SI 2016 One-Week Commuter Intensive Creative Writing Anthology by University of the Arts Graduate & Professional Studies

THE UNIVERSITY OF THE ARTS Writings from

Pre-College Summer 2016

ONE-WEEK COMMUTER INTENSIVES CREATIVE WRITING ANTHOLOGY

ART = RISK

AN ANTHOLOGY OF THE WORKS OF RISKTAKERS â&#x20AC;&#x201C; those who attended the Creative Writing One Week Intensive in the Pre-College Program at The University of the Arts

WRITERS 2

DAVID DEJESUS

SRISHTI RAMESH

ACTIVE BABY

CIGARETTES (HYPOCRITES)

UNTITLED

SPELLING “KINDERGARTEN”

CHLOE SMITH-FRANK

TOUCH OF HANDS IN 1964, MOBILE, AL ABAMA

FIRSTS

GRACE DIFILIPPO

WHY DO I WRITE?

SACCHARINE RAYS OF SUNSHINE

CAITLIN FRIEL

VISIONS

A DAY AT THE PARK

THE BAY

JACK HEALY

YOUNG

WELCOME TO AMERICA

AMIRA SOLOMON

SELF-ASSURANCE

SOPHIE STARR

NOSES SEEDLINGS

NEAR VILL ANELLE (WAKING UP HUNGRY)

MICHELLE TRAN

IN THE EVENT OF AN EMERGENCY

FIRST FIRE

EVE JENSEN

WHY DO I WRITE?

WHY I WRITE

ROUTE 66

NICK ZABOROWSKI

COLORS OF THE SEA

WHEN I’M NOT AROUND

MAYA MENDOZA

YOUR MOM GOT WHAT SHE DESERVED

UNTITLED

INSTRUCTOR

RAHUL MEHTA

MFA, SYRACUSE UNIVERSIT Y

BA, UNIVERSIT Y OF NORTH CAROLINA CHAPEL HILL

DAVID DEJESUS ACTIVE BABY David DeJesus

PRE-COLLEGE SUMMER INSTITUTE

Gerald sat from afar in his dusted obsidian colored pumas that were lined with silver, eyeing a small colored family that saw a few benches away. He stared at the family through his oily purple tinted shades, like an officer eyeing a colored man. There was a father, mother and a little baby boy, rich of smooth melanin. The little boy wadded in the grass like a newborn duckling as his parents and Gerald looked on. Gerald’s shades were too dark for him to clearly see the family, but he couldn’t take them off or the family would indeed discover his surveillance. He sat there on the bench frustrated, he decided to lay back in the chair til a better opportunity arose. He rolled up his sleeves to his elbows and unbuttoned the top five buttons on his flowy white dress shirt, to let the sun in. The sun beamed onto him, he popped out his bottom lip and began to lick his lips to moisturize them. Suddenly the bench across the family opened up and a rush of excitement ran through Gerald. He shot up quickly from his chair but gathered himself before heading over. At the new bench he saw the family a lot more distinctly. The father wore oatmeal colored slacks with a gray tee that further exposed his pot belly, something Gerald finally got rid of. The mother wore a navy blue dress that called the sea, just like Rosemary used to wear. Finally the little boy, who wore denim blue overalls so he could match his mother. Blue was little Eric’s favorite color too. Those two would’ve gotten along just fine, thought Gerald to himself in his head. He smiled and reminisced of the good times, then at that moment little blue boy emerged from the ground covered into dirt, he covered his eyes to show that he was upset. His parents saw and laughed, “Henry you got yourself into that mess. Don’t be looking sad for attention” said Henry’s father. Henry smiled through his hands and dove right back into the dirt, his mother went to grab him. Gerald turned to the father and spoke in a voice that walked for miles “Active baby”. The two men laughed and faced back to look at the child. Everything was serene and warm; tires screeched as a car zipped through in a haze. “Henry, Joann!!” yelled the father and almost simultaneously Gerald howled, “ Eric, Rosemary!” Gerald covered his eyes in agony for he could not look at the trampled bodies. He started to breath hard and a woman sat next to him which made Gerald jump back. He was still at that bench, the one that was too far. The family was still there, far away enjoying the presence of their child. “Oh sorry hun didn’t mean to scare you” said the woman. “It’s okay I need that.. to get the blood flowing again” replied Gerald. He was relieved, he shot back another look to where the family was but they were already gone.

UNTITLED David DeJesus

DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH Vital Records Certification of Birth Date of birth: Birthplace: Name: Father’s name: Mother’s name:

6/20/1971 Sex: Turbo, Colombia Marco Antonio Cortes Nicholas Cortes Age: Amparo Valencia Age:

Male

47 35

DECEASED

Date of Death:

8/23/1990

Age:

CREATIVE WRITING ANTHOLOGY

Certification of Death 19

Description of Death: Drowned off the coast of Florida, after being discovered on a freight boat with countless other immigrants and being tossed overboard. Currents were too strong as the sea opened its mouth and swallowed him. His family did not receive the news of his death til months after for he had promised to call home somehow to assure them he had made it.

DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH Vital Records Certification of Birth Date of birth: 8/24/1955 Sex: Male Birthplace: Tampa Bay, Florida Name: Wilfredo DeJesus Age: 35 Father’s name: Roberto DeJesus Age: 34 Mother’s name: Ahida DeJesus Age: 32 *It is illegal to photocopy or sell this document Document purchased by a still wet and damp young man. He was scared, nervous and didn’t know what to expect of the world. He didn’t know a word of english, he simply had a wad of money he kept in a plastic bag so the paper would still hold its value. Navigating himself just with hand gestures and use of scratched english he managed to arrive at a well known stop for let’s say uninvited tourists. Inside the young man purchased a piece of paper that restated his entire existence, he was no longer a 19 year old boy, he was a 35 year man. Years older than his father, “oh where did the years go” he said to himself.

DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH Vital Records Commonwealth of Pennsylvania Certification of Birth Date of birth: Birthplace: Name: Father’s name: Mother’s name:

01/07/1999 Sex: Male Philadelphia, Pennsylvania David DeJesus Wilfredo DeJesus Age: 28 Beatriz Garcia Age: 24

*These files are true- all of it*

TOUCH OF HANDS IN 1964, MOBILE, AL ABAMA PRE-COLLEGE SUMMER INSTITUTE

David DeJesus

Never before have I seen a woman with her delicacy. Hands as soft as wet clay and hair smoother than a well rounded marble. Her hair was the color of the sun. I’ve never held a girl hand, not in grade school or never. But those girls didn’t look anything like her. All the kids at my school had curly hard hair and dark eyes. They were beautiful but they weren’t what I desired. I was told that I never need to look any further for love, it’s wrong. Our hands met and mixed like dirty snow on a rainy road.

CREATIVE WRITING ANTHOLOGY

GRACE DIFILIPPO WHY DO I WRITE? Grace DiFilippo

I write to: Forget and to release To distract myself To inspire and impress others To give myself something to do To make something special and something nobody has ever seen before

PRE-COLLEGE SUMMER INSTITUTE

For a long time, writing was one of the only things holding me together. I wrote and created new worlds to escape my own. I couldn’t, and still can’t, imagine not being able to write what I want and how I feel. Writing makes me feel complete and different. It makes me feel like I’m special and the ideas in my head aren’t crazy but beautiful. When I write, I get my innocence back. I use my imagination and create, the way I did when I was younger. Writers make a living out of what most people have lost and spend forever trying to re-achieve. Writing helps me to better understand the lives of the people around me and my own. I can create everything I’ve always wanted and all the things I’d never desiderate. I write to fall in love with places I’ve never been and people I’ve never met. Sometimes, when my life is all over the place and have a very hard time trying to figure out what to do, I place my characters in my situations because sometimes to see how fortunate I really am, I have to see it through someone else’s eyes. Writing has introduced me to many new things. I’ve met people, been places and have used ideas, memories and parts of my mind I never thought I could use to create something beautiful. And even though my hand cramps up, my eyes burn, my fingers ache and I don’t want to anymore, I just keep writing because that’s what makes me strong. That’s what makes me happy.

SACCHARINE RAYS OF SUNSHINE Grace DiFilippo

I snuck over your white picket fence last night. I left your house with the mindset of never returning but we both know I’d be coming back. As I opened my bedroom window from the outside, I remembered how your hair looked swept across your purple tie dyed pillow. It smelled of sweet grass and lemon tea and saccharine rays of sunshine. It was knotted and wasn’t perfect but I didn’t care because you weren’t either. The way your skin raised to little bumps when I played with your golden brown hair made me giggle and I missed it very much.

CREATIVE WRITING ANTHOLOGY

CAITLIN FRIEL A DAY AT THE PARK Caitlin Friel

It has been a long day. My boss, Stacy, kept me longer than I expected and now I am finally home. I plopped onto my black couch, the familiar fuzzy material like a welcoming hug. My dog, Bear, decided to make his grand entrance, nails clicking on the hardwood floor. His front half was suddenly in my lap as he gave me “puppy kisses” and his tail wagged. I usually took him for a walk when I get home from work, but today I was just so tired. He bounded back into the kitchen after I finished running my fingers through his curly white fur. When he returned, the end of his blue leash was clutched in his teeth and he whined. I sighed, “Fine, Bear,” and stood. His tail wagged triumphantly.

