2022 OKCTE Young Writers Anthology, 9-12 by Sarah Donovan

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2022 Young Writers Anthology Grades 9-12 By Students of Oklahoma

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About the Anthology This anthology contains the winning works submitted for the annual Oklahoma Young Writers Contest, sponsored by the Oklahoma Council of Teachers of English, the state affiliate of the National Council of Teachers of English. We received nearly 500 entries with the support of nearly 60 educators across the state of Oklahoma. The winners, ranging from grades 9-12, submitted works for short story, personal narrative, comic, poetry, descriptive paragraph, and expository essay. To the writers included in this year’s anthology, Congratulations on this prestigious achievement! Submission Policy & Review Process The Young Writers Anthology welcomes submissions from any student grades 9-12 in Oklahoma between November and January via online submission form. Teachers submit work on behalf of the students verifying they have read the work, have parent permission to enter the work for publication, and that the work is original. What is submitted must be a “final'' copy as we will not make requests for revisions. From January to March, the review board judges each entry using the same rubric developed by the Oklahoma Council of Teachers of English. Each piece is reviewed by multiple members of the review boards. During March, the editorial and layout teamwork to copy edit and create the anthology. All writers are notified in late March through teacher contact as to the status of their entry. Anthology writers will receive a certificate of congratulations at the OKCTE April gathering. Editorial Policy The Young Writers Anthology editorial staff reserves the right to edit minor errors such as grammatical and spelling issues.

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OKCTE Board Member Anthology Reviewers Sarah J. Donovan Rebecca Weber Jo Flory Jason Stephenson Brogan Spears Jinan El Sabbagh Jennifer Williams Mykkisu Quimby Oklahoma State University Writing Mentors Reviewers & Editors Garrett Davis Adam Fraser Emma Hosey Hailey Juen Connor Latham Carolina Lopez Burrola Elissa Miller Maria Risley Jordan Young

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The Oklahoma Council of Teachers of English Board 2021-2022 President - Jo Flory Immediate Past President (2020-2021) - Jennie Hanna President Elect - Justin Yates Vice President - Darla Tresner Executive Secretary - Lara Searcy (Interim) Executive Treasurer - Lara Searcy Oklahoma English Journal Editors - Michelle Waters & Jennifer Williams Geraldine Burns Award Coordinators - Tessie Curran & Dani Nagel Young Writers Contest Coordinator - Sarah Donovan Historian - Crag Hill Librarian Sectional Officer - Rebecca Weber Elementary Sectional Officer - Deb Wade Secondary Sectional Officer - Jason Stephenson Professional Development Coordinator - Lara Searcy Regional Coordinator (North) - Lindsey Cherry Regional Coordinator (East) - Mykkisu Quimby Regional Coordinator (West) - Jason Poudrier Regional Coordinator (South) - Open Regional Coordinator (Central) - Christina Kirk & Chara Patterson Regional Coordinator (Private Schools) - Open Sectional Coordinator (New Teachers) - Tessie Curran Diversity Committee - Jennifer Williams and Shaista Fenwick (Co-Chairs) Brogan Spears, Jinan Elsabbagh and Lisa Smith (Committee Members) Advocacy Award – Claudia Swisher

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TABLE OF CONTENTS Cover Art Name

School

Teacher

Grade

Title

Linnea Naumann

Moore High School

Danielle O'Rourke

The Universe of Imagination

Descriptive Paragraph, p.13 Luci Stinson

Oologah High School

Jennifer Denslow

Scissortail (art)

Lauren Marnell

Jenks Freshman Academy

Katy Sanderlin

Kenophobia

Jennie Higdon Washington High School

Dawn Lanham

The Breath Before

Grace Ward

Leedey

Morgan Lady

Pandemic Through My Senses

Hope Wells

Broken Arrow High School

Brian Keathley

Dandelion

Coleman Gilles

Kingfisher High School Melinda Rowan

The Bathroom: A Story of Triumph, Grief, and Perseverance

Expository Essay, p. 21 Danielle Amos Coweta High School

Shelley K. Self

Stiffened Worry (art)

Addy Wood

Edmond North

Amanda Becker

Women in Danger: Inequality in Medical Care

Elora Johnson

Edmond North

Amanda Becker

Homeownership: Inequality Still Exists

Meghan Thomale

Norman High School

Sara Doolittle

The Worth of His Father

Aubrey Berry

Moore High School

Danielle O'Rourke

Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women

Joseph Wang

Grove High School

Amber Harrison

The Sublimity of Classical Music

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Personal Narrative, p.33 Name

School

Teacher

Grade

Title

Harini Senthil

Jenks Freshman Academy

Emily Stewart

Perch (art)

Yara Ismail

Stillwater Junior High

Desa James

The Grand Villa

Grace L. Bowden

Fairview High School

Robin Cox

Melancholy Hope

Gitashri

Edmond North High

Amanda Becker

Basketball and Belonging

Gopalakrishnan School

Gavin Barlor

Del City High School

Lisa O’Nan

Nobody Likes Bleu Cheese

Will Madden

Norman High School

Sara Doolittle

On Manspread and Miracles

Poetry, p. 45 Katie Kinsey

Fox Public Schools

Brent Phelps

Trespass (art)

Brecklynn Carnes

Grove High School

Amber Harrison

The Chains of Society

Kaylee McClellan

Broken Arrow

Brian Keathley

Chapters

Allison Houchin

Norman High School

Sara Dolittle

New Beginnings and Familiar Ends

Keira Ward

Plainview High School Sawyer Winland

My Monsters

Jordan Six

Washington High School

Dawn Lanham

We Do Not See the Same

Casey Dawson Moore High School

Danielle O'Rourke

The Desert

Jessie Bland

Taloga High School

Chism Sander

The Moon’s Severed Heart

Jana Ismail

Stillwater High School

Hope Higgins

The Lost Game

Ryqlien Mehlhorn

Broken Arrow High School

Brian Keathley

Eulogy Island

Julia Willis

Skiatook High School

Katrina Morrison

All Created Equal

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Short Story, p. 57 Name

School

Teacher

Grade

Title

Grace Bowden Fairview High School

Robin Cox

Dragon-flight (art)

Caleb Noble

Bray Doyle High School

Sierra Newey

The Ice Cream Man

Ash Housel

Grove High School

Amber Harrison

Dead Girl

Tasha Conley

Broken Arrow High School

Brian Keathley

As If Nothing Ever Happened

Valery Gutierrez

Jenks Freshman Academy

Emily Stewart

Pine Trees and Coffee Beans

Tessa Inman

Lindsay High School

Amelia Harrison

The Legend of the Hummingbird

Comic, p. 73 Zoë Hager

Community Christian School, Norman

Kathryn Lawler

Football Band (art)

Elizabeth Terrill

Moore High School

Danielle O'Rourke

Don’t Google It

Amber Harrison

A Makeup Tutorial

Natalie Huynh Grove High School

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Kenophobia Lauren Marnell Standing on the precipice of the night, you are caught between the void you know and the one you don’t. Is the sky falling or are you? Perhaps both. Ask yourself, does it matter? Even if the sky encroaches, it doesn’t change the fact that the endless expanse has always been on your porch step instead of locked away in its little box in the heavens. Do the stars look bigger or is the night shrinking? Perhaps both. Perhaps neither. Doesn’t it feel as if you could shout loud enough, the sound would echo back at you against the black? It looks like a canvas, doesn’t it? The stars as if splattered white paint, faded by time and weather. But what in this universe would have the power to fade the stars? Don’t you fear it? Why aren't you scared? Does the absence of fear mean the presence of bravery or the presence of insanity? Perhaps both. The sky asks you these questions. It yells at them, the silence its own kind of scream. You want to answer. But are you able to? The void asks. Doesn’t knowing the answers make the questions pointless? And is the universe even any more knowing than us? The night asks. Or is it as confused and scared as we are, its immensity as frightening to itself as it is to us? You ask this question in the void, as if your own voice can do anything to drown out the ringing in your ears (it can’t). As if you can make the void bleed, as it has done to you (you can’t). As if anyone can hear you (they won’t). Is the reactionless face of the sky comforting or horrifying? The sky refuses to judge. It refuses to help. It says that you cannot find answers in the void if you cannot find answers in yourself. And are they, the void and you, not merely one in the same? Perhaps you fear the night because it is your own soul projected and mirrored back at you, punctuated and punctured through with stars. Perhaps looking out forces you to look in. Perhaps you don’t like what we see. If you were the void, wouldn’t you scream too? The sky asks. Is it not human nature to wish to know what you shouldn’t? The sky asks. But in knowing wouldn’t you be forfeiting the very thing that makes you human? The sky asks too much. You do not know the answer. You are thinking that, maybe, you no longer want to know. You cannot hide forever, the sky weeps, its tears falling down upon your skin. You are too frail to last for long against the endless continuity of the unknown, the void tells you. And you should be grateful for that, the night finishes. The winds howl. You howl back. The stars, the sky, the creatures below, together they join you. Tell me, if the gods hear this desperate chorus, why don’t they respond?

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The Breath Before Jennie Higdon The hall echoes with the soft, shifting rustles of the crowd as the orchestra waits for the maestro to assume position. The maestro readies, becoming like a breathless statue, arms lifted and to the ready. In a second, there is absolute silence, the only sound being the soft whoosh of air as the people breathe. The watchers are completely focused. Then the maestro moves, all eyes on her wrist. In a moment, filled with anticipation and relief, the orchestra breathes. But then there is something else. There was a fleeting microsecond before the exhale, where there was not a sound to be heard in the world. Like a ball suspended in the air, weightless and free-flying for a moment, there was everything. Every sound filled like the greatest symphony never heard by everyone present. The silence in that crack in the universe held all the music -beautiful and impossible and necessary. It was deep and bright: a terrible, wonderful cacophony of emotions brought into the world by the sounds that were not. Their ears heard absolutely nothing, but their souls could feel and hear with absolute clarity a being that could never be. Too awesome to exist and yet, they were allowed a glimpse of it. It wasn’t labeled or thought about or given any words of its own. It was an innate understanding that flowed and seeped onto those who experienced it. In the dead silence, there was music, and it was all the music.

