Philadelphia Stories Teen Fall 2016

TEEN

a community of young writers and artists from the Delaware Valley

winter 2016

TEEN

CONTENTS

a community of young writers and artists from the Delaware Valley

FEATURES 3 Tips (an excerpt)...................................................... Olivia Hunt 6 Shattered Mirrors (an excerpt)................................ Olivia Hunt 9 Puppet Master.......................................................... Diya Goyal 12 A Domestic Skirmish (an excerpt)........................... Max Hinkle 15 Spelling “Kindergarten”........................................... Srishti Ramesh

POETRY 4 Blue, by an Optimist................................................ Naomi Mengel 5 The Beast................................................................. Madeline Hickey 8 Cigarettes................................................................. Srishti Ramesh 10 On the Seine............................................................ Emma Paolini 11 6:30 AM................................................................... Amanda Trautmann

ART 3

Because Thorn Bushes Have Roses

by Naomi Mengel. Naomi is in eleventh grade at Tall Oaks Classical School. In addition to writing, she enjoys reading, running, photography, and playing volleyball. She lives in Newark, DE, with her parents, younger sister, and golden retriever.

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Rutu Patel Rutu Patel is a 17-year-old senior at Eastern High School.

She hopes to graduate with honors. Rutu is very active with numerous extracurricular activities, but her favorite is art. She has always had a passion for art, and in her middle school, won the title of “best artist.” Her work has been published in the Voorhees Township calendar, and has appeared as the cover of her school’s yearbook. She won the cover of Teen magazine in 2015, and currently teaches art to elementary school-aged students. She also enjoys music, dance, and spending time with her family.

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Publishers Carla Spataro Christine Weiser

Philadelphia Stories jr./ Teen Program Director Aileen Bachant

Director of Development Sharon Sood

assistant Director Kara Cochran

Art Director Derek Carnegie

PS Teen Sharada Krishnamurthy (Editor) Heather Kristian (Assistant Editor) Aileen Bachant Kara Cochran Nancy Kotkin Genevieve Kotz Dan Tulino

Production Assistant Jon Busch Web Design Loic Duros Board of Directors Mitchell Sommers Polia Tzvetanova Alison Hicks Alex Husted

This issue of Philadelphia Stories Teen is made possible in part thanks to the support of Ernst & Young.

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COVER ART: Gateway by Naomi Mengel Naomi Mengel is in eleventh grade at Tall Oaks Classical School. In addition to writing, she enjoys reading, running, photography, and playing volleyball. She lives in Newark, DE, with her parents, younger sister, and golden retriever.

Philadelphia Stories is a non-profit literary magazine that publishes the finest literary fiction, poetry and art from Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Delaware and distributes free of charge to a wide demographic throughout the region. Our mission is to develop a community of writers, artists and readers through the magazine, and through education programs such as writer’s workshops, reading series and other affordable professional development programs for emerging writers and artists. Philadelphia Stories is a 501c3. To support Philadelphia Stories and the local arts, please visit www.philadelphiastories.org to become a member today!

2 Philadelphia Stories Teen

tips

(an eXcerpt)

by Olivia Hunt Characters AMBER, an ambitious 18-year-old who dreams of being a beautician.

ATTENDANT, a woman in her late fifties who works as the restroom attendant of a five-star Italian restaurant.

MAN/RICHARD, a forty to fiftyyear-old man who pays young AMBER to keep him company.

PREGNANT WOMAN

(A young woman around twenty, Amber, storms into the bathroom of what seems to be a gourmet restaurant.

There is a restroom attendant leaning against the wall, she is in her early sixties. There is a cart next to the attendant with a jar labeled TIPS, a small bowl of mints, a stack of hand towels, the woman’s large purse, and an old picture frame with two newlyweds inside it. Amber slams down on the granite countertops before looking up at herself in the mirror. (All dialogue of AMBER, ATTENDANT, and MANAGER in a New York accent.))

AMBER Shit.

(She turns on the sink and splashes some water on her face, then heads toward a paper towel dispenser near

the attendant. The ATTENDANT sticks out her arms, offering up a linen towel.)

ATTENDANT Here. Those paper towels from the dispensers? Rough as sandpaper. You’ll scratch that pretty face right up.

AMBER Thanks.

(She blots her face with towel before handing it back to the attendant.)

ATTENDANT (Pulling AMBER’s hand up to her face.)

Good God almighty! What a rock ya got there, huh? You got a real keeper on your hands.

AMBER (Pulling away quickly and taking off the ring.) You don’t know the half of it.

ATTENDANT I guess I don’t.

AMBER (She stares at the ring in her hands, proceeding to scratch it against the mirror.) Of course.

ATTENDANT What?

AMBER It’s real. I knew it would be, I’m just lookin’ for a damn excuse at this point...

