Writing in Silence - Unspoken Ideas by NY Writers Coalition

NY Wr i ter s C oa l iti on Pr es s

WRITING IN IN WRITING SILENCE— SILENCE— UNSPOKEN UNSPOKEN IDEAS IDEAS Writing from Brooklyn Public Library, Kensington Branch Edited by Na nc y S a nc hez - Ta y lor

W RITING IN S ILENCE â&#x20AC;&#x201D; U NSPOKEN I DEAS Writing from Brooklyn Public Library, Kensington Branch

NY Writers Coalition Press Winter 2017

Copyright © 2017 NY Writers Coalition, Inc. ISBN: 978-0-9986029-0-5 Library of Congress Control Number: 2017930888 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Upon publication, copyright to individual works returns to the authors. Editor: Nancy Sanchez-Taylor Layout: Daisy Flores Title: Mie Abouelkheir, Mahmoud Abouelkheir Cover: Joseph Yates via Unsplash.com Writing in Silence—Unspoken Ideas contains writing by members of NY Writers Coalition’s creative writing workshop for teens at Brooklyn Public Library, Kensington Branch. NY Writers Coalition Press, Inc. 80 Hanson Place, Suite 604 Brooklyn, NY 11217 (718) 398-2883 info@nywriterscoalition.org www.nywriterscoalition.org

CONTENTS

Introduction By Nancy Sanchez-Taylor

Original Writing By Mahmoud abouelkheir

Mie Abouelkheir

Mahfiza Ashurova

Mohammed Lebaili

Sarah Lebaili

Tamzid Rahman

Amna Tariq

Maryam Tariq

Acknowledgements

About NY Writers Coalition

101

I NTRODUCTION This third chapbook from the young writers at the Kensington BPL has been in the making since last year. Their second chapbook was published in the spring of 2015 and when the workshops resumed in the fall, word of mouth got new participants excited and eager to have their works published and their voices heard as well. Some participants have gone on to college, returning from time to time to experience the camaraderie that the group provides, but for the most part, a dedicated group still remains. They are serious about their writing and have shared that the workshop builds their confidence and has helped them to be better students in school (and their parents agree!) The title of this chapbook comes from what they notice the most-they write in silence because they are so focused in wanting to put into words their unspoken ideas. You can hear a pin drop as their pens glide along the page and they create a story or poem initially based on a prompt, but soon takes on a life of its own. I am totally amazed and proud to see how prolific they have become and how their writing has matured and developed right along with them. Their stories and poems are always surprising and refreshing, no matter the tone. Throughout the years, they have developed

strong friendships with one another fueled by the constant support and energy they get from the group. I just sit back and watch the magic. I thank NY Writers Coalition for giving me the opportunity to be a witness to these promising and talented young writers. They are truly instrumental in providing a forum for the participants to feel like they belong to a community that encourages their putting pen to paper and that what they have to say is important. I would like to dedicate this chapbook to my dear friend Jackie Glasthal who started me on this journey. It was because of her encouragement, support and love that I continue to do the work for the both of us. I know you will appreciate the effort it took the youth to create these writings for our pleasure and entertainment so keep an open mind and an open heart andâ&#x20AC;ŚEnjoy!

NANCY SANCHEZ TAYLOR

NYWC Workshop Leader Winter 2017

M AHMOUD A BOUELKHEIR

Creative Writing Creative writing has always been an outlet through which I derive some of my happiest moments. As an adolescent living in the twenty-first century, there are few things that are left to my design and control. The instant I pick up a pen and a piece of fresh paper, however, I am limited only by the speed by which I may transfer my thoughts to writing. Creative writing allows for me to directly design, imagine, and structure unspoken ideas through written words. Whether it be writing a piece about a fictional world, or a step by step solution to a scientific problem. When I write creatively I inscribe a literary photograph of myself onto the paper, capturing my essence with each of my works. As a painter might illustrate a self portraiture, a writer would paint a figurative image. With each brushstroke, a painter designs the mental perspective

he/she has in store for the final piece, carefully placing each line and color. The same holds true for me as a writer. The process is delicate, constantly shifting and unraveling as it is being projected. With each word scribed, the writing reacts to itself, immediately shifting to fit the new mass within its intricate structure. The process is a grueling one, demanding constant attention to detail and coherence, while also remaining firm enough so that the thoughts remain unadulterated. I reread my work countless times, and when I am completely satisfied with how it has turned out, there is a brief moment of bliss that enters my heart. Figuratively, the writing sings out a beautiful and complete melody as I read it, with words and sentences stuttering into motion like cogs in a machine meshing seamlessly together in a system. For me, this moment is priceless and genuine. Creative writing to me is a form of self expression, problem solving, and imaginative thinking. It holds special significance in my life, as I have been able to better reflect inwardly and comprehend emotions and issues that I had experienced growing up. It has also shaped my views on the role of creativity in professional settings. I had taken part in a process that requires creativity and know the many benefits it might entail. Many individuals feel that they are not creative

enough to partake in creative activities, and that they would certainly fail if attempted. However, speaking as an individual who has felt the same way once before, I recognize the challenges to being creative while remaining productive, and pose a question of discovery. If he had never picked up a pen, would Shakespeare have ever written a play? Such a process as writing might seem strict with grammar and linguistic rules consistently applied, however some of the greatest literary works stemmed from artists reflecting themselves onto a platform and pushing the boundaries that limited them in new and wonderful ways. Through the exploration of different activities, I learned that we can find creativity in places where it is not seemingly inherent.

The Wardrobe Babbling in an incoherent language, a two-year-old toddlerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gaze made its way to the crest of a colossal hardwood closet. The toddler sat in its long cast shadow, unsure of what intentions the stationary object held. For the toddler, fear was a concept he knew all too well, but natural born curiosity triumphed, propelling him forward. His chubby feet paddled against the ground as he excitedly hobbled his way to the base of the wooden giant. His short and soft pink fingers latched onto the brass handle connected to the closet. Then, without warning, the doors flew open and left the toddler more shocked than hurt. Rather than crying out in pain, the child was left momentarily stunned by the sight before him. Clothes hung from wooden hangers and piles of folded material fit its way into every space within the closet. The multitude of colors, sparkles, and designs astounded the young toddler whose brain was racing to comprehend all that his eyes reported back. After the initial shock had worn off, awe was replaced with a sense of adventure, and the toddler dove into the closet seeking to feel the textures of the clothes. He laughed in delight as he petted a furry wool coat belonging to his mother, the smell of her essence

still lingering within the tufts of wool, stronger in some places than others. He winced in pain as his fingers grazed the rough denim surface of a pair of newly bought jeans. For hours the toddler explored the wondrous world of his motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s closet, his raid halted only by the sweet blissful lure of sleep. Years later, that toddler toddled his way into larger and more stupendous mysteries, learning and making associations along the road. Eventually, he no longer was a toddler, but an adolescent. Like the toddler, we attempt to seek knowledge to fill gaps in our own understandings of the world we live in. Yet, as I have learned, these gaps only grow wider and more gaping with the more knowledge we acquire throughout our lifetime. As a toddler, the closet and the mysteries it held seemed essential at the time, and the adventure to revealing the unknown was always one that held countless joys for me. At one point or another, we begin to feel disheartened as we envision the vast expanse of knowledge we can never possibly obtain. I take pride in seeking out knowledge and willingly expanding my mindset; such that my perception of the world around me never grows dull and constant. It is the pulsating thrill of the hunt for knowledge that drives me to excel and take on whatever challenges life throws

my way. Whether this may be my motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s closet, or developing a cure for a disease, I will never lose the passion that drives my life forward, toddling onto the highway of self-actualization.

