Summer Institute 2019 Creative Writing Journal by University of the Arts Graduate & Professional Studies

CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL PRE-COLLEGE SUMMER INSTITUTE 2019 1

University of the Arts Pre-College Summer Institute 2019 Creative Writing Journal Writing is a many splendored vocation. A story, essay, script, comic, or poem is more than a collection of words expressing a thought or adventure — each is a tool for exhibiting structured meaning. Creative writing serves to draw connections between ideas, discussing what it means to be a human being in the world by showing the similarities of experience and emotion inherent in all people, bridging of the vast gulf of perceived differences. Contained within these pages are the efforts of the 2019 Pre-College Summer Institute Creative Writing students. Each bright, young writer came with their own ideas regarding what writing is or should be. Rather than fixing or changing these notions, we worked hard to expand our horizons of language, structure, form, and genre, typically with surprising and delightful results. Many of these efforts follow here.

T. LESLIE ROBINSON Creative Writing Coordinator Pre-College Summer Institute University of The Arts

uarts.edu/summerinstitute 2

Pre-College Staff ROSI DISPENSA Director, Pre-College Programs MA ‘11 University of the Arts Art Education

Writers 06 Elizabeth Butler My Forever Baby Girl

fly away

BFA ‘04 University of the Arts Photography SHANNON GINGELL

12 Lillien Cirino The Four Speakers in One Room

Assistant Director, Pre-College Programs WILLIAM DEBUONO Program Assistant, Pre-College Programs

14 Roni Endres DUCK GIRL

Ife Islam For Colored Nerds Who Have Considered Suicide When Superman Is Enuf

20 Cierra Rivers Leave A Message At The Beep

22 Claire Sun Why you shouldn’t date in high school

Effort Afforded to No One

Perhaps I’m always just looking for trouble

uarts.edu/summerinstitute 4

Elizabeth Butler

“Alright, Juniper. You are almost there. I need a long push, okay?” I breathe heavily, “Okay, okay, to ten?”

SPRINGFIELD, TENNESSEE EAST ROBERTSON HIGH SCHOOL

“Yes, exactly. Push as hard as you can while we count to ten,” Doctor Friaser says as he looks towards Jameson, “Now husband, love your wife and let her squeeze you until you faint.” “Okay, June, you got this!”

MY FOREVER BABY GIRL

“So, uhhhhh, June, what brings you all the way to New Hampshire to see me?” asks Peter. “Obviously, I came here to see you, Peter. You’re my highschool best friend! I miss you, but I also come as a client today. I need your talents to complete a huge favor for me,” I tell Peter as my excitement surfaces. “Oh, really? Did you find a pretty fox? I know that they are everywhere in Indiana! Or, oh no, did Sprinkles die? I loved that dog!” Peter exclaims, gasping.

“MMMMMMMPHHHH!” I say pushing so hard almost like my life depended on it. “Come on, I see her head, I need two more good pushes. NOW!” “Four, Five, Six..” “I can’t breathe!” I scream. “COME ON! SHE’S ALMOST HERE!” Jameson excitedly yells.

“No, no, Sprinkles is still doing good, and unfortunately, I did not find a fox. Although they are beautiful animals, this project I have for you is far more important and more beautiful than any animal.”

I push harder and harder, “AHHHHHH!”

“June, you know I love a great challenge. OMIGOSH! I am excited now! Is it an aquatic animal or maybe an endangered bird, or is it-” I cut Peter off and raise my precious baby girl bundled in her baby carrier.

I heave a sigh of relief. Jameson whispers to me something into my steaming right ear, kissing my sweaty forehead. I brush my brown, sticky hair away, opening my eyes to look for my baby, eagerly awaiting the fantastical sounds of a newborn child. But no crying comes. She lies motionless in the doctor’s arms as her lifeless arms sway back and forth. Jameson falls to his knees, hysterical. Numbly, I sit feeling like I had died myself.

