PS Teen Winter 2016 by Philadelphia Stories

TEEN

a community of young writers and artists from the Delaware Valley

fall 2015

TEEN

CONTENTS

a community of young writers and artists from the Delaware Valley

FEATURES 3 The Beast That Follows .......................................... Sarah Allen 6 Empty Dreams ........................................................ Caroline Donovan 10 Threads ................................................................... Caroline Donovan 13 Cleats ...................................................................... Sydney Nixon

POETRY 4 The Truth of August ............................................... Darci Moon Gold 5 So Tight, So Right .................................................. Kristyana Tun 5 Denning .................................................................. Francesca Wilkin 7 That Feeling You Get Sometimes ........................... Ian Greenleaf 8 “For You A Thousand Times Over” ......................... Laura Haskin 9 Shower .................................................................... Eden Yainitis 11 My America ............................................................ Laura Haskin 14 Battle Scars.............................................................. Sarah Lopez 15 Communal Pen Friend ............................................ Francesca Wilkin

ART 3

Tiffany Rodriguez, Tiffany, age 16, is a Drawing Major at Academy of Creative and Performing Arts at A.P. Schalick High School

Cheltenham Center for the Arts Summer Art Camp 2015

Pots by Rutu Patel, Rutu is currently a junior at Eastern High school. She has a real passion for art and won the title “Best artist” in her middle school. Her art work was published in the township calendar as well as chosen for the yearbook cover. She also enjoys music, dance and spending time with her family. During the summer she taught art to a few elementary kids.

Child by Shimoli Parikh, Grade: 9 School: Eastern High School, Voorhees, NJ Interests: Art, Tennis, Music, technology

Girl with Pencils by Shimoli Parikh

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) Amelia Thatcher (Assistant Editor) 14 Aileen Bachant Nancy Kotkin Liz Abrams-Morley Holly Willett Samantha Dugan Heather Kristian

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.

Cry by Sophie Freeston, Sophie Freeston is a current 6th grade student at Wissahickon Middle School in Ambler, PA. She draws everyday and usually works on the same picture for at least a week.

COVER ART: BIRD by Rutu Patel.

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!

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the beast that follows by Sarah Allen

Snap. My head jerks up. My heart beats faster. I can’t even see five feet in front of me. Snap. The rough bark I’m leaning against feels plastered to my skin through my shirt. I feel so small with my knees folded, my weak arms clutching them to my chest.

Snap. My breathing quickens, but I can’t let the creature hear me. I hold the next gulp of air in my throat, praying the monster overlooks me. Snap. It seems to be coming from all directions; I can’t pinpoint just one. Snap. A single tear escapes my eyes, with-

out a sound. It slides down my nose and catches itself in the corner of my mouth. Its saltiness is sticky and uncomfortable. It seems to make breathing much more difficult. Snap. The leaves rustle above me; the ground shakes below me. I dig my fingers into the soil and make a fist in a pathetic attempt to hold everything still. SNAP. I bury my face between my knees again and clamp my filthy hands over my ears, indifferent to the caking dirt trapped underneath my fingernails. That splintering break wasn’t the usual twig, no. It was the trunk propping me up. My last support, the beast snapped in two like a toothpick. “There you are,” it growls. I can hear its teeth forming a sick, twisted grin. “Miss me?” Its monstrous claw reaches down and scoops me up like the claw machine at the arcade from when I was seven. I can imagine how terrified those innocent stuffed penguins must have been. Their big, frozen, unchanging eyes staring back at their kidnapper, oblivious to what lies ahead of them. I panic and try to escape its grasp but its strength is too much. Even if I could uncurl its rough claws from around my torso, a fall from this height would be detrimental. Not that I would mind, I’d take death over this fate any day. “How’ve you been?” Its hot breath blows my hair behind my shoulders. I can’t make eye contact. “How do you always find me?” I try to sound strong, but my voice cracks like thin ice.