Reunion In one sweeping motion, the retired musician attached his mask to his face with the angular nose ridge guided gently over his scrunched up nose. Turning to face himself in his longstanding mirror, he released a small gasp of pleasure as he no longer could recognize himself. Instead he saw an over worn tuxedo with fraying ends by his wrists. He saw the tears in his pantsuit and the small and questionable stains each littered haphazardly throughout his outfit. His smile began to fade, yet he felt content. His mask would shield him from judgment this night. He felt secure in the anonymity it would provide him as he surrounded himself with his peers, each successful in their own regards. To him, the reunion was nothing more than a talent show, with each attendee acting as his own ambassador. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he made his way to his door, but not before tapping the inside of his tux suit for his canteen of vodka and listening closely to the oh-so familiar swoosh of liquids he was accustomed to hearing. With one final sigh, he grabbed his keys from his nightstand and stumbled into the night.

You Cannot Escape You cannot escape from what exists inside you You are what you hide from What you distract yourself from You are terrified to confront yourself because it is you who you are most scared to face. Not because of physical intimidation or fiscal consequences This is a fear of truth, of reality, a realization of character and personality You fear what you are, and what you stand for And despite this, you know it is inevitable At the end of the day, when the noise comes to a halt, the world slows down and youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re left with yourself.

Escape In his mind, escape was the true solution. Nothing permeated his being and rationale into alternatives. His daily regime was carefully observed by those shadows constantly edging him forward. Yet, despite this, he remained stoic. His will never wavered as his malignant watcher silently accompanied him throughout his life. With every step he took, it was there, cognizant of its presence, yet he failed to acknowledge; For to acknowledge it, he would in turn perpetuate its reality giving material and shape to what he felt was just a thought.

Motivation Motivation is a powerful force in this world. Without it, life would cease to exist. Everything ever accomplished was due to the motivation of the entity that set it forth whether intentional or not. Many people today coin the term motivation through complex and unusual tasks, usually in order to accomplish a goal. But motivation on a rudimentary level consists of seemingly mundane domains of action. Say for example you see a mouse attempting feverishly for hours to reach a slice of cheese on a high shelf. It is very obvious to see that this mouse is motivated to eat the cheese, but what exactly motivates that mouse? Despite the intrinsic desire to satiate hunger, the mouse will attempt to eat not because he knows that eating is necessary to live his life, but instead because he has hunger. Motivation to do an action requires a clear goal, one that is usually aimed to fulfill our own self desires. For the rat, the goal is to feast on the cheese so that it is no longer hungry. The rat understands that once it is no longer hungry, it will feel good. The same principle of motivation holds true for humans, although it is a bit more complicated. Oftentimes, humans have fulfilled all their basic needs for sustenance and shelter; despite their fulfillment of

these necessities, they continue to live and are motivated to do activities such as writing a short story, or going to the gym, or even getting out of bed. We are motivated to do many activities completely irrelevant to our survival because ultimately we desire to be content. Motivation is driven by inner desires and when goals are too far to be seen or lost. With that in mind, never stop working to do more than just eat, sleep and breathe but to actually live a life that will make you, like the rat after his cheesy meal, truly happy.

Suppressed Lives I took a deep breath as I inhaled the cold morning air, the smell of pinecones wafting its way into my nostrils. Slightly shivering, I retreated closer into my warm, silky sweater. The calm pink morning sky filled my vision and entrapped me in its hypnotic beauty. Taking careful steps down the sidewalk, I ensured that every step would find its mark on a fallen leaf with a satisfying crunch. The crunches grew louder as I began to pick up my pace. Seeing a group of friends not far ahead of me, I had almost made it to their company, but was interrupted by a brief spike in earthâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gravitational field, as I tripped face first onto the sidewalk covered with leaves. Perhaps it was natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s revenge for violating the sanctity of the dead, dried up leaves, but I thought little of it as I picked myself off the ground, scraped and bruised. Shaking the leaves and dirt off my shocked body, I began to survey the damage that I, I mean gravity, had done. I did this while walking of course, as my professor had a terrifying late policy. I was scraped and bruised, but I knew that was no excuse for the harsh world. Like the leaves I trampled on, I had also fallen. As I continued down the block, I passed a car with an over

working exhaust, firing a stream of black soot and toxic fumes in my face. Disappointed and frustrated at life, I stopped walking and turned back home. Oh well, I thought, the fall isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t my season anyway.

A Love Letter Oh, how I miss you. For years I’ve taken you for granted, but no more. My life without you is incomplete. Whenever I can’t be with you my life is bland and exhausting. I can’t stand to leave you for even a day. I can’t even keep thinking straight. Time is so cruel to our relationship. I feel so selfish; I can rarely be there for you. I know you are always there for me and every night, while working on a project, I can’t help but think of you. You are perfect and bring so much peace and joy to my life. Please come back soon, the family is starting to miss you too. I always annoy them late at night when I’m frustrated for not being with you. The others outside hate on our relationship, but you will always be my one and only….sleep.

A Lonely Man This is the story of a lonely man who simply existed in life. No one really knew his story or where he came from, but simply that he was always alone. He had no purpose in the village and seemed to take up as much space as a rat. He had no family and no friends but himself. He was constantly mumbling to himself, words that were not of a familiar tongue to the townspeople. One day, the man climbed to the top of the village church and stood at the very tip of the tallest tower. He began to sing a song, and this time, when he spoke, it was in English. He sang a tale of the wolf and the lamb forever at each other’s tails. He spoke loudly into the night, unaware of the crowd that had formed beneath him. “The lamb will greet you, the wolf will eat you, and so continues the cycle of life and death,” he sang. Worried for the man’s safety, the townspeople rushed to save him, but he did not jump. Instead he pulled out a large sharp axe, seemingly out of nowhere. With a sly smirk, he pointed at the sky and sang the last line of his sad song-“light will meet where death shall greet and darkness will rise again.” And with that, the man swung the axe at himself, splitting his weathered body into two halves. Horrified, the townsfolk screamed and carefully awaited the sound of his remains to hit

the ground, except it never came. The man split himself, but did not end his time, instead soaring into the sky. All that was left that fateful night was a reminder for sheep and wolf.

True Art The magnificent and wondrous tale displayed so eloquently on the cathedral walls beckoned me closer. Rays of light streamed in from the expertly colored glass. Each piece was complex and unique yet managed to fit so perfectly alongside the other unique pieces. I felt the symmetry and power as it filled my eyes and mesmerized me by its excellence. Something so beautiful and well done, it commands onlookers to admire it and its intricate, yet simple design. Stepping away from the wall, I turned to search for my tour guide. France was a large and inhospitable country, and without a guide, I would certainly be off in a completely random area with no clue as to how I could find my way back. While glancing over at the rest of the cathedral, I finally located him giving his speech to other tourists. How ignorant, I thought, as I turned to look at the cathedral wall once more. True art and beauty can be recognized by any person, from any culture, any religion and any walk of life. True art is compelling; it speaks a language of its own playing and tugging at the tiny mirrors in our eyes. You know it is true art when you lose track of your thought, and find yourself at a loss for words simply being in its presence.

Artists are a tormented people, using unconventional means to attempt to communicate with others. True art is created from passion, love, and faith; only the truly dedicated can appreciate it in all its glory. True art is also powerful-powerful enough to appeal to all your senses at all times. It remains a timeless charm just as the moon or the sunset.

M IE A BOUELKHEIR

I Wish I Could Draw I wish I could draw. Because if I could I would paint you a picture of all that I saw, all that has affected me, all that continues to affect me, and all that will affect me. I wish I could draw and paint you a picture of the thoughts I immerse in at my happiest and the thoughts I drown in at my lowest. I wish I could draw and paint you a picture of the world I hold within me. Because if I could I would paint you a picture using colors beyond the spectrum of red, green and blue. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d use colors that carry the light. And colors that carry the dark. Colors that carry hope,

And colors that carry fear. I’d use deep, textured colors that scar and comfort. Colors that carry panic, And colors that carry strength. I’d paint the base with hesitant uncertainty And I’d finish it off with a clear layer of faith.