“Peter, I present to you, your best, most beautiful taxidermy project yet, my precious baby,” I say, smiling as I rub her little nose. “Push, baby, push!” Jameson screams as I hold his left hand with my right wringing his wrists of flesh. In more pain than I have never endured before, my legs are propped up as I lay in a squat position, opening my vagina to present new life. Despite the intense aching pain, I am almost numb to it. I have waited my entire life for this moment. Jameson and I have been trying for so long to have kids that we almost gave up, that is until I just knew that God wanted us to try one more time. Jameson agreed, and we made love for hours that night, and surely enough, I was pregnant. We cried and cried and smiled and jumped for joy--well, not literally jumping for joy because, ya know, that would scramble my fetus—for at least two months after hearing the fantastic news. Our little bundle of joy had made our couple combine as one, giving us the perfect relationship. We loved each other even more, knowing that we were going to have a little girl that we beautifully created. Our marriage, our love, our everything was leading up us to this moment. It was almost time.

“One, Two, Three…” the doctor says.

“I got her, I got her!”

“Come on, honey! You are going to be late for dinwer!” I used to scream this playing with my 5 foot tall, pink Barbie Dream House. My Barbies’ house had five bedrooms, three and a half baths, two living rooms, and entertainment room. It had a cute little stainless-steel kitchen with an elegant dining room that had a table containing eight seats. On the outside lay a suburban yard with a pool and a small, white picket fence outlining it Basically, it was the perfect, wealthy house every family should have. I always chose to be the brown-headed, blue-eyed barbie with the perfect symmetrical hourglass figure because that represented my real looks. My barbie was always dressed in a pink-floral dress with white and yellow flowers. Her heels were always white with two little straps that perfectly reached the right side of her foot. Her pink earrings were diamond hoops that hint a speck of red when glistened in the light. Her hair was always shoulder blade length, curled to perfection just as Arby’s curly fries. My barbie was the perfect housewife with the best personality, body, humor, and skills that every 7

American woman should have and be. But, she was nothing without the perfect American family. My husband, Ken, always was shirtless, flexing his biceps and 6 pack abs because I wanted my future man to be the Ken replication. He always had on sky-blue trunks that had little pink flamingos scattered everywhere on the cloth. He had brown, left-parted hair with beautiful ocean-colored eyes. His smile was always on with pearly, shiny teeth. We were the perfect couple, but we were missing a piece of our house that was empty. My barbie and Ken decided to have the perfect baby girl, who had her daddy’s eyes and her mama’s nose. She was Barbie and Ken’s little bundle of joy that brought them closer. They were the perfect American family. Playing house with my Barbie family of three is exactly what I wanted for myself when I got older. My warm feet hit the chilling floor as I slide from the hospital bed. My family had gone home for the night to rest. I could not sleep without the feeling of my daughter on my chest. I sneak into the bathroom, my reflection revealed my weary blue eyes and natty-brown hair. My insides tear sharply as I bend to fasten the back of my blue striped gown. I will endure all the pain of hell to get my daughter. I crept the halls, spying to avoid nurses or doctors. Silently, I tip- toed to the elevators. My baby needed her mother, the true love of her life. I rapid-fired the door-close button and descended to the basement, to the morgue. Lucky, the doors were unlocked. I carelessly gallop inside, eagerly looking for my child as the stench enveloped me—rotting meat with a few drops of cheap perfume - my eyes watered. I shook my head and swallowed my throw up in despair. Oh, the things you will do for your children. Finally, with joyful tears, I held her in my arms, cradled her small infant body to my chest and I knew that keeping her is the right thing to do—the only thing to do. I can still have my perfect American family. I gently opened her eyes to see that hers’ are as blue as mine. I cry at how she looks like me, how she has Jameson’s nose. Suddenly, sirens go off. Shit! They got me! I make a run for the closest exit—I needed to go see Peter right away. I remember being teenage Juniper, who needed some gas money to get through the long weeks of summer. I started a babysitting business, taking care of infants to toddler brats to preteen assholes. However, Mrs. Hillman was my favorite to babysit for. She had a baby girl who was 3 months old, almost as perfect as my future girl would be. I would sing to her, we would play, I would even bathe her, feed her. I always wanted to take her home with me. My perfect baby girl would do pageants because she would be so perfect that she would never lose. We would buy her an outfit for every day of the month. She would play sports, make straight A’s in school, and become my best friend. We would hang out because she would pick me over her friends to cry to when boys would treat her wrong. She would be daddy’s little girl who wrapped her finger into his big hands and stroll down to the park. And my husband would be nothing less than the perfect father. Most importantly, we would love our baby girl unconditionally until God would lay us in the grave.