PRE-COLLEGE SUMMER INSTITUTE

We arrived at the park and strolled for a bit, Bear greeting other dogs and myself waving to a few familiar dog-walkers. Then Bear froze and began to growl. I frowned and tried to spot what had by loyal dog so agitated. My eyes widened when I did. “BEAR, NO-” I was too late. He took off full-speed toward the poor cat, dragging me along for the ride. His deep bark boomed through the park. My baseball hat flew from my head and my legs became covered in the dirt and muck that Bear’s hind legs kicked up in his chase. I tried to pull back on the leash, but my “obedient” dog was too strong. The cat sprung across the square fountain and I knew that Bear had no intention of stopping. I could do nothing but hold my breath as I went face-first into the filthy, ice-cold water. Needless to say, it was a long time before Bear had another walk, and even longer before I recovered from my cold.

THE BAY Caitlin Friel

They always said, “Never go to Nightlock Bay.” They always said, “Those waters are cursed.” Thomas did not believe in curses. To prove how ridiculous these rumors were, he stole his father’s rowboat and oars one still, cloudless night. As he paddled to the center of the bay, the pale moonlight softly illuminated his golden curls and strong muscles from working as the blacksmith’s apprentice. The mist from the waterfall sprayed him and the tiny boat, chilling Thomas. He wondered why everyone was so afraid of this place, but then he saw the ripples and bubbles in the water. His heart began to beat faster. Those were not from him. A fin peaked out from the water before flashing in the moonlight and disappearing back into the deep. CREATIVE WRITING ANTHOLOGY

Thomas felt the opposite side of the boat dip and he turned around. He jolted and pulled his knife from his boot. “There is no need for that,” she said, voice smooth like satin. Her hair, black like the abyss, reflected the dim light like volcanic glass. She smiled at him and Thomas noted her sharp teeth. “We get so few visitors here anymore,” she lamented. “It is lonely.” “Why did they stop coming?” he asked, eyeing the serpent-esque scales on the arms that were crossed on the side of the boat, holding his companion above the surface. Her smile darkened, “Some silly falsehoods. Liars, the lot of them.” As Thomas continued speaking with her, he felt himself beginning to trust her. He felt his grip on the knife loosen before he heard it splash into the waves. A small part of him was concerned by this, but he ignored in in favor of her beauty. When she pulled him closer to the lapping waves for a kiss, he did not see the danger. It was only when she pulled him into the blood-warm water did his eyes open again. He kicked himself free of her clawed grasp and scrambled toward the surface. He managed to get one gulp of air before he felt something grasp at his ankle and pull. Bubbles escaped his lips as he struggled for his life, but there was no hope now. The creatures were like sharks that sensed injured prey. Thomas saw the first, the one who lead him to his doom, and her powerful, emerald-scaled tail whipped about furiously. There were so many of them, with scales every shade of the rainbow, and all were scratching, grabbing, and pulling him. They got so few visitors. Thomas breached the surface one last time, desperately grabbing onto the boat, before he was yanked under again and his world began to go dark. In his final moments he saw them as they really were: They were the lionesses of the sea. They were beautiful, yes, but twice as deadly. That night, Thomas Starr became a statistic, another soul claimed by Nightlock Bay. The only proof was an empty rowboat and a scarlet handprint on the prow.

JACK HEALY YOUNG Jackson Healy

We were young. Long afternoons on the playground. Couch cushions and molten lava. Nighttime ball games on the street. Content with the world. She wanted to grow. Never mind responsibilities, only freedom. She would be an astronaut. "Like Neil Armstrong", she told me. Still young, but only so. We would stay out later, when the dark comes. Nighttime ball games on the street, like always. No words, only deep laughter and innocent bliss. Dark, late night. Tired man. Rubber screeched on asphalt. Not soon enough. Mom says she's with the stars. She always wanted to be an astronaut.

PRE-COLLEGE SUMMER INSTITUTE

I was young.

IN THE EVENT OF AN EMERGENCY Jack Healy

In the event of an emergency, oxygen masks will drop from the ceiling. Be sure to place an oxygen mask over your face before assisting others. In fact, don’t assist anyone else. Cut the tubing on your loved ones’ masks so that you can make them suffer even more. Remember, even if the bag does not fill up, oxygen is still flowing. Except for your loved ones’ masks. You’re leaving them to die, remember? Flip them off as you grab for the parachute you brought, because you planned this all along, you whore. Look around for the nearest exit. Walk towards it, and kick down the door. You will be forcefully sucked out of the plane, but that should be fine, you don’t even want to be here anyway. As you freefall, pull the cord to your right. Now you may glide to safety as you watch everything you’ve left behind crash and burn in a fiery ball of despair. Be sure that your seatbelt is on though, you don’t want to be jostled too much by the turbulence. Once you reach your destination, get on another plane and do the same fucking thing all over again. And for an extra precautionary measure, go fuck yourself, Sarah.