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The Pandemic Through My Senses Grace Ward A pandemic - a disease prevalent over a whole country or the world. I see a whole different world. A world overflowing with sickness and death. I see the faces of grieving souls. Souls that long for their loved ones that have been taken by a silent and invisible power. I see faces blocked off by thick blue material. I see only sad eyes peering from above a mask that not one person finds joy in wearing. I feel trapped. Trapped by this ravaging disease that takes new lives every day. Confined to this small space that is my home. The only place I feel secure. I taste home-cooked meals. Chicken fry sizzling on the stove accompanied with mashed potatoes, both releasing a savory smell that fills our kitchen to the brim. After dinner, popcorn that leaves a sweet and salty taste on your tongue is made for a movie night that has become a main source of entertainment in my household. This is only one of the comforting things I can find in this world that is now full of misery. I hear voices coming from our small television positioned in the far corner of our living room. Voices droning on about how bad it’s becoming beyond the walls of my serenity. I smell alcohol. Alcohol from the small bottles that now surround every entrance to every building. A never ending aroma of sanitizer that is the product of people trying to clean this relentless illness off of every surface. A pandemic - an entity that haunts our world.

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Dandelion Hope Wells My favorite flower was always the dandelion. The most stubborn of all flowers, appearing in every nook and cranny. Light and carefree in the spring, cheerful yellow in the summer, and patent and resilient in the cold. An adaptable clever flower that society still views as a weed. With the delicate and elegant name the flower weaves itself into flower crowns fit for young queens. The untamed flower, only appearing in a garden if it so wished, roamed freely from domestication and thrived. A dandelion has never been purposefully placed in a pot, trimmed and watered. A dandelion forces a place for itself, unapologetically announcing its presence, never ignoring its needs for the fear of burdening others. A dandelion stands to be bright and seen, even for the price of a reputation as a weed.

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The Bathroom: A Story of Triumph, Grief, and Perseverance Coleman Gilles Bathrooms are not normally something to be admired. Although they are not always the most pleasant, they serve a purpose. Contrarily, there is one bathroom that makes you question its purpose and yours. It is the boys’ bathroom in the commons at Kingfisher High School. It smells like the aftermath of Gettysburg was contained to three too-small porcelain bowls and then deep-fried. For the sake of you, the reader, I will not go into depth on the mind-wrenching sounds that escape those men caught in their most vulnerable state. Once you enter, the stench slaps your face, rips out your eyeballs, penetrates through your skull to your brain, and then it forces you into temporary paralysis. The restroom provokes feelings of temporary madness where you will do anything for a breath of fresh air, much like a Viking berserker after his loot. You contemplate your life choices leading up to this moment, and as soon as you recover, you begin to plot your escape. Even though your mind is clouded, and your movements are limited, instincts take over and you manage to operate the mysteriously wet door handle. You are able to escape, but you must shut the door to preserve humanity, leaving fallen soldiers behind you. You run down the hall to escape but are wrongfully scolded by the teacher nearest to you. The teacher who ended your escape attempt has no idea what you have just gone through, and they probably could not comprehend it through words. It is hard enough to write it out on paper even after having hours to recover. Horror, slimy, grotesque, and dingy all have been words muttered to anyone who will listen after you escaped the small but hellish room, and you lived to tell the tale. But once finished, you feel relieved, mentally and physically, and can continue on with your day. There might be one positive out of the experience you just had though, as you will develop a lifelong bond with your peers with whom you conquered the wretched room. After you have had time to celebrate, there comes grief though. In the act of surviving, there was dying. In memorial to the fallen, you give the toilet a resounding flush, hopefully ending the suffering of future men.

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Women in Danger: Inequality in Medical Care Addy Wood Since the beginning of time, women have struggled to have the same rights and equality as men. I have never experienced a severe enough illness to result in the need of intense medical care, but who says I will not at some point? As a young, adolescent woman, it terrifies me to think that at some point I may not experience the best medical care solely because I am a woman. Gender inequality in medical care is a major social injustice, because it limits women's access to medical care which can have life threatening consequences. Gender inequality heavily affects and increases the rates of illness in women. Often, in healthcare, womens’ outcomes from illnesses turn out much worse. For example, since 1984 women have higher heart attack rates that lead to death than men do (Jefferson). In some cases, women have received the same therapies and treatments as men and their odds have still suffered (Jefferson). The danger lies in the response to heart attacks for women, not the heart attacks themselves (Jefferson). Women and men present heart attacks and their symptoms differently due to their anatomy, hormones, and chemical balances (Jefferson). Doctors have studied men more than women (Paulsen). Therefore, the entire medical field has studied and knows more about men as a whole which often means women do not receive the best and most optimal care (Paulsen). This can be crucial for the rates of illness and outcomes for men vs. women (Paulsen). Sadly, it is not just heart attacks. Women also seem to struggle to be heard in areas as simple as pain management. Women who fight a battle with chronic pain and illness are frequently told things like, “it’s all in your head” or “you will be fine” (Fetters). Women and men can present the same symptoms and complain about the exact same pain and the doctors are 12% more likely to listen to men over women (Fetters). If women cannot be heard about their own personal symptoms, it can impact their health negatively. If a woman is truly sick and the doctor refuses to examine her and listen to her complaints, she will grow more sick and in some cases possibly die. Women have always been known as living longer than men. While this is true, the gap is narrowing, and the mortality rate is growing for women (Leefeldt). Around 2001, women were living nine to twelve years longer than men (Leefeldt). Today, women are only living three to five years longer (Leefeldt). The mortality rate for women is slowly climbing because women’s lives are often less valued, especially in the eyes of men (Iqbal). Men feel more compelled to succeed in front of another man, whether that’s a colleague or a patient (Iqbal). In the medical field specifically, men outnumber women dramatically. Men outnumber women by at least 73% in the fields of Orthopedic surgery, Neurological surgery, Thoracic surgery, Pain medicine, and Radiology

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(Murphy). Coincidentally, women outnumber men in less emergent fields such as Gynecology, Immunology, Pediatrics, Hospice, Dermatology, and Genetics (Murphy). If a man feels more compelled to impress and meet a man's health needs over a woman´s, it can lead to more complications and not thorough exams which can lead to death, causing the mortality for women to rise. Even if the male doctor is doing his job 100% correctly, the woman may still not feel comfortable being mainly surrounded by men in a hospital or clinic. Statistics show that men are more likely to talk over and interrupt women (Maderer). This means women may not feel completely comfortable with a male doctor. A woman may feel she is being judged and cannot express fully how she is feeling. This may lead to lack of detail that could be fatal in the final diagnosis. In conclusion, women are often treated more poorly than men when it comes to health care. I believe there should be a change in the healthcare system to make sure men and women are treated 100% equally, so young women like myself do not have to live with the constant fear of not getting proper medical treatment. Gender inequality in medical care is a social injustice because it limits women's access to quality medical care which can have fatal consequences.

Homeownership: Inequality Still Exists Elora Johnson The world has changed considerably as the pandemic has progressed. Wearing masks, increased sanitation, and working from home have all become normalized. With people spending more time at home, they have realized their current housing may not be sufficient. Due to opportune times to make housing changes, obstacles minorities tackle to make housing changes have become more prominent. Effects of policies implemented a century ago are still evident today on minorities’ abilities in the housing market. The Great Depression impacted American families negatively. Millions of Americans lost their jobs, the average national income plummeted, and families faced foreclosure on their homes, all by 1933 (Little). In 1934, the New Deal provided instructions for housing loans, but specifically stated “it was risky to make mortgage loans in predominantly black areas'' (Little). Attempted reparations from the 1968 Fair Housing Act helped some, yet those initially targeted were still affected. When researchers studied neighborhoods across the states, a pattern was found: compared to those in the same city, people in neighborhoods once subject to redlining were more likely to have shorter lifespans (Godoy). Limitations on loans, difficulties buying and refinancing homes, and houses falling into ruin, caused many health hazards to appear (Godoy). Because of declining prosperity in these neighborhoods, retailers moved out and industrial sites moved in, bringing a lack of fresh food and a EXPOSITORY ESSAY

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bounty of pollutants (Godoy). Each factor led to a shorter life expectancy in these neighborhoods (Godoy). While redlining is no longer a practice, neighborhoods that were neglected years ago are suffering. Most homes are bought with financing to help. Compared to white households, black households are more likely to have $10,000 more in student debts, which affects the types obtainable loans (Stauffer). Other issues come with selling or refinancing homes. After refinancing, black homeowners interest rates were similar to white homeowners’ before refinancing (Hanifa). House appraisals are also filled with discrimination. Descrimination in appraisals towards black homeowners is prominent even in mostly white or mixed neighborhoods (Kamin). In many situations, if black homeowners are able to make their house seem like a white person's home, the appraisal value is raised (Kamin). While the market had low refinance rates, the Hortons, a family of mixed race, decided to get their home appraised (Kamin). Their home was appraised for less than the minimum selling price of homes in their neighborhood (Kamin). After the appraisal's low numbers, the family removed any traces of black relatives there, and the home’s value rose over 40% (Kamin). Appraisals are reliant on absence of bias, yet this often isn’t the case and can be detrimental to black homeowners (Kamin). During this process financial disparities are amplified. After years of black Americans facing discrimination, attempted reparations are finally being put into action. For Juneteenth and National Homeownership Month, lawmakers gatheredin Cleveland and announced they would start an initiative to help three million black people become homeowners by 2030 (Campisi). After George Floyd’s murder, many large banks began programs to help with racial inequality in the housing market (McMullen). Wells Fargo Bank added $60 million in lending and has helped $60,527 families (McMullen). The Biden administration outlined plans to close the homeownership gap (Campisi). Some plans include: investing in communities targeted by racist policies and addressing appraisal bias (Campini). The executive director of the National Association of Real Estate Brokers said, “The fact is we need more black loan officers, more black underwriters and appraisers to effectively deal with the issues of bias in the industry,” (McMullen). Since the passing of the Fair Housing Act in 1968, the homeownership gap has widened to a point that erased almost all the previous progress (McMullen). The road to reparations is a long one, but dedication and help from influential figures can help fix it. The impact of discriminatory policies implemented 100 years ago are still evident on the housing market today. Black families still struggle to obtain mortgages and loans. Due to unconscious bias, appraisals are unfair and completed unjustly. However, companies began realizing damages done and are

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implementing plans to fix them, but there is more to be done to eliminate discrimination in the housing market.