Little did I know that God would lay her in the grave so soon. I throw three full, black trash bags of Jameson’s things hard in to the street, then I check my baby’s cam to make sure my girl is okay. I just want to make sure that she is peaceful, happy, and unharmed. I see that she is doing fine and check Facebook for any latest posts on grieving mothers. I see that just an hour ago, a mother took a picture with her stillborn boy. I smile at the picture and comment, “Precious bundle of joy! He’s yours forever!” I message her privately a picture of my baby in her most dolled outfit. I also copy and paste the address to Peter’s Taxidermy Shop. Maybe she will want to be a mom forever just like me. Peter really made her look like a precious little doll, giving her immortality. What good mother wouldn’t want her kids to be here on heavenly Earth, forever? I decide it is time to put away those thoughts and attend to my daughter. I tuck my phone away into my leggings side pocket. I walk back into my house and glimpse at the clock as I shut my front door, noticing that it’s nap time. I go to her room and dandling her from the bouncy pad and cradle her darling body into my arms. “Are you sweepy,” I say softly as I stared into her beautiful glass blue eyes. I sit in the pink-beaded rocking chair, hurling all the stuffed elephants. I just sit and hold her little hand as I rock back and forth, smiling at the little life I created. She looks perfect. She is perfect. I don’t know why Jameson did not want our baby, FOREVER. He left. What kind of father does that? What a piece of shit, a deadbeat dad? He is nothing to me now. It’s over. He will always say I am crazy just because I am a good parent and he is not. He definitely isn’t the perfect father after all. I start rocking my baby, putting her to sleep, I begin to sing: “Baby girl, don’t you know that I love you? And I wouldn’t dream of going nowhere. Silly man, left here, because he didn’t like to let me hold you. Have I told you lately? That I love you like crazy, my forever baby girl.”

FLY AWAY

for humans-being able to fly for someone seems impossible for birds-it was never really a question or thought they arise from their nest during a luminous sunrise grateful to find their babies chirping for worms another day while humans wake up hateful that it is 6 am and just pray that the day washes away the birds then cuddle their babies feed them, love them, appreciating everything they have and do while humans don’t even look at their loved ones or appreciate them or ever just think before they leave to say i love you the bird goes out of her nest, spreading her long beautifully black feathered wings, looking back at her babies, remembering that they are precious life and it makes the mom full of hope to go out into the world praying she makes it back in one piece that night

mama bird frantically prays that she finds something to keep her babies warm or find something to eat without getting hurt that way she can get back to her nest and make sure her babies are well and alive but in her search a shot is fired and she loses her life leaving her babies scared, to die, that night to be in fright

while humans push their babies away to almost a stranger, slam the door and head to work they have a normal day with no worries, no fears roll their eyes as the babysitter calls their cell phone but when they get home it’s the normal routine as the care free day comes to an end they go to sleep, turn out the light

while humans rush out of their houses, not caring about anything left behind they just focus on getting out and getting done, they assume that all their loved ones will be home because nothing bad could ever happen to them, right? as mama bird finally decides to flap her wings and soar through the sky she reminds herself of all the terrible things that could happen as she is gone like being hunted, eaten, swept away by another flock, her babies being taken, or just simply die while humans scream into their cellphones while driving on the highway, with their kids unbuckled in the back seat assuming that they get to work by 8 after dropping their kids off at a babysitter that they barely know, they are sure it’s okay because that’s how normal life goes, they never consider the possibilities that they or their loved ones could undergo

as the babies wait for their mother, that will never return home, they whine for that figure that showered them in love and fed them everyday, who would let them roam while humans have their babies right at home, and will see them the very next day, they do not think to kiss them goodnight or show their love through play

humans take life for granted humans don’t worry or fear while birds see what life has been granted while birds only can only worry and fear

so as we hear the baby birds cry, we shall remember the mama bird who loved her babies so much she would die and maybe us, as humans, were really willing to spread our wings for someone, maybe it wouldn’t be all that impossible to fly

