I should really go check up on her. Could I pass on class to visit my mother who fell on her ass?

Claire Heiberg

McDaniel High School Damien Miles-Paulson

A Journey to Nothing My attention is caught by a wave of nostalgia. I find myself caught in a distant but familiar feeling of being pulled away. What does this remind me of? My focus is wrenched elsewhere by a sudden awareness of the lack of furniture beneath me. I look above myself to see the ceiling coming closer. Wait—I know this feeling. I remember when I still needed a stool to reach the sink, playing with my mother’s crafting supplies. I’m being pulled away; I am a husk of the dried glue being peeled from my own hands. I drift away, lost in a silence I have never heard before. Before, I was loud, always beating, breathing, Now I’m falling in the wrong direction, like a raindrop plummeting from the ground into the sky. Ah yes, the ground. I look down and see myself. Oops. I’ve left them behind. Knotted hair lies in an unseemly mess of tangles; chapped lips slightly parted, frozen in the position they had taken during their last breath. Even though I can’t feel it, I know my body is warm from overexertion, though it is growing colder with every passing second. My gaze drifts to open palms, covered in crescent marks made by unevenly-sized fingernails, some bitten down to the raw nail beds. On the other side rests rough, scaly skin, aching from a lack of moisture that was never amended. Suddenly aware of myself, I realize that I no longer feel

hot or tired or thirsty. Every human need that had begged to be heard only moments ago was now satisfied—or maybe it had just disappeared? In my excitement, I have forgotten what I was doing here. What am I doing here? Perhaps the carcass below could give me a clue. I clear my mind, returning my focus to the person beneath me, searching for a hint in her eyes—my eyes. They’re too distant. I try to get a closer look, but instead end up farther away. My movements are restrained like a dog on a retractable leash being led back to a patient owner. The piece of me still clinging to the earth screams at me, “DO NOT LET GO!” I don’t want to leave my life behind—do I? Still so much left to say, to see, to do… or is there? Who am I? Or rather, who had I been? For a brief moment, I panic. I try to grasp at the memories that had escaped; but I am soon flooded with a sense of peace in knowing that if it were important, I would have remembered it. I feel a comforting light begin to pull at me, and I drift into its warm embrace, away from the last regrets and worries tying me down. The final remnants of my soul are returned to me, my consciousness leaving the nearly lifeless vessel, like an outgoing tide. I leave the beach and allow myself to be engrossed in the wave that carries me out to the sea. It brings me closer to the luminance, its glow growing brighter and brighter until it’s so blinding that I am forced to close my eyes. My eyelids—or whatever was shielding my vision—are thick and heavy, weighing me down into a deep sleep. All other thoughts are dismissed by the sudden need for rest.

While I sleep, my essence burrows deeper into a secure and vaguely familiar place. On my way down, I feel something brush against me. It’s other souls who are traveling alongside me, through the nothing, onto their next journey. We cannot see or hear or smell or taste or touch, we just are. We’re in a place filled with the silent chatter of beings who cannot speak. Leading to Everything The reverberations of nonexistent voices lull me into a daze. I reach the bottom and carelessly sink into a warm, soft bed that fits just right—only to be yanked out of my slumber by some unseen force. I find a voice, with which I shriek, and little legs, which I flail around in an uncontrollable surge of adrenaline. My newfound body is pulled into a new world that overwhelms me with bright lights, intense textures, loud noises, and foreign faces. I thrash and scream. I don’t know this place; I didn’t ask to be here. I try to speak, but my stupor had wiped my mind of every skill I had ever known. I have been thrown into a new life, naked, defenseless, and unable to communicate. I’m trapped in a frail, pudgy little body that I cannot fully control. The overstimulation makes me weak, and I begin to give into despair, relinquishing my will to fight. I’m handled and passed from one set of hands to another: some wiping me, others wrapping me. Just when I am sure that all is lost, I am returned to the woman whose love beckoned me. Upon seeing her face, and hearing her voice, my panic subsides, and I relax into her gentle, safe embrace. I know that I am okay.