‘The Worth of His Father’: The Effect of Parental Expectations in Things Fall Apart Meghan Thomale In the novel Things Fall Apart, Chinua Achebe tells the story of Okonkwo, a man of high status living in precolonial Africa. Throughout the story, Okonkwo deals with conflict both within himself and with others. These conflicts are especially evident with his family members. Through his portrayal of parent-child relationships in Things Fall Apart, Achebe shows how parents and children often have conflicting expectations for each other, which creates distance in the relationship. Through the relationship of Okonkwo and his son Nwoye, Achebe shows how the expectations parents and children have for each other are often very different. In chapter 7, Okonkwo wants Nwoye to “grow into a tough young man, capable of ruling his father’s household” (Achebe 52). Okonkwo is looking for strength and self-reliance in Nwoye. He wants his son to be able to maintain his position in society and carry on his father’s legacy. As a result of this expectation, Okonkwo is tough on Nwoye, placing him under constant criticism and heavy beatings. As Nwoye states in the same chapter, he “knew it was right to be masculine and violent, but somehow he still preferred the stories his mother used to tell” (Achebe 53). Nwoye expects his parental figure to be a source of comfort and nurturing. As such, he prefers to be around his mother rather than Okonkwo. Nwoye is aware of his father’s expectations for him. However, Nwoye’s own ideas of a nurturing parent-child relationship conflict with his father’s expectations of masculinity. Like Okonkwo, parents are often stern with their children to help shape them to fit their own ideals. This conflict in expectations can also be seen in the relationship between Okonkwo and his own father, Unoka. Okonkwo often looks back on his father with shame and disgust, calling him “lazy and improvident” and “quite incapable of thinking about tomorrow” (Achebe 4). Okonkwo expected his father to be a strong support for his family, leaving behind a sturdy legacy for his sons to carry on. This expectation carried on into Okonkwo’s relationship with his own sons and daughters. His “heavy handed” method of interacting with his family stemmed from his fear of being seen as weak, like his father. Okonkwo refuses to rely on anyone but himself. This extreme self-reliance can be seen after Okonkwo’s failed crop harvest. Unoka offers him advice and comfort, telling him “I know you will not despair…It is more difficult and bitter when a man fails

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alone” (Achebe 25). Unoka’s reliance on others led to his crippling debt. As Okonkwo’s father, he expects Okonkwo to lean on him for words of comfort in hard times. However, due to Okonkwo’s independence, Unoka’s attempts to connect only try Okonkwo’s patience. Through the relationship between Okonkwo and Unoka, we see how parents often expect their children to take solace in their comfort and advice, while children look to gain independence from their parents. In Okonkwo’s relationships with Nwoye and Unoka, neither side is able to meet the expectations of the other, which creates distance within their relationship. Okonkwo viewed Unoka’s reliance on others as a weakness, causing him to fear being seen in the same way, but “he expelled it by thinking of his own strength and success” (Achebe 66). Okonkwo believed his father’s life was a failure, so he sought to distance himself from his father by becoming as rich and powerful as possible. Okonkwo lived in constant fear of being connected to him in any way. Nwoye also sought to distance himself from Okonwo, which he achieved by joining Christianity, which “seemed to answer a vague and persistent question…of Ikemefuna who was killed” (Achebe 147). Ikemefuna’s death at Okonkwo's hands served to cause an even larger rift between Nwoye and Okonkwo. Nwoye no longer saw Okonkwo as a protector or role model. However, he did see Christianity as a source of comfort that his father had never been. Instead of repairing his relationship with his father, Nwoye finds another way to fulfill his expectations outside of Okonkwo. Whenever the expectations of a relationship aren’t met, children dissociate themselves from their parents and seek answers from another source. Through his portrayal of parent-child relationships, Achebe works to show how while parents try to shape their children to be more like them, children seek support from their parents to become their own person. When children don’t receive that support, they often seek it somewhere else, whether in themselves, another person, or even in an ideology. Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women: Selena Not Afraid Aubrey Elaine In Indigenous communities, the men and women have different, but special, roles. Our women are known to be mothers, fierce leaders, and they help preserve our traditions. Unfortunately, they have been taken advantage of since 1608. The first Missing and Murdered Indigenous Woman, Pocahontas. For many years the MMIW movement has been trying to reach across America their mission and to stop this epidemic of Indigenous women and girls, disappearing without a trace. Pocahontas was unfortunately the first known

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MMW, she was captured by settlers, raped, and forced into marriage. Disney romanticized this horrible situation by making it seem like rainbows and butterflies, but that is not what happened. Since then, MMIW.usa has come up with a mission to decrease the numbers or to help get the answers of these women’s families. Their mission reads, “MMIW USA’s number one mission is to bring our missing home and help the families of the murdered cope and support them through the process of grief. We give them hands-on support and guidance and if we don’t have the answers, we get the answers so that these families do not feel abandoned and alone in this struggle like so many have before them. Our broader goal is to eradicate this problem so that the future generations thrive. We are doing that through education of the threats that they face and self-defense. We just started a monthly program to do just that. It is called Staying Sacred and we educate and have self-defense lessons at every meeting. Our strength lies in the fact that every single one of the staff and volunteers have been assaulted or trafficked and our passion is to be the kind of organization that we needed growing up and beyond.” One of the many MMIW cases that caught the eye of many people, was the case of Selena Not Afraid. Selena was 16 years old, she loved to play basketball and ride horses. She resided in Hardin, Montana and was of the Crow Tribe. She was reported missing on January 1st, 2020 to the police by her family after she never returned home that night from a party. Selena’s aunt, Cheryl Horn, was a huge art in her niece’s case, because she wanted answers and to find her. Horn told Dateline, “We’re not going to be just a file in the cabinet, we’re going to find our girl. And when Selena is found, there are hundreds of more girls behind her waiting to be found.” Horn had camped out at the rest stop, allegedly where Selena was last seen, for 13 days. During their search, a Snapchat video shows Selena arguing and allegedly fist fighting with an older man outside the rest stop where she was last seen. Also in the video, a woman that is recording shows the blood on her pants while showing a bottle of alcohol. NBC news reported that Big Horn County Sheriff's Officials had stated, “According to Big Horn County Sheriff’s officials, Selena was among six people driving from Billings to Hardin when their car broke down. It eventually started again and four people left Selena and her friend at the rest stop. The driver of the vehicle called a relative to pick up the two girls. When the relative arrived, the friend was still there. She said Selena had walked off into a nearby field. Family members were worried because they said this wasn’t like her and she was insufficiently dressed for low temperatures that had dipped below freezing.” 20 days after she was reported missing, Selena's body was found less than a mile from the rest stop. This did not make sense because they had helicopters, people on horseback, and people on foot,

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searching that area for almost 20 days straight. Selena’s autopsy revealed that she died of hypothermia, but it was not cold enough for someone to die of hypothermia that night. Her death was later identified as ‘accidental.’Diandra Pitman was the individual who hosted the party Selena was invited to, because of her choice to purposely drink alcohol and have drinks available, Pitman was charged with endangering the welfare of children. The other men that were allegedly in an altercation with Selena, have fled Montana and have not been seen since. Unfortunately, this is one of the many cases that MMIW attempts to cover because the government would dismiss cases just like this one. MMIW families get the answers about their loved ones and help solve cases, as they stated in their mission statement. Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women is very imporant and should not be ignored. One day, this could be your mother, sister, or even your daughter. As of 2016, the National Crimes Information Center has reported that 5,712 cases of MMIW and the U.S Department of Justice missing persons database has only 116 of those 5,712 cases have been reported. To have our voices heard, Indigenous communities have developed projects, organizations, such as MMIW, and even going to our presidents to help sign bills that ensure that we would receive more help with these cases. In conclusion, it is important to take this seriously because it could easily be one of your family members one day. Our women and girls are going missing with no trace, and this is devastating to our indigenous communities.

The Sublimity of Classical Music Joseph Wang Classical music is the most sophisticated as well as one of the oldest genres of music. However, nowadays due to the lack of understanding or to the rapid evolution of music, classical music has lost much of its former recognition and popularity. Concert halls are steadily losing their audience, world-class soloists and composers of the canon of classical music are less and less recognized, and classical music is subject to increasing criticism and ridicule. It's beauty, intricacy, profoundness, and the effort and dedication the composers and performers put in are largely neglected or forgotten. However, the opposition to the previously stated viewpoint is that classical music is boring, snobbish, elitist, and outdated. They argue that classical music lacks lyrics, beat, and is made up of a jumble of complicated notes. This essay will seek to support classical music in an age-old controversy of the traditional versus the contemporary.