Lillien Cirino VINELAND, NEW JERSEY NORTHVIEW HIGH SCHOOL

1. Do: Pray every morning and every evening, miss one session and face repercussions 2. Do: Find a church that is right for you, if you decide not to, face repercussions 3. Do: Volunteer at Sunday services, miss a Sunday and face repercussions 4. Don’t: Do not support any other religion (side note: don’t tell them you’re silently judging them) if you do so, face repercussions

THE FOUR SPEAKERS IN ONE ROOM

Episode One: Race Relations Are there ways to stop this phenomenon? A common one, really. I know we’ve talked about this before, not like the same, stereotypical African-American scenario hasn’t happened to any person of color before. The way it affects us is what’s important. The countless years of oppression, segregation and hardship affects us now, too. Old Heads argue about how they had it harder, which they did in fact, of course they did. But, it’s how the racism and discrimination hide in the shadows, concealed in slight tenebrosity. “But Cass, you know I don’t see your color.” Yet I know they saw my color. That’s the point you see, because behind the verbal wall people around me build up, I still see the foolishness - the ignorance. In Starbucks I see young white moms pull their daughters close to their side. Probably whispering, “you see that big nosed, nappy haired baboon?” That hurts, but I get used to it. People glaring at you which quickly turns into forceful staring, making sure to study your every move. A pure ignoramus. Next week with the four speakers in one room, religion, and others of that party.

5. Don’t: Do not support LGBTQ+ rights? You’re gay? What are you doing here? You must face these repercussions. The velvet light begins to flicker. On and off, on and off, until it settles on drawing to a close. The speakers release a high pitched ringing, until reaching a stop as well. “Crap, crap, oh crap the lights.” Cassidy, knee deep in suppressed rage, rocking back and forth on her swivel chair, knocked two cords ever so slightly out of their sockets. Just enough for everything to go pitch black. A blank space, a moment to catch your breath. She’d been at this for awhile, ranting on and on again into her fuzzy video mic as the four speakers vibrations bounce off each other. The idea is that when played back, the recording goes in and out, only for different pockets of the conversation to be heard. A good idea at hand, but if executed correctly, it could be revolutionary. The next big thing Cassidy hoped for.

Episode Two: Religion, What’s Up With That? We’re the people who believe you’re an incompetent, good for nothing whore. A simple question—do you or do you not believe in God? This concept has been presented among communities of polar opposites. If you’ve accepted Jesus into your life, a round of applause for you! Now here’s a list of the do’s and don’ts, break one and you get awarded an all expense paid trip to hell. However, if being the term “Christian” isn’t a priority for you, your eternal life in hell has not only been paid for - a seat is reserved just for you. Crazy to think that one decision can alter how you view life, can alter how life views you. And don’t think that once you’ve finished the “born again” process that it’s peaches and cream from there on out. It goes from easy peasy lemon squeezy, to difficult difficult lemon difficult. Let’s go back to that list, ok?

Roni Endres

What did

DUCK GIRL

see in the past,

Or if there is only a future. DOYLESTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA PENNSYLVANIA LEADERSHIP CHARTER SCHOOL

She watches park-goers come and leave, She only sees them going into their future. Manship, Paul, if I may, Why must she suffer like this,

DUCK GIRL

Beauty does not make up for loss. Google doesn’t tell you who she is.

A girl and the frailest of animals, Rather than a tiger or a bear, But the strongest beauty is in the simplest things.