WRITERS IN RESIDENCE 2022-23 ALEX BEHR has an MFA in creative writing from Portland State

and has taught fiction at the college level. She has led fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction WITS residencies since 2014. She’s currently facilitating creative labs called “Eno/Ono” through Corporeal Writing. She’s the author of Planet Grim: Stories (7.13 Books), and her interviews, essays, short fiction, book reviews, and poetry have appeared in Salon, Tin House, The Rumpus, Vol 1 Brooklyn, Propeller, Gravity of the Thing, Oregon Humanities, Cleaver, and elsewhere. She is a published poet, fiction writer, essayist, and musician, and the author of the short story collection Planet Grim. BRIAN BENSON is the author of Going Somewhere (Plume, 2014),

and co-author, with Richard Brown, of This Is Not For You: An Activist’s Journey of Resistance and Resilience (OSU Press, March 2021). In addition to his work with Literary Arts, Brian teaches at the Attic Institute and facilitates free Write Around Portland workshops in schools, treatment centers, and affordable housing.

His short nonfiction has been published in Entropy, The Sun, and Off Assignment. He is at work on his third book, a novel. ERICA BERRY was most recently the 2019-2020 Writer-in-

Residence and Teaching Fellow with the National Writers Series in Traverse City, MI. She has also taught writing workshops with the New York Times Student Journeys, the Sitka Center for Art and Ecology, the Craigardan Residency and Education Center in New York, and the Anna Tasca Lanza Cooking School in Sicily. Her writing has been supported by the Minnesota State Arts Board, the Bread Loaf Writers Conference, Tin House, and the Institute for Journalism and Natural Resources, and been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and named notable in 2019 Best American Essays. Her essays are published or forthcoming with The Yale Review, The New York Times Magazine, Literary Hub, Gulf Coast, Gastronomica, Colorado Review, Guernica, The Atlantic, and others. MONIKA CASSEL is a bilingual poet and translator. Her chapbook

Grammar of Passage (flipped eye publishing 2021) won the Venture Poetry Award. Her poems have appeared in The Laurel Review, Phoebe Journal, and Construction Magazine, and her translations from

German have appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Guernica, Poetry, and Asymptote, among others. In 2020, she received a writing grant from the Regional Arts and Culture Council. She is a degree candidate in poetry at Warren Wilson College’s MFA program; previously, she was a founding faculty member and Chair of Creative Writing and Literature at New Mexico School for the Arts in Santa Fe, where she developed the school’s creative writing program with the support of the Lannan Foundation. DAVID CIMINELLO is a Portland-based writer and educator.

His fiction has appeared in the Lambda Literary Award-winning anthology Portland Queer: Tales of the Rose City, Underwater New York, Lumina, Nailed Magazine, and in the podcast series Storytellers Telling Stories. As a professional screenwriter, David has developed projects with Aaron Spelling Productions, All Girl Productions, Sony Pictures, HBO, and Twentieth Century Fox. His original screenplay, Bruno, appears on DVD as The Dress Code. KATIE BORAK is alive in Portland, OR. They make short, queer

blackout poems from pulp novels and long stories about icebergs, fanaticism, subverting the patriarchy, and the sea. Find Katie

co-editing Kithe Journal, teaching at Portland Community College, or working in Literary Arts’ WITS program. Visit them at www.katieborak.com. ED EDMO is a Shoshone-Bannock poet, playwright, performer,

traditional storyteller, tour guide, and lecturer on Northwest tribal culture. Ed offers guided tours to the She Who Watches petroglyphs on the Columbia Gorge, as well as to the Warm Springs Indian Reservation in central Oregon’s high-desert country. He conducts workshops, traditional storytelling performances, dramatic monologues, and lectures on issues such as cultural understanding and awareness, drug and alcohol abuse, and mental health. Ed is a published short story writer, poet, and playwright, and serves as a consultant to the Smithsonian Museum of the American Indian. VANESSA FRIEDMAN (she/her) is a queer dyke writer, editor, and

teacher living in Portland, OR. She received her MFA in creative nonfiction from Sarah Lawrence College, and she is a Tin House Summer Workshop alum and a Hedgebrook Spring Retreat alum. Vanessa is the community editor at Autostraddle; her work has

been published in Autostraddle, Nylon, Catapult, Alma, and Shape, among others, and her essay, “If I’m Lonely,” will be included in the as yet-untitled anthology based on Helen Gurley Brown’s 1962 classic, Sex and the Single Girl, forthcoming from Harper Perennial in 2022. Vanessa is currently at work on her first novel. You can find her online at vanessapamela.com. ELISABETH GEIER is a writer, editor, teacher, and enthusiast

whose short stories and essays have appeared in publications such as Porter House Review, Okey-Panky, Bright Wall/Dark Room, Nanofiction, and The Toast. She’s taught writing and literature in public high schools, community colleges, youth correctional facilities, affordable housing communities, and elsewhere. Elisabeth has an MFA in Fiction from the University of Montana and lives in Portland with several pets. Read more at elisabethgeier.com. MEG E. GRIFFITTS (she/they) is a queer writer, educator, and the

author of the forthcoming collection Hallucinating a Homestead, which was chosen by Traci Brimhall as the 2020 Two Sylvias Press Chapbook Prize winner. Her work has appeared in The Missouri