FIRST FIRE Jack Healy

CREATIVE WRITING ANTHOLOGY

I am everything my mother was afraid I’d be. The warm light of an autumn afternoon shines through the treetops, spackled hints of red and orange glowing around us. We gather around the haystack, eager for would soon come. Clutching as much hay as we could stuff between arm and chest, we walk past the fountain, through the crabgrass fields, towards our destination along the creekside, away from the frenzy of children whose fervor exponentially grows as captive mothers give in and sell out as the youth begs for more sugar, away from the deafening roar of banjos and whatever other freakshow that had hopelessly paid for thirty minutes of D-list fame, away from nothing that matters. They could see. We did not care. The four of us carry Bics from the Lukoil where the old middle eastern man doesn’t mind as long as you can pay. What was first brought for an afternoon of dry mouths and lost innocence now grazes the corners of the stack, surrounding it, encasing it. Acquaintances enter through the verdant wall dividing us with all else. They watch. They do not act. Matt’s corner rises first, followed by mine, other Matt’s, and finally, Connor’s. Pastel yellows turn to black ash as the flame builds, reaching for the heavens, never quite making it. It cannot see the clouds through the leaves above, and so it reaches higher, until its fingertips tickle the trees that hang from the sky. Acquaintances flee. Matt laughs. Other Matt looks back before joining. Connor watches. I struggle to smother what we had started, but to no avail. The flames had been left to grow, and nothing could stop it now besides its inevitable fade to embers, its final song before it succumbs to silence. We run. Hear sirens behind us. We do not look back.

EVE JENSEN WHY I WRITE Eve Jensen

Why do I write? This is a question I've been asked many times before. ‘Why do you write so much? Don't you have better things to do?’ No. I have nothing better to do. I write because I'm good at it. It is something that comes naturally to me, like the words are always there, and they were just waiting for me to catch up. It’s not something that I work for, it’s not a struggle, it is something I love so if I am awake in front of my laptop until three in the morning it is because I want to be and I hate homework. I write because sometimes it seems to be the only thing I’m good at.

PRE-COLLEGE SUMMER INSTITUTE

I write because sometimes the seventeen voices in my head get too loud and they won’t stop talking, all screaming over each other, shouting contradicting ideas and notions, and I don’t know who to listen to until I am able to sit down in front of a keyboard or crisp piece of paper and let the voice who is right, the voice who speaks the truth, sing out its ideas, drowning out the screeches of the others and tell me what I’m really thinking, because sometimes, I don’t know. I write because I have something to say. Sometimes that is something other people want to hear, sometimes it's not, sometimes it's something they need to hear. In any case, I'm going to make them listen. I write to create new lives and to understand the one I’ve been given. I write because someone else has something to say but not the words to say it with. I do. I've been asked how I come up with my stories, where they come from. Sometimes they come from boredom, sometimes they come from inspiration, sometimes they come from lying awake at 2 a.m. and all of a sudden, lightning crackles through my mind, and my hand shakes with the need to create, and the story is just there, and I don't know where it came from, but I hear it. I am listening. I don't know if the story is someone else's, maybe I'm just crazy, but maybe there is someone out there living that story, and they have something to say but not the words to say it with. I have the words, and so it is my obligation, my right, my responsibility to use them. It is my duty to be the voice that others don't have, to say the words that they don't have. I write because I can, and so I must. I write because it is, to me, the most incredible thing in this world. 26 letters exist in the English language, yet every sentence is mine. I write for emotions, to incite them, to understand them, to connect to them. And one day, when I’m dead and gone, my stories, my words, will still be there. They will always be a part of this world, they will always have been a part of this world, nothing can take them back, nothing can erase them from existence, they will always be there, my stories, my words, my mark on this world and it doesn’t matter if no one ever read them or heard them or liked them, it doesn’t matter because they will still always be there when I am not. And that, that is immortality. I write because I have no idea how not to, because no matter what I’m doing or what is going on, the need to write is always there, like a tattoo on my psyche. I write because it makes me feel more alive than breathing does.

ROUTE 66 Eve Jensen

The highway stretched out in front of her like a rolled out red carpet, or maybe the plank of a pirate ship. The radio cut out suddenly, no civilization or service in the middle of the desert. The car was filled with silence, like the silence of outer space, or the silence of a heart breaking. She glanced over to the empty passenger seat, occupied only now by a ghost. She had packed her bags, piled them into her old pick-up truck, and ran away, but her past had come along for the ride. Maybe it was time to stop running.