Google tells you what she is, but no one cares about who she is The centerpiece of the park that blends opposite sides of nature, that towers over

I feel like an aquatic fish Anything can be family if you’re that kind of family Cliche things are cliche because their good

kid-carers, Business-makers,

Short-cut takers,

– Love-bearers,

And art-bakers. Though her head points down, she feels the constant wind as people stroll beyond her. There I was, handing the southern girl the one with the horse Jesus turned water into wine, Walt Whitman turned Brick into twine And then, a series of events happened that were unfortunate It’s blinding, but impossible to look away. The sun bouncing off her skin, Burning holes into the bronze. I wonder if I can see inside and find all the answers.

1 step. 2 step. 3 step. 4 step. 5 step. Until there are no more steps in sight. The sky looks so inviting, A jet black pool to dive into. Will I ever stop falling if I jump in? I don’t see an end. How far away is the moon? Maybe the dog is barking at the ladder, Wanting to reach the crescent in the sky, That matches it’s coat. Maybe the ladder is a diving board, That will let me jump into the sky, And splash into nothingness, While the lone dog watches me fall, And barks at what he will never be able to reach. Piece: Dog Barking at the Moon — Joan Miró

Ife Islam PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA CENTRAL HIGH SCHOOL

FOR COLORED NERDS WHO HAVE CONSIDERED SUICIDE WHEN SUPERMAN IS ENUF

Dear Black Nerd, I used to pray to God. That’s a little dramatic. But when I was younger I thought that if you were good, God would give you whatever you wanted. So I prayed for superpowers. Remember Forrest Gump? Remember how Jenny prayed for God to turn her into a bird so she could fly, fly far away? I thought that one day, if I prayed hard enough, I would just wake up with the ability to fly or fire lasers from my eyes. But then again, I also thought that every story from the Quran was to be taken literally and not a grand metaphor. I never got to believe in the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and never Santa Claus, because magic was haraam (unIslamic, blasphemous, unholy, profane, bad). And I wasn’t supposed to believe in superpowers either, but I did. I didn’t believe that Superman and Wonder Woman were really saving Metropolis and Gateway City—I literally had to Google what city Wonder Woman saves because I didn’t know, but then again who does? Sometimes, when I was younger, I would look up into the sky, standing in the backyard with wet grass licking my ankles, staring into the abyssal nothingness because we don’t get stars where I live. I would stare into the sky, watching the planes go by and wishing that God would send me a space rock. And I would imagine the reality in which I did get my space rock, and sometimes it would clock me over the head with the force of a thousand suns, or whatever force a rock has when it comes hurtling at you going mach 20. And other times it would strike the Earth like a meteor right in front of me, and I, being young and foolish, would creep up to it and just graze it with the tip of my finger. Either way, I’d fall into a coma and wake up a month later and they’d tell me that I would float in my bed, and the lights would flicker on and off like crazy and then I’d learn how to control my telekinesis or flight or invisibility and then I’d save the world at least twice before I retired and then, and then, and then.

But to your knowledge, that never happened. And to my understanding, it never will. And when I figured that out, I was heartbroken. When I was younger, I learned how to have a childhood through television. I stood out like a sore thumb for wanting to do what I considered the normal child things I saw on tv shows that were deemed ‘white people shit’ by my peers. I climbed trees and dug holes, I ate dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets and pretended they were bleeding out in ketchup-- which was pretty dark all things considered. I liked to jump off of things, and I always wanted to go into the forest and look around, build a little shelter and pretend to be the last survivor of a zombie apocalypse or be a forager and start from nothing like a Minecraft world with a pre-written seed. But I rarely did any of that, and I definitely didn’t play in the forest. I live in the ghetto, the hood, the slums, the trenches, where there are loose heroin needles, violent crackheads and illegal firearms galore, but definitely no forest. I missed my chance to be an adventurous child. I missed the train because no one would hold my hand and walk me to the station. And was there even a station that would let me in, would there be one that had a train to take me where I was going? So where does that leave me? That leaves me in front of the television, too close for my mother’s liking, the light glinting off my glasses like the smartest character in an anime after saying something even mildly profound. I’ve been obsessed with superheroes for as long as I could remember. I loved all the movies, I loved the television shows, I loved the comics and books, I loved the fanfiction and fan art, all the dolls and figurines. I loved the talk about the weird superheroes and bad guys (Polka Dot, Color Kid, and of course, Arm Fall Off Boy), and who was the least useful member of the Justice League (spoiler, it’s Aquaman). Some of my favorite superheroes are Batman, Spiderman, Superman, Captain America—FINALLY, a hero without the name [noun/verb/adjective]-Man, and yet, still a man. And some of my least favorites are Iron Man, Mr. Fantastic and Hawkeye. Robin, the Boy Wonder, is my favorite of all time, Dick Grayson, not Tim Drake, Damian Wayne, Duke Thomas, or any of the other ones, there were many. I also liked the “girly” superheroes, the magical girls and fairies like Sailor Moon and Winx Club, I adored The Powerpuff Girls. I liked Super Why! and Word Girl and everything else that tricked me into learning how to read and spell. There’s a show that came on PBS that I couldn’t remember the name of for a month and no matter how I put the description into Google, I couldn’t find it. Anyway, it was called Cyberchase and I don’t really remember them being the classic spandex and underwear-on-the-outside heroes but they did save the