In The Night I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sleep. Slowly, I maneuver my body out of my bed. The room is dark with a few instances of light from the typical cracks one would find in any one bedroom apartment. I stand for a good five minutes in complete darkness. With my eyes wide open, I start to make out the furniture in my room. The longer I stand in the dark, the easier it becomes for me to see. While light is beautiful, it is also loud. It is quiet here. It is quiet now. I walk around my room, and touch the edge of my bookshelf and glide my hands across its books. I have an idea to which books my hand passes by-but I am not certain. I make my way towards my desk, careful not to step on papers and random objects. After all, my floor is ten percent carpet and ninety percent entropic chaos. I grab my stool and sit at my desk. My head starts to get heavy. I place my arms on my desk and gently put my head down. Hunched over and slightly uncomfortable, I wait. Soon enough a peaceful lull leads me back to my bed, places the blankets over my body and puts my thoughts away. I can now sleep.

M AHFIZA A SHUROVA

The Orphanage Dann looked through the clear window of the orphanage. He saw many kids playing. Then his eyes caught sight of a kid who was sitting by himself. Then, in his mind, he went to a far away land where again he saw a boy sitting in a corner of an orphanage. All of the other younger kids were playing, and none of them had a clue or questioned why they never went home or saw their parents. They just sat in the corner watching. Then time was passing and the boy was still sitting in the corner as kids were walking out of the orphanage with parents not their own. Finally, the boy grew to the age of 18 and being set free out in the world, did everything on his own. “Sir, sir, sir!” a woman kept on saying until Dann stepped back into reality. “You’ve been standing here for 20 minutes. If you want to see the children you can go in.”

“See the children?! Me?! Move your hand away from me!” Dann pushed the hand away of the woman who looked like the person who would tour the couples who would come to see the children. “I don’t want to see any pesky, rotten children, all filthy and without obedience!” The woman just stared. Dann walked away but he knew he had once been one of those children, and how when he was young he longed for a couple or just someone to come and take him, to care for, and love him. And now he knew that that was just unreal as he’d already grown up. Dann felt bad about what he had just said and his actions. He wanted to forget it and move on and so he did. He removed his thoughts and walked towards home. As he was turning around the corner, he saw a man not much older than he, who was yelling at a woman. The woman running after the man was looking as though she meant business and was pretty annoyed. The man pointed his finger at the woman and then he walked away. The man reminded Dann of himself not more than 30 minutes ago. Dann felt sorry for the woman who had only tried to be kind to him. He felt the weight of his thoughts and began walking again and pushing his thoughts away.

Dann had reached his home and began to go through his keys, when he heard his neighbor. “Hey! Hey you!” said the old man who lived in the house next to Dann. His name was Marvin and he lived in the house for as long as Dann could remember. Marvin never seemed to have company. Dann always saw Marvin arguing with people and so he sighed when Marvin had spoken. Dann turned away from Marvin as he knew he would complain or rant about something as he always did. “You throwin’ your news subscriptions on my lawn!?” Dann was confused and he seemed to show it for Marvin to continue. “Don’t give me that face! Listen, stop throwin’ your garbage my way! Okay? Or we’re going to have a problem.” Dann said, “Old rat,” under his breath and was glad at the distance between them. “Are you sure, Marvin, that your wife or your children didn’t order those?” said Dann getting pretty annoyed. “What are you talkin” about? I don’t have no wife. I’ve been divorced for 20 years and I’m not lookin for no lady. And I sure do not have pesky children to ruin my life. So stop throwin’ your garbage on my lawn!”

Dann could hear under Marvin’s breath, “This generation and their stubbornness.” Marvin threw the newspaper at the garbage and closed the door with a loud bang. Dann just stood there and repeated, “Pesky children” over and over again. He realized that that was him in the future-old, grumpy, and no one to care about him. He came into his house and thought long and hard about himself. He had no family, no friends and thought if he kept on being his grumpy self, he might as well die alone. That night, Dann thought of how he could become better and set goals for himself. Little did Dann know that in 2 years because of his goals and change in personality that he would adopt a boy from the orphanage. How happy he and the boy would be together as a small family.

Poem After rain, snow, and cold, it is early this year Here it never comes on time or is sometimes late But it is early this year It’s like it has passed or been skipped because it’s too warm. After rain, snow, and cold she came early this year She never comes on time But this year she is on schedule and a little early From the warm weather it’s like she has been skipped. She comes on too strong, and can be thought of as her sister People imagine flowers blooming and wind when she comes But not this year… This year you might as well consider her, her sister But I know I have judged her For I regret now leaving my jacket at home She brings her friend, and I know it is truly her. It is Spring.

A Dream I awaken in a flower meadow. All kinds of flowers surround me, yellow, red, orange, pink, blue and white. The sky is just blue with no clouds. There’d be a sun when there are no clouds, but there isn’t and yet it’s day. The flowers stretch out so far I don’t see an end, but I notice a bubble around this place, so clear to be unnoticed, but I see it. I get up. I feel cloth touch my legs and see I’m wearing a blue, paisley floral dress. Now up, the flowers are just above my waist. My goal is to reach any side of the bubble and to what my eyes see that’d be my north. I start running as fast as I can and feel the flowers being damaged, but I don’t look back and pick up my speed. I feel myself getting closer and closer. Then I hear an alarm and I halt. Red flashes the sky, and I’m so confused. But I must reach my goal and start running again. I feel something behind me and turn to see a blue smoke coming toward my direction. To this I only run faster. But it reaches me and goes ahead. I see nothing but blue and in a matter of seconds, white, when I fall to the ground unable to breathe.

Where I’m From I am from coloring books From Barbie dolls and craft books I am from spending days and sleepovers at my best friend’s home And watching Monk at night waiting for my mom to come home I am from a tree I saw from my window Whose branches I wanted to climb but was too afraid I am from shut closet doors, which I could only see pitch black but didn’t mind because it was a game of hide and seek I am from stubborn and impatient people, Who always get their way and see only one side of debates they have I am from a place where the sun almost steals your breath in the day but gives you shivers at night Where green covers everywhere you go I am from a place many people don’t know

I am from two places and I love both dear The two can’t be compared One a city and one more like the country side Two so different places But two places equally beautiful in their own way I am from where cars honk at night and don’t let you sleep…

Mystery Box “What is this?” Mary asked me. “Huh?” I replied to which she picked the little square thing that I saw now as a photo. I was about to say “I don’t know” when it came back to me. It all came back to me. I don’t know when this had happened or how long it had been, but now I remember. It had been a sunny day and Amy had been out and about at the flea market just shopping when she saw the most beautifully arranged cacti, and she knew she had to take a photo. So she asked the owner if she could take a snapshot on her Polaroid, and she said, “go ahead.” She got a couple of stares but it didn’t matter. After she took the photo, she put it in her pocket and bought one cactus with a red flower blooming on top. After an hour or so of looking around, Amy headed out of the market and when she was crossing the street, multitasking, pulling out her phone, that’s when it all happened. Amy remembered now and shivered through the hospital thin sheets.

M OHAMMED L EBAILI

Trick Or Treat! On a Halloween night, Marcus and his friend Amy went trick or treating. Marcus was wearing a Superman costume and Amy was wearing a Day of the Dead mask. Every house they went to gave them candy, but one house didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t. It looked creepy. There were vines growing out of the house. Marcus was too scared to knock on the door. So Amy did. She knocked on the door. The door opened by itself. In the distance, they saw a guy that looked like a faded Day of the Dead celebrator. The spooky looking figure went closer to the trick or treaters. Marcus went to the backyard and Amy stayed where she was standing. Amyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mask disappeared and Amy felt like she was taken to a different place. Amy looked around her and all she saw was miles and miles of black. The figure was there but with normal

clothes. The figure soon turned into a screen and Amy saw a man with a knife chasing after the figure, but in human form. The figure turned back into a ghost and said, â&#x20AC;&#x153;It was him.â&#x20AC;? All of a sudden, Amy was sitting on a chair eating candy with Marcus. Marcus unwrapped a peanut butter cup and he placed it in his mouth.