ATTENDANT Are you tryin’ to tell me that you’re over here, hollerin’, because that thing is real? Never in my life,kid. Never in my life have I seen such a— AMBER I don’t want it! I don’t want the ring, okay? (Looking down. Long pause.)

Because Thorn Bushes Have Roses by Naomi Mengel ©2016

Philadelphia Stories Teen 3

TIPS (an excerpt) / by Olivia Hunt ATTENDANT You goin’ back out there anytime soon?

ATTENDANT It’s not like ya knew. (Looks down.)

AMBER Yea, I guess so.

AMBER No. I mean, I dunno.

AMBER How long were you two together?

ATTENDANT Well, it seems like it’s just you ‘n me then.

ATTENDANT Long time kid, long time. ‘Bout 39 years.

ATTENDANT (Pointing to AMBER’s ring.)

That why you’re throwin’ a fit over that thing? Scared you’re gonna get bored?

AMBER So?

AMBER Wow.

ATTENDANT So nothin’ I guess.

(AMBER sits up on the bathroom calendar and picks at her nails.)

Mint?

(AMBER nods her head. ATTENDANT tosses her a mint from a small bowl on the cart next to her.)

ATTENDANT Wow just ‘bout sums it up.

AMBER (Pointing to the picture on the cart.)

That you?

AMBER Ya know, the whole thing. Bein’ with someone for that long. Just seems like you’d be sick of ‘em.

ATTENDANT Me an’ my husband. Well, late.

AMBER Oh. I’m real sorry, uh, I didn’t mean to--–

AMBER I dunno if I could do it.

ATTENDANT Do what?

ATTENDANT You got it all wrong there. Every day is somethin’ new, when you’re in love like that.

BLUE, BY AN OPTIMIST

By Naomi Mengel Blue is the color of the deep, salty ocean; cold, but warmed by the shimmering aquamarine rays that filter down through its rippling surface. Blue is the sky reflected in your eyes when you laugh.

Blue represents rhythm. It is the color of the calm, ceaseless meter of poetry; the cadence of the wind-swept waves creating a lattice across the surface of a forgotten pool; the pattern of the delicate carpet of bluebells decorating the meadow and forest floor.

Blue is found in the depth of the ocean, in the expanse of the sky. It is universal, eternal, unchangeable, the color of truth.

Blue is the color of my dreams when I wake up in the morning, and the ink in my pen when I write.

Blue is the color of Eternity.

Naomi Mengel is in eleventh grade at Tall Oaks Classical School. In addition to writing, she enjoys reading, running, photography, and playing volleyball. She lives in Newark, DE, with her parents, younger sister, and golden retriever.

4 Philadelphia Stories Teen

AMBER I’m not just gonna dump all my baggage on you, lady.

ATTENDANT Why not? I got nothin’ better to do.

And if ya feel so inclined, throw a tip in my jar. We’ll call it even.

AMBER Ehhh I dunno.

ATTENDANT C’mon, I’m old! Life’s boring when you’re old. Gimme somethin’ that’ll bring me back.

AMBER Ya promise you won’t say a word ‘bout this? Not to anyone?

ATTENDANT Not a soul.

AMBER Alright. Wait, no, you know what, forget it. It’s stupid and I’m not gonna bother ya with it.

ATTENDANT I’m sure it ain’t stupid if you’re this wound up ‘bout it.

(AMBER looks at her, unsure.)

Who would I have to tell anyway?

AMBER (Sitting herself up on the countertop.)

Alright. So I’m tryi’n’ to put myself through cosmetology school cause I’m real good at makeup and hair and all, but my parents refuse to drop a dime on it. They say it’s a ‘waste of my potential’. Bull. I ain’t never been good at anything else, but hair and makeup?

That’s all me.

ATTENDANT Ya got a nice face, kid, no need for any ‘a that makeup.

by Olivia Hunt / TIPS (an excerpt) AMBER Well, thanks a lot. But that’s not the point. Point is, I’m puttin’ myself through school on my own, so I need money, right? And my roommate, she told me ‘bout this ‘escort’ service.

She said all I had to do was go out to dinner with this one guy, keep

THE BEAST

By Madeline Hickey Cramped and crowded, hot and dirty.

Train doors slide open. Light.

I’m just a lonely Jew Alone with no family.

Stepping off the train,

ATTENDANT Uh, oh.

The first breath of fresh air

AMBER So I’m out with this guy, and he’s like 40, maybe 50. Real nice fella, good at keepin’ conversation ‘n all. We finish up eatin’ and he asks me how much I charge on the hour. And I says a hundred on the hour and ya know what he says?

Coaxes my mouth open.

I try taking my first full breath in hours Like a parched man finding an oasis.

My throat burns, hot and dry.

A strange smell attacks me.

It is not the same, sweet air from home.

Home smells familiar and kind.

Here, it is rotten, a vapor Of horrific terror, unforgiving.

ATTENDANT What’s he say?

Smoke, a raging bull approaches

AMBER He says, “You’re worth a lot more than that, sweetheart.”