Review, Homology Lit, Black Warrior Review, and others. Her poem “When the Doctor Doesn’t Believe Your Pain” was a finalist in Inverted Syntax’s 2020 Sublingua Contest chosen by Dr. Khadijah Queen. She lives in Portland with her partner and many animals on Cowlitz Land. Find more of her work at megegriffitts.com. APRIL JOSEPH is a poet, book coach, and educator. At Literary

Arts, she is the Writers in the Schools Specialist and works with the Youth Programs team to support writers and students. Collaborative, student-centered, process-oriented learning inspires her to teach artistic expression to transform lives, to be free. She earned her MFA in Writing and Poetics from Naropa University and her BA in Literatures of the World from the University of California, San Diego. Her poetics center around healing ancestry and have appeared in literary journals and anthologies (*apo-press, Bombay Gin, Morning/Mourning, and TAYO). AMY MINATO is the author of a memoir Siesta Lane, (Skyhorse

Press, 2009) and two poetry collections: Hermit Thrush (Inkwater Press, 2016) and The Wider Lens (Ice River Press, 2004). Amy has been a recipient of both a Literary Arts Fellowship for her

poetry and a Walden Residency for her prose. She teaches writing through Literary Arts, Multnomah Art Center, Fishtrap, and at Breitenbush Retreat Center, as well as a community service course in sustainable living at Portland State University. She holds both an MFA in Creative Writing and an MS in Environmental Studies from the University of Oregon. DAMIEN MILES-PAULSON teaches slow dancing, writes, and

still dreams of an overseas basketball career. He is a founding member of the now-disbanded experimental German noise band, Flu Shot. His stories, poems, and sounds can be found at The Whole Beast Rag, The Washington Square Review, theNewerYork, Alice Blue Review, Marco Polo Arts Mag, Everyday Genius, Past-Ten, Axolotl, and The Alarmist. He now walks the world with an MFA in Creative Writing from UCR in hand. LAURA MOULTON teaches in the Northwest Writing Institute

at Lewis & Clark College and leads residences in high schools for Literary Arts. Over the years, she has taught writing in public schools, prisons, and teen shelters. Moulton is the founder of Street Books, Portland’s bicycle-powered street library.

JENNIFER PERRINE is the author of four award-winning books

of poetry: Again, The Body Is No Machine, In the Human Zoo, and No Confession, No Mass. Their recent poems, stories, and essays appear in New Letters, The Seventh Wave Magazine, JuxtaProse, The Rumpus, Buckman Journal, and The Gay & Lesbian Review. Perrine lives in Portland, Oregon, where they co-host the Incite: Queer Writers Read series, teach creative writing to youth and adults, and serve as a diversity, equity, inclusion, and justice (DEIJ) consultant. BRUCE POINSETTE is a writer and community organizer whose

work is primarily based in the Portland Metro Area. A former reporter for the Skanner News Group, his work has also appeared in The Oregonian, Street Roots, Around the O, and We Out Here Magazine, as well as projects such as the Mercatus Collective and the Urban League of Portland’s State of Black Oregon 2015. In addition to his professional writing work, Poinsette also serves as the Media Action Team Leader for Respond to Racism LO, a grassroots anti-racism organization in his hometown of Lake Oswego, Oregon.