The Peanut Butter Cup “Marcus, are you OK?!” Amy yelled. Marcus was spitting out blood. Amy’s mom called 9-1-1. “Hello. What’s your emergency?” the woman on the other side said. “Get over here!” Amy’s mom told the woman the address. Minutes later the ambulance came and put Marcus in. At the hospital, Marcus was pronounced dead. Marcus’s mom cried and cried for days. Weeks and months flew past. One January morning, doctors found a silver blade. Police asked Amy where they got the candy. Amy and Marcus only collected one piece of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Amy later remembered the house: the last house, the green and blue house. Police took the blade to the house. They rang the doorbell and the same guy answered. The cops arrested him and took him to the police station. He was soon sentenced to life in prison for giving candy with blades to children.

S ARAH L EBAILI

Writing Together by Continuing a Story Samantha had always gotten whatever she wanted from her parents. They were pretty wealthy. Her father was a popular lawyer and her mom was a home school teacher. But when her parents died in a horrible car crash, she was alone. But her parents left 6 million dollars behind for her. She would never use her parent’s left behind money. She would treasure it and would always give the cash a touch every night. Samantha would feel like her parents were right there. With this cash she would survive. Until one day, a man came and said she would have to pay for the house or she would no longer have a home. Samantha said, “Please, you don’t understand. My parents gave me all the money they had.” Samantha would treasure this money and pass it from generation to generation.

However, when it was passed to a generation, there was something wrong with the family, as the house was destroyed or something else. “It was probably some kind of prediction that will never happen,” said her mother. Then up ahead was Hurricane Isaac. There was no electricity; there were food shortages and they had nothing to do. Samantha and her parents rushed to the basement cellar and stayed together, until the hurricane passed. She didn’t want the prediction to come true and although she wanted to honor her mother and father’s memory and cherish their gift, she knew she had to part with some of the money to pay to keep the house; this house that was her home and full of memories. And so she walked into the kitchen to go to the money’s secret hiding place. No one would ever guess that she kept all that money inside the pantry. More specifically, it was hidden inside a box of a very healthy bran cereal. Who would have ever looked in there? That cereal is disgusting. She sighed as she wiped a tear from her face. She looked in the box and saw it was empty. She dropped the box and started to panic. Without the money, she would be homeless and the house would be gone. She then got an idea and ran up to her room and got the money the city gave her. She ran down and gave the man the money and smiled knowing she was keeping her house.

The Legend Of Lady Marie Stein “The legend began way back in 1868, when a businessman was found face down in the shower. His house was completely looted. Even his wife was gone. Not one trace of the intruder was left, except purple glitter. Multiple incidents were reported of rich men killed and looted. No signs of struggle, no broken doors, no broken windows. It was as if the intruder had the keys. The only thing out of the norm was the small specks of purple glitter. As more and more incidents happened, police noticed that all the men were somehow linked to Marie Stein, a woman who vanished after her husband’s murder and burglary. Either her husband worked with the men, or she had affairs with them. She was a possible suspect, but there was no way to contact her after she vanished three years ago.” “But grandma, what about the glitter?” Andrew whispered. I smiled, “Oh, the glitter. Well, you hold on to that question. As I was saying…Just as the detectives were trying to figure out any theories, a yard worker ran in, ‘They need you on Court Street and Fitsburg Ave! There was an attack!’ Just as they arrived there, a body was being carried out. Officer Martin...I think his name was…

Martin…explained a neighbor heard his screaming. He later found out the resident of the co-op was viciously strangled and looted. All we found was this purple mask. ‘The glitter!’ one of the detectives shouted. They decided to take the mask in for more investigation, but it was gone; someone took it.” “Who took it, grandma!?” Andrew yelled. “I don’t know.” “But is it like the purple glitter mask on your bed stand, grandma?” “Maybe…,” she smirked, “Maybe…” “And is the lady like you?” Andrew questioned. “Her husband was killed like grandpa! And…the same names…That’s crazy!” Andrew giggled “I think you need to sleep,” I began laughing. He was really something. As Andrew fell asleep, I wore the mask again, reliving my young days, full of excitement and drama, “Lady Marie.” I closed my eyes and drifted to sleep.

T AMZID R AHMAN

My Mother I am a mother who is running and panting so much. I can’t resist running. It is not because I’m doing it for fun. It is not a hobby; it is not even benefitting me. I am doing this for someone. They are pressuring me to lose 20 pounds even though I weigh 187 pounds. I am doing this for an opportunity to help my son. He is the one I love. He is the one I take care of. And now I am seeing his last moment. It started when I went back to the hospital to check my son. “Oh son, please if you can hear me, just answer,” I said tearfully. There was one tear and he was gone. The doctor told me to leave and she put a white blanket on my son’s body. “No!” I shouted, “Please doctor, is there any way I could help my son?”

Doctor Tamagucci said, “Only one thing, but it has to be done by surgery.” “And it is…?” I questioned. The doctor said, “Your kidney.” My head was blank as I heard that, but it was for my son. As I went to the operation room, the doctor withdrew the decision to give my son the kidney. “How come you are doing this?” I questioned. Doctor Tamagucci replied, “If he is your son, you don’t always have to struggle on your own. Appreciate yourself for risking your life.” Then I cried in the waiting room. Three hours later, I heard, “Mom…” My son had awakened. I was in tears and tried to thank the doctor, but something went wrong. The doctor replied that he had sadly passed away. But that day I can’t remember what the doctor did to me and to my son, and I will pray to her until I find out what she did to me.

Pumpkin Patch for Sale It was always the middle child, always me. I have to stay with a bunch of morons-my big sister Christine, who is in high school and my little brother Jace. I, Christopher was so bored on Halloween. “Hey little bro, you know that you have to trick or treat in school,” said Christine. “What’s worse than that, instead of candy, I bet on my test grades it will be carrot sticks and ranch dressing,” I replied. I told my sister, “Where are you going?” She said, “To a party with my friends in a frat house.” “I will tell mom!” I shouted. “Oh, okay. So I won’t let you go to the abandoned pumpkin patch farm.” “What are you talking about?” “The missing 8 children. Haven’t you heard? It started since 2007 when a farmer named Ben had his pumpkin patch and he wanted everyone to come and buy pumpkins for an affordable price. Then later, Ben was so obsessed with pumpkins that he ran out of seeds. Soon he used children as bait year by year. People say that he kidnapped and decapitated the children in order to put them inside a pumpkin to grow

a skull. Some others say if you call the police, he will come to your house and plant rotten pumpkins in your yard. The farm was never heard of again. I said to my sister, “How do you know about this?” “Shut up bro. If I’m done then we could go.” But I said, “Who will take care of Jace?” “Aunt Lucille, she can take care of him. Plus she is so crazy! One time when I was in the kitchen she said, ‘Christine, there is a helicopter in the kitchen!’ ‘No, Lucille, it is the ceiling fan!’ I shouted.” As it was 6:45 pm, I and Christine drove to Bovine Boulevard. As we went, I warned Christine to be careful because there was pesticide. “No bro. It’s Hallow’s Eve. It’s probably a trick,” she said. But I wonder who would use pesticide as slaves for plants. As I ricocheted to the barn, I saw a cloth being covered over what looked like 8 pumpkins. “You meant nine pumpkins boy,” a voice behind me said. Then I shouted, it was the farmer. I ran and was stuck in a pit. I screamed to Christine, “Help, help, help!”

There was no answer and I was stuck. There was a rope for me to reach the light and as I went up, Christine saved my life. I grabbed one of the pumpkins and ran home, pushing the pumpkin with Christine. As we tried to carve the pumpkin, it was covered with worms. So I dropped it on the ground and it decayed. The next time I was about to eat pumpkin pie, it was covered with worms. So I dropped it on the ground and froze to death.

Lost-In No Plot of Poetry It was December, and it was going smoothly. It was a two week winter break. My parents were happy for me becoming an adult and they let me have a train ticket to go to Boston, Massachusetts. It was me and my suitcase filled with just the regular $50, clothes, a packet of cookies, and a bottle of water. I went to the Amtrak train station in Manhattan, near the Jacob Javits Center and my uncle paid $56 for a train ticket. It wasn’t easy to be by myself. My father rented a room for sale for $256 in the Boston Harbor Hotel which I would stay in. While on the train, a butler took my luggage and held his right hand up and I just gave him a high five. Well obviously he wanted a tip, but I didn’t care. After about 5-6 hours on the train, I was falling asleep. There was food but it was totally expensive, so I took a small trip inside the train to the cart and I saw this book. It was actually a diary that I found near my door, 25-876. As to who the book belonged, it had the name, James Jensen with no other clues. So I asked the butler, “Butler, do you know who this belongs to?” “First of all, I am a waiter, not a butler,” he said with a strange French accent.