ATTENDANT Oh you’re really in trouble now.

Horns facing me, threatening to puncture my lungs Like a scared child I hold my breath.

Hoping fear and the beast cannot find me But the beast is a skilled predator, a bloodhound.

Walking, shuffling, muttering prayers.

“Beast, stay away from me.” I whimper The smoke, I come to realize, Is not My Greatest Fear.

My Greatest Fear greets me

TO READ THE REST OF “TIPS,” PLEASE VISIT US ONLINE AT PHILADELPHIASTORIES.ORG/ JUNIOR/ALL-ISSUES

With open arms in an open flame.

My dreams catch fire first, The dreams of family and school The dreams of laughter and happiness All reduced to smoke and ash This pit is where the Beast laughs in triumph.

It sizzles with the fuel of flesh, Giggles from the beast itself, happy.

Another nameless, faceless victim is I. The beast consumes me In a pit of screams and terror.

Madeline Hickey enjoys writing and reading.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Olivia Hunt is in eleventh grade at Downingtown East high school. She is an avid writer and aspires to study screenwriting. Her dream is to write her own television sitcom, or to become a writer on Saturday Night Live. Olivia loves live music and concerts, going to the coffee shop down the street to write, and soaking up every beautiful moment of life

Philadelphia Stories Teen 5

shattered mirrors

(an eXcerpt)

by Olivia Hunt

Rutu Patel ©2016

I peel myself off of the stiff cotton sheets on my bed and stand up. Whoa, dizzy.

Probably stood up too fast. No big deal.

I walk across the ratty old carpet of my bedroom and head toward my dresser. Jesus, these drawers will be the death of me. I can never get them open.

It’s definitely the combination of the thick, Florida humidity and the fact that these things are just beat up, in general.

My fan hums silently in slow circles above my head, a pathetic attempt to cool down my room. I can feel little beads of sweat ooze from my cracked, clammy hands. I pull harder and still, nothing. Bent into a squat, I wrap both hands around the little porcelain knob.

I lean back and yank, and the drawer flies out toward me as I land on the floor with a crash. I push the drawer off of 6 Philadelphia Stories Teen

me and slowly stand up. Dizzy again.

What is with me today? I wait until it goes away and then head over to my mirror, pulling up my tee shirt to reveal my soft torso underneath. My hips are wider than average and my stomach is not so flat. Just not good enough.

I rush over to the digital clock on my desk, covered in dust, to check the time. Five minutes to get out of the house. Grabbing a black nylon leo and an old pair of tights out of the drawer on the ground, I undress and dress as quickly as I can. The waistband of my tights tugs against the skin under my belly button, making a visible crease in the outline of my figure. Miss Jane is definitely going to say something. I sling my dance bag around my shoulder and head downstairs.

“Morning, Mom.” I slide my tee shirt and sweats back on over top my dance clothes.

She looks up from the paper at me. “‘Morning.”

“You ready to go? I’m gonna be late.” I fill up a used plastic water bottle in the sink.

“Yeah, yeah just a second,” she says without lifting her gaze.

“Okay, well I’ll be in the car, so hurry up.”

She is so oblivious.

The car ride to school is silent besides the cool draft floating up from the air conditioner. Mom and I never

by Olivia Hunt / shattered mirrors (an excerpt) really talk in the car. I used to fight with her because she’s an awful driver, but at this point I just let her roll through all the stop signs and red lights she wants.

She turns on the radio with the small click of a little black knob. The volume is barely on, but I leave it because it suits us. We pull up to the office entrance and I hop out without a word. I immediately see Emily walking toward me, her shirt looking tighter than usual.

“Hey, Katie. Callbacks for second auditions came out today.”

I bite my nails in nervousness. They’re soft and broken down, the edges jagged against my bottom lip.

“Oh, shit! I totally forgot! Did you get one?”

A discontented look creeps onto her face. Her eyes jut down to the sidewalk.

“No. Rejected, as usual. Unlike you, though.”

My eyes light up. No way, that must mean…“Emily, uh I’m sorry. But, uh, by any chance did you see if uh… did I get it?”

I twist the fabric of my leotard into a knot against my hip over and over.

“Yeah, Katie. You got it.” She looks genuinely pissed and there’s a sense of bitterness in her voice. I don’t blame her. But I’m not sorry enough for Emily to not feel good about this. In fact, I feel great.

“Are you serious?”

She rolls her eyes and pulls out her phone. “Yeah, I’m serious. Here’s the pic of the cast list. I’ll send it to you if you really want.”

I glance over at her phone screen and immediately see my name. I’ve finally got this.

“Wow.” We stand there in silence. I look Emily up and down. She was a curvy girl, kind of short for a dancer. Her thighs thick and muscular, and her hips a little too wide.

“See ya, K,” she murmurs as she walks away.