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As one musicologist puts it, music (in general) is defined as "the organization of sound towards beauty.” All music should have a melody, a guiding phrase or theme composed of a sequence of various notes with the purpose of creating a melodic contour that appeals to the composer and listener's sense of aesthetic beauty. That is the basic concept of music. Classical music, or the Western art music spans several music eras including the Renaissance (1450 1600), the Baroque era (1600 - 1750), the Classical era (1750 - 1830), and the Romantic era (1830 - 1920). The main purpose of classical music is to be listened to and enjoyed. It seeks to imitate art by incorporating its aesthetic, intrinsic, and emotional beauty. Throughout its history, composers of classical music have always sought to better music by continually improving upon its basic concept to produce unparalleled works of art for listeners to enjoy. Classical music has been shown to impart numerous health benefits to the listeners. Studies conclude that people who listen to classical music while studying were more receptive to information due to a heightened emotional state. Classical music has also been proven to reduce stress, boost the immune system, lower blood pressure, and benefit sleep patterns. It has been shown that men listening to Bach concertos while taking a stress biopsy displayed no spikes in their blood pressure. Out of individuals who listened to classical, jazz, and pop music, individuals who listened to classical music showed significantly lower blood pressure than individuals who listened to other genres of music, demonstrating the relaxive and focusing properties of classical music. One argument against classical music is that its enthusiasts have been criticized for possessing an elitist and snobbish mentality, declaring classical music to be superior but not giving adequate reasons and proof. Although some people who love classical music have this attitude of elitism and antagonize the other party, both sides miss the point. The purpose of all music, especially classical music, is to create beauty from sounds to be shared with listeners, to be relished and enjoyed, and not to show disrespect and contempt to the other genres. The etiquettes of classical music exist to show the performers and listeners respect (i.e. no clapping between movements), not to show elitism. Another argument against classical music is that it lacks lyrics, beat, and is made up of a jumble of complicated notes. The contribution of each note is of inestimable worth to the piece. It's the very harmonies and melodies of classical music, concocted in minds centuries ago, allowing glimpses through the mind of the composer's circumstances at that point in history that make the works of classical music such a legacy. Listening to the composer's music is like listening to a story. Each phrase imparts its significance and meaning. Music and the musicians deserve to be respected and appreciated. Listening to music with a closed mind makes it hard to think and understand EXPOSITORY ESSAY

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what emotions the composer is imparting to the listeners in the music. Listeners should always bear in mind the grueling hours of practice the performers went through, the labor of the composers who had to compose on pen and paper, and how musicians poured their life into the creation of good music. Classical music manifests the most emotional, aesthetic, and spiritual qualities of all music. By studying and listening to classical music it not only benefits your health, you learn through it to feel, think, and experience deeply the things in life. Although other genres of music have its beauty and intricacy, classical music is the most listener-beneficial, emotionally eloquent, and therefore sublime genre of music.

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The Grand Villa Yara Ismail The sweet scent of arabic jam and scrambled eggs filled my bedroom and I could hear the roosters crowing as the sun was beautifully rising. I was in a place like no other with people who I loved like no one else in the world. I waddled out of my bed with my sisters still sound asleep and headed towards the bathroom. The bathrooms in my grandparents’ villa were somewhat old and still carried the ugly green color with tiny square tiles, and a dim light. Things I considered unpleasant but now wish to experience just one more time. I walked down the grand staircase that made the villa unique compared to any other villa around us, feeling like a princess as I took each step. When I was downstairs I found my lovely grandmother, tata Sawsan, in the kitchen getting breakfast ready and of course she gave me an oration about how late I’ve slept in. Tata Sawsan started calling on all my uncles and their families to come downstairs and I gave my cousins a wink signaling we would all play tag in the fields when breakfast was over. I loved spending my summers in Egypt as much as children love cake, but I loved it even more when I spent them in the villa with my whole extended family. All of them lived in Saudi Arabia so getting to temporarily live with them for almost two whole months was like a dream come true. After breakfast my cousins and I sprinted outside and ran down the outdoor ‘grand staircase’ as fast as a predator running after it’s prey. Obviously though, we all yielded when we came to the elegant Guava tree gently dangling down the stairwell and picked out a couple of fresh guavas. As we played I passed by my uncle, Mahmoud, who was watering the pomegranate bushes and date trees and of course I begged him to use the watering hose myself. Afterwards he took me for a walk around the villa and every time we passed by the garage he would laugh as he relayed stories of how he and his brothers would have to spend the night there as a punishment for misbehaving or getting a bad grade. He mentioned it was similar to being grounded but with more Egyptian spice to it. Uncle Mahmoud continued and told me stories about mice or rats getting in the villa and how a ginormous party would start as he and my mom, along with the rest of their brothers, would all grab a ‘weapon’ and chase the mouse until it was dead. He finished by saying that the one who killed it first was usually ‘the grand warrior.’ When the sun glamorously set and the surrounding mosques called for Maghrib prayer my cousins and I knew it was time to go inside, although our parents were not at all pleased with the mud and dirt that had covered us from head to toe. After cleaning myself I snuggled in tata Sawsan’s lap and she

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braided my hair as she sang, “Bahlam bekey haga kebra, ooly wazera, ooly safera, aw sahafeya aw doctora.” A famous Arabic lullaby that translates to, “I have a big dream for you, possibly a minister, possibly an ambassador, or a journalist, or a doctor.” I hugged her tight before going to bed. Little did I know that six years later I would be mourning her loss. My dearest tata Sawsan who passed in 2019. Little did I know that I would no longer be able to hug her tight, and let my ears enjoy her lovely lullabies. After our whole family used to spend months in the villa, none of us even visit anymore. Last time I visited and went up the outdoor staircase, the elegant guava tree was dead, just like the owners of the vast place. It’s leaves that were once divine had all fallen leaving a bare tree behind. The plants were no longer tended to and no laughter could be heard. I had no idea that the villa that witnessed our family gatherings, jokes, movie nights, karaoke contests, and fiercest games of tag, would one day have a FOR SALE sign next to it. The truth is that time is something inevitable, sometimes one wishes that life was like the movies, and that pausing the hour hand on Big Ben would make time stop ticking, but unfortunately we are only left with memories to cherish. Melancholy Hope Grace L. Bowden Is there ever hope if you haven't suffered? Hope is a subjective term, and most people see it as a happy emotion, but not me. Hope is what keeps you alive, and when you lose it, you lose yourself. Some people are stronger than others; hope isn’t necessarily needed for some. Even if you are suffering, hope shines through; some people don't need hope to persevere. Hope is a melancholy emotion; you need it to keep going, but is only at its strongest when you are at your weakest. Hope is like a parasite, sucking all of the joy out of you to keep you going. Hope is easy to lose when you feel alone; it’s as easy as losing a small bead or screw. However, hope can’t just get lost in the carpet, it sticks to you like gum or wet hair; you can never seem to get it off. I couldn’t count the amount of times I've lost hope. When you are sinking in a void of nothingness, a hand reaching down from the top is the only hope you need. For me, that was my friends and family. They helped, and are helping, me get better. For you a day is a small and insignificant thing, it blows by like a leaf in the autumn air, but to me, a day is a struggle between life and death. Hope, more specifically, melancholy hope, is a cacophony of senses. It smells like the bottom of a shoe after a run down memory lane. It sounds like the thuds of an old piano, stored in the recesses of your memory, the last breaths of a dying young woman, desperate to hang on just a little while longer to her youth, PERSONAL NARRATIVE

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her life. It tastes like the mold and mildew hiding in the little folds of your brain tissues, the last piece of popcorn at the bottom of the movie theater-sized bag, stale and bland, but also somehow burnt and soggy. It looks like the small ball of lint in your old denim jeans, the jeans that you've had for years, made so many memories in, now being thrown in the garbage like a used tissue. It can feel like pain, ecstasy, suffering, or just like it is, hope. You can sense it coming from a mile away, like it never left. It’s like a nail in your toolbelt that you haven't seen in decades, but that you know is there, because you feel it every time you put your hand in the pocket where it lies. You see, hope is a finicky thing. To bring this all back to me, my life has been lived without much room for hope. I've been through a lot in my time on this earth, and most of it has been good from an outside perspective, but inside it’s like I'm watching myself live another life. I'm a maladaptive daydreamer, which means that I can make fantasy worlds in my head, make a storyline and a plot, anything that you would ever want in a movie or book. I can spin worlds from the spindle of my imagination, but I have aphantasia. Aphantasia is when you don’t have a mind's eye; when I close my eyes at night, I can’t see anything in my imagination, it’s like I don’t even have one. It’s interesting to me how those things correlate, being able to imagine anything I want, but not being able to see it. I have many things in common with a lot of people, you being one of them, but I share one thing with some of the lost, melancholy hope. Hope that things will get better, and that they don’t, so you hope again, and again, and again. Sometimes it just doesn't get better, but it might. The ‘it might’ is the perfect definition of melancholy hope, not too strong, but still there. Maybe it will happen, maybe not, it depends on the circumstances, the drive to succeed at this short game called life; but in the end, it’s not really worth it to try so hard.

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Basketball and Belonging Gitashri Gopalakrishnan It felt like one of the worst, most stressful days I’ve had in a while, and basketball practice was next. I never felt I belonged here, and it was even more evident while I was playing basketball. I was always the last one in running, the last in layups, and the last in everything I did. These thoughts came to a stop when a little tear dared to leak from my eyes. Ah, snap… I loved basketball. I loved the adrenaline rushing through your veins, but my efforts weren’t enough to get me any playing time. I had only been playing for a year. Many of my teammates had been playing their whole lives. Last year, I was benched for the whole season, but it wasn't my coach’s fault. It was my own. “Laps!” My teammate shouted as everyone started to jog around the court. I dreamed of being like one of them; I dreamed of being off the bench and playing, but it was an unattainable dream. I never belonged, not here and not anywhere. After the hour ended, my head was spinning from all the practicing. My vision was blurry like a fogged-up car window on a rainy day. I glimpsed at a text from my mom while changing my shoes. AMMA: I GOT A GIFT FOR YOU. Rushing into my thoughts and ideas, I tried to pinpoint what exactly she got me, but I couldn’t guess. GITA: WHAT IS IT? I texted her as I tried to change out of my drenched clothing. AMMA: GUESS…. Guess? Since there was no discernible occasion for a gift, I could only guess three things: GITA: FOOD, TEA, OR….AN IPHONE? She snarked at my answer saying that I could only think about food. My mind could only think about Biriyani (my favorite South Indian dish). Taste buds dancings, I smiled happily thinking about the spicy and salty flavors. I came back to reality again when another drop of sweat fell on my phone. GITA: MOM I CAN’T. I’M TIRED. PERSONAL NARRATIVE

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39 I was a living corpse walking, and my emotions were spent. AMMA: OH MY GOD GITA GUESS!!