So I read the book. It had so many poems, poems, poems! Like here: Our lives avoided tragedy. Simply by going on and on, Without end and little apparent meaning, Oh, there were storms and small catastrophes, At the end it said, …and there is no plot in that, it is devoid of poetry. Soon the train came to an immediate stop at the downtown area called North of Boston. As I saw it, it was nothing like in New York, but then I smelled a delicious raspberry tart. It smelled divine and cost a whopping $4, which costs more in Whole Foods. Anyway, I went to the hotel. It was where many famous celebrities and politicians went to rent a roomlike Kristen Gillibrand, Bernie Sanders, Marilyn Monroe, Ingrid Bergman, Salvador Dali, and even James Franco. But somehow the hotel looked quite abandoned and dreary with a falling chandelier, a torch in the plant and scary, weird paintings. As I rang the bell… “Yes, may I help you?” asked the manager. “I want to rent a room,” I replied. “Can I see your card?” she said. “Here it is,” I replied. “Go to room 13-06 on the 13th floor and don’t use the elevator.”

As a butler took my suitcase and luggage he said, “In 1908 there were so many people in this hotel until there was a thunder storm. One of the lightning rays turned off the static and electricity in the hotel, but there was a married couple, a daughter and a son, as well as an elderly woman when the elevator stopped. It fell and crashed from the 23rd floor to the 1st floor. It was a mystery that we don’t know. Legend has it that they might haunt the hotel, and enjoy our luxury visit.” As I went upstairs, I noticed that the room was completely black as if it was a dark wardrobe. But I left my suitcase and saw the whole experience of Boston. I went to the Ark Museum, which was amazing, to Boston Harbor and the campus of Harvard University. If you just see Harvard, it all comes to life. It smells like oak, pine trees and maple which all sound delicious. After I finished sightseeing, I went back to the hotel and saw that all of my luggage and suitcases were gone, as well as the journal which I left in my jacket. When I went downstairs to check with the manager, the room was somehow different. “How may I help you?” said the manager. “I rented a room for 5 days and supposedly saw that my luggage, suitcases, and a special journal are gone,” I replied anxiously. “Sir, may I see your card?” said the manager, “Sorry, but this card does not exist. Get out of my hotel!”

“But please, I just need to stay here,” I replied. “But Sir, you have to leave!” said the manager angrily. “Sorry,” I replied “Get out and stay out!” said the manager. Later I became homeless and a beggar in a different state. With nothing to do, I wrote on a piece of paper… And there is no plot in that it is devoid of poetry. I left it on the seat in the train station and then left without being seen.

The Writing Table It was morning in Springfield, Ohio. I woke up the children and let them finish their meals so they could head back to school: my son Ryan, older daughter Steph and my young daughter Claire. Claire and I were like perfect angels. My older daughter is interested in parties and my son, at the age of 7, is interested in calculus. I said to him, “Good luck with that.” But he didn’t answer. He kept staring at my table. I said to him, “Ryan, are you okay?” He said back, “who brought this table?” I replied that it was given to our great, great grandfather Ralph Ranchester. He was the author of the first ever sports book on football and croquet during the Victorian era in Great Britain. He was so famous he even let the Queen read it, but not the King because he was hugely obese and hated sports. Instead, he watched cartoons and ate potato chips. It was the reason there was a potato famine in Europe. This writing desk still lives and will never rot. It has a candle and a drawer filled with calligraphy pens and unwritten books and pamphlets. There is a painting of a small boy crying in front of a shop, but I don’t quite know where it came from. It was a small painting with the initials E.L. and a note on the back that read, Ye who summon to look at this painting will have misery for the

rest of your life. This probably explains my being a single mom and the death of my husband who was an alcoholic. As the days went on and on, it was weird. I felt dizzy and drowsy as if the place was moving round and round. My legs and feet felt like I was walking in mud. I called my son and told him to please call the hospital. The ambulance was on the way. I was rushed to the hospital. The doctor said I was fine, but instead they put me in a mental facility or asylum and locked me in there. I told them that it was a table. It was a table. It was a table. I’m still stuck here forever writing the last thing in my head for about 20 minutes. I’m thinking about who is taking care of my kids and when I’ll be able to leave. As I write in a journal that was given to me, with a calligraphy pen with ink, from afar I see someone who quite looks like my great, great grandfather…and I’m still writing today in this drastic place which I call, HEAVEN.

Car Crash As the blood leaked through his fingers, Derrick was lost. He tried to wake his mother and father. “Mom, can you wake up? Please wake up, Dad! Please wake up!” he cried. But as he was only 6 years old, there was nothing he could do. As people drove by, he was put in a shelter, captive in a strange place-The Golden Gate Boys Group: Orphanage Home (as read from a sign). He was put in a room, but still missed his mother and father. At last, he felt the urge to move but couldn’t. So at night he ran and ditched the orphanage and moved back to see his mother and father, but they were gone. Even the car was gone. As his father always said, “Think for the signs that come past by you.” And he thought and thought and tried to go to the nearest hospital. As a woman in a car was passing by she asked, “Are you lost, little boy?” Derrick said, “Yes, and my mom and dad were here on the ground and we crashed by this car…and I’m lost.” Then he cried. The driver said, “No, it’s no worry. I even lost my mom and dad, but it’s no worry. That is how life works. So come to my car.” “Okay,” Derrick replied.

So he got in the car and they drove to her house. The driver’s name was Katherine as written on her driver’s license in her shirt. She was wearing a white uniform with a Red Cross hat and a stethoscope. “Where are we going?” said Derrick. “We are going to my job in a hospital,” replied Katherine. “Doctor, there was an emergency that happened 23 hours ago. The results were drastic with swelling, bleeding, glass cuts and stains,” said another doctor “Okay. I’m on my way,” Katherine replied. So then Derrick went with Katherine and snuck inside the doctor’s lounge where he wasn’t supposed to go. He went there and wore a suit-like shirt. On the suitlike shirt it read, Surgeon Martin. Then a doctor rushed him to go to the operating room. “Surgeon Martin, why are you dilly-dallying? You know that there was an emergency that happened 2-3 hours ago.” So Derrick masquerading as Surgeon Martin was pushed over to the operating room, which had two bodies covered in a sheet. As he took the covers off, it was his mother and father.

She Was Wrong She waited during class until the class was done. She waited every minute as well as every second until the clock ticked then rangâ&#x20AC;Ś She waited outside and her phone rang. A lover? An anonymous person? Who could it be? It was their 10 year anniversary. They were the perfect couple. They both won prom king and queen over 8 times, shared answers during class, shared foods and drinks. He was poor and couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t afford anything but her love. He gave everything to her. He had no scholarships, no money and had no acceptances to college. He lived and was born into a poor family. She, however, got the latest technology but he did not. She had a good education but he did not. She had more than him. As a call came to her, she was shocked and amazed. It was a text saying to meet him at the old picnic bench near the road at 6:00 pm. Later, when it was 6:00 pm, he was there on the bench holding something in his lap. She slowly went and surprised him and gave him a new cell phone. As for him, he gave her a teddy bear. The teddy bear seemed worthless and she hated it.

“Thanks, but you don’t have to buy my love,” he said. “But this worthless junk is garbage,” she replied. Then she threw the bear on the road. “Nooo!” he shouted when the flashing lights of the car hit him and he got run over. Then as she got a closer look at the teddy bear, it had a ring, a diamond ring, which he reluctantly sacrificed himself to save dollar after dollar to give to her. There was also a note that said, Will you marry me? Then he was gone and death was in his hands. As for her, the bloody ring was in her hand and she ran away and left the scene.