It’s me this time. I got the final callback. A thought crosses my mind and I change course from studio 3B to the bathroom. I walk in and swing each stall door open with a whoosh of warm air, checking for people; empty. I enter the large stall on the very end and lock the door behind me with an echoing ‘click’. I drop to my knees with a soft thump in front of the toilet. The off-white plastic seat has scratches running down it.

Pulling my hair back with the elastic on my wrist, the overwhelming smell of water rushes up through my nostrils. I hear a girl walk in and enter the stall next to me. I try to wait patiently, but I’m nervous, and I can hear quick, panicked breaths pouring out of me. I can hear the rolling moan of toilet paper coming out of its dispenser. I hear the grumbling flush of her toilet, and with that she washes her hands and is on her way. A breath of relief fills me. My hands shake as the right one creeps up toward my face. I shut my eyes and my cracked lips part. I need to look good for this next class, and right now I don’t look good enough.

“Alright, girls, put the center barres away and take the floor to stretch for a minute while I find some music.”

I place my fingers under the barre and push it up into the air a couple of inches to help lift it away with a few other girls. We reach the wall and they all let go expecting me to handle

it, but I fall under the weight and the barre comes crashing down to the floor beside me.

“What the Hell was that?”

I sit and stare straight at my teacher.

Miss Jane is your typical retired professional. Still has the perfect body, thin arms and legs with barely any waist at all. She’s got that long, beautiful neck and defined cheekbones that pierce through her skin. That’s the thing. You can’t break the mindset. Even when you’re too old and they don’t want you anymore, you still can’t break it. You still need your body to be perfect, and you still think it’s far from it.

“Katie!”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. I’m fine. Tripped, I guess.”

I hate when this stuff happens. Ever since it started I’ve been losing body strength and every once in a while, I just make some huge scene and it’s so embarrassing. Whatever, I’ll just play it off as clumsiness, as usual.

“Alright, ladies. Line up to go across the floor.”

I follow the other girls over to the corner and tune out Miss Jane as she rambles on about the combination. The mirrors are fogged up from the body heat in the room, but I can still see my outline in the reflection. All of the sudden I get dizzy. The shape of my body blurs and anger bubbles up inside of me as I see myself. I look terrible. This isn’t going to cut it for the upcoming audition.

“Katie, what the Hell are you staring at? God, get out the way!” A tall, slim brunette pushes past me. Ashley is her name, I think.

“My bad, sorry.” I walk back to the end of the line and try to focus on Philadelphia Stories Teen 7

shattered mirrors (an excerpt) / by Olivia Hunt the others hard enough to pick up the combination.

“No, no, nothing wrong. Just wanted to talk.”

their companies, and one might say that in the ballet world, yours is not…ideal.”

The rest of class sucks. My gut burns and the bags under my eyes hang heavy. I need sleep. Soon enough, class is over and Miss Jane asks me to come talk to her on my way out. After packing up my things, I head over to her. She’s standing against the wall with a pen and pad, probably taking notes for next class.

I bite at the raw cuticles lining my fingernails. My throat aches all the way down to my chest. My breath is scratchy and uneven.

My entire body goes numb. A chill runs from the top of my spine all the way down through my limbs and torso.

I open my mouth to speak but the words won’t come out. I stand frozen in the moment with no way to break out of it.

“Katie, hi,” she says impatiently.

“Indeed, it is. But, there’s something you need to keep in mind. Most city ballets only take certain body types in

“Hey, wrong?”

Miss

Jane.

Is

something

“So, I heard you got a second audition for the Miami City Ballet.”

“Yeah, I’m really excited. It’s a great opportunity.”

CIGARETTES

By Srishti Ramesh the man milling near the lamp post feet shuffling slowly, phone in hand lifts the cigarette to his lips

“Katie, do you understand what I just said to you?”

I force an answer up out of my throat, “yes, I understand.”

With that I run out the studio, with only one place to go. As soon as I arrive, I hear the familiar click. And smell the familiar stench. And I sit there and breathe it all in because I know nothing else will come up, and I’m not sure what else to do but to just stay here, curled up on the warm tile floor.

the cancerous thing the smoke and the fire and the phone call diagnosis: cancer the gauges in his ears

TO READ THE REST OF

drag him downward

“SHATTERED MIRRORS,”

to the dust brown hair and scruffy beard soon disappear under the smell of hospital disinfectant

PLEASE VISIT US ONLINE AT PHILADELPHIASTORIES.ORG/ JUNIOR/ALL-ISSUES

glasses and phone on bedside table he sleeps, and who knows what could happen soon, under bitter taste of anaesthesia, the lung transplant he will be dead, soon inevitable, doctors say in whispers imaginary family and friends cry for him as they lift cigarettes to their lips Srishti Ramesh is 15 years old and a sophomore in high school. She enjoys reading and writing, especially young adult literature. She also loves music, mostly hip-hop/rap and rock. She lives in Voorhees, New Jersey with her family and an unfortunate lack of pets.