day with math of all things. And when I was twelve, I discovered My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic and it changed my life. Saving the day with the power of friendship? It was everything poor, friendless me needed to see! You’re probably thinking; “Weren’t you a little old for that?” Yeah, well I was late to the party because, like I said, all my interests got made fun of when I was a child. And something as lame as rainbow colored talking ponies would never fly in my house. No, My Little Pony was definitely a white girl thing. Let’s play a game. Name five black female superheroes. Bonus game: only one per film or comic run. Yeah, I got you. You can’t get your three from Black Panther. And don’t get me wrong, I love Black Panther. I have a poster in my room. If you’re a black girl(-like-person) like me, and you’re as oversaturated in superhero nonsense as I am, you begin to wonder where you fit into the picture. You begin to wonder if you might be the one taking the picture, behind the camera, creditless, anonymous, magical friendship-less. And when you’re all those things, you get jealous. And if you’re anything like me, that jealousy turns into anger at the self. I got mad at myself for not being a superhero, not at the writers, or the artists or Marvel, DC or Capcom’s CEOs. I thought that if I was a white girl I could be a superhero and I wouldn’t have to pray so hard on it. In my dreams I was a white girl, in my head I played and acted like a white girl. I was a white girl in a black person’s skin.

As a writer, I have this insane power to do whatever the hell I please. We all know that with great power, comes great responsibility; and it’s my responsibility as a black person to write and draw heroes for black children to look at and be inspired by. I want black children to go into the forest and pretend to be the last survivors and jump off of things. I can’t sit by and let black nerds like myself run around, absorbing white characters and white settings and white stories and never seeing their own reflections. I can’t let black children hate themselves like I did. I can’t sit by and let black children, let black girls, think they’re little white children for wanting a childhood anything like what they see it on television. So, dear black nerd, if you must read a white story, read with caution. And if you must write a story, write with a mirror in one hand. Write your truths. Write yourself. Write the childhood you might have had. Or do me a favor and write the one I missed out on. Black nerd, you’re a star. Black nerd, you’re a genius. Black nerd, you’re perfect, just as black as you are. And black nerd, your likeness is in there, somewhere. Love, SuperBad

The superheroes I used to make where white, and the characters of color were smart mouthed, sassy, rude and mean. They were heroes, just jackasses. Why? Because that’s all I knew how to write! The white characters are nice, kind, the types that adopt puppies and rescue choking sea turtles, and the characters of color are the types to abandon a puppy and choke a sea turtle out. It never occured to me that I was in control. I didn’t know that I didn’t have to have my characters be like that. And, boy, once I realized that, it was all over. The white girl inside of me died, and I slept like a baby knowing I don’t have to be a white girl to be a hero. My heroes are black as can be, black as all Get Out, black as night, black as, black as, black as. For once in my life, my superheroes look like me. Most recently, I’ve wanted to make my own. I have a superhero universe I call the SBCU, the Silver Bullet Comic Universe. The main protagonists are Zonnae Unbaya and Aletta Saffier, the crime fighting duo, Kilowatt and Grafee-t. I could go on and on about my heroes and my villians but I won’t because I’m saving that information for when I’m truly ready to share it with the world.