CREATIVE WRITING ANTHOLOGY 13

MAYA MENDOZA YOUR MOM GOT WHAT SHE DESERVED Maya Mendoza

Knees tucked to my chest. Dirty, nasty, scratched-up knees. He told me it would be fine. He said it wouldn’t hurt me. Just her. Only her. Her life on my hands, a screaming, horrible red. Stained. I’m not feeling well. He told me it wouldn’t matter. He told me, told me, told me not to cry. I won’t. He’s driving me home. My new home. His home. His home that smells like cardboard boxes and fresh fruit and old books. I would have anything I wanted, that’s what he said. I would get what I deserved. Mom never gave me that.

UNTITLED PRE-COLLEGE SUMMER INSTITUTE

Maya Mendoza

“Musetta’s Waltz” echoed throughout the empty house, the sugary siren song snagging on every plywood massacre and rust-coated appliance. Abby Louise was at it again. “Shut up,” I hissed, flashlight clenched in a white-knuckled fist. The opera performance snapped to a halt so quickly, I was sure the primadonna had given herself whiplash. “You trying to get us caught?” I accused. Her head popped around one splintering doorway, eyebrows furrowed and lips drawn into a pout. “I thought you said we wouldn’t get in trouble here,” she retaliated, looking for all the world like a scolded puppy. She shook her head, rolling her eyes in what could only be described as Abby Louise’s Dramatic Scolding Technique, otherwise known as ALDST, or simply “aldsat”. “If you’re gonna pull an aldsat, I suggest you do it where I can’t see you and make fun of it,” I mocked, “you’re just setting yourself up for it.” She fell silent, sulking back to whatever she was rummaging through before her grand theatrical outburst. The mildewy, mothball-y, pungent scent of decaying clothing hit my nose before my hands hit the box. I faltered, examining the intricate cursive written on the top, proudly proclaiming Rainy Day Money. I undid the ribbons holding the top in place, suddenly aware of how dirty my fingernails were, how unworthy I felt to be touching this fancy packaging. The box top was discarded, revealing a beautiful white sunhat, like something a very rich woman would wear. I was disappointed, honestly hoping for some real money to be stowed away inside. Upon further inspection, the cloth was torn, eaten up by flies or rats or whatever eats hat materials. “Abby,” I whispered, putting the hat back in its circular box. Her curly-haired head sprung back around the corner, dark eyes wide like half dollar coins. I passed the box to her, letting her work her magic on it. This was routine. We’d break into old, abandoned houses, find something interesting, and make up a story surrounding it. It was like a game, something only the two of us could play. Nobody else was allowed to, according to us. Abby placed the hat on her head, straightened her posture, and took in a deep gulp of a breath. She hit the highest note I’d ever heard an alto hit, something

that was between glass-shattering and bone-shattering. Abby beamed, her white teeth contrasting against her dark-as-night skin. She continued the Abby Louise Opera Extravaganza, “Musetta’s Waltz” echoing off of every surface. I was powerless to stop her. “Someone wealthy wore this,” she sang to the tune, “most likely a grandmother. This house is old.” She held the “o” for a while, hand rising in the air like a swan’s wing. “I bet a rich family lived here and owned a factory. Or a theater. Or the town!” “Hey, Florence Foster Jenkins,” I interrupted, watching her snap her mouth shut angrily, “love the story, but we’re on private property. Quietly, please?” She nodded, humming instead of belting her favorite melody. Her long braids swished behind her as she spun around to take in the rest of the room. “Quite an adventure,” she whispered. CREATIVE WRITING ANTHOLOGY

“Hm, verily,” I responded, offering her my arm. Together, we walked to the opera show we invented ourselves.

SRISHTI RAMESH CIGARETTES (HYPOCRITES) Srishti Ramesh

The man milling near the lamp post Feet shuffling slowly, phone in hand Lifts the cigarette to his lips The cancerous thing The smoke and the fire and the phone call Diagnosis: cancer The gauges in his ears Pull downward to the dust Dragging him.

PRE-COLLEGE SUMMER INSTITUTE

And soon the scruffy brown hair And the scruffy beard Disappear under the smell of hospital disinfectant And soon his glasses and the phone call lie on the bedside table And he is sleeping Who knows what could happen under the bitter taste of anesthesia, and the lung transplant And soon heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dead Inevitable, doctors say in whispers to themselves His imaginary family and friends cry for him Yet one of them still lifts a cigarette to their lips.

SPELLING “KINDERGARTEN” Srishti Ramesh

I am clutching my father’s hand like I do so well, because, God help me, I am not going into that classroom if it is the last thing I do. I’m not crying, because that would be out of place and embarrassing and my greatest talent is staying quiet, but I am silently protesting, tugging on my father’s arm in place of wailing. I never talk much, and school is definitely not an exception. I don’t want my parents to leave me here in this cold dark school, even though the windows let in plenty of sunshine and fall leaves glow crimson and marigold on the grass outside, and even though the posters on the wall are colored butterscotch, aquamarine, and emerald, and other multisyllabic words I can spell at the age of five.