8 Philadelphia Stories Teen

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Olivia Hunt is in eleventh grade at Downingtown East high school. She is an avid writer and aspires to study screenwriting. Her dream is to write her own television sitcom, or to become a writer on Saturday Night Live. Olivia loves live music and concerts, going to the coffee shop down the street to write, and soaking up every beautiful moment of life. This piece is based on the tragic eating disorders she has witnessed in the world around her from growing up as a dancer.

puppet master

by Diya Goyal

Pitiful...unusual...pitiful...unusual oh, what a tale.

Oh, what a story, one may expect to come true.

A doll sat up on the old, grandfather clock. It seemed to be staring down at the floor with glassy eyes begging to be on the ground. Lifeless eyes followed your every move and the silent beating of a heart that should have been still filled the room.

A man stood in a dimly lit room, sewing. He would make his creation come to life. Lifeless eyes would become real; a still heart would once again beat. The man sang a small song as he worked, humming a made up tune.

The old clock goes tick tick tock.

A doll sits on that clock singing one more block one more stitch and one more heart.

The clock chimed twelve: ding, dong, ding, dong in twelve successive strikes.

But he didn’t stop. He didn’t have any care for time, for the only thing on his mind was his creation. Soon, another hour passed and the clock chimed one. The man put down his needle and thread, taking in a deep breath of air.

“Finished!” he exclaimed, holding up his creation for his other servants to see.

Glassy eyes, a stitched smile, and the echo of a heartbeat were his definition of perfection. He set his creation down and waited. One, two, three…

His breaths came in rapid succession; his most perfect creation was about to come to life, and come to life she did.

She creaked and jittered before standing up with a robotic motion. Perfect.

He gave the girl a smile - a wicked, wicked smile.

“Welcome home, dear princess. You may call me the Puppet Master. Everything will be alright as long as you never grow up…”

It was all okay. He only took the children that were already living a dollhouse life. He had to get ready. The next one, the next target, he needed another.

He needed a perfect prince for his perfect princess.

The man donned his hat over his mop of black hair. He brought the brim down over his sharp, green eyes. He then shrugged on his coat. A black coat, blacker than the night, reached past his knees. And the last were his shoes. Pointy shoes with tassels adorned his feet, a color of emerald that matched his eyes.

He slipped outside, shutting the door behind him without a single sound.

Creeping like a shadow, blending in perfectly with the dark he looked for an open window - the sign of yet another paper house. He quietly crept in, knowing that the child in his bed would be awake. He stood in front of the child’s bed, nothing of him visible except his

emerald shoes. The child sat up, trembling with fear.

“Wh-who are you, Mister with the emerald shoes?”

The man just held a finger to the child’s lips. The child was alarmed when had he moved? He then smiled at the child, a sweet, sickly smile that showed off his glistening teeth.

“Hush,” the man whispered in the child’s ear, and with that the child fell back on his bed, in an eternal sleep.

He picked up the child, cradling the boy like a newborn baby. His new, little doll princess would get a perfect doll prince after all. Once again he blended in with the night, but this time holding a little boy in his arms.

The man arrived back at his house and set the boy down on the stone, cold table. The boy was pallid. His pallor pale, veins sticking out, everything about him screamed DEATH. But the man would not accept this, no. He did not kill; he merely preserved. He preserved innocence and youth, saving children from homes they did not wish to be in - paper houses, doll houses, paper families, doll families.

He finally began his operation. A light tune started playing: Dolls in dollhouses, children playing.

Dolls in dollhouses, children crying.

It’s okay, hush, you don’t need to struggle.

Philadelphia Stories Teen 9

puppet master / by Diya Goyal Pain will soon change to pleasure.

When your body has been torn apart, memories will fade into pain.

First, he picked up the knife. The knife glinted in the dimly lit room, but it wasn’t any knife, no. It was a surgeon’s knife, an artist’s knife, a knife used for procedure; one that was used to form art. The man ran the knife across the boy’s naked torso, letting the crimson roses bloom across his body. The blood drained into a bucket. He then put the knife down and grabbed a needle and thread, stitching the boy’s wounds up.

But he didn’t stop there; he continued stitching while humming a little tune: Needle and thread needle and thread might wind up dead.

The boy now had stitches sealing not only his wounds, but also crossing over his mouth. His mouth was twisted into a sick sort-of smile, and his eyelids had been sown to remain open. Electric-blue irises that hid underneath were exposed. Electric-blue irises that once held life now held only death and...despair.

ON THE SEINE

By Emma Paolini

Nobody sits alone on the Seine, A fact that’s unfortunately true Of the twos and the threes and the fours and the tens, And then me, who’s alone, but with you You crouch beneath benches that I sit upon You swim through the waters I paint As I walk through the streets, you don’t stay for long But by river, your form lies in wait I remember, one time, when we came to the Seine, I, nineteen, you, twenty and bold, We looked like a painting that I bought that day When the air didn’t feel quite so cold But now I am here and your ghost is beside

After putting the needle and thread away, the man clapped his hands together with excitement; his eyes were sparkling brighter than any gem. Taking out a pallet and a paintbrush, he once again went back to work. Paying no attention to the time, he let the grandfather clock chime on. Tick, tock...Ding, dong!