The Lost and Unlucky Charm She found that thing in the park on a Saturday morning. As for that thing, Cindy was looking at it. It was quite rusty and old. As Cindy touched the thing, it had 5 points, she said, “Ouch! It hurts!” Even though she is 5 as well and is sensitive to touching objects with points on it. The object’s center had a moon, a crescent moon. Something that reminded her of her childhood like the song “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” She took a thin twig and wrapped the charm around it to make it into a bracelet. However, things took a quick turn when her babysitter told her to come. “Cindy come, I’ll bring candy,” said Stacie the babysitter. Cindy ran because it turned out that Stacie was smoking. Cindy knew that Stacie was smoking because her father was a smoker. Her mother was a business woman who worked doing taxes. “Owww!” screamed Cindy. Stacie used Cindy’s head as an ashtray. As for that, she also couldn’t breathe. “It feels like someone burned me!” cried Cindy. As little Cindy rushed to her house leaving Stacie, Stacie was looking at her phone in the crosswalk and got run over by a car, twice.

Cindy said, “That’s Karma like Mommy said.” She ran as fast as she could to her house. Her father was looking out the window drinking a bottle of whiskey and didn’t care about what happened one bit. “Daddy, daddy, can I get wa-ter?” said Cindy as her taste buds dried up. But her father didn’t care so she went upstairs where her mommy was, as she heard a conversation. “No, no, no. I don’t want this. You’re fired!” Next phone call… “Uh huh. No, it is wrong. It needs to have 10% plus tax reduction. You’re fired!” Then another phone call… “What? You threw my vanilla frappuccino coffee? You’re fired!” As she was not noticed Cindy said, “Mommy, please wa-ter!” Her mom replied, “Cindy, water? Oh okay, you’re fired Cindy!’ Then Cindy was on the ground no longer thirsty because her dumb mom accidentally threw coffee at her face. She wasn’t breathing and her mom called the ambulance, Lincoln Lewis Hospital for the Mentally Sick. As she dialed up, Cindy was put in the ambulance and was never seen again by her family. The doctor noticed her charm and ripped it off for the MRI scan at the hospital.

Source: neighbor Doctor: “So how do you know her?” Neighbor: “I am her next door neighbor.” Doctor: “Okay, do you want to take care of her?” Neighbor: “Yes, and I will always to take her to school and drop her off with that babysitter Stacie, who is so weird.” Doctor: “You are free to keep Cindy.” Then she was off and lived happily with the neighbor.

Jason’s Father Jason was like any other teenage boy who has a 3.6 GPA, a 2100 SAT score and a 32 ACT score. He was a child prodigy from Boston, Massachusetts. He was not like students who drink alcohol, smoke e-cigarettes or even fool around with their grades. He’s the student that every parent wants. The problem was that he lived with his father. His father didn’t care. He would bother people in the streets, or borrow money from other people and not give it back. His father would probably get liver cancer from being an alcoholic. Jason was shocked and about to faint when he remembered he still had a pocket watch from his mom. She had cared about him, even though Jason’s father didn’t care about him at all. Also, Jason kept a secret; a secret that he never told his father. Jason kept his sexuality a secret, even though he was raised Catholic and was baptized when he was 4. It was a shock that he was a homosexual. It was a secret until his father noticed him hanging out with his friend Connor for a long time. They just met at their high school. His father kept questioning his sexuality. Until then, after school, Jason’s father came and whipped Jason with his belt.

“Why can’t you be straight? We come from a religious family!” Jason’s father screamed. “So what! Mom died and it’s because of you!” Jason replied. Then he stopped whipping. “So if you want to be like that, no one is stopping you,” said his father running away. His father ran and brought the rope from the garage and took arsenic pills and said, “May God punish me and my son to burn in hell!” Then he hanged himself. Jason ran back home and was shocked and desperately crying. He called Connor and told him, “Sorry, but things need to move on.” Then he hung up the phone. When it was 6:00 pm, at the dark blue sky, near a cliff, the priest arrived and Jason told him that his father had died. “Is it possible that you can put him in the grave? For the mercy of God!” Jason said. The priest replied, “Only for a price.” So Jason said, “Take this pocket watch.” The priest replied, “Sorry, but it has to be worth more.”

Then Jason took the body, drove to a park, dug a burial hole and threw the body in. He then went back to the priest and said, â&#x20AC;&#x153;May the Lord punish me for this.â&#x20AC;? Then, he jumped over the cliff and lost his life.

A Boy Who Doesn’t Care About Faith A boy who doesn’t care about faith is just left behind; A boy who just risked his life for being himself as well as for trying to go to the right school of his choice. The boy is called a nerd, not the jock, but the freaky geek. His parents are poor and can’t reluctantly pay for college. He works at his own pace but can’t control his fate. When he goes to his religious building, the person there who called him an unbeliever left and was never seen again. Working after school at a restaurant to be a busboy and earning $40 per day, he can’t pay his parents rent without putting his own faith on the line. Then in May, when college results came out, it turned out that he was accepted not just to one college, but he was accepted to all with a full ride, because of his own achievement, which he loved. Since the day his mother wrote his name on the birth certificate, until now, his passion is writing. Not all geniuses had to start in a new beginning for a new life, but as for him, he could not have done this without faith. Maybe God gave him a chance or maybe he did it by himself. But as faith can play a major role in society, being who you are matters - what you become-than what you achieve.

A MNA T ARIQ

The Picture Most people who come to pay their respects comment on it. Then they walk away, ushering out their children so I can “be alone”. It’s a picture of the both of us sitting on the grassy field of Roseward Park. It was especially Springy there; everything was so vivid: the leaves blowing in the cool wind, kids shrieking and squealing for joy, the grass brushing against my fingertips. We were exhausted from our daily “run”, (which was just to the nearest tree and back) and decided to take a break. Uzma was the one who took the picture. She caught us off guard. We tackled her afterwards though. Upon inspecting the picture right there, they thought it wasn’t too bad. I say “they” because I didn’t like it. I don’t like pictures; just an image of you trapped forever. This is why Uzma and I don’t talk anymore. She dropped it on my floor one day and disappeared forever. Just like Maveridge did.

The Picture of Dorian Gray Her name was Dorian Gray: African American female in her early 30s. She was a mom of two and worked at the corner store. She was an outcast from the close knit community of Barjoge Bay, and there isn’t more to her than that. She was found dead last Thursday. Her body was found in the fields about 35 acres away from Jolene Mitonelle’s property. Mitonelle claims to have heard a gunshot when she first discovered the body. “It was so surreal. There was just something wrong about how still she was…” Mitonelle commented. In her hand, Brice discovered a picture of someone who was also found murdered prior to Dorian over 30 years ago. This led authorities to believe a copycat killer was on the rise, as two more bodies-Samantha Dilhilarits and Alison Franco-had been found murdered in the same way.

Runaway “I’m planning on running away.” Liam sat up and stared at me, eyes opened. His sandwich nearly choked him as he spoke. “You’re what?” he spoke out, spitting out pieces of bread and tuna everywhere. “Running away,” I repeated. I know I acted as if I didn’t care, but I knew Liam would. I was just curious to see what he’d say. We sat in silence, the only noise coming from the hum of the bedroom for that’s when Liam spoke. “Okay,” he finally whispered. “That’s your response?” I asked surprised, “You’re not going to ask why? Or try and stop me? What kind of brother are you?” “No,” he said, his voice slightly louder, “You’re old enough to live by yourself. That’s not ‘running away’, that’s called growing up. You need to anyway. You’re so immature. You’re always out partying, failing everything and planning to drop out. So I’m fine with you ‘running away’”. I was taken aback, “This is exactly why I can’t joke around with you!” I exclaimed.

“Yeah, well don’t!” he shouted, getting up and stomping his way out our room. While he was leaving, he made sure to slam the door and it closed with a bang. I was still sitting on my bed, frustrated. I just got violated and put on the spot for joking. I looked behind my bed. My book bag was there, filled with all the things I’d need to survive in the city. Taking one last look at my room, I got the bag and left. Liam didn’t even try and stop me.