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the beast that follows / by Sarah Allen

The Truth of August By Darci Moon Gold He rode on a bicycle in the middle of August with a sunflower between his teeth. He ran through a field and sang to the stars, and I swear, they heard him. He looked like an angel, that is for certain. He smelled like the aftermath of rain. He decided to love me with all of his might. He then said that it wasn’t a choice. He was scared of the world, the one that I faced. So he guarded me with his collection of books. Kept me safe with his never ending stories. Locked me away with his brilliant smile. He picked me up in a Beetle at the end of November with a smile on his lips. He loved me deeply. Spring came and so did we. Summer came and so did we. Fall came and so did we. Winter froze and so did we. And then it was painful and heartwrenching. Then it was too long and too cold for me. Then he loved me shallowly. Then there was an inch. Millimeter. Gone. And then Summer came and I wept. Fall came and I wept. Winter came and my tears froze. Spring came with him. He showed up on my porch wearing a tie and holding a vase. I unraveled. He smiled. I kicked him. He laughed. And then he dived right into twelve feet of water. And he didn’t even hit his head. He waded in and out for an eternity. Leaving with a letter, appearing with a grin. I could tell it was wrong. I loved him so. He always knew when to give me a sunflower. He’d always keep them between his teeth. To him, it was always August. To me, it was always him. Darci Gold is a sixteen-year-old student of Haverford High. She has loved literature from a very young age, and frequents old bookstores to find hidden treasures. Darci loves writing poetry, short stories, as well as longer pieces to express herself and engage with others.

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Its hearty, sinister laugh makes me tremble. “Please, you tower over every last one of these acres.” The monster’s jaw unhinges and it raises me to its sharp teeth. Frozen in terror, I peer past those white knives and see the darkness at the end of its throat and my path. All I can hear is my heart beating in my ears and sitting in my throat. The last thing I see is its eyes. Its bright, yet tinted, yellow eyes with black slits in the center. They seem miles deep. Then, everything is black. I bolt upright in bed, the sheets soaked with cold sweat. I gasp for air as my eyes dart around the room, trying to decipher why the bowels of the beast’s stomach have Taylor Swift posters hanging on the walls. “Just a dream,” I breathe, my breathing patterns starting to settle. But my heart sinks to my stomach when I realize the awful truth. The monster hasn’t left. My anxiety followed me into this world, too. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Sarah Allen loves to write poetry and short stories. She is in the ninth grade and lives just outside of Philadelphia, PA with her parents and two younger brothers. She also loves to bake and ski.

g n i t i r W t p om Pr You wake up one morning and find that you aren’t in your bed; you aren’t even in your room. You’re in the middle of a giant maze. A sign is hanging from the ivy: “You have one hour. Don’t touch the walls.”

Finish the scene.

So Tight, So Right by Kristyana Tun You were right for holding onto me so tight. Wouldn’t let me leave unless I had long sleeves You cooked me food and made sure I ate good Told me about my sister’s past Since I am the last You were right for holding onto me so tight. Told me about the boys who treat girls like toys Didn’t want me to do bad in school so I won’t be a fool

DENNING

By Francesca Wilkin No service. No make-up. Lips, chapped and pale in an expanse of tanning skin. Ears tilted like an elf’s. Hands built to wrap around a guitar’s neck— to wrap around your neck. Arms built to hang onto bodies, laughter falling from mouths. The dark opening of the forests’ jaws, tumbling forward, leaning backwards, making small talk perched upon hips.

You’ve done your job well I’ve grown up to be swell

You are a part of my big heart.

You were right for holding onto me so tight.

And you were right for holding onto me so tight

Everything you told me at first I didn’t believe

You’re so bold and worth more than gold.

Now that I’ve grown I should have known

I’m sorry for any pain I’ve caused Let’s just put that on pause

You yelled at me when I did wrong Your lectures were very long

You’re the best mother ever even though your moods are like weather

You were right for holding onto me so tight.

Oh mother, you were so right for holding onto me so tight.

You watched me grow every day, and listened when I had something to say. I know I’m not the best, but trust me, I try harder than the rest.

Kristyana Tun is a student at the Feltonville School of Arts and Sciences.

Every door,

People come and people go.

every window,

They come with false promises

open.

falling from their tongues and leave, retracting them back

Burgundy blanket.

behind their teeth to spit at

Burgundy cup.

the next girl.