With a flurry of hand movements and timed strokes of the brush, he was done.

He had created the perfect prince for his perfect princess.

The boy had a light blush on his cheeks and his skin was given a golden hue. His eyes had been painted over with an even more startling blue. But most importantly - the finishing touch - a symbol on the boy’s left palm, a symbol of ownership that would remain forever. Adorning the boy’s left palm was a feather, a red feather.

The man put the boy down and waited. One, Two, Three… The other dolls also watched in anticipation. The boy creaked and jittered, much like the girl before him had. Once again, the echo of a still heart’s beating filled the room.

The man gave the boy a smile - a wicked, wicked smile.

“Welcome home, dear prince. You may call me the Puppet Master. Everything will be alright, just as long as you never grow up…”

“Bonjour, tu me manques, mon ami”

Pretty soon children started disappearing all across the country. The Puppet Master was the stuff of nightmares and everybody had heard about him.

The man that crept in the shadows and kidnapped children. Nobody had ever gotten a glimpse of him, but the last cry of the children kidnapped was a clue turned legend.

Emma Paolini is from Medford, New Jersey and attends Merion Mercy Academy. She enjoys reading, writing, and edits for her school’s literary magazine.

“It’s the Mister with the emerald shoes!”

The shoulder that still wears your coat, If I look close enough, then I think I can find The heart and initials we wrote Yes, nobody sits alone on the Seine I am watching the twos and the threes Then I look to the river and whisper to you

10 Philadelphia Stories Teen

by Diya Goyal / puppet master Everybody knows the legend now; everybody knows to keep their windows shut at night.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Diya Goyal is an eleventh grader at Eastern Regional High School who dreams of one day becoming an author and poet. She holds a passion for reading and writing, and absolutely adores the mystery genre. Although, she would not be able to answer if asked what her favorite book is. Goyal also loves to watercolor and sketch.

Do you have a story, poem, or drawing to submit? visit www.philadelphia stories.org/junior Rutu Patel ©2016

6:30 AM

By Amanda Trautmann 6:30 am: Coffee is my lover. She protects me, wrapping me in her steaming arms. She swims in my stomach and widens my eyes, exciting me. She stirs my fears into her muddy hues and sends me on my way.

6:30 pm: Depression is my lover. As the sun creeps behind the horizon, his claws wrap around my spine, tying me to my mattress. He convinces me with frozen kisses to abandon books, worksheets, and white walls, if only for a day.

10:00 am: Coffee is my lover. She pulls me from the sheets when my limbs are still heavy with his weight. She bounces my knee, burns my lips and roils my mind.

10:00 pm: Depression is my lover. He quiets me, silencing the noise and shuts my eyes.

3:00 pm: Coffee is my lover. She has come for me, reprimanding me with her bitter twinge. I swallow her with my sins. She empowers me with sugar-laced lips.

3:00 am: Depression is my lover. He spends the night, making love to me with suicidal ideation. He plants fatal kisses on sullen skin, whispering his sweet poison.

6:30 am: Coffee is my lover. She is the antidote no matter her form. She brushes across my lips and saves me.

Amanda Trautmann is a senior at Lower Merion High School. She enjoys writing short fiction and poetry. At her school, Amanda founded and runs Second Stage, a program which offers a variety of workshops led by local artists, writers, directors and actors. She also takes part in the school’s literary magazine, yearbook and newspaper all while maintaining a part time job at Children’s Book World.

Philadelphia Stories Teen 11

A DOMESTIC SKIRMISH

(an eXcerpt)

by Max Hinkle Mississippi, 1834

Sarah and I, we was only eight when we saw a dog fight for the first time. Just behind our house, where our pop would round up some twenty dogs over the course of each and every month, he’d put up a new wall for each fight and watch the devils go at it for an hour or so, or at least till the last dog was standing, all tard out but victorious none the less, and one man would be screaming for joy at his big win while he’d watch the cash (which had piled up from all the bets at the beginning of the fight) fall into his hands. A lot of men they’d just come to our house to watch, but they ain’t pay no bets. These men warn’t no bother for pop, cause they’d still pay to watch, and he made plenty of money doing so.