Strings I remember my first day. How could I ever forget it? After settling the class down, Mr. William left the room. No reason, no message, no nothing; just left all 24 of us alone in a remotely small classroom with the hum of the A.C. gradually getting louder and louder with the silence. Pretty sure it was six or seven minutes later when he came back. Nothing about him seemed different, except the fact that he had a worn-out, faded-brown, torn up satchel bag held in his hands. That’s when Mr. Will first spoke up. “Class, in this bag, there is something that will play a big role in your time here. I want each of you to come up here, one by one, and take this item from me. Auria, you’re first.” He called people up at random. Each person got up, and Mr. Will fished into his bag for a piece of yarn. Each yarn piece was the same: white, freshly cut, and 3-4 inches long. This entire process was done in that awkward silence, only broken by those who said thank you. When the final person, Kasey with a ‘K’, got their yarn, Mr. Will spoke again.

“Children, what I have given you is a piece of string. Now, not just any piece of string, no-a string of faith. In Indian and Indonesian cultures, it is believed that when you tie a piece of string to the Holy Tree, it becomes true. When it does, you must untie it. Now, I don’t have a Holy Tree handy, but I do have this.” he says bending down to his desk and picking up a smallish tree I could’ve sworn wasn’t there before. He continues. “Now I don’t want all of you to have the same string. You all have different goals, so feel free to decorate your strings with whatever you choose when the materials are passed out. When you’re finished, tie it onto this tree.” ***************** It’s the last day of school. My string still hangs. I colored it this bright color of yellow and picked this jewel trinket for it. Mr. William comes up to me. “Don’t worry Ann. You’re just a little late,” he smiles at me, and leaves me alone in the room. I untie my string and take it.

Confidence “My confidence is just a mask.” I sit by my vanity mirror and take a long look at my reflection. I see myself-blonde hair pulled into a bun, bright green eyes, a slender nose, lush lips, and perfect skin. I think back to what happened in my life. I got the grades, the guys, and the money. There was always the money. But that’s not what it is, is it? There is always more than what meets the eye. I think some Scottish guy said that. Whatever. Whoever said it though, was right. People always think I’m this, I don’t know, idea of perfection; that everyone should strive to be like me, look like me. But they shouldn’t. Because that stupid phrase of “just be yourself!” is a lot easier said than done-at least, in my case.

M ARYAM T ARIQ

Medical School Mum peers down at Bailey and says, “Bailey? Bailey?” He’s dead, isn’t it obvious? He was laying like that for what, an hour? So why would you think he’s alive still? But of course nobody cared what I thought. “You know,” I started to say, “He could…” but I was interrupted by Mum again. “Amy, quick, go call Clover.” And with that Amy ran out the door and started screaming Clover’s name. “You do realize…” I tried to say. Someone groaned in annoyance so I slouched. Mum tried to do CPR. In the meantime Amy tried to find Clover. And when Clover came with a bunch of nurses, it looked like everybody wanted to see him. They started to say weird medical stuff like “pump 200” or “give him a dose of LCR5”. It was all weird

and confusing but then it ended. And our resident shut off the TV. “Any questions about the movie?” I raised my hand and said, “I’m totally failing medical school.” But we all knew Bailey was dead.

Finding True Love Snow White met her husband by her so called voice. Cinderella and her prince met because of her tiny foot. Sleeping Beauty and Phillip met because of her sleeping for, like, 100 years. Talk about beauty sleep. Jasmin and Aladdin met because of her being a savage. I mean, hello. You don’t just meet someone and say Marry Me. That’s not how life works. And before you all go, “It’s love at first sight”, it’s not. It’s actually, “OMG, he’s so hot!” I just don’t understand why all the villains have to die and not find love for themselves. Like yeah, they did bad things, but only because no one loved them back, and they were sad. And lonely. And sad. And unloved. And they just wanted to find love, but they couldn’t so they made other people’s lives miserable. But they did try to do the princesses a favor. They, like, tried to kill them so they would get it through their skulls that you don’t marry a guy you just met. I mean Elsa said it herself and she was the so-called villain. So you see, love isn’t really a thing. It’s a stupid feeling that will mess up your life. So please. Stop thinking that every person is your “true love”.

Scissor Sisters “So you’re going to cut my hair with that?” I asked with boredom to my four year old sister who threatened to cut my hair with a scissor charm. “Yup, and it’s going to kill you,” she crossed her arms and put them up as if she was saying, I’m so serious so listen up. “And why would you cut my hair?” I asked. I didn’t do anything wrong. I dyed my hair dark blue with streaks of light blue into it. I knew my strict parents were going to hate it, but hey, it was better than to have an arranged marriage with Loser Lu. “Because it’s stupid. All you ever do is mess up this family.” I was shocked. Never have I heard something that would hurt, especially from my four year old sister. “You know what else is stupid? That stupid ugly charm you have. It’s so tiny and it’s not a pair of real scissors. And the sad part is, that you stole it you thief! I saw you take it from Emma.” And with that I stood up and pushed her. She fell and started to cry. But I didn’t care. I was already down 4th Avenue and vowing never to go back. But I stopped, opened my hand and saw the scissor charm in my palm.

Where I’m From I am from the closet where my mother puts our “fancy” clothes. From the white rice and the Halal section. I am from Emergency Room visits with crazy running away stories. Hospital visits with ice cream and pizza. I am from the Winn Dixie tree whose branch fell off making the nest crash. I am from my ripped white bunny and dirty white seal. From the Mahmood and Faiz family and I am from the short people and loud people from being over attached from crying for no reason. I’m from Mashallah to Inshalla to Allahuakbar. I am from the apes and fishes. From Samosas to Naans. From diving off the pool board and never reaching for air from crying because Timothy Green had to go. I am from where you are from. And that’s from our imagination.

Uncle Tom’s Shed “Come on you big baby,” my Cousin Bryan said. “I’m not a baby, but you know you would too not go down to Uncle Tom’s shed where there is a cabin filled with human organs.” “I’m telling you it was just Halloween stuff we forgot to put away,” Bryan said. “Yea because it’s normal to have Halloween crap in your cabin in MAY!” I said throwing my hands in the air. He rolled his eyes and pulled me to Uncle Tom’s shed. It wasn’t that I wasn’t close to my Uncle Tom. It’s just ever since he was younger, my mom told me he was crazy. My father said he was “sick”. Whatever it was it got worse after his wife and daughter were killed and his son ran away…in a fire. Whenever I saw him he had blood everywhere on him. “He’s a butcher. What do you expect him to be, clean?” my dad would say standing up for his brother. Bryan twisted the door knob, but the door wouldn’t open. So he kicked it and still it wouldn’t budge. I looked around and found a fake frog rock. I rolled my eyes. How cliché is this? I kicked the rock injuring my toe on the way and picked up the key.

“Here’s your key to the city,” I said sarcastically. “Wow. I wonder what it opens to?” he retorted. “The city,” I blinked. As we went in my hand flew to my nose. “Ugh, it stinks,” I said going to the trap underneath the carpet. “How’d you know that was there?” he asked. “Saw the latch.” “Well go down then.” “Oh come on! Everyone knows the two kids get haunted and may be killed. If I wanted to die, I’d jump off a cliff.” “Baby, baby, baby,” He sang. “I’m 15. That’s not going to work.” He opened the latch and went down. “Oh come on! This means one of us dies and we run around finding the dead one.” “Then come down!” he yelled. I sighed and jumped down meeting my doom… Joking, joking. It was just an ugly face named Bryan. “Come on Bry. Move your fat ass over,” I said shoving him. But he stood there frozen. And I peeked over and saw what he saw: 2 eyes and a lifeless body… TO BE CONTINUED…

Doc He never stopped swimming. No matter what came his way, he kept on going. We called him Doc since he somehow fixed everyoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s problems with licks and hugs. He ate as if his stomach never got food. He ran like someone was chasing him and never stopped. He stayed awake like the sun never set. But then one day he got too tired to chase a squirrel. He got too tired to bark at the mailman. He got too tired that all he did was sleep. He didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t eat that much, not even beg me with those grayish, greenish eyes for a snack. The cancer went so much through his brain that there was no Doc. So I let him eat all the snacks he wanted to eat, gave him all the belly rubs he enjoyed. I scratched him behind the ear. And when the day came, I let him be on my lap snuggling in with me, smelling my scent for the last time and let the poison go into him shutting his grayish, greenish eyes forever. He just kept swimming. No matter what.