GITA: AMMA, I’M TIRED. I GOT A 70 ON A QUIZ….AND TODAY IS NOT THE DAY SO IF YOU WANT TO SAY SOMETHING JUST SAY. IT. NOW. And before I could finish, she said the most important words I’ve ever heard in my whole life. AMMA: WE GOT OUR GREEN CARD. My body froze as I let the words hit me. GITA: YOU’RE JOKING RIGHT?? Maybe it was okay that I had this bad day because I just felt like I had conquered the world. The petals of water that dripped from my body weren’t just sweat, they were tears from my eyes. Leaning against the wall, I held my chest as I gasped at the phone. GITA: UNAMAIYIL?! REALLY?! I paused as if the world around me had stopped. “I got my…” I breathed out, “...my green card.” Finally, that single piece of news made me feel like I belonged. Chains around my hands felt like they were unlocked, and I got to play. I was no longer held back; I was a player who belonged on the court. A player in this country.

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Nobody Likes Bleu Cheese Gavin Barlor

I am a victim of bleu cheese and it’s lifelong side-effects. Even years after my traumatic experience with this vile creature, I still wake up in the middle of the night in cold sweat. Just the thought of it’s slimy body going down my throat sends chills down my spine. That burger was supposed to be delicious. That burger was going to be Christmas. Instead, Santa got drunk and crashed his sled into an orphanage. It was all thanks to bleu cheese. When a four letter word is spelled incorrectly on purpose, the alarms inside your brain should be going off. If you encounter this dangerous life form, slowly back away and don’t make eye contact with it. It can smell your fear, just like how you can smell it’s horrible stench. When you first consume bleu cheese, it will most likely be on a burger. You probably won’t even realize it’s on there until it’s too late. You will want to throw up and get some mouthwash. Don’t try to overpower the bleu cheese on the burger with ketchup, this will only make the situation worse. Instead, throw that burger in the nearest trash can and hold a grudge with it for the rest of your life. If you need to, write an essay about it. The origins of bleu cheese date back to the 7th century in a cave near Roquefort, France. It is said that a shepherd had forgotten his sandwich inside the cave and left. When he returned, there was mold growing on the cheese, giving it a blue color (“Blue Mold Cheese”). Why he decided to present this monstrosity to the world is unknown. What is also unknown is why he wasn’t thrown in prison. What we do know is that it has spread all over the world. You could say bleu cheese is like that weird aunt you visit only once or twice a year. She makes you feel uncomfortable and mentions all the times she changed your diaper. Your parents force you to mow her backyard one day. The car ride to her house is nothing but a blur. Next thing you know, your knuckles are lightly tapping on her front door. Her heavy, plodding footsteps make the earth shake as she gets closer to the door. She embraces you in a giant bear hug. She smells like death knocked on your front door. She smells just like bleu cheese. The French gave us the Statue of Liberty. That was great, don’t get me wrong, but they also gave us bleu cheese. How this hasn’t resulted in World War Three between France and the United States is beyond me. The French probably wanted less bleu cheese in their country, so their bright idea was to let curious Americans have some. I can’t say I blame them.

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Bleu cheese is like your arch nemesis, or that bully in the second grade that always stole your favorite crayon. We try to forget that they exist. We try to push them out of our lives. However, no matter how hard we try, they always come back. They remind us that our world isn’t perfect, and that there will always be at least one bad apple out there. Or in this case, a stinky pile of bleu cheese.

On Manspread and Miracles Will Madden Approaching the entrance to my high school, I notice that there’s another walking figure nearby. A quick glance--surely too quick to be noticed--tells me it's a boy. In my attempt to avoid provoking a perception that I am trying to be provocative, I end up feeling stiff and awkward and wondering for the millionth time if this is normal people walk. To my immense horror, the boy reaches the gate before me, opens it, stands aside to let me through, and dips into a bow. “M’lady,” he says, voice dripping with careless humor. I say “Thank you,” with what I hope is the same humorous tone, and pass through. Afterwards, I am too aware of the boy’s presence behind me. I try hard to keep up appearances of being unphased, but my insides are swelling with panic. I pick up the pace until I’m speed-walking, and don’t stop until I’ve made it into the school and ducked into a stall in the girl’s bathroom. My heartbeat is too hot inside my chest, burning me from inside. I want this feeling to go away, but it’s like cicadas on a summer evening: screeching, relentless. It doesn’t let up for the rest of the day. On the bus ride home, I turn to a reliable source of comfort and let myself melt into a different scene. Will is a man with wet socks in a too-big city. He’s been trudging through rainy streets for hours because he doesn’t know what else to do; rejected by the man he loves. It’s beautiful because we can’t always have what we want, no matter how much we want it, and he’s gonna make it anyway.

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*** I am a girl with sore feet on a too-familiar sidewalk. I am trudging through deep drifts of depression that have built up over so many stagnant days of quarantine. As long as I’m walking, I’m not rotting in place. I look up at the leaves, feel the cool, damp air in my lungs, and try to soak up a little joy. It’s a weak attempt, and it yields nothing. I trip on a crack in the sidewalk, and the jolt shakes something loose in my brain; Will winks, and I pretend not to see. I pretend I am not pretending. I am a girl. *** When there is nothing else around, I dig myself out of dark pits with poetry. I set my pen to the groove of my sorrow and send it crooning across the page. He wears glory like a thrift store t-shirt, it sings. I want to wear glory too, but I settle for pajama pants and sports bras because there’s not really any point in trying. We can’t always have what we want, no matter how much we want it.

*** I have four weeks’ worth of testosterone flowing through my body, and I am in a stall in a McDonald’s bathroom. Still the women’s, because I go where I think people will be least surprised to see me. I struggle into my chest binder. I had asked Dad to stop here so I could put it on before he drops me off at the arts institute summer camp where I’ve been accepted to study creative writing. I exit the bathroom and I see that Dad is still getting his soda. I stand by the wall to wait for him. An employee notices me and asks, “Sir, have you been helped?” I smile and wonder if the women’s bathroom will be offended that I just left for good without saying goodbye. That night, me and seven other boys have our first “cabin meeting” of the two-week camp. We sit in a circle and introduce ourselves. The room is heavy with sweat-stink, cocky grins, and manspread.

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When it’s my turn to speak, I’m quiet, but I meet their eyes unflinchingly. “I’m Will,” I say, “and I’m a creative writer.” After the meeting, we disperse to our rooms. Hot rain thunders against the sidewalk, soaking us instantly as we embark into the dark. The sky flickers. On any other day, a storm like this would be the loudest miracle.

*** I am one of many young writers sitting around a table, united in our depthless hunger. We devour a tasteful sampling: Merwin, Harjo, Dickinson. Grinning at each other, we lick our fingers and ask for more. In our instructor’s encouraging smile, I sense a note of condemnation. Now that I am aware of poetry, I’ll never escape it. When we’re told to write our own “Ars Poeticas” I liken my craft to a bag of rocks and settle in for sore shoulders.

*** Watching a presentation in the auditorium, I’m sitting next to my new friend James, a fellow writer. I’m having a little bit of trouble breathing, what with the chest binder and also his leg touching mine. Is it weird for guys’ legs to touch each other when they’re sitting? *** I’m eating lunch in the cafeteria at the table us writers have claimed. Amongst the chatter, I’m barely able to hear James let out a huff of laughter. I look across the table at him, warmly meeting his eyes. *** I may never know if it’s weird for guys’ legs to touch each other when they’re sitting. *** It’s the first day of my senior year of high school. I stride through the gate, with my beloved bag of rocks banging against my hip with every step. I’m wearing the gayest outfit I could find, as an insurance policy against the fear I know still lingers in me. I can’t be sure which teenagers I pass are boys, but it doesn’t matter--I’m allowed. My name is Will and I wear glory like a thrift store t-shirt because I dared to put it on. PERSONAL NARRATIVE

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The Chains of Society Brecklynn Carnes As I look around this world that I call home all I see are silhouettes but no soul Their spirits chained to the weight of being someone that is all fake. I try to see deeper into their minds Where they are truly themselves; individual and exceptional but I can't seem to see through the guidelines The artificial, that a society of perfects have assigned When did worth start to become determined by what was given and not earned? When did appearance become a determining factor? When did status become all that mattered? As young children we are told that it is our hearts alone that can control how people see us and impact we hold But the perspective of which I live haunts my head and distorts my vision As I look around all I see are broken imperfect people, just like me So as cold eyes stare through me, undaunting I’ll be bold and myself like we’ve always wanted.

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Chapters Kaylee McClellan I am made from the soft-wood under my feet, tall trees continuing for miles, and finding something comforting in southern accents. My life could fit into a pink cup made for milky tea on Saturday mornings, And all my problems can be solved from my mother’s lap. I am made from puppy dog ears, and twinkle toe shoes. My youth lives on in Pebble ponytails and plastic nails stuck to the carpet, The smell of outside wraps up my childhood with a pretty pink cheer bow on top, It sits in my closet collecting dust. I long for the snaggle tooth grin and mismatched clothes, I wish I could be that silly little girl again. I’m a retired pancake chef who no longer adorns countertops or tables. I no longer need my tippy toes to reach the cup I want most, Or my father’s arms after a long day at work. That precious girl still twirls down hallways in my mind, And isn’t afraid to sing whenever her little heart desires. I carry that sweet girl in a locket, Hoping I will make her as proud as she makes me.