Our mama died when we was real young, and for the longest time, we ain’t knowed what happened to her. I don’t think we’d of ever found out if it warn’t for Ms. Mary. Lovely lady that she was, she came to be a great step-mom for Sarah; least I think so. She was a learned lady, Ms. Mary, and she was young and pretty too, with beautiful, long brown hair, and blue eyes that sparkled when she taught us. She was the only teacher in our school who was a lady, and all the boys’d be starin’ at her in class, and she kept everybody talkin’ at lunch time (though not usually ‘bout her lessons). Course she knowed all about pop’s business with the dog fights and such. Everybody in town knowed pop was a businessman, and he ain’t never let nobody get in his way. He’d be gone as long as weeks at a time, and he ain’t 12 Philadelphia Stories Teen

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never talk ‘bout where he was a-goin’, but he’d always come back with at least ten pups of all shapes and sizes. Sarah and I came to be accustomed to bein’

alone in the big house and actin’ older than we was, and methinks we growed up a little too fast livin’ that way, but Ms. Mary she pitied Sarah and I, and

by Max Hinkle / a domestic skirmish (an excerpt) she left us a delicious hot meal on our doorstep many nights when pop warn’t home, and methinks her wonderful apple pie helped us stay young and lively.

She was a lovely lady, Ms. Mary.

Anyways, as I said, Ms. Mary she came to be a motherly figure for little Sarah. I often seen them in class together long after the school day was over, and they was always a-talkin’ and talkin’, real close together, and I would set outside the door and keep down low and sneaky so I could listen, cause Ms. Mary she learn lessons to Sarah after class that she never would during the school day. She’d tell Sarah that the young girl had to be strong, but she couldn’t show it. Lord knows how one could do that! Sometimes I would grow a little jealous I warn’t ever invited to their secret meetings. But one time, she and Sarah they caught me a-eavesdropping. Luckily, they warn’t mad, but they just laughed and told me to come inside. So I done as they asked, and that’s when she broke the news to us both. We was each ten then, and so I s’pose she thought it a proper time to learn us of our mama’s death.

The story warn’t much; she probably knowed us kids couldn’t handle the details. She told us that our pops came home drunk as a monkey one night when we was real little, and he got ran into Ma, and they got in a little argument bout his drinking habits, and then it escalated (I ain’t know what that word meant at the time, but now I knows, cause I’s much smarter

now), and Ma she got to talkin’ ‘bout how cruel pop was with his poor dogs he’d been a-forcin’ to fight to the death, and he ain’t wanna hear no more after that. He done murdered her, and that’s all Ms. Mary told us. Perhaps I ain’t never gonna know how he did it, but

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I s’pose that’s fine, cause now when I think ‘bout it I really don’t wanna know.

Ms. Mary took me aside after that, and she told me that I needn’t have any special lessons with her cause I was a boy and I warn’t gonna have no problems bein’ myself. But then she begged me to start my own business when I

was older, and to not take over pop’s dog fighting monopoly and such, cause money warn’t everything and dog’s lives mattered more. I assured Ms. Mary that I warn’t interested in seeing any more dogs fight if I could help it, and that made her real happy, and she smiled and thanked me and gave me a nice big kiss on the cheek, and told me I was a good boy and that I’d grow up to be a much better man than my father ever was. Boy did my face light up bright red like the 4th of July after that!

All the boys, they’d’ve loved to have been kissed by Ms. Mary, and they’d’ve probably gone runnin’ around tellin’ every person they saw ‘bout the whole thing.

Now one time, a little pitbull, methinks he went by the name of Jody, he done bit the tail off another poor pup, and when he done so he twirled the damned thing round and round in his jaws like a tornado, and he was all triumphant and such, and dark, fresh blood was a-flyin’ every which way; and Sarah she didn’t like that too much, and so she got to cryin’ and cryin’ like I never seen nobody cry before, and I swear she bawled ‘nuff to fill up the crik that run behind our house.

The other men there that was watchin’ the fight started to stare at the poor girl, and soon as pop saw her he took her away. I never knowed what he told her, but after that night she ain’t never cry at a dog fight again.

When I asked her about it (and I did many a time), she just shook her head and said cryin’ was bad for business, and that she had to be strong like me.

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a domestic skirmish (an excerpt) / by Max Hinkle Pops always told me I was a strong boy, and that made me feel good, ‘specially when he learned me to chop wood and carry the logs around to make a new pit for the dogs.

I s’pose pops cared about Sarah, anyhow. One time he told her to draw out a diagram for the pit, and she done a wonderful job and drew a perfect little square ring, and he congratulated her.

She was mighty proud and happy after that. But soon as she tried to be like me and help carry the logs, he smacked her and gave her a long talking to, and I ain’t make out much of it but this: “Girls ain’t s’posed to build things, they’s just s’posed to watch.”

The first time pop gave me an ax, he motioned me to follow him out back, and by and by we come upon the beautiful group of Mexican petunias that grow in our yard by the crik, and they was bright violet and mighty pretty. I always loved those petunias. At first I wondered why pop needed me to bring the ax, then he says we would be cutting down a mighty oak, but first we had to get rid of the petunias. That made me quite sad, but he said them Mexican petunias was invasive and brought the other trees down. So he took the ax and went at ‘em, and by and by he started pulling ‘em out by their roots, and then we got to choppin’ my first oak. Pop said we’d build a mighty big wall for the dogs with that trunk; it was wider than me! That ax was heavy, and I got to bein’ real tard out cause he’d make me work all day, but I got used to it; I’d be out choppin’ wood and buildin’ bigger and bigger pits every weekend.