The String “Jesus, Cassie! I said sorry like a bunch of times,” I said to my younger sister who currently was having a temper tantrum on the floor. It first started with her actually trying to knit something for Grandma May, as a get well present since she was stuck at the hospital getting her appendix removed. Cassie had to go pee so she left me in charge with the yarn, the needles and whatever she was working on. As she did her business and left me bored in the hospital waiting room, I decided to play with it. Cassie came back and saw what I was doing. Instead of throwing a yogurt cup at me, she made a whole scene about me being a villain. “Well it is your fault you know,” I said after she was done. “My fault?” “Do you need Grandpa Joe’s hearing aid? Are you really deaf? “How is it my fault?” “You trusted me to keep it safe. Even mom and dad know not to do that.”

After screaming her tonsils out and everybody looking at her, she ran to the cafeteria. As she left, a white string landed on the floor. I picked it up and tied the string around my finger knowing another mischief went right.

A Different World “Open gate 2245.” I heard a man’s voice. But it wasn’t any man’s voice. I knew the voice-the deep, dark, sad voice. It was someone I heard every day. Or used to. Before the Earth got too populated, everyone’s life was simple. In 2018 President Donald Trump got assassinated. Yes, it wasn’t a good thing, but everyone was happy-happy to be free. In 2020, President Kanye West was elected making Kim Kardashian our first lady. But something happened between 2040 and 2042 that we still don’t know what caused the world to be this way. The nuclear explosion bombed all of Japan. Japan was no longer a country. So they went on to different countries. But then countries started to disappear, slowly and slowly. Then only two continents ended up staying, Australia and North America. They ended up combining making the whole world come together on one island. Of course this made people crazy. So a committee was made and rules were set. One by one, people were executed for doing crimes: talking back to an official, not listening to your husband, having a second child. However, if you were younger than 18 then you would be jailed, put to shame or be hated on.

That happened hundreds of years ago. And the world is still corrupted as it was before. I sat in my grey room filled with a grey bed with white sheets; a very normal 16 year old jail bedroom. I looked up to the dark, sad, deep voice, the man who was an official. The one I smacked. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Please help me brother!â&#x20AC;? I croaked.

Thomas She raised her hand. “No, you may not go to the bathroom Ms. Kepner.” She furrowed her eyebrows. She wasn’t gonna say that. All she wanted to say was that the answer was wrong, so she raised her hand again. This time her professor gritted his teeth and let out a long sigh, “Yes, Ms. Kepner?” “Wouldn’t the answer be 17xsquared?” she asked pointing to the problem. “And unicorns strode around Central Park,” he rolled his eyes. She frowned. Later she walked down to the law firm. “I’m pretty sure sporting majors don’t go in there,” a guy said. She turned around, her hand on the handle to the door of the law firm where she worked. She saw the tall brunette man who smirked as his friends laughed at the joke. “And I’m pretty sure high school is around the corner.” She tightened her blond ponytail and walked inside.

She wasn’t as blond as she looked. “Can I at least see him?” I asked the nurse in the pink scrubs. She hesitantly nodded before leading me to the morgue. There she led me to a body as a white sheet covered him. “I’ll give you two a minute,” she said leaving, closing the door behind her. I pulled the sheet down a bit and saw him, Thomas. I sniffed back a tear. “You always had to go first, huh? In school, on the bus, and now life,” I grabbed his hand. “But that’s ok,” My voice cracking, “It’s not your fault. I swear it isn’t. I’m right here, don’t worry, and don’t be scared.” He was only 23. He was only 23 when he flew out of his car window. He was only 23 when he was hit by a drunk driver. He was only 23 when he shared his last laugh with me. He was only 23. A tear went down my face and I gave a sad smile, “You always had to go first.”

Fried Rice “Ching Chong, Chong Ching,” she heard a voice near her say. She furrowed her eyebrows and turned away from her fried rice with duck and looked at the boy. “Ching Chong, Chong Ching,” said the boy again to her face. “I-I don’t understand w-what you’re saying,” she whimpered, tears threatening to fall from her face. “Yes you do, you liar. You’re Chinese, that’s how you talk.” His friends laughed at his statement and she sadly looked at her fried rice and duck. She wasn’t Chinese at all. Her family was from Taiwan and she and her little brother were from here, America. She couldn’t understand why people would make fun of each other when they had ancestors or family who were born out of America. “You’re a liar!” she heard a voice say as she walked toward her U.S. History class. It was her class after lunch. She had been a few minutes late because the boy threw her fried rice and duck on her clothes. She tried to wash it away but the stain remained.

She couldn’t help but listen to the conversation as she hid behind the lockers. “You’re not Asian. You don’t have small squinty eyes. And you have darker skin. You don’t look like you’re from China,” she heard the voice again. “M-my family is from a small country called Pakistan. It’s in Asia. I am Asian.” she heard a boy say. But not any boy: the boy who called her Chinese. His friends laughed at him and kept calling him a liar and after a while, they left. She escaped her hiding place and walked over to the boy. She took out her remaining fried rice and duck and together they ate. And it was then when she knew that sometimes, just because the people of the world looked different didn’t mean, in some ways, they were the same.

A CKNOWLEDGEMENTS As a small, grassroots organization, NY Writers Coalition relies on the generous support of those dedicated to getting the voices of those who have been silenced heard. Many thanks go to our foundation, government, and corporate supporters, without whom this writing community and publication would not exist: Allianz GI, Amazon Literary Partnership, the Kalliopeia Foundation, the Meringoff Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs, the Nicholas B. Ottaway Foundation, the Pinkerton Foundation, and the Tiger Baron Foundation. NYWC programming is also made possible by the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Andrew Cuomo and the New York State Legislature. We rely heavily on the support of individual NYWC members and attendees of our annual Write-A-Thon. In addition, members of our Board of Directors have kept this vital, rewarding work going year after year: Timothy Ballenger, Jonas Blank, Tamiko Beyer, Louise Crawford, Jenni Dickson, Atiba Edwards, Marian Fontana, Ben Groom, and NYWC Founder and Executive Director Aaron Zimmerman. We would like to thank Charles Moran, Matt Cole, William Lewnes and the dedicated staff at the Kensington Public Library. We dedicate this book to the memory of Jackie Glasthal, longtime NYWC workshop leader who started Nancy SanchezTaylor on this journey. To find out how you can sponsor a NYWC Publication or Program, please contact info@nywriterscoalition.org or (718) 398-2883.

ABOUT N Y W RITERS C OALITION

NY Writers Coalition (NYWC) is a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization that creates opportunities for formerly voiceless members of society to be heard through the art of writing. One of the largest community-based writing organizations in the country, we provide free, unique, and powerful creative writing workshops throughout New York City for people from groups that have been historically deprived of voice in our society, including at-risk, disconnected, and LGBT youth, homeless and formerly homeless people, those who are incarcerated and formerly incarcerated individuals, war veterans, people living with disabilities, cancer, and other major illnesses, immigrants, seniors, and many others. For more information about NYWC programs and NY Writers Coalition Press publications visit www.nywriterscoalition.org

WRITING IN SILENCE— UNSPOKEN IDEAS NY Writers Coalition Press is proud to present Writing in Silence—Unspoken Ideas from Brooklyn Public Library Kensington Branch a collection of poetry and prose from NYWC creative writing workshops for youth Brooklyn. CONTRIBUTORS Mahmoud Abouelkheir, Mie Abouelkheir, Mahfiza Ashurova, Mohammed Lebaili, Sarah Lebaili, Tamzid Rahman, Amna Tariq, & Maryam Tariq EDITED BY Nancy Sanchez-Taylor Learn more about NYWC Programs and NYWC Press at WWW.NYWRITERSCOALITION.ORG SUGGESTED DONATION

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