Blue eyes,

A new scar appears.

blonde hair. Brown eyes,

Crow calls

blonde hair.

And blue jay song remind you of home.

Placing a cup over a flame

You want it to rain,

to choke it out,

so maybe you can breathe.

then removing it to give it life. Drowning hope and feeding it in a slow kind of torture. Mountain air, clear, cool down a throat cut open and stinging from swallowing razors, drinking vodka to make it burn.

Francesca Wilkin is 17 years old and a junior at Harriton High School in Rosemont, PA. She have been writing for most of her life but only in 9th grade did she start writing poetry. This is her first published piece.

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empty dreams by Caroline Donovan

Black talons, coated in thick, slimy gloss tap on the windowpane. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the thin glass cracks. Uneven lines race each other across the glass. A young boy hears the soft cracking, jostling him from slumber. The creature taps again, and a small hole allows the moist breath of the animal to seep into the room. The boy is paralyzed with fear. He lunges for the bedroom door, but pain jolts through his legs. He desperately attempts to lift his legs; the creature’s 6 Philadelphia Stories Teen

hand bursts through the window. Shards of glass skate across the slick hardwood and slice the boy’s sweaty ankles. His lip quivers, and a whimper tumbles out of his mouth. A tear rolls down the crease of his nose. The creature, no longer separated by the glass, crawls towards the boy. Its claws create spidery patterns on the wooden floor. An ear-splitting screech echoes in the room. Quickly, the creature captures the boy in its talons, covering his Spider Man pajamas in bub-

bling goo. The boy releases a bloody scream, and he closes his eyes.

I arch my back and hurriedly rip the quilt off my body. I rub my blood-shot eyes with the back of my hand. My labored breathing stings my raw throat. I force my sweaty palm to drop the dream catcher clutched between my fingers. The clock on the nightstand vibrates; my shift is over. I stand, shove my feet into the leather shoes perched on the shelf,

by Caroline Donovan / empty dreams zip up my jacket, and throw the empty dream catcher into the shadows. The door closes, and locks, behind me. The narrow hallway is flooded with people. All of the people look the same: exhausted and scarred. I suspect that I appear the same. A woman greets me, “Hey Bill, how was your shift?” My eyes linger on her shiny forehead, slick with sweat, and her blotchy cheeks. Similar to a robot, I utter the same word I have uttered for six years, “Fine.” She shrugs her shoulders and falls into rhythm with my steps. Together, we snatch our files from the labeled cabinets. A paycheck peeks out of the corner of my folder. The more dream catchers I empty, the more pain I endure, the more money I make. “How many did you empty today?” The woman, Sheryl, asks me. My mind pauses, so I open the file. I respond numbly, “103.” Her eyes widen, and she enthusiastically throws her hands into the air. “How do you do it Bill? I mean, is there a secret?” I shake my head, open the door, and burst into the daylight. I jog, stretching my legs, and run towards my car. “No secrets,” I yell, “just dreams.” My car bakes in the afternoon sun. The silver car door handle burns my skin. I fumble with the key, and a girl’s voice rises behind me. “Hey, can I talk to you?” I spin around, completely forgetting about the car. A black tank top paired with cut-off jeans accents her curvy figure. Her blonde hair is streaked with pink dye, and her toenails are painted the color of twilight. I lean my body against the car. “What do you want?” I ask. She steps closer and sweeps a lock of hair away from her emerald eyes. “I want to do what you do,” she eagerly states. A chuckle escapes my mouth; “You want to work in a factory all day?” I ges-

ture towards the catcher; the building in which dream catchers are emptied. “Don’t lie to me.” Her voice is smooth and carries the hint of venom. I turn my back to the girl and begin unlocking the car. “You empty dream catchers.” She lunges towards the car. “Somehow, all of the dreams disappear.” I continue to fumble with the key, careful to ensure that she does not see the surprise in my eyes. “Listen kid, I don’t know what you are talking about.” I hop into the car and begin to shut the

door. She snatches the handle and rips the door open. The file slips out of the side door pocket, and the papers fan across the fiery pavement. Before I can bend down, she drags the file towards herself. She shoves the papers in my face. The first paper, in large block letters, reads: 103 DREAM CATCHERS EMPTIED. “It looks like you do know what I am talking about,” she sneers. I release a heavy breath and step out of the vehicle. “Do not tell anyone what you saw,” I threaten. She hugs the file