MARK POMEROY’S first novel, The Brightwood Stillness, was

published by Oregon State University Press in 2014. He has received an Oregon Literary Fellowship for fiction, and his short stories, poems, and essays have appeared in Open Spaces, The Wordstock 10, Portland Magazine, The Oregonian, NW Book Lovers, and What Teaching Means: Stories from America’s Classrooms. He holds an MA in English Education from Teachers College, Columbia University, where he was a Fellow in Teaching. EMILLY PRADO is a writer, community organizer, and the prose

instructor at the Independent Publishing Resource Center in Portland, Oregon. When not writing or teaching, Emilly moonlights as DJ Mami Miami with Noche Libre, the Latinx DJ collective she co-founded in 2017. Her debut essay collection, Funeral for Flaca, was selected as a #YosiBookClub summer reading pick and has been called, “Utterly vulnerable, bold, and unique,” by Ms. magazine. Funeral for Flaca is out now with Future Tense Books. DEY RIVERS is a mixed-media visual artist, poet, and storyteller

based in Portland, Oregon on Cowlitz and Clackamas Native lands. After earning a degree in Fine Art in Pennsylvania, they returned

to the west coast as a teaching artist with local non-profits and museums. Dey is one of the featured writers in Oregon Writers of Color 2020 Spring Showcase through Ooligan Press. Their current creative writing examines relationships, nature, culture, and history from a Black, neuro-diverse, queer perspective. MATT SMITH grew up in Iowa and Arizona. He earned his BA

in English Literature from Arizona State University. He spent the subsequent four years after college in South Korea as an ESL teacher. His short fiction work centers on the intersections of race and identity. He is currently working on a collection of short stories focused on what it means to be multi-racial in America. Matt was a 2017-18 WITS apprentice. CJ WIGGAN is a Nebraskan writer and illustrator creating

emotional artwork about gender, relationships, magic, nature, and hair. CJ relocated shortly after earning a double BA in English and Art from Black Hills State University in Spearfish, SD, and now works in youth art programming in Portland. Some of CJ’s art can be found in Theories of HER: An Experimental Anthology, JUR(Y):

The Journal of Undergraduate Research and Creative Activity, and a little bit on this locked tumblr page: chanelheart.tumblr.com.

INDEX

BY SCHOOL Franklin High School Ameia Wergeland 13 Ele Haugo 27 Lillian Cross 58

James Thompson 66 Stella Jackson 36 Parkrose High School Mackenzie Strand 60

Grant High School Augustus J. Martin 39 Luke Histand 16 ODJ 63 Sarah Graff 53 Lincoln High School Ellieanna Graves 21, 32 Lydia Levy 47 Marco Muscatello 52 McDaniel High School Ashley Estrada 62 Cassandra Camacho Rivera Christian B. Roqueta 43 Claire Heiberg 67 Dots 38 Eliana McCall-Petke 59 R.T. 25 Isaac E. Pedersen 29

BY WRITER-IN-RESIDENCE CJ Wiggan Mackenzie Strand

Sarah Graff 53 Stella Jackson 36

Damien Miles-Paulson Ashley Estrada 62 Augstus J. Martin 39 Cassandra Camacho Rivera Christian B. Roqueta 43 Claire Heiberg 67 Dots 38 Eliana McCall-Petke 59 Isaac E. Pedersen 29 James Thompson 66 Luke Histand 16 ODJ 63 R.T. 25

Dey Rivers Lydia Levy 47 Jennifer Perrine Ameia Wergeland Ele Haugo 27 Lillian Cross 58

Monika Cassel Ellieanna Graves 21, 32 Marco Muscatello 52

YOUTH PROGRAMS SUPPORT 2022-23

Thank you to our generous donors who gave $200 or more to support Youth Programs between June 1, 2022– May 31, 2023. Sue & Ed Einowski Henry L. Hillman, Jr. Foundation Hoover Family Foundation Greg Houser Irwin Foundation Susan & Peter Mersereau Milkweed Editions Neilsen Family Fund of The Oregon Community Foundation Penguin Random House Naomi & Steve Price Simon & Schuster Amy O’Neill & Larry Staver Professor Paul & Susan Knoll Sue Sampson William Scott Spirit Mountain Community Fund Herbert A. Templeton Foundation Plus many more generous donors, including 288 Portland Arts & Lectures subscribers who raised over $52,000 to Send Students to the Schnitz. Thank you for your support!

the wind and its ghostly presence 2022-23 wits student chapbook

The Writers in the Schools Student Chapbook is a collection of work by public high school students in Portland, Parkrose, Gresham, and Woodburn school districts. Since 1996, Literary Arts has hired local professional writers to teach in depth creative writing residencies that culminate in public readings, celebrations, and the chance to be published in this very book. In the 2022-23 school year, over 1,400 students participated in these workshops, creating stunning works of poetry, memoir, fiction, and journalism. As always, we are immensely grateful to every student who shared their space, their words, and their story with us. Your voices matter. 88