CREATIVE WRITING ANTHOLOGY

I will undoubtedly be tired and bored for hours on end in this cold dark school, not to mention that friendship isn’t my forte. My backpack (which is violet, probably) hangs off of one of my shoulders, and I care more about leaving this place than the fact that my pencil case is threatening to fall out of the open pocket, and spill out onto the brown and blue speckled carpet. My dad finally pries me off of him. Damn it, I think, but don’t say out loud, because I shouldn’t really know words like that yet. Soon, my dearest father has delivered me straight into the hands of the devil. My teacher smiles but I am sure that there is something sinister behind it. I take millimeter steps to my desk, which is bordered at the top by a nametag spelling Srishti, the wrong way, of course. I’m positive that I can spell better than my kindergarten teacher. I will prove this fact, weeks later, after I am mistakenly sent to ESL due to my selective muteness, and after I successfully obtain several fancy mechanical pencils for doing well in the program, despite the fact that I speak English fluently. I keep glancing towards the door when I sit down at the desk, which is grouped in a table with three others. The girl directly next to me is small and quiet, although she will eventually grow up to be a loudmouth, who is nearly a foot taller than me and proficient in walking in heels. Her nametag spells Lynn, the correct way, of course. We don’t talk but we share a look, which is enough for now. Later in the day, when the sun shines even brighter through the windows, we are allowed to choose drinks from the cafeteria, which will be brought to our classroom during snack time. I pick apple juice.

CHLOE SMITH-FRANK FIRSTS Chloe Smith-Frank

I am walking into a church for the first time in my 13-years life, and it is not because I found Jesus or because I know someone who is getting married. It is because my grandfather, my wonderfully stubborn grandfather who was Irish Catholic in name and ethnicity only, has left me behind. He is gone. It smells like incense and wet winter coats, the warm air of the church seeping out into the December morning faster than the cold watery light can filter through the stained glass windows. I can hear people murmuring their condolences, their “I’m so sorry”s and their “he’s in a better place”s and their “the angels have him now”s falling on hollow ears like rain on a slanted roof. They don’t know, how can they possibly know, because the statue of Jesus is staring at me with blank marble eyes and no promise on His face. PRE-COLLEGE SUMMER INSTITUTE

They don’t know, how can they possibly know, because I was his favorite. I was his Princess, his pride and joy. My mother said he waited for us to fly to Toronto before he… before he… I am not wearing proper funeral clothes. In fact, I look like a petty thief whose court date was moved up at the last minute. We packed thinking he would get better. What I don’t know yet is how I’ll stumble through the Lord’s Prayer and the Hail Mary and the centuries of the rosary without revealing myself as the heretic I am. What I don’t know yet is how I’ll get through the service without bursting into loud messy tears, because he is the first person I’ve ever lost who left a gaping hole in my heart.

WELCOME TO AMERICA Chloe Smith-Frank

Grandpa came over forty-two years ago. Right through Ellis Island. They didn’t change his name because he was Irish and the desk officer could pronounce it. All the Polish kids had their names changed. Most days he sits in Mama’s ancient white chair. The fabric is crinkled like the hair of the black ladies on the next block. The silence is dusty. I wear my hand-me-down sweater, striped like the other kid’s peppermint candy. Brown hair chopped haphazardly into a helmet to look like Dorothy Lamour. I ask to go to Coney Island. Grandpa stares at me. I’m not Irish enough.

CREATIVE WRITING ANTHOLOGY

AMIRA SOLOMON SELF-ASSURANCE Amira Solomon

Camp was loud and sunny. We crowded into the gymnasium like bees in honeycomb. I got picked last. Coach was as tall as a bear and held a whistle between his lips all the time, even when he spoke. He tossed me a jersey that smelled like feet. I bounced on the wood floor, waiting, hoping to touch the ball. Nobody passed to me. Matt Davidson tried to shoot from half-court. The ball rebounded, then rolled away, and I picked it up. Finally.

PRE-COLLEGE SUMMER INSTITUTE

I launched the ball into the net. A perfect shot. Nobody noticed. Coach had just blown the whistle.