That Feeling You Get Sometimes By Ian Greenleaf Sometimes I sit in my room and I feel like my walls are closing in But this makes me feel like a hack, because everyone and their grandmother has said this I don’t know, maybe I am a hack Sometimes I choke on the words that I wish I could muster the courage to say And sometimes I say them anyway Only to apologize for how I feel Just to spare others Sometimes I think about punching somebody I don’t mean that I want to punch somebody I just think about a specific instance When he pushed me too far And I couldn’t help myself Sometimes I try to rationalize this By saying that I’m not a violent person And maybe he had it coming But then, when I really think about it Maybe I’m the bad one, and I have something coming

Ian Greenleaf is in the tenth grade at Pennsylvania Leadership Charter School. He was inspired to write by a few of the poems included in our last issue, specifically “My Rain.” He loves reading experimental fiction, and writing both prose and poetry.

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empty dreams / by Caroline Donovan against her chest, “I won’t, but under one condition.” I raise my eyebrows, and she raises hers. “You have to teach me how to empty a dream catcher.” I firmly grasp her delicate hand and shake, “Fine. You have a deal.” Her lips curl upward, and her eyes sparkle. “When do we start?” I gaze towards the building. I slam the car door. “Now.” She throws the file into my arms and sprints in the direction of the catcher. I sulk after her, doubting my decision. A heavy force weighs on my arm as I pull the door open for the girl. “What’s your name?” Her eyes intently scan the empty hall. She continues to observe,

“You can call me Ray.” Her legs pull her in various directions. Eventually, she locates the shaft. Thousands of dream catchers fall from the shaft, are separated, and then delivered to different rooms. “So, this is where they all come from?” She asks me over her shoulder. Her eyes widen in wonder. She lifts a glass panel and reaches into the shaft. She closes her eyes and allows the feathers attached to the dream catchers to brush against her pale skin. The nightmares are hidden in the pure beauty. I gently grab her arm and drag her in a different direction. I quickly direct her into the room. The room is bare. A

“For You A Thousand Times Over” By Laura Haskin There is a Polaroid image Vintage- yellowed and crisped Corners folded, labeled in Smeared sharpie with those Curves of your letters I knew them so well Two faces pale yet Flushed by the summertime Sun beaming down Spotlight to our embrace Father, I remember Fragments of those stories Like fairy tales recited Again and again For you I would tell them Re-spin those journeys My own words molded To the melody pulsing Through the blood in our Veins- slowing like our Heartbeats-synced In remembrance A thousand times over I’d replay it again. Laura Haskin is a senior at Friends Select School in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Her creative nonfiction and poetry has been published in Philadelphia Stories and The Bell Literary Magazine. In her spare time, she enjoys cooking and functions as the founder of a food and travel blog, The Cedar Kitchenette.

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container, filled to the brim with dream catchers, is enclosed in a clear, sealed box. I retrieve the key, unlock the door, and carefully select a dream catcher. “Lay there,” I order. Ray eagerly plops onto the gray bed sheets. I throw the dream catcher to her; she examines the specific design. I shuffle through a drawer. A small syringe winks at me from the corner of the drawer. I nervously pick up the syringe, and I attach a thin tube of watery liquid. Ray notices my actions, but she remains calm. “This injection will prevent you from waking up until each dream is over.” She sits up, “Okay, inject me, let’s go!” Her happiness sickens my stomach. “I can’t guarantee what you see; these are someone else’s nightmares.” I point towards the dream catcher. She nods her head and places her warm hand over mine, “I know,” she whispers. I plunge the needle into her neck, and she instantly falls asleep. For hours, I sit in a plush leather chair and watch. I watch her writhe in imaginary pain. I listen to her scream. I smell the sweat roll down her skin. Her eyes flutter open, and tears violently flow down her cheeks. “Ray, calm,” her screams silence my words. She jumps to her feet and sprints towards the door. Her hands shake uncontrollably, and she is unable to undo the simple latch. In panic, she yanks tufts of her pink hair. Beads of sweat drip from the tip of her nose. I leap forward, grab her body, and she falls into my arms. Anger thickens in her voice, “Do you enjoy it? Do you like to see people’s most terrifying nightmares?” She pounds her fists against my chest and stomach. “You are a sick person!” She screams. Eventually, she crawls to the door and opens it. She steps into the hallway. Before she leaves, she captures my attention. A dot of dry blood covers