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YWA New Beginnings and Familiar Ends Allison Houchin From the dark, I am born Projected into the universe Thrown into the boundless stars My vision a kaleidoscope Celestial galaxies cradle me while my body adjusts Or, maybe not my body The idea of me, perhaps Either way, the constellations wait patiently Soon, the gleaming warmth will fade I will be left to my own devices All across the cosmos, my caretakers will watch Until eventually my own body and the idea of me will dwindle And I will join them One more distant star added to the azure

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YWA My Monsters Keira Ward Children rave about The Monsters under their bed, Creeping behind a crack in the door, Roaming the halls at night. I have many Monsters. However, they don’t lurk or hide. They are always with me, Biting, scratching, scoring, and gnawing. The Monsters hide behind my shoulder, Sharp claws digging into my skin, whispering, “You’ll never be enough.” With miserable consistency. The Monsters screech and bellow Until I beg for the cessation Of their endless torment. They do not falter. Others don’t see the Scars they leave me. They only see the ones I leave myself.

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YWA We Do Not See The Same Jordan Six Your sky is bathed in silver moonlight While mine is illuminated by the spotlight every star on Earth has known Your space is full of twinkling stars While mine is splattered with the brightest souls to live Your ground is covered in lush green grass While mine is an unpaved landscape begging for adventure You are rational I am irrational We are both real

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The Desert Casey Dawson After such a long time, such a desolate time, a man, endearing in his wonder, wandering. A pretty package wrapped in red rock and harsh cliffs, you will tell the man this place is a gift. You can take his senses, cover his eyes, plug his ears, take his tongue, cork his nose, glove his hands, and claim these are blessings. “Allow me your touch and you will never have to feel your closest friend let go of your hands ever again,” you ask of him. The man, suddenly, humanly, holds your giant palm, his eyes so small yet so dark. He tells you, “It is very funny to me how loneliness cannot live without another. It must live by extension, through a person, because loneliness itself cannot be alone.” You feel his touch fade, watch his silhouette fade, taste his closeness fade, smell his scent fade, hear his footsteps fade. And the gift, your desert sculpted of isolation and beauty, you wait for a man to open it.

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The Moon’s Severed Heart Jessie Bland She fell over the moon for that silly little boy; yes, but the choking rope around my neck caught me, it may have severed my head from my body, the impact from the fall broke me even more, broke everything I had beyond anyone's repair, leaving me with nothing to follow but my heart. I’m still trying to find my feet, maybe I will be able to walk again, maybe I can get back up; enabling myself to find my own knowledge. I have nothing left except my destroyed heart in my hands. I'm trying to keep my heart from detaching from itself; The moon shredded it. I’m beginning to bleed out, I can’t help but to look up to see the beautiful thing which carried me to destruction.

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The Lost Game Jana Ismail The call of prayer at every corner, Dessert markets selling their sweets, Loud noises of children playing on the streets, Smells of bread and falafel fill the air, Mangos, guavas: sweet with every bite, Taking a seat, and playing chess all night, My mothers hugs filled with care, Reading books on my favorite chair, The furious war, the monstrous sea, Swallowed everything precious to me. Guavas are now bitter, and Mangos: a mess Together the wave and I are one, We touch the sand for a second’s delight, Then morosely draw back, with no fight. right? Everything written with permanent ink, A blinded player set not to think, I wish I could feel the warmth once more, I wish I could take a seat.

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… now all gone to my despair

… all gone to a game of chess

… it’s pointless now, ain’t I

… there’s no option, but defeat

YWA Eulogy Island Ryqlein Mehlhorn Why does my chest feel so heavy? I stared far too long to the endless ocean Of the Florida Keys, the vastness of it Blue on blue, only interrupted by islands These landmasses disturbing the natural flow of the ocean If I died, what would be my effect? On the ocean of the aftermath Would I be an island filled with quite white roses No one speaking of their existence, only in a hushed tone One phrase to describe the beauty of the white rose and their decay Or would I be island brimming with chrysanthemums Brightly and loudly disturbing the peace, of everything around them People will wail at the mere mention of the island I don’t know which one I would choose All I know is my island would be too much to others They will conjure up a false image of my island Covering up the painful white roses with blue daisies Smothering the chrysanthemum with eternal amaranth I wish that their waves will simply destroy it to oblivion Rather than change the very landscape that is my life

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All Created Equal Julia Willis All people are created equal, Besides the ones that are white. Color is the first thing they see, Difference in the skin color and culture. Even when the person cannot be at fault for the race that they are given. For I am one who is colored, Guess I get to be mocked. Have you lived with a thing you cannot change? If we are all created equal, then we have no need for Judgmental looks to someone who is not the same color. Killing people who are considered “different,” Living in fear for what can happen to me for just living my life. Mothers wondering if their child will return home that day. Not knowing what could be said to you by just eating your lunch at school. Opening up your lunch and people around wonder why it smells weird. People called me names from the second grade. Quizzed over what I eat from day to day. Reacting like nothing’s wrong, while Seeing my people getting beat in the streets, Trying to remain calm Under all circumstances. When I become quiet then I have become the Villain. Only hoping and Wishing I was not different, but in reality, we are all the same. X-ray shows we are all just bones, Yet, if we are all created equal, then Zoos should be the only place with real difference.

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The Ice Cream Man Caleb Noble The wail of a blaring horn rang throughout the neighborhood. Children ran from the houses with bills and change falling from their palms and pockets. The ice cream truck came every day, when all of the kids would hear the horn and emerge from God knows where. One child though did not. This was Billy Whitlock, born with a condition in which he was allergic to the sun, and if he was exposed his skin would start to grow rashes and large blisters. So, this means that while all the kids are outside enjoying themselves; Billy has to sit in his room and do nothing. On November 13, 1984, the horn rang out across the whole town of Crowe Valley, but the sound was closer to Autumn Lane. Billy heard this from his upstairs bedroom, and ran from his coloring desk to the front door. He opened the door and made two steps out onto the porch and locked eyes with the ice cream man. His mother grabbed him by his shoulders and pulled him back into the abyss. “Mom, please I just wanted to get some ice cream from the truck,” said Billy. “I know baby, I just am concerned and don’t want you to get hurt. Please, I’m begging that you don’t leave the house that day,” said Nancy, Bill's mother. Billy shook his head and went back upstairs with tears forming in the creases of his eyes. He went into the bedroom and grabbed his Walkman and inserted his favorite cassette: Elton John’s Greatest Hits. Billy laid on his twin size bed staring at the Queen poster on his ceiling thinking to himself: Why can’t I be normal? I am going to be a loser my whole life, because I can’t be in the sun. I hate my life. Billy drifted off to sleep at 6:30 p.m. and woke up at about 9:00 p.m. extremely angry at the world, his mother, and himself. He rolled out of bed and went over to the desk to find this week’s newspaper. On the front page of the Crowe Valley Gazette, it showed the picture of a young boy named Ned Donaldson followed by “Missing.” Billy knew the young lad, but it hadn’t struck him hard because kids had been disappearing for months on end. Ned was only a part of a long list that was growing. Billy finished the paper and began picking through his drawing desk. He drew the ice cream man that he’d seen in the truck earlier in the day. The ice cream man had bright blue eyes, that was the only thing that could be seen because when he was out, he wore a white bunny mask with pointy teeth. Most kids loved it, but not Billy, the mask frightened him.

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He concluded the sketch with a darkened line of black from his pencil and shoved the drawing into the drawer. Billy heard a noise; he took off the headphones connected to the Walkman and listened closely. It kind of sounded like the horn from the afternoon. Billy looked out his window with confusion splattered across his face. He noticed the ice cream truck parked in the middle of the street with the song playing over and over. Billy was hesitant, he hadn’t known what was going on. He grabbed his denim jacket and wallet and crept out of his door and down the stairs. When opening the door, he was extremely careful, he didn’t even let the chain on the lock hit the door itself. The white truck radiated light out of the window. Billy walked up to the truck and knocked on the glass twice. The ice cream man jumped to the window and slung it open. “Hello, what can I get for you young man?” said the ice cream man in a deep voice. “Umm, can I just have a chocolate vanilla mix cone mix please,” Billy replied. The ice cream man nodded his head and turned his back to Billy to scoop the cone. Billy waited with a smile on his face, excited for the first time in a long time. The ice cream man turned back and handed the cone to the boy and said, “There you go my good sir, that will be a dollar and twenty-five cents please.” Billy obliged and pulled the exact amount from his pocket and slid it into the window to the man in the bunny mask. Billy did a half spin and walked back into his home. The ice cream man slammed the door and drove off into the night sky, with the only thing visible were the blurred red taillights. The boy took the last bite of his cone and went back to sleep. The next morning Bill woke up with a smile and went downstairs for breakfast. “Morning honey, you look awful happy,” said his mother. “Good morning, Mom, I love you,” said Billy. Billy ate his breakfast and scurried back up to his room. Later that day Billy thought to himself that the ice cream man coming at night was probably a once in a lifetime opportunity. That made him sad for the rest of the afternoon. Later in the evening, around the same time the night before, Billy heard the ice cream truck's horn and immediately ran down the stairs to the truck. Once again asking Billy what flavor and he replied with the same response that he had the night before. The ice cream man turned and handed the cone to Billy, but wouldn’t accept his currency. So, Billy just headed back to his house licking as much ice cream as he could. After a couple of slurps, Billy felt dizzy until finally he fell unconscious in his driveway. The ice cream man jumped from the truck and drug the boy into the back. He then sped off into the night and Billy was added to the list of victims never to be seen again.