VISIONS Amira Solomon

Patricia was my next-door neighbor for ten years, but then she disappeared. The police said that nothing had happened, that she had just moved away, but there was never a for-sale sign, never a herd of bearded moving men pushing her red leather couches outside. After she left, her house stayed dark. But sometimes in the middle of the night, when even the feral cats were silent, I could hear noises coming from the other side of the fence. Her huge oak door would slam shut, or a whitewashed shutter would creak closed, and I would rush to my window. My parents said it was just the wind playing tricks on me, but I didn’t believe them. I remember that Patricia loved to take photos. Every morning as I trudged to the bus stop, sneakers neatly tied and lunchbox in hand, I saw her in her garden with a camera. She always waved at me from underneath her too-large straw hat. Sometimes she would call me over to look at a picture on her camera screen, her bony finger pointing out a cardinal or a robin. “Beautiful, isn’t he?” she would say. “Just beautiful.” Then she would stick her sunglassed eye up against the viewfinder again, and I would have to run to board the bus. She disappeared right after the geese flew south for the winter. She hadn’t been outside that morning, but I’d seen her through her kitchen window. She was nowhere to be found that afternoon, and then she was nowhere to be found forever. A few months after she left, my best friend came over for a sleepover. George was a month younger than me but much, much braver. After pizza and two movies and video games, we went to bed. I turned off the lights, but still there were mysterious shadows jumping on the walls. I climbed into bed and pulled my worn blue quilt up to my neck. I shivered, and just as I did, something banged outside. George bolted up out of his sleeping bag and ran to the window. “What was that?” he said. 20

“Nothing,” I said, but I couldn’t even convince myself. I cocooned myself in my quilt and tiptoed over to join him. Patricia’s second-floor window was shattered. We could see something white behind it. “Let’s go check it out!” George said. He was so close to my window that his nose was grazing the glass. “No, let’s not,” I said shakily. But he ran out of my room, grabbing my flashlight on the way, and I had no choice but to follow him. I didn’t want him to die alone. We crossed the lawn between our houses. The oak door was open, and he ran inside. I looked longingly at my own home, wrapped my blanket tighter around myself, and forged on.

CREATIVE WRITING ANTHOLOGY

I had never been inside her house before. There was a huge bookcase of photo albums, and one was open on the cold tile floors. George went over to it. A gust of wind blew through the house, and the door creaked menacingly on its hinges. “Max, come here!” he whispered, pointing the dim flashlight on the page. I looked, and there it was. The same white, billowy being that we had seen through the window. The two open pages were filled with Patricia’s photos of it. I gasped and bent down to turn the page, but as soon as I did, George shrieked. I felt icy. My knees were frozen on the tiles. I knew the ghost was right in front of us, and George knew too, and we were out of the house in an instant, back in our own beds. The next morning, as George and I drowned our pancakes in syrup, we recounted our tale to my parents. They just laughed. “That house is not haunted,” my dad said. “You just had a bad dream.” George and I just looked at each other, knowing that we couldn’t argue, but knowing we were right. There are some things you can’t convince a grown-up of.

SOPHIE STARR NOSES Sophie Starr

Inspired by Sandra Cisneros’ Hairs Yesterday I looked at my sister for the first time in a long time; a fever is all that brings her home these days. In silence, I gazed at her sleepy profile as she half-watched the television. She has a hero’s nose, perfectly isosceles, no dips or slopes, thrusting its tip out between two mountainous cheekbones and above an Aztec lip. It has a twin: my father’s, from whose head it sprung fully armored. They envy my poor mother’s pinched and pulled “Dr. Davis nose,” factory-made from a tried and true Aryan recipe, yanked away with a shout and a glare if you dare try touch it. Too bad you can’t pass down genes you got at 14. PRE-COLLEGE SUMMER INSTITUTE

At that same hallowed age, as if by design, my inevitable aquiline fate began to catch up to me: the discord of a split staircase, stemming elegantly from high brows before steepening to a jagged summit, and swelling, finally, into a low-hanging apple-shaped tip. Photos, mirrors tell me: Every day more warped, more sullen than the last.

SEEDLINGS Sophie Starr

Parked car. Four hands. She plunged hers into the ground, each finger taking root until, to him, her arms were oaks and she the leafy canopy. He was a sparrow—she knew that—seeking shelter in her cryptic boughs, his mind a fever dream of the secrets he’d uncover there. He imagined a knowing curl to her parted lip, the small opening an invitation as she filled the earth with new life. He had made her his enigma. And so she sighed (like the whispering wind, he thought), and rose (like Aphrodite from the sea, he’d tell you), and said “I’ll bus it home.”

NEAR VILL ANELLE (WAKING UP HUNGRY) Sophie Starr

I dreamt I was a lovely thing again With paper bones beneath my sun-soaked skin. Awakening was such sweet torture then. I fell in love with pain's soft murmurs when I looked to God. Exalted for my sin, I dreamt I was a lovely thing again. The pallor of my virgin wrists would stemÂ Insanity of screaming bound within. Awakening was such sweet torture then.

CREATIVE WRITING ANTHOLOGY

I wept away my innocence for them, As vagrant as a queenly bedouine. I dreamt I was a lovely thing again. I vowed that I would conquer Bethlehem But lost my mind before I could begin. I dreamt I was lovely thing again. Awakening was such sweet torture then.