by Caroline Donovan / empty dreams the small hole on her neck. The sweat dampens her cotton shirt. Her dark makeup is smudged beneath her eyes. She runs her fingers through her sweaty hair and glares at me, “Just tell me why you do it,” she demands. Disgust lurks in her voice. “It’s not a choice; it’s a punishment.” Puzzlement washes over

her face. She slams the door, and I hear her footsteps bound down the hallway. I stand and hobble towards the container of dream catchers; it is draped in shadows. I choose a bare dream catcher, the kind that always hold the worst dreams, lie on the bed, and I plunge the sharp needle into my neck.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Caroline Donovan attends Archmere Academy in Wilmington, Delaware. Her passion is writing, but she also enjoys playing sports. She competes in athletic events throughout the year. Caroline is a huge fan of John Green and has read all of his novels. She aspires to be a bestselling author and use her unique perspective to change the world.

Shower

By Eden Yainitis The towel slips off, falling to the ground, and with it falls the composure of a well-rounded girl. My hand grasps the shower handle, turning it up, up, up. I want to burn off the facade. The facade of a person who knows what they’re doing, who rarely has bad days, who has their shit together. I step in, the tile floor threatening to pull me in like quicksand. The water rushes over me, tiny bullets piercing my skin. Worthless. Disappointment. Failure. The words ring through me. I step into the vortex of water, the eye of the storm, and let the pounding sound ring throughout me like an elephant’s heartbeat. I look down at my naked body, vulnerable and fragile. Pathetic. I open my eyes wide as I face the water with the eyes of a newborn. I look up, as if I can see beyond the drab white ceiling, beyond the night sky, beyond the universe, right into the eyes of God. I let the water wash my eyes out, blinding them with the reality of starting over. I let my worries pool at my feet, wrapping around my ankles. I’m shackled there. My hand reaches out to turn the water off, but I stay in the same spot, watching the dreams of a once naive little girl who knew of happier days spiral down the drain. I step out and wrap my towel around me, as if putting on a new mask to face the world. But I’ll be back. Oh I’ll be back alright. I’ll be back with new masks to wash down the drain, new hopes to rinse off, and new tears to weave into the cascade of water droplets that fall into my outstretched hands. There will be plenty more bubble baths of cynicism, Beds full of defeat, Brushing teeth with an “I’m okay” smile, and eloquent showers of despair.

Eden loves to write poetry and read vivaciously in her free time. She is currently working on a short story, as well as a plethora of poems. Music is her inspiration, and she often expresses a hidden side of herself through her writing. She lives with her family and huge, loveable dog in Havertown, Pennsylvania.

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threads by Caroline Donovan

The sparkle in her eye is magical and breathtaking. Her cheeks blush, and a giggle escapes her lips. A silent conversation floats between the couple. As the minutes pass, I am able to define the characteristics of the thread that tethers the humans together. If I glance quickly, I am unable to witness the magic. However, if I patiently watch, the thread will appear. It shimmers when the sunlight bounces off of

it. The thread glows in the wicked rain. The thread can easily be located at night. It sparkles beneath the stars and exudes brilliance. I grin at the couple. My voice aches, begging my mouth to move, but I restrain myself. Life changing secrets are visible through my pupils. A thread glimmers between lovebirds who are meant to be. The unlucky ones, for whom the love is temporary, share an empty space.