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*Content Forecast: Theme of self-harm and suicide. Dead Girl Ash Housel ¨OH MY GOD, VERONICA!¨ My sister said when she saw me bleeding on the ground, dead in the bathroom… But before any of this happened, I thought I was happy. My parents were together, well, kinda. I had an older sister named Kenzie, who usually smelled of a mix of lavender and cleaning supplies, and a younger brother named Dylan, who usually smelled like Ax body spray and would never clean his stuff. I had two dogs, a Pitbull and a Husky. I had a big house in Boston, Massachusetts, and I had friends. Yet I’m the one laying on the bathroom floor bleeding from my wrists? Hi, my name is Veronica Miller, and I am the dead girl. November 13, 2016, one month before my not so tragic - well, maybe kinda tragic - death. I was in science working on a PHeT lab when something started to feel… off. I had felt it all day, but not this bad. It feels sorta like… loneliness? I'm not sure how to describe it, sorta empty? Yeah, that's a better word. I'm not sure when it started but, I guess it's always been there; I could never do anything right, whatever I did just wasn't good enough, I felt like a disappointment to everyone around me. But that's normal right? That's what my dad always tells me... Then, English rolls around and I feel completely dead inside, but who cares? I'm supposed to be the one that’s happy, but that's not who I am anymore. I don't even know who to be anymore. My friends want me to go back to who I was before anything happened because they're too scared to accept the new me, who, I'm not even completely sure is me... Wait, you guys don't know what happened do you? Ok, well… It started in October. My parents were fighting constantly. Dad would come home drunk almost every night and then go fight with mom, when they didn't agree, dad would grab anything he could reach, and throw it at Mom. I was only 14 at the time. Kenzie was 16 but didn't have her license yet, and Dylan was 12. We would hide in Kenzie's closet and she would show us pictures of dogs with hats. I'm surprised they even slept in the same bed. Mom moved out but didn't have custody over us kids so she couldn’t take us with her. Then, in November, someone from my 5th hour died in a car crash. I wasn’t close to him but we still talked. He’s been in my class since kindergarten, we were friends. It got me thinking about how people died before they were SHORT STORY

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even ready. Seeing people mourn him made me think, would people mourn me? I doubt it, not even my own parents like me... I started to get very depressed. It was obvious, I couldn’t even get out of bed. I had lost all motivation in everything I loved. Music, writing, reading, I couldn’t do any of it. I was over life and just couldn’t take it anymore, so I made a plan. I made a plan to end it all. Finally, I would be happy again - well - was I ever really happy? November 20, 2016, it was a Sunday, Mom decided to take Kenzie and Dylan to church. She never liked me so she didn't even ask if I wanted to come. I was hurt but didn't care enough to do anything about it. I had enough of the fighting, especially myself. I didn't have the energy anymore, so I set the plan for November 26, 2016, I was going to slit my wrists in the bathroom. I had a week. One whole week to prepare. That week went by faster than the blink of an eye. Saturday came around, and I was ready, so I wrote my note, sweet and simple. One for each of my family members and one for my friends. Then I slept the rest of the day. When I woke up, it was 12:32 am. I could smell bacon cooking on the stove, the smell was wafting through the air. Last-minute, I decided to get some bacon before I - you know- off myself. I get out of bed and step over my atrocious floor. As I head for the doorknob, I hear Kenzie humming a song. Is it, maybe, hmm, umm, it's a theme song, I can tell that much… oh! I know! It's the friends’ theme song! Ha, classic Kenzie. For a moment, I think I felt truly happy but I ignored it because I didn't want to mess up my plan. I open the door and trip over one of Dylans’ shoes. “DYLAN,” I yell, “STOP LEAVING YOUR SHOES EVERYWHERE,” “SORRY,” I hear him yell back. Kenzie shoots me a glance as I grab a piece of bacon and head over to the marbled counter where the knives are and grab the biggest one I can find and start walking towards the bathroom. “What are you doing with that?” Kenzie asks, annoyed. I don't answer and walk into the bathroom. I shut and lock the door behind me. The bathroom smells like Dylans’ body spray mixed with bacon. Gross. I stare at the knife, my heart is racing. Do I really want to leave all of this behind? I have to, right? It's the only way for me to be happy… I ignore my thoughts and put the knife to my wrist. I put as much pressure as I can onto my left wrist and pull the knife down. It stings. Blood starts falling like a river down my arm, I ignore it. I try to grab the knife with my left hand, I can barely grip it, it hurts too much. I put it against my wrist, and pull it down with as hard as I can SHORT STORY

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possibly go. It doesn’t bleed as much as my left hand, but still bleeds a bit. I drop the knife. I get dizzy really fast. I go to sit down but I slip and fall. I hit my head on the bathtub. Moments later I wake up to see myself laying on the floor with my head propped up onto the bathtub. I see myself laying in a pool of blood, getting bigger and bigger. My face is gray and I have dark bags under my eyes. I’m a ghost… This isn’t what was supposed to happen. Is this what being dead looks like? This is a mistake, I wanna go back, I want this to be a dream, I need this to be a dream, I -- my thoughts get interrupted. Someone is pounding on the door. “Helloooo, I’ve been knocking for like 10 minutes, are you ok?'' It's Kenzie. She stops pounding the door and is now jiggling the doorknob. “V, are you ok? What’s going on? Answer me.” I obviously can't because I’m dead. “Veronica, please answer you’re scaring me, I saw you take a knife in there, please say you’re ok,” her voice is getting shaky. “I'm gonna pick the lock if you don't answer.” I shouldn’t have done this, I wish I could take it back. I’ve never regretted something so much. I hear something jiggling in the doorknob. “V, I’m opening the door,” The door flings open and I see Kenzie’s face goes white. Her face drops. “OH MY GOD, VERONICA!”

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As If Nothing Ever Happened Tasha Conley Opening my dry eyes, the red color from my bedside clock reflecting off the tv. 3:26am.. Why am I awake? I hear a loud crash followed by a scream ...here we go again. I get up, my bare feet coming into contact with the cold trailer floor. We didn't have heat unless we lit the fireplace, and even then, only the living room was warm. I open the door, letting the faint yellow hallway light spill into my room. Crossing the hall to check on my little brother, he sleeps peacefully with a hint of drool making its way from the corner of his mouth, one arm over his head and the other hidden underneath him. I follow the yells down the hallway, and there she is, she stands across from me, holding the bottle of whiskey under one arm while using the other to throw items, pieces of her jet black hair sticking to her forehead and her face red and plump. On the other side of the room, Jack, my stepdad. He stands there with a slight sway because he's too drunk to stand properly. His nose bloody and his eyes pleading. She throws the nearest thing to her, which happened to be a book Divergent - one of my favorites. They move while arguing, and I watch as they make it outside. Ÿou piece of shit!¨ The last thing I hear as I shut and lock the door. I walk to the window to make sure they're both still moving. Äre they fighting again?¨ I jump, after the small voice from behind me speaks. Turning around I see my little brother, Cyrus, standing at the end of the hallway. He has lines on his cheek from sleeping hard. His eyes are glossy, and his dirty blonde hair is all kinds of messy. Ÿes, but it's okay I think they are about to tire out¨, he walks in and stands beside me glancing out the window. ¨Who do you think will win this time?¨ I hate that question, but without a doubt my mom. I guess the drugs take away her sense of feeling, I've seen her get punched by a grown man and come back up smiling. I didnt want to tell him that, though i know he’s not stupid and he knows.

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¨Come on, let's try to go back to sleep¨ he nods his head in an understanding way and we make our way to his bedroom. I turn on the Lorax and turn it up just in case they decide to get louder. After getting him settled, I head back down the poorly lit hall to the living room. It's quiet now, too quiet actually. I unlock the door, pulling it open, I see a figure sitting on the porch with their head down,mom. I walk out and sit next to her, she doesn't notice me at first but then, even in the dark, her eyes find mine. She has a sad look in them but I can't help but not feel any sympathy for her, äre you okay?¨ I keep my voice in a calm, one wrong tone and she switches. Ï just wish I'd choose better men.¨ I want to tell her that it isn't the men, that even if the men weren't here, she would find someone to fight, like me. At that moment a car passes by, the headlights moving across the yard, connecting to my feet and then to our faces. I notice her eye is swollen and looks like it might be darkening. She also has a small cut on her other eyebrow, with the tiniest hint of blood. I lead her to the bathroom, grabbing a rag from our old bathroom closet. I wet the rag with lukewarm water in our old paint-chipped sink. Placing the rag on her eyebrow, she flinches but doesn't say anything, ¨so where's Jack.” As I ask this, I see the shift in her eyes, the calm sad caramel eyes turn into sharp dark brown, almost balck eyes. ¨ Did you know he did this to me janet? He hit me in the eye!¨ she slurs the angry words. She does this, where she acts like she doesnt start fights, or hit them and plays victim. Ï know mom¨ after I put the last bandage over her eye, she leaves the bathroom. On my way out I glance in the dirty bleak mirror, our crystal blue eyes connecting, I am aware it's me, but it doesn't feel like it, seems like a whole stranger from the way her hands lay to her sides and the way her dark brown hair falls from the messy bun it's in. I walk back into the kitchen and grab the broom. You can tell it's old, from the way the bristles are missing and bent. I clean up the broken glass and little spots of blood from the floor. Before going to my bedroom I take a quick glance at the living room, all clean, it's almost as if nothing ever happened. As it always is in this house, we will wake up tomorrow and act as if everything is fine. I walk back down the hall, the floor creaking with every other step I take. As I pass mom's room I see her passed out, she didn't make it all the way onto the bed, so I pulled her legs up and placed them on there, adding a small throw blanket to her. I stare at her, taking in her features. My mom is beautiful, her black hair outlining her white, dimpled face. She has a few light freckles, barely noticeable but in the right lighting they are the most noticed. Her wrinkles under her eyes and on her forehead, somehow making her beautiful in a way. I finally lay down, staring at the white popcorn ceiling, until I finally drift off to sleep.

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Pine Trees And Coffee Beans Valery Gutierrez “We welcome you to Burlington International Airport. We thank you for flying American, may you enjoy your time in this lovely city!” I wish I could. I can hear the shuffling and unbuckling of seat belts, people opening their compartment spaces, parents trying to wake their children up, a woman arguing with the flight attendant, many things I just stay in my seat, watching other airplanes outside of my window, watching other people get ready to take off, wondering where they are going. I wish I could stay here forever. I love airplanes, I’ve been on so many in my short 17 years of life -18 now I guess-, some with my family, so many more by myself, you’d think that parents would be troubled sending their 8-year-old child with a flight attendant, but that wasn’t my case. Finally, after being one of the only ones left on the plane I finally get off. The tunnel that goes from the airplane to the terminal always feels so stuffy, like it’s closing in on you, or maybe it’s just me. I make it out to the terminal and turn off airplane mode, and a number of texts come in, but I’m not interested in any of them except the ones from a specific person. My brother Mateo. Mateo: Leora, what did you do? It’s not like I’m doing anything bad. Yeah right, a voice inside of me says, nothing bad at all, just looking for your deadbeat dad. I silently tell the voice to stop talking.