Cierra Rivers PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA PHILADELPHIA HIGH SCHOOL FOR THE CREATIVE & PERFORMING ARTS

LEAVE A MESSAGE AT THE BEEP

April 17th 2:16 p.m. Oh it started? Um hey, how are you? We’re alright I guess? Dad is ok. Mom is a little drunk right now. Who am I kidding you don’t care about them. April 17th 2:16 p.m. Um we miss you Dyl. I- I know you’re busy and everything now. I probably shouldn’t have called but I was just thinking about when we were little. I barely even know what you look like now, wild huh? I mean I guess that’s not entirely true your pictures are everywhere. April 17th 8:32 p.m. Hey, it’s Casey. Again. Your sister? I heard you were in town. You know we haven’t moved, right? Uh well if you didn’t, we haven’t. We’re still on the Southside. It’s funny, ya know. I always knew you would be the one to make it out. Um, our birthday is coming up. Just a few more hours now. Haha the big two one. Maybe we can spend it together? If you’re still around? Mom said she was planning something but we haven’t seen her since. Jay said she’s using again, but you probably knew that. She misses you though. It’s been so long. I don’t think she remembers your voice. She looks at the pictures when she can keep her eyes open at least. She asked me for your number a few times too. Don’t worry. I said no. But um I’m sure she’d like to see you. I’d like to see you. It’s crazy we look just like each other but even I’m starting to forget. But it’s ok, you’ve got a lot going on. I do too you know. Katie’s four now. She still plays with all the toys you sent her. Justin’s gone. He left a while ago. The house is getting emptier but it never felt so full. It’s getting darker now I- Katie leave that alone! Stop-

April 18th 12:01 a.m. Hey, Dyl it’s Casey, happy birthday, we made it right? Get drunk for me. Be safe I miss you. April 18th 3:04 p.m. Hey Dyl. I completely forgot to say this before, but I was walking past the station earlier-the one you used to work at- they were playing that song you sent me. When I heard it I realized I never told you what I thought. I’d never thought I’d hear something so raw... at least not from you. I-I wonder if mom heard it. I’m sure she has a lot to say about what you said about her addiction and all. I mean not that it wasn’t true. It’s crazy though you know, you could always see through her in a way we never could. But I guess it’s not too hard to anymore, she’s practically a toothpick. Haha... Anyway I hope you’re having fun. April 18th 10:59 p.m. Ok listen up dipstick. I know it’s late and you’re probably out at some bar having the time of your life, and they’re playing your music and girls are throwing themselves at you, but it takes one second to text someone. Just FYI. (Tell uncle Dyl I said hi) Oh and your niece says hi asshole. The person you are trying to reach can not answer the phone right now please leave a message after the beep. *Beep* Hey sis. Guess we missed each other again huh? I drove by the house. I saw the lights were off so I assumed you weren’t you there. You know I remember when we were 18, the first time I left and you would play my crappy songs on all your speakers so everyone knew who your brother was. I guess the electric bill got too high. Um anyway man I was just trying to see how your birthday went. Tell Katie I got her lil message. Damn she must be so big now. You gotta FaceTime me sometime. I-I’ll answer. Anyway I’m ok. I have a photoshoot in the morning and a recording session right after that. There’s this song I’ve been working on, it doesn’t even have a name or nothing yet but I know you’ll like it. You always do. Listen I’ve gotta go but call me... I’ll try to be free.

April 17th 9:32 p.m. Hey, it’s me. Still busy huh? Dad said he tried to call you. I think he had the wrong number. I didn’t correct him though. I know you can’t deal with that right now. He just wants to hear your voice. Listen just call me when you get the chance ok.

Claire Sun MERION STATION, PENNSYLVANIA LOWER MERION HIGH SCHOOL

11. Because, eventually, you won’t be able to stop yourself from saying it back.

11.1. Dumb bitch.

12. Because he’s gonna make you cry of happiness for the first time ever.

12.1. He’s also gonna make you cry regular tears.

13. Because he’s gonna dump you over a phone call in August. WHY YOU SHOULDN’T DATE IN HIGH SCHOOL

Because it never lasts.