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“Julianna, are you listening to me?” I quickly turn my head away from the couple, blaming myself for staring. Landon, lying on the plush grass, throws a question in my face. I roll my eyes, “Were you informing me that a man was behind me with a gun?” He furrows his eyebrows. “No, of course that’s not what I was talking about.” I snatch my backpack and jump to my feet. “Then, I was not listening to you.” Landon scrambles to find his shoes before running to

by Caroline Donovan / threads join me. “Where do you go?” He asks. I begin to respond but my attention shifts. A boy and a girl stroll through the park. I slow my pace and search for a shimmering clue. A thin rope ties their bodies together. Suddenly, a body slams into my back. Landon grasps my arm and pulls me away from the woman who ran into me. She glares at me and finds a new path to follow. “Jules, you have to focus!” I swiftly turn my head, noticing that the boy and girl disappeared. “It’s like you are living an entirely different life inside of your mind.” His striking blue eyes blind me with their uncertainty. He really wants to know. He wants to know what haunts my mind. He wants to know what secrets I am hiding in the depths of my eyes. I am tempted to tell him, but I swallow the words. “I don’t go anywhere,” I stammer. “There’s just so much, too much, to see. You only have to search for it.” My phone vibrates in my back pocket. I lean in and wrap my arms around Landon. “I have to go; I’m cooking tonight.” He returns my hug and shakes his head as I run away from him. “I will never understand the mysterious Julianna!” He shouts. My cheeks burn with heat, and I force myself to run faster. I know for certain that if I stop and turn around, the thread I have always been searching for will not appear.

That evening, I was focused on threads and on Landon. My mind was not present as I chopped carrots and onions; my hands were slick with sweat. I furiously sliced the food, frustrated about the threads. For years, I studied the threads. I envied the threads. For years, I prayed that I would notice a thread between Landon and I.

Suddenly, the knife slips out of my grip and slices my thumb. Blood streams down my hand, feeling similar to warm, thick water. I throw the knife on the ground in a fit of rage. I reach into the medicine cabinet and am confronted by an empty box of band-aids. Using my right hand, I throw a paper towel over my throbbing thumb and apply pressure. I glance out of our frosted window and recognize the signs of an oncoming storm. Lacking the mobility to grab a coat, I run out the back door. Across the yard, Mr. Pearson’s living room lamp illuminates the windows. I shuffle around his garden of red peppers and cabbage and climb the porch steps. Still clutching my hand, I kick the glass door lightly. “Mr. Pearson? Are you home?” I yell through the glass. I am about to walk away when a stocky man struggles out of a dusty, blue recliner. I smile and gesture for him to come to the door. He hesitantly slides the door open, but he only leaves a small crack. “What do you want?” He growls. When he speaks, his glasses slip down the bridge of his wide nose. I continue to smile, despite the fact that my finger pulse thumps with ferocity. “I just need a band aid.” A gurgling sound escapes his mouth, “Fine. They are in the drawer next to the stove.” I offer a thankful grin and slip through the door. While unwrapping the bandage, I peer across the room at Mr. Pearson. My eyes immediately glance to his heart, searching for a thread. After moments of concentrating on his chest, I realize that he also is staring at me. “What are you looking at?” He snaps. I jump in my skin and swiftly tape the bandage on my thumb. “Sorry Sir,” I mumble. “I know that you don’t see

My America By Laura Haskin Blue and white Flimsy plastic lines Woven together, grated Down in a row Foldout chairs on the Asphalt, yellow and dotted Line of Main St. Small town Mayville, NY. July Fourth, it is a Monday This year, not the last When chapel bells rang Rhythms conflicting Brass bells clanging With the toots of the Sirens ready for the Parade. Small town not lacking Conviviality, when the Shriners spin by motors Churning humming red Race strips running 13 To the American flag. The sky blue as ever Our national ceiling Air crisp with excitement Clears itself for the day. My uncle’s throaty Cackle erupts beside meAunt Judy giggles and They laugh it all off. My eyes aren’t as glassy As they were years before The festivities agingThe ostentation unappealingNo longer the best country No longer top of the world.