I’ve finally made it out of the airport, hopped on a cab -that smells faintly of pine trees and coffee beans- and am speeding my way through Burlington, Vermont. I’ve never been to Vermont, but I can’t help as to adore its beautiful rustic buildings, kids buzzing on the streets playing around with each other, parents and babysitters staring soundly, as if they had not a care in the world,

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everybody dressed up in there comfiest and warmest clothes, snow everywhere coating the city in white. It’s beautiful, truly, and don’t even get me started on the shining and shimmering Christmas lights that just seem to brighten up the city even more. Such a positive atmosphere should have calmed me down a bit, but it didn’t, nothing truly can at this point. The cab slowly goes up a driveway, startled by the ascendance I look out the window. What I see is not what I was expecting at all. Sitting at the top of the gigantic driveway was the biggest house I’ve ever seen. Wow. “Welp kid, looks like we’re here. Yall’s total will be ‘round forty-five bucks” I’m startled by the cab driver, but I take out my wallet and pay him back the last of my money. “Be careful ‘round here kid, been told that the folk that ‘ive here ain’t the nifty-est” I look back towards the house, hoping that what the cab driver is telling me isn’t the truth. As I get out and make my way to the front door I stop, am I doing the right thing? Is this worth it?

Exactly twelve years ago… I just turned 6, and mommy is crying into my birthday cake. I think I know why she’s crying, but it doesn’t make a whole lotta sense to me. It’s my birthday so she shouldn’t be crying, but she is. I think that she doesn’t know that I know that she’s crying, but it’s pretty simple, her eyes are shining like glitter, like how mine gets when she doesn’t let me have dessert. Everything was perfect, the only thing that is missing is daddy. I didn’t know that daddies existed until my friend Cristina told me about how her’s is a firefighter, apparently, he models on calendars. But mommy never mentioned anything about my daddy. So I asked her. But the conversation was fine… at least I think it was

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Present time: I push back the painful memory as I stare at the house. It is worth it. Do absentee fathers actually know what it’s like to live without them? Do they feel the longing for something you’ve never known? Do they know what it feels like to not be wanted? I always dreamed of my father, when I was young I imagined him as my knight in shining armor, my protector, the person that is supposed to be here, that is supposed to care, but as the years went on, I faced the hard truth, he’s not my protector, he won’t be there, he doesn’t care. I don’t believe in unconditional love anymore because of him, because that is what parents are supposed to feel for their children right? That’s why they are there, right? Yet, how can it be unconditional if you get to decide its conditions? I don’t get it honestly, how can you just leave someone whose whole upbringing depends on the love that you have for them? How can you leave someone if you’re the one thing that is supposed to stay? My mom stayed, through my teething years, my teenage angst, my prepubescent boyfriends, everything. She stayed and worked all day and afternoon, yet she still got home, and helped me with my math homework. She worked odd jobs. She’s everything to me, she is my savior, my knight in shining armor, my best friend, through everything it was the three of us, Mateo, me, and my mom. She was the one that stayed. Does he know what it feels like to grow up too fast? To have to understand the world at the time where you’re just supposed to be understanding yourself, does he know? Well I guess its time to find out And with that last thought, I raise my hand and knock on the door twice. Still, with the faint smells of pine trees and coffee beans, I decide. It’s time to get answers, whether I’m ready or not.

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The Legend of the Hummingbird Tessa Inman It was on October 10th, 1476 when Ahiga was born. Despite being a normal boy in a normal family in a normal tribe, Ahiga was far from ordinary. For when Ahiga was born, a prophecy was told of a sixteen year old singing boy who was to one day bring beauty and music to the earth and to the sky. ***** October 3rd, 1489 The moment I stepped into the village, all conversation stopped. It didn’t bother me; I’d grown used to it by now. What did bother me, however, was that I hadn’t a clue why. I hadn’t done anything to provoke this, to my memory, but as pa always said, “Sometimes people don’t need a reason not to like you, they simply just don’t.” I didn’t think that I was disliked, but instead it seemed that I was a source of anxiety. They looked at me fearfully, like I was a ticking bomb anticipating explosion. I initiated a hum, my routine tool for ignoring the silence surrounding me. Pa squeezed my hand, glancing down at me with a reassuring smile. I pulled closer to his side. Without warning, a booming cry broke the silence we stood in, filling the once uncomfortable lack of sound with a chorus of gasps. Before I had time to process the events, Pa had tossed my body on his back effortlessly, shielding me from something I was unaware of. I whipped my eyes around violently, landing them on a bulky figure placed at the end of the path. Chieftain. Pa broke into a run. I bounced vigorously on his back, my legs dangling above the dead grass. I took in the sight, noticing that no improvement had been made on our soil despite our efforts since the migration. The Earth around me appeared dead; it lacked any signs of life besides pale grass. The Chieftain’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “I don’t want him near this village again, Meconda. Do you hear? Pa, in response, kept on running.

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It took around 15 minutes until we were out of sight from the town, and pa could slow his pace. He lowered me to the ground, and my legs wobbled in protest, still numb from the intensity of the ride. I groaned. Pa kept moving forward. We had been roaming for an hour when the vast silence was finally broken. “‘Ehemm, I’m sure you have questions…” pa began hesitantly. “I don’t see a point in keeping anything from you, but… that’s up to your ma.” I was unsure of how we would be seeing ma anytime soon, but I wasn’t about to ask. Questions burned my mind, but I knew it wasn’t the time to bombard pa with inquiries. I peered over at him, observing the focus and worry washing his face. Abruptly, pa shot forward. I trailed behind urgently, fearful of what would happen if I didn’t. My eyes searched the horizon, straining to see what he was running for. “Bly!” he trilled, his expression flushed with joy. The familiar name triggered my memory; I sprinted faster towards my ma. “Ma! What are you doing here?” She laughed. “Hello, hummer,” she gushed, grinning at me warmly. She peered at pa looking for an explanation, and sighed. *** “A prophecy?” I exclaimed in disbelief. I couldn’t process it. Me? I was plain, boring some would say. How could there be a prophecy about me? “I know it’s hard to… comprehend,” ma began, “But you possessing power… it scares some people.” I stood in shock, still unsure of what this meant. “We’ll give you some time,” Pa told me. “Think Ahiga, think about your people” *** October 10, 1492

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“Ah! Sixteen, hummer! Congratulations son!” pa said with too much enthusiasm. I plastered on a fake smile. Ma continued staring at the wall, not attempting to hide her anxiety. I decided to join her. “What do you think will happen today, ma?” She pondered for a moment, still glaring forward. “I don’t know, my hummer.” She focused her eyes on me. “But, what I do know, Ahiga, is that you will do big things for our people.” We reached the village at noon sharp. It buzzed with the frightful rumor of Europeans coming to take our land. The village had aged, only a few pale patches of grass remaining. The Chieftain was in front, guarding with force. I watched as he caught sight of me, gasping in response. He began to run, pacing towards me. My instinct forced me to move away. “Ahiga, wait!” he pleaded. I paused, turning around to face the man who had once banished me. “Ahiga,” he began, “I apologize. And I hope you can forgive me... and the village. But Ahiga, we need your help. Our land will be taken soon, something must be done!” I stared at him. How could I help? I hadn’t a clue of the first thing to do. I glanced over at pa, and he nodded, encouraging me. I focused on the sky, and took a breath- in… and out. “Bring me the people.” A crowd gathered at the gates as I continued looking into the blinding sky. “Prophesier, come.” She plodded forward, old and withered with age. I peered deep into her eyes for what seemed like an eternity. She cleared her throat. “Six blades of grass for the tail in the left hand, ten in the right for the body.” she nodded and stepped back, concluding her hints. “All of you!” I declared, rushing everyone into action. The village would once again have life. Legend has it that each blade left in the village was used that day. Ahiga’s people joined and hummed a melody called Ahiga’s tune. The people transformed into beautiful birds full of life and color-two things they hadn’t seen in years. Nature and flowers were brought back, forming walls of greenery protecting their land. That day, they learned that beauty lies not in normality, but in their differences. And they called themselves the Hummingbirds.

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In gratitude… A very special thank you to all the teachers who nurture the hearts and minds of writers so that they can be, now and in the future, our storytellers and poets.

THE OKLAHOMA COUNCIL OF TEACHERS OF ENGLISH

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The writings in this book are winners in the 2022 Young Writers Contest for Oklahoma students, sponsored by the Oklahoma Council of Teachers of English (OKCTE). This year there were over 500 entries from 58 teachers. The contest is a way for OKCTE to encourage teachers and students to extend their classroom writing to public spaces and by doing so give voice to the lives of Oklahoma youth. The Oklahoma Council of Teachers of English is an affiliate of the National Council of Teachers of English. We promote improvement in the teaching of all phases of the English language arts, including reading, writing, thinking, and speaking, at all levels of education. We do our best to help English teachers by providing accessible, relevant, and responsive professional development.

Online access to this anthology: https://issuu.com/sjdonovan/docs/final_okcte.y w_anthology_9-12_1_ Website: http://www.okcte.org/ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/oklacte Member Enrollment: http://www.okcte.org/membership.html One Year Membership - $25.00 Teacher Candidate Membership - $10.00 Geraldine Burns Award Winner - One Year - FREE Your one-year membership entitles you to the OKCTE Fall Conference, Spring Workshop and Awards Ceremony, and an annual subscription to the Oklahoma English Journal. If you have any questions about membership, events, or publications, please email us at okcteenglish@gmail.com.

THE OKLAHOMA COUNCIL OF TEACHERS OF ENGLISH