The neighbors’d stop by every once in a while, and when they seen me out back a-hackin’ away there grew a look of pity in their faces, cause they knowed all the expectations put on me was too much.

But they never said anything, cause pop

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was a man of power with all his money and such, and he warn’t to be challenged.

Ms. Mary was a great poet, and she’d always give Sarah poems to read, probably because she couldn’t let no one else know she was writing them. That’s how Sarah got so smart, I s’pose. It was truly wonderful, though, cause Sarah she’d read the poems and then bring them home for me to read, and it sure did take me a long time to understand ‘em, but by and by I got to knowing what Ms. Mary was talking about in each one. And boy did she have a lot to say!

One day, near the end of the school year, Sarah told Ms. Mary that she should publish her poems so as to let all the townspeople read ‘em. But Ms. Mary she said ain’t no women’s poetry would be respected in our little town in Mississippi, and even worse, she could get hung for it. But then Sarah come up with a wonderful idea; what if Ms. Mary could put her poems up all around the town and sign ‘em off with a different name? Why, Ms. Mary she thought a moment, and then she said she loved the idea and called Sarah a genius, and she got right to doin’ so. She’d go out late at night, I s’pose, and post em in each and every bar and post office and on the back of people’s carriages and even around our school. The poems was wonderful, and they was all different and interesting. Some of ‘em were about nature, and others was about romance. But some of ‘em were challenges to society; she wrote about the unfairness that women faced, and in one poem she wrote about the problems with slavery! But her most famous poem she wrote in the hot Mississippi July, and it was about no other than pop:

It is nothing short of amazing to see

A group of loyal companions, so ebullient and friendly, Transmute to beasts as a result of the actions of one man The god-awful business-man!

He who sees no harm In a little fun with a fight to the death I would not be taken aback if one day his money turned on he who so gracefully stole for one man’s treasure map is most certainly not worthy to act as a map for his very life k.

It got the whole town talkin’ day and night, all about who K was or why he hated the dog fights so much.

TO READ THE REST OF “A DOMESTIC SKIRMISH,” PLEASE VISIT US ONLINE AT PHILADELPHIASTORIES.ORG/ JUNIOR/ALL-ISSUES

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Max Hinkle is a 17-year-old writer from Glenside, Pennsylvania. He is a rising senior at the William Penn Charter School in Pennsylvania and hopes to pursue writing in college. This short story, if one couldn’t already guess, is heavily influenced by Mark Twain’s works.

Spelling “Kindergarten”

by Srishti Ramesh

I am clutching my father’s hand like I do so well, because, God help me, I am not going into that classroom if it is the last thing I do. I’m not crying, because that would be out of place and embarrassing and my greatest talent is staying quiet. But, I am silently protesting, tugging on my father’s arm in place of wailing. I never talk much, and school is definitely not an exception.

I don’t want my parents to leave me here in this cold, dark school, even though the windows let in plenty of sunshine and fall leaves glow crimson and marigold on the grass outside, and even though the posters on the wall are colored butterscotch, aquamarine, and emerald, and other multisyllabic words I can spell at the age of five.

I will undoubtedly be tired and bored for hours on end in this cold,

dark school, not to mention that friendship isn’t my forte. My backpack (which is violet, probably) hangs off of one of my shoulders, and I care more about leaving this place than the fact that my pencil case is threatening to fall out of the open pocket, and spill out onto the brown and blue speckled carpet.

will prove this fact, weeks later, after I am mistakenly sent to ESL due to my selective muteness, and after I successfully obtain several fancy mechanical pencils for doing well in the program, despite the fact that I speak English fluently.

My dad finally pries me off of him.

Damn it, I think, but don’t say out loud, because I shouldn’t really be knowing words like that yet. Soon, my dearest father has delivered me straight into the hands of the devil. My teacher smiles, but I am sure that there is something sinister behind it.

I glance towards the door when I sit down at the desk, which is grouped in a table with three others. The girl directly next to me is small and quiet, although she will eventually grow up to be a loudmouth, who is nearly a foot taller than me and proficient in walking in heels.

Her name tag spells “Lynn,” the correct way, of course. We don’t talk but we share a look, which is enough for now.

I take millimeter steps to my desk, which is bordered at the top by a name tag spelling “Srishti,” the wrong way, of course. I’m positive that I can spell better than my kindergarten teacher. I

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Srishti Ramesh is 15 years old and a sophomore in high school. She enjoys reading and writing, especially young adult literature. She also loves music, mostly hip-hop/rap and rock. She lives in Voorhees, New Jersey with her family and an unfortunate lack of pets.

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Finish the scene.

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