Laura Haskin is a senior at Friends Select School in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Her creative nonfiction and poetry has been published in Philadelphia Stories and The Bell Literary Magazine. In her spare time, she enjoys cooking and functions as the founder of a food and travel blog, The Cedar Kitchenette.

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threads / by Caroline Donovan

g n i t i Wr t p om Pr

to what do I owe this pleasure?”

Combine three of the following elements into a story: A stolen ring, fear of spiders, and a sinister stranger.

My eyes shift to his heart. At first, I see nothing but the cotton fabric of his white shirt. Then, slowly, a shimmer sparks in the air. I focus, I will it to form, and the thread grows. It lengthens and defies the laws of science, stretching across the space between our bodies. Then, in a single precious moment, the thread touches my heart, sending vibrations through my body. A tear, disguised as rain, slips down my face. “Disappearing again?” He asks gruffly. I leap into his arms and passionately embrace Landon. My wet lips brush against his ear. “I’m not disappearing,” I whisper. “I’m seeing what I have been searching for.”

nothing there, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t something,” he whispers to no one in particular. I freeze and walk to where he sits. He peers at me through his bifocals. “Miss Julianna, it’s there if you want it to be there.” My confusion is caked on my face, “Mr. Pearson, what are you talking about?” He pulls himself out of the chair and leads me to the door. “Go home and clean up the knife you cut yourself with before your mother gets home.” He practically shoves me out of the door. A few reflective raindrops fall onto my hair. Looking back into the old man’s home through the cloudy light, I catch a shimmer. A thread barely visible to my trained eyes connects Mr. Pearson to a woman in a picture framed with glass. Mr. Pearson slightly turns, and a sparkle glows in his eyes. The same sparkle I saw in the woman’s eyes in the park that same day.

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Suddenly, a realization hits me in the face. I gallop into my home, sling the bloody towel into the trashcan, and snatch my car keys off the counter. In the confines of the car, my heart beats boldly. The rain pounds fiercely against the windshield. Before I realize where I am headed, my car screeches to a halt in front of Landon’s home. I jump out of the car and find myself standing on his doorstep. I knock multiple times in order to pass minutes in the icy rain. My body shivers, but I refuse to leave his doorstep; I need to know. Finally, Landon opens his door. The crust from an afternoon nap occupies the corners of his eyes. The V-neck shirt gives me a glimpse of his lean and muscular body. A light scruffle shadows his jaw. His crystal eyes sparkle in the rain. His chipped front tooth reveals itself in a brilliant smile. “My mysterious Julianna,

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Caroline Donovan attends Archmere Academy in Wilmington, Delaware. Her passion is writing, but she also enjoys playing sports. She competes in athletic events throughout the year. Caroline is a huge fan of John Green and has read all of his novels. She aspires to be a bestselling author and use her unique perspective to change the world.

Do you have a story, poem, or drawing to submit? Visit www.philadelphia stories.org/junior

cleats by Sydney Nixon

Baseball was my life. Whenever I was on the field in my muddy cleats, about to throw a game winning pitch, I felt important and powerful, like I had control over something in my life. But the magic ended when I stepped off the field and reality hit. When I stepped off that field I knew I had no control over anything, not even my own life. When I

changed out of my muddy cleats, I was reminded of my mom’s inevitable death. I was reminded that any day that I could lose my mom to cancer. I still remember the day I lost her. My team, the Anderson Alligators, had just won our game against the neighboring town, so I decided to run over to the hospital to tell her about

our victory. The run wasn’t very long or difficult since our town, Anderson, Alabama, was small and only had one hospital. When I made it to her room, she was sleeping. I watched for a bit as her chest rose and descended in sync with the beeps of her heart monitor before waking her up. “Mom,” I said as I lightly shook her shoulder, “wake up mom.” I watched as her eyes slowly fluttered open and she steadily propped herself up. “How are you sweetie, you look awfully chipper considering the weather.” I looked out her hospital window and noticed the heavy rain outside. “That’s odd, it wasn’t raining when I got here, but that’s besides the point. Remember that game I had today? We won!” “That’s great, sweetie!” She exclaimed. My smile faded shortly after when she started coughing into her hand. She drew her hand away from her mouth to reveal what appeared to be blood. I looked over to her heart monitor and noticed the beeps became less and less frequent. “Hey mom, are you okay?” “Wesley Reed Cooper, no matter what happens to mommy I want you to keep chasing your dreams.” I was seriously starting to worry about her. It was like she wasn’t registering anything I was saying and her eyes were starting to close, maybe for good. “Wesley, Wesley look at me,” At this point she was squinting at the ceiling: “Wesley, I want you to not worry about mommy. I want you to look forward into the future. I want you to throw on your cleats and run towards a better tomorrow.” This didn’t sound like words of enPhiladelphia Stories Teen 13

cleats / by Sydney Nixon couragement, it sounded like the dying words of a caring mother. “Mom...Mom, this isn’t funny...Mom? …Mom!” I watched as her eyes shut. It was like she was permanently sealing herself off from the world. The only thing that shook me out of his daze was the long and unending beep of the heart monitor, and the long, flat line extending from one edge of the other. As the doctors started to flood into the room, I couldn’t stand to be in there any longer. I ran as far as my legs could take me, I

sunk down to the ground and cried until my eyes were red and sore. As I cried, my tears mixed together with the rain into large drops of despair, and in that moment I came a realization; my mom was gone and she wasn’t coming back. Ten years later, I still keep those cleats with me. Even though I quit baseball a long time ago, those cleats mean so much to me. They’re a symbol of hope; they’re a symbol to always look towards the future. When I feel like all hope is lost, I look towards those cleats

and think about the words my deceased mother told me 10 years ago, and they give me motivation to push through the darkness into the light.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Sydney Nixon is a rising ninth grader who likes writing. Along with writing, she also enjoys volleyball, track and reading. She lives in Philadelphia with her mom and dog, but spends every other weekend with her step-mom and dad. Her favorite subject in school is math and my favorite show is Pretty Little Liars.

Battle Scars By Sarah Lopez The scars— What are they? Don’t worry, I’ll be fine The scars— What are they? Something I Left behind The scars— What are they? A dark secret Of mine The scars— What are they? They’ll go away With time The scars— What are they? A war within My mind

Sarah Lopez is a student at the Feltonville School of Arts and Sciences.

14 Philadelphia Stories Teen

www.philadelphiastories.org/junior COMMUNAL PEN FRIEND By Francesca Wilkin Part I. Sometimes, I forget to breathe. Chewing bone and swallowing pride. What are you afraid of? I fall in love with hickeys, I am addicted to caffeine for a reason. Lady Caramel, Princess Pastel Pink, King of Gold, Queen of Blue. I saw someone who doesn’t exist today, a purple flower of phlox in an ocean of sunlight-filtered water. And in the perforated pages of my blank-lined notebook mind, you leave seductive stains of liquefied gold. (chemical name Au) The sun is in my eyes, but I feel fine. The red paint hasn’t dried, I am smiling into open air. The rain is in my eyes, but I feel fine. Part II. Like Sylvia Plath, we hath weary eyes, tired hearts, and strong bones. Rolled-up sweater sleeves, an autumn leaf

sits on my shoulder as a dull reminder of everything cold. My body and mind are permanently sick with disgust of hidden claws and hidden thorns. Of cages and their keys and of all that is unholy and wrong. I repeat, this too, shall pass, this too, shall pass, this too, shall pass. Living for my own cause, a lost purpose punctuated by wet hair and smiling eyes, brown eyes. I like boys and girls with brown eyes. My bruises have faded. The sun is in my tired eyes and I feel like I’ve been kissed by an angel. He asks where, and with my pointer finger I stroke both wrists, both hips, both shoulder blades. Scar tissue doesn’t heal, spirals on knuckles, I’ll make art by punching walls. Sometimes, I forget to breathe. Francesca Wilkin is 17 years old and a junior at Harriton High School in Rosemont, PA. She have been writing for most of her life but only in 9th grade did she start writing poetry. This is her first published piece.

Philadelphia Stories Teen 15

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