MICHELLE TRAN UNTITLED Michelle Tran

Since she was a girl, she always had a sweet tooth. She loved candies and cookies and caramel coated anything. She lived life with a permanent sugar high, where she laughed too loudly and never seemed to stop moving. She was a dentist’s worst nightmare or perhaps their favorite patient. Her favorite dessert was creme brulee. She loved breaking through the scorched top and scooping up the soft interior, jiggling it on her spoon a few times for good measure to see it slide back and forth. It was always smooth as butter and simply melted in her mouth, but she could never quite figure out how to get it to the right consistency or how to not burn the top black.

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Even as she grew, she could never resist a sweet or two. When her friends would shake their heads and push away plates of cake, saying, “None for me. I’m on a diet,” she took the extra plate, another round of seconds. Perhaps that is why she loved bakeries so much. As soon as the little bell rung above the door of the tiny little store on the corner, it felt like home. No matter what it was like outside, even on dreary, rainy days where everyone just wanted to stay curled up underneath layers of blankets on the couch, the bakery never failed her. It reminded her of grandma’s kitchen when she and her family went to visit once a year on Christmas morning and grandma would say with a smile, “You’re just in time. I just took the cookies out of the oven.” In the bakery, there was always a warmth that wrapped around her and filled her up inside like having a mug of hot chocolate held in between her frozen fingers on a winter day. The air smelled permanently of thick, sweet chocolate, and she could never leave without smelling like she had just taken a dip in a chocolate fountain. Perhaps that is why no one was surprised, when she found herself there just as much for the treats as for the boy who baked them. His black shirt, turned white, with a permanent dusting of flour that refused to wash out. He had eyes of blueberry cotton candy, the kind she would pull off pieces which covered her fingers in sticky goodness, at the carnival as she peered out of the compartment of the ferris wheel to the dwindling world below. He spoke sugar spun words and because she had always been a girl with a sweet tooth, she could never resist.

WHY DO I WRITE? Michelle Tran

I write because it is my way of speaking. Because often times, my voice shakes, but my words never falter. They speak the words that my tongue refuses to form. I write to make people feel something. Sometimes we become so numb to what we feel that we stop. We stop feeling. Once we stop feeling, we stop being human. Feelings demand to be felt. I write because I am and always will be hopelessly a romantic. I write what was and what never will be. I can fall in and out of love once the words have been spilled on a page. It gives permanence to parts in my life that will manage to outlive me. The stories and people I write about are immortalized in pen and paper, but love and loss and writing all share the same grave.

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NICK ZABOROWSKI COLORS OF THE SEA Nick Zaborowski

The sun shines I melt into the shade The sun shines Love is a state of mind Rain falls The sky is crying for me Rain falls Everything is the same

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Three waves crash Silence deafens me Four waves crash I’m so happy today I fell in love Three breaths from her lungs I fell in love today Three little gifts to me Love can’t die! Breathe Can love die? Nevermind The stars are burning up Time The sun is dying Let go Words can hurt My pen is a sword Words can hurt I love you.

WHEN I’M NOT AROUND Nicholas Zaborowski

One evening Kate and I decided to have dinner at Nifty Fifties in town after work. I got there first and patiently waited for my wife. I watched her arrive, step out of her car, hang up her phone, and quickly put it in her purse. “Hey Kate! How was work babe? I missed you today. We got eight windows in that new hotel in center city, I’m glad it wasn’t too hot today!” She responded, “Oh, work went well. Nothing major happened today.” “Oh really? Well what did you do?” I asked. “You know, filed more papers.” She wasn’t making eye contact. CREATIVE WRITING ANTHOLOGY

“Let’s get some food!” I opened the door for her and she walked by, murmuring thank you. “What do you want, a cheeseburger?” “I’ll just have a milkshake, thanks.” “You’re not hungry? What did you have for lunch?” “Oh, uh, I just had some pizza at that new restaurant near my work with Julie.” I asked, “I thought she was on vacation this week.” “Oh yes, I meant Sarah, and lunch was good.” She put her cell phone on the table. Face down. My phone was face up. The glow of a new text message peeked through the edges of her phone case. “Is Sarah trying to get a hold of you?” “Probably. I’ll check later. I’m gonna use the bathroom.” She took her phone. I went to her side of the booth to move her purse so it wasn’t on the edge, and as I picked it up a movie stub for a 12:15 movie fell out.

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THE UNIVERSIT Y OF THE ARTS PRE-COLLEGE PROGRAMS 320 S. BROAD STREET PHIL ADELPHIA, A 19102 Email PRECOLLEGE@UARTS.EDU Phone 215.717.6430 Web UARTS.EDU/SUMMERINSTITUTE