14. Because he’s gonna get back with you within 24 hours.

Because it’s a waste of time and energy.

Because you’re just a teenager.

Because you’re gonna meet a white boy named William Daniel Johnson or something just as stupid and you’re gonna be stuck with him.

15. Because he’ll promise to bake you bread and take you to Pizzeria Vetri and buy you fancy boots. And he will never fulfill those promises because he’s a nerd.

4.1. He’ll have blond hair and blue eyes. 5.

Because you’re probably just horny and he isn’t actually that cute.

5.1. Except maybe the eyes.

6. Because he’s gonna get your number from a mutual friend without telling you and that’s pretty creepy. 7.

Because he’s gonna call you without warning after school one day and you’re actually gonna think it’s cute. 7.1. You’re a dumbass.

13.1. You’re gonna cry a lot more.

14.1. You’re such a dumbass.

16. Because you’ll only be able to see him on Sundays, but sometimes he has to cancel so then you don’t see him at all for weeks. 17. Because he’ll make you feel so special and amazing and wonderful, and what’re you gonna do when he’s gone? 18. Because he likes jazz but you don’t know anything about jazz. 19. Because you met him more than two years ago, and you still smile every time you see him. 20. Because Sundays. 21. Will, I want my bread.

8. Because he’s gonna cancel your first date.

8.1. Basketball practice.

Because he’ll make up for it by calling you and playing jazz standards for you on a shitty keyboard.

9.1. He’ll also hang up on you without warning because his mom walked in.

10. Because he’s gonna say “I love you” first.

EFFORT AFFORDED TO NO ONE

I was told to interact with the city, so I went to one of the few places I frequently visit. Chinatown. More specifically, the Kung Fu Tea. And I walked there, in a grand total of eleven minutes, making sure not to move aside for anyone. Not even the lady with her arms full of shopping bags. The Anthropologie bag in her left hand, full and hefty, hit my knee. Especially not her. I made little predictions, guessing if the suit-clad business man would bump into me, or if the jogging girl would spot me and immediately shift her path. I walked with my head held high. I kept pennies and nickels and dimes in my pocket, leaving coins in little nooks on the street. Made sure that they were all tails up, then said goodbye. I told myself to take a creepshot of an outfit that I liked, but nothing hit me that hard, or left me starstruck enough. At Kung Fu Tea, I ordered something new. Something mysterious. No I didn’t, I got what I ordered every single time. But you should try something new. I paid all five dollars and ten cents in coins. See, people would think that I was being creative and wacky. But I literally had no cash left in my wallet. As I sipped my bubble tea, I thought about the sugar entering my body. The practically indigestible tapioca pearls. The seepage of Asian culture into the mainstream. The corporate, capitalistic nature of my $5.10 beverage. I spilled a little on my shorts. On purpose, obviously.

And then I wrote a poem. (See below)

Ethan Spingarn said he thought I was dom (hah) because I’m aggressive He’s also a piece of shit See? There it is again Aggressive. I say They’re all cowards Little bitches who’re too scared To speak up According to my elementary school, They’re all passive And that’s bad too Perhaps I’m just a little bit scared

Of being too

aggressive and mean and

c o n f r o n t a t i o n a l But, fuck, man People suck Ethan Spingarn sucks

Oh my god he sucks so

much

PERHAPS I’M ALWAYS JUST LOOKING FOR TROUBLE

Trying to start a fight

Aggressive I’ve been called {aggressive} before Been called c o n f r o n t a t i o n a l Never assertive I was taught in elementary school that aggressive is bad And assertive is good

So I should I should be looking for a fight And talking shit On guard Lips curled back like a bitch fighting for her life Teeth bared Please ignore my cavities I know my teeth are yellow

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Scriptwriting MFA ‘15 UC San Diego, Dramatic Writing BFA ‘08 Purchase College, Dramatic Writing LES ROBINSON

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Creative Non-Fiction & Fiction Writing

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Teaching